You know all those country songs that talk about “Daddy’s Hands,” “Daddy’s Old Truck,” “Riding next to Daddy,” and “Daddy letting you drive”? Allow me to clear up a few misconceptions. Maybe certain daddies created sacred spaces in their trucks where kids could dream, but we didn’t have any trucks like that. Now, I’m not saying that I don’t love my dad or that I don’t cherish the times I had driving around in our old trucks, but I would like to paint a clearer picture of reality. Those of you who may have ridden in one of my dad’s vehicles can attest to the veracity of these accounts.
My dad has, or at least had, some areas of his life that are insanely organized. For example, he kept meticulous farming records. He knew how much he planted and spent and how much he brought in. He also keeps his tools mostly organized. I can remember that he had coffee cans filled with different types of nails and screws, divided and separated in an orderly fashion. We boys, for example, were expected to always put our hoes back in the shop exactly where they belonged. Once my dad bought 8-10 spools of nylon cords and rope. He protected these spools for years and we were never allowed to cut them. Do you know how hard it is to tie down a load with the spool still attached to the end of the rope? It’s ridiculous. In another example, my dad kept his closet obsessively organized with his dry cleaned, Sunday clothes neatly hanging.
In other areas of his life, my dad was sort of like a bucket full of raw scrambled eggs being poured from a plane at 10,000 feet! He was scattered all over the place, unclear on where he was going, unable to connect his priorities, and in a constant, free-falling condition. It is clear from any outsider that this omelet, that is his life, was going to end up without much in the frying pan. He kept records, but either didn’t analyze them or was unwilling to accept the conclusions. It’s unsettling to realize now that he knew exactly how unprofitable farming was and that he kept doing it anyway.
My dad always sought credit if it was possible. His, “I’ll pay you as quick as I can,” was a shopkeeper’s worst fear. People liked my dad, a lot. He’s personable and always friendly, but I think most of all, people knew how hard he has always worked. The only son of a widow, I think some people may have just been helping him along. He was a like a character from history. He sold eggs and peddled produce from his truck. He cut logs and firewood. He was a mirror of lives long past, but fondly remembered by some. Now in his seventies, he still sells eggs, a dozen or two at a time and still farms, though now on rented land. Who can refuse a nice fellow selling eggs and sweet potatoes from slips he set out himself? Besides, when the kindly farmer needs a little time to pay a paltry debt, what’s the harm? Although he was slow as cold molasses, my dad pretty much always paid his bills, although sometimes it was literally years later.
From my birth in 1969 until my parents moved to Lenoir in 1992, my dad had exactly five trucks: a green 1953 Chevrolet pick-up with a long bed and step-sides; a red 1957 two-ton Chevrolet dump truck that had over a million miles on it when it died (really, it did); a white 1971 Ford tandem; a black 1969 Ford pickup with a big 360 motor that had been overhauled or replaced multiple times; and a 1987 grey Ford pickup. Not one of these could still be driven when my dad sold them for scrap metal; he had worn them completely out many times over. But it wasn’t how thoroughly used they were that stands out in my mind today, but rather the similarities in how my dad made his nest in each one.
The cabs of any of my dad’s trucks looked remarkably similar. Although he did “clean them out,” from time to time, my dad’s trucks were characterized by disarray. He would have oil cans, tools, old mail, gunny sacks with forgotten and rotting vegetables, soft