Grandpa's Truck

The picture above is of my Grandpa's old 1967 Ford pickup truck, which is being used as a prop for the Big Daddy's BBQ comedy show currently playing at the Power House Theater in Walla Walla.  It's pretty amazing, really, how this old vehicle has been put to use.  The engine has been torn out along with many of the other parts, and they have positioned a projector inside the cab to play movies and video clips out in the lobby of the theater.  The truck, as you can see, is suspended up near the ceiling, and how exactly it is being held up I'm not quite sure, but whatever system they have in place seems to be working. 

My family and I went to see the show on opening night this past weekend and I must admit it kind of took my breath away when I first glimpsed the truck.  I hadn't laid eyes on it in probably more than five years and while I knew it was being used as a prop I had no idea where or how it was going to be used.  This definitely was not what I was expecting, but the creativity and ingeniousness behind the set up is something I just know my Grandpa would have appreciated.  

I actually wrote a short essay about Grandpa and his truck, which I have posted below.  Seeing his truck "back in action" so to speak brought back a lot of great memories, as did writing the below prose.  Sometimes it's nice to revisit the past, to delve into those childhood memories and think back on the people and places that made them so special.  It's something I think I need to do more often.

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There’s a line from a country song that goes, “Where I grew up, we rode in trucks.”  Growing up on our family farm I can attest to the truth in that sentiment.  We all rode in trucks and of all different kinds.  Wheat trucks, pickup trucks, dilapidated work trucks, in all kinds of makes and models through the years.  A truck is synonymous to living in the country and for me, the best truck to ride in was always Grandpa’s truck.

It was never the prettiest truck on the road.  And it was never the quietest or the fastest.  But that unforgettable red and white 1967 Ford was always Grandpa’s truck, and as a child it brought me so much excitement to see that familiar vehicle driving slowly, always so slowly, down the Touchet River Road toward our house.  It was the truck of a working man, the truck of a farmer.  There was nothing fancy or even necessarily clean about the interior.  There was never an attempt to dress it up in any way, no reason to try and make it something it wasn’t.  It smelled of dust, of oil, of heat from the sun in the summertime.  These things stayed constant through the years, as constant as the image of Grandpa in the driver’s seat.    

I can still remember the warmth of the bench seat as I would slide into the cab, the hard slam of the door, then Grandpa walking around to the driver’s side.  I would swing my legs, admiring his collection of Chiquita banana stickers which covered the dash.  Stickers that were saved after countless years of eating home packed lunches.  Stickers that to anyone else were worthless.  Stickers that became a priceless memory for me because they found themselves on the dash of Grandpa’s truck.  The engine would rev to life, sometimes on the first try, and the drive, usually to Walla Walla, would commence.  I loved rolling down the window, letting the air rush in as we drove into town, watching Grandpa shift gears and maneuver the huge steering wheel.  When we ran out of things to say or just didn’t feel like talking over the engine, Grandpa would hum.  Sometimes the tunes were made up, but most of the time he repeated the lines to “Home on the Range,” the notes filling the space between us as the truck idled onward.

When the day came for the truck to retire it ended up on the farm, nestled out back amongst the old machinery and broke down farm equipment.  Sometimes I would take a walk, a pilgrimage of sorts, to visit the truck that had been such a fixture, an extension of my Grandpa for all those years.  It was the truck he would ride in with his pet poodle, Clarence, doing odd jobs around the farm.  It was the truck he used to drive out to the ranch all those years, and down to Touchet to take a picture of my sister and me every year on our first day of school.  For a moment I could almost see Grandpa in his dirty old jeans and worn work hat, strumming his fingers against the wheel as he hummed along to the tune that was playing along in his head.

Over the years I have rode in many trucks, but my favorite will always be that red and white Ford with the pipes sticking up off the front, years and years worth of banana stickers covering the dash.  The truck won’t be my favorite because of its speed, its looks, or its features, but because of those giddy moments at the front window when I would spot it coming down the road and think, “Grandpa’s here.”  The truck will be my favorite because of all those slow, warm rides into Walla Walla, with the summer air rushing through the windows and my Grandpa sitting beside me humming “Home on the Range.”

The truck will always be my favorite because of Grandpa.