The Old Grey Pickup

The old grey pickup wasn't always old and grey. It used to be new and silver with maroon racing stripes. The  chrome tire rims reflected the blue skies. The bumpers gleamed in the sun. The first time my daddy introduced me to the old pick up was in March a couple of springs before my oldest son was born.

My husband had just passed his pilot's license. In his usual unassuming swagger he stepped into our yellow-shag, extra-wide trailer  and  promised to get me home at Spring break. He rented a 172 from the Aggie airport in College Station. He used a navigational approach called "IFR" which means "I follow roads." And that's what we did. We pointed the nose of the aircraft towards the sunset and followed Interstate 10 towards El Paso.  The winds in west Texas during the spring often reach hurricane force. Flying at 10,000 feet, we watched the 18-wheelers pass us up on the Interstate below. It didn't take long to realize we would run out of fuel before we would reach home. So my pilot husband made the decision. After cussing out the fool who built a tower at the end of the runway, he sashayed that lawn-mower with wings onto the runway and landed. We spent the night at the Devil's Inn in Ozona and the next day rode the Greyhound the remaining eight hours into the Sun-City. My hometown.

My parents picked us up in the part of downtown El Paso where you don't walk alone at night. The garishly lit bus station was  full of travelers surrounded with their belongings in tied up  boxes and shopping bags.  I breathed in the sight and felt at home. My parents lead us to the new silver pickup parked at the curb. Their eyes sparkling. My daddy proudly handed me the keys and offered to let me drive his newest prized possession. The four of us crowded into the cab already brimming over with joy and pride. I drove us home. The neighborhood I grew up in was the kind where you parked in your single-car driveway with a club locking the steering wheel to the brake pedal, a chain and padlock on the hood and another one on the spare under the pickup bed. With a huge black dog in the back yard, all was safe.

The pickup always played a supporting role in my family memories. Pretty soon my three kids were on the scene and we usually ran out of money before the end of the month. We had found our corner under the Sun right outside of Houston near the Brazos River. A comfortable place to raise children.

Ito's pickup became part of the family just like our beagles did.

The Lord had blessed my parents with another vehicle so they blessed us with their silver  pickup with the maroon racing stripes. My daddy had put a matching camper shell on the pickup. A wonderful brother from Daddy's church had customized the back with wooden platform and boxes expertly upholstered with matching maroon carpet. Color coordinated camper shell on your pickup was high style in the world I grew up in. Ito, a term of endearment for my dad, gave me his best. The pickup left the desert and moved to the coastal region of our Lone Star State. My kids were thrilled.  The kids played in the back of that pickup by day and begged to sleep there at night. Ito's pickup became part of the family just like our beagles did.

  My kids grew up in that pickup.

One afternoon, the kind when the red oaks begin to turn and sweatshirts emerge from the bottom drawer, my younger son took a tumble on his bike around the corner from the house. We piled into the truck to make the rescue. The dog was barking her head off behind the hurricane fence. We assured her we would return and bring brother home. She was not comforted. I turned the key and started the engine. Kitty fur flew everywhere, that is when I understood dog language. She had warned us that our kitty was keeping warm under the hood. I grabbed my daughter and looked square into my older son's eyes. "Son, there comes a time in every boy's life when he must step up and be the man. Now is that time. You must open that hood and rescue kitty. Your sister and I will be waiting indoors." Younger son managed to walk his mangled bike home while older son reached under the hood and pulled out kitty. Her limbs were intact. She was missing the tip of her left ear  and the fur off her left shoulder.

Ito's silver pickup with the maroon racing strips was now beginning to turn grey. But that didn't stop it from hauling wood, sand and baseball teams. Back and forth to the grocery store, church and the ball fields. Trips to the beach, trips to Grandma's, trips to museums.  My kids grew up in that pickup. 

Trips to the beach.

Pretty soon it was time to move. My husband had gone on ahead. I piled up what was left in the house into the pickup. This included the three kids, the kitty cat with one short ear, the dog and her puppies. We made sure that we could shut the back of the camper, filled up both gas tanks and pointed the pickup north. The kids negotiated turns to ride in the back with the puppies. We stopped at every DQ to water the dogs and eat ice cream, all the way to the prairies of north Texas. I found boldness behind the wheel. Ito's presence lived in that pickup like a genie in a bottle. He always felt close. And when my kids were finally old enough to drive, for some crazy reason I always felt they were safer in that old pickup.

