Remembering the Bliss of Childhood in an Old ’52 Ford Pick Up Truck
If I close my eyes I can feel my bare feet on the hot metal of the running board of my grandpa’s old, black, 1952 Ford truck. How I loved to play on this old truck. It had wonderful smells of oil and leather and he would allow us to play all over his truck. We would sit in the seat, bouncing on and off the hot leather and holding the large steering wheel, pretending to drive.
Even better than playing in the hot cab in July and August was the bed of the truck, which held so many treasures for me. An old oil can with a snake like tube and various tools. We would play on the bed of the pickup truck for hours, making up games, climbing on and off the lowered tailgate. We would take breaks to run inside for vanilla wafers and Kool-Aid from my grandma who was always peeling, shucking and canning beneath hard working fans in a house that never knew air-conditioning
Even better than playing on the old Ford were the times when my grandpa, a man of few words, would invite me for a ride with him to pick blackberries down a grass track into the woods near his garden. We would carry rusting, metal pails and I would come back with blackberry juice all over my hands and face for I had eaten more than I had picked. My grandfather rarely corrected me, it was simply silent companionship and love. This was the bliss of childhood.
When he left in the old truck to head to town he always took the empty coke bottle carrier back to the store to bring us more coca-colas. Back then coke was a treat, we could have a small glass in little juice glasses which my grandmother drank her Welch’s grape juice out of. I never asked to go ride in the truck unless he invited me and somehow I silently knew when I was welcome to go with him. These times are long gone but the memories and love stay forever.