This Old Truck


Lots of stuff goes into how I feel about this old truck.

It was my grandpa’s a long while back.  I know that’s a big part of it. He’s been gone almost 20 years now. Many of his attributes that I still cherish so somehow live on in that grey king-cab c. 1982.  I know that’s a bit silly, but that’s what goes through my head.

What attributes, you ask? Attributes like strong work ethic, good habit, perseverance, and a sense of thrift come to mind. I remember near the end of his life he called himself an old cowboy. This from a guy with a doctorate and lifetime of education administration on his resume.

What I knew about him was his love of the outdoors, and physical labor, and doing things right.

Driving around the ranch, he kept an old whiskey bottle filled with tap water in the cab, in case he got thirsty. 

He was a  traditional guy, born before WWI, just before the Great Generation. He’d have one bourbon, maybe two, before dinner. Not more than that. A good lesson right there.

He was a hunter. He got up before the sun everyday. Whether it was deer season or not.  He got up long before the sun, in fact. Good lesson there too. 

He taught me about figuring things out, and plodding forward, and being responsible, and making good decisions, and utility, and making due. 

That old truck means all these things to me, woven into the thread-bare seats, in the stained floor carpet, the rusted side, the tool box in the back cab.  

I’m grateful it’s parked out front and ready to go when needed, still providing simple utility, and a link to my family past.

I’m grateful for all those lessons all these years later, still running strong in my mind.  Like that old truck rumbling down the dirt road, those thoughts keep going, keep me going. 

Yep, I’m grateful for this old truck.

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