Daddy's Pickup on the Backroads

The sun is warm on my arm and the wind whips my hair, lashing it wildly across my face. I don't mind. I am on a sentimental journey. I am driving my dads pickup. Technically, it belongs to my mother, but in my mind and my heart, it will always be my dads. I borrowed it to do a few tasks on my property, but I find that I am in no hurry to exchange it for my little HHR....despite its horrific gas mileage!

There is something solid about that old pickup. It is heavy, a 1997 Ford, and it seems to lumber when it moves. Daddy's collection of cassette tapes is still in the console storage and behind the seat. They generate their own trip down memory lane... The Statler Brothers, Bob Wills, Johnny Cash and Jerry Clower. (If you haven't listened to the southern comedy of Jerry Clower.... you really should! The antics of Marcel Ledbetter are hilarious, assuming you can understand the southern references!)

I love the feel of the steering wheel as my hands grasp the worn leather cover. It is smooth with tiny cracks in random places. My fingers catch on the peeling edges as they slide around the wheel, guiding the pickup around the corner. I can still see his large hands wrapped around the wheel, exactly where mine now rest.

I have very fond memories of my dad and this truck. Actually, I have memories of trips with my dad in all of his trucks. There were trips to livestock shows, swap meets, auctions, and 4-H events. And I have special memories of a trip to get a black Lab puppy as a surprise Christmas present for my youngest daughter. Growing up, we never stopped for lunch at a restaurant or drive-in. Instead, he would stop at a convenience or grocery story, and he would buy a package of chocolate cookies and a quart of milk for us to share. They don't make that type of cookies anymore. They were chocolate sandwich cookies with a chocolate frosting between the flaky cookie layers. Not healthy at all, but it sure made for some strong memories.


As a young adult, I remember riding with him to Nardin, Oklahoma, where he was raised. We were going to salvage some weathered wood off a barn that his grandfather had built. As we chose the best boards and carefully removed them from the structure, my dad started to cry. One of a handful of times I saw him cry. When we were finished, we drove to the tiny gas station in Nardin. We each selected a "cold pop" from the old metal cooler. You know.... the kind with the lid on top that slides over so you can access the cold beverages inside. Sodas may be consumed regularly in today's society, but at that time, they were a special treat.


I know I drive his pickup much faster than he did. And my music choices are not only different than his, I guarantee you, I play them much louder.... seriously..... much, much louder. But I feel close to him when I am behind the wheel, window down, left arm resting on the bottom of the window opening, singing loudly while the wind makes a complete mess of my hair. I slow down then speed up, driving just like he did. Enjoying the moment.




I drove the old highway home from Guthrie tonight. That red truck hugging the curves along the creek and under the dappled light which filtered through the trees. I drove well below the speed limit, because I didn't have any place I had to be. I sang along with those old-school country songs on cassette tapes and to honor my dad, I even made up some new lyrics. Then I laughed. Because he used to do that all the time. Next time, I might have to stop for a package of cookies and a quart of milk!