While you're in the middle of raising a family, it feels like you're at a standstill but in retrospect, time flies. The paint began to rub away and added a rusty hue to the color palette. The camper shell let the rain in. The maroon carpet had to be pulled up and tossed. The radiator was replaced, my husband rebuilt the engine and got a new transmission. The seat was reupholstered, the cab ceiling replaced. All before cell phones. On our long distance calls home, I would tell my parents how the dogs and the kids were doing and all about the run they scored in the last ball game. Daddy would ask about the truck and how it was behaving.

One icy December night my husband was working in San Antonio. He called. There was a worried edge to his voice. Get the truck into the garage, he told me. The temps were dropping and would freeze the water in the truck and crack the block. We were to move the cherry picker and other tools out of the way to make room in the garage. Even if all we could do was get the hood under the roof that would be good, he assured me. My son called his buddies. One buddy answered the call. This young man was taller than most. He showed up in flip flops and a hoodie. Ice was falling out of our Texas skies.  The tall buddy pushed the truck with the half rebuilt engine, up the slight incline covered with a thin layer of the ice and into the garage, risking life and limb for that pickup.  I will always be grateful to that young man. Heroes come in many shapes and sizes. And sometimes wear flip flops.

One November afternoon, my kids murmured into my husband's ear, "Dad, don’t get rid of the pickup." Ito had stopped driving long ago and  we had all cried at his graveside. Pretty soon the replaced upholstery began to tear, the replaced ceiling began to sag, and the windows stopped working. The engine caught fire and it was no longer fun to get stuck on the side of the road. The truck earned its place on our driveway after the high-falootin' neighbors called the police about this nonworking pickup parked at the curb. Every time my husband had a little extra cash he would take the pickup into his favorite mechanic and have something worked on. Once a month, my husband would hook the charger up to the battery and start up the engine just for good measure. He would take the pickup out for a spin around the block and park that old grey mare, as my kids affectionately called her, back in the driveway. I would hear the truck before I can see it coming around the corner. Every time we discussed finances, I brought up selling the pickup to cut expenses. I always lost.

I never fully understood the love between a man and his pickup until today. My son is driving home on Christmas Day. He has to be at work in the morning. I stand at my living room window watching my husband and my son. One of them is wearing a Duck Commander jacket and cap, the other an army green Carhartt duck jacket and Rangers cap with a frayed bill. Together they empty out the trash that has accumulated in the old grey mare. Empty kitty litter bags, an empty apple sauce box used to carry home something else from Sam's. Bricks, pavers, stray pieces of metal, and broken tree limbs. My husband lifts the hood and dry leaves scatter in all directions. The living room windows rattle when the engine roars. Both men look under the hood and nod in approval. "If she doesn't start," I hear my husband advise our son. "Just pour some gas into the carburetor." My husband places the heavy duty jack in the back of the pickup along with some jumper cables. Just in case. It'll be dark before he gets to his home on the coast. My son comes in the house and grins at me. "It's going to be fun to see if that old pick up makes it across Texas one more time." I fill his pockets with snacks for the road.

I wave goodbye to my son and hear Dad's old pickup turn away at the corner. The silver is now rust. The racing stripes are faded. If you hit a pothole the engine will stall. If you let it sit too long you'll have to coax it back to life. You'll have to drive with the windows down in the summer because the AC doesn't work. You have to drive with your jacket on in the winter because the heater won't come on. If you roll the windows down you won't be able to roll them up in a rainstorm. It's hard to see out because the windshield is pitted from sandstorms.

It's the challenge of keeping it running. It's the rush of hearing the roar of the engine. It's the familiar creaking of the old shocks. It's the rumble of an over-fast idle. It's the memory of sitting under the hood as a little boy with your grandfather. And bleeding the brakes with your father. It's the vision of taking the truck to the beach to go fishing. It's the plan of what to restore first. It's the hope of working on it with your son yet unborn. It's the love between a man and his pickup. 

Daddy and his pickup. Snowstorm in El Paso.