Wednesday, July 13, 2011

No Longer My Truck

I sold my Dad's truck the other day.

Funny, isn't it? I've owned the truck since 2003, yet I still think of it as Dad's Truck (and yes, in capital letters like that). My Dad owned it from 1997 until he died in 2003. I held onto it, yes, partly as a way of trying to hold on to my Dad.

But the control arm (steering mechanism) rotted out and I haven't been able to drive it for weeks. So I listed it, a dozen or so people asked about it, a few came to look at it, and the other night someone offered me pretty much what I was asking for it.

I sold it to a mechanically inclined man who is going to be buying it to try to either fix up for his son to use or else use the parts and sell others. While it's tough letting go of my Dad's truck (see, I still don't think of it as my truck), I would be delighted to learn he WAS able to fix it up and his son was able to use it. Perhaps that way, the truck could be part of a third father/son bonding experience.

I did ask if his son fished and told him if he did, this truck would be lucky for him because it came with my father's essence of fishing luck.

I took this picture of Alexander recently, sitting on the hood of the truck and looking off pensively. From his perspective, it's Dad's truck.  He was born in 2004, so he never knew my Dad, and never really knew it as Grandpa Gene's truck, even though I constantly refer to it that way. Alexander and I had some great times driving around together in that truck.

I found a picture of Dad and I that was taken in the early 90's - both of us looking off camera, pensively. It's one of those many moments we sat together in a pause between chatting, just enjoying being in one another's company.

I feel these shots are the best kind to go with this blog post as I sit and think back about My Dad's Truck and all the things it has meant to me as well as my relationships with my father and my son.

So it's no longer my truck, no longer even my Dad's truck - but it leaves me with a lot of great memories of the father/son bond which can occur over something as simple as a hunk of steel, glass, plastic and metal mounted on four tires.

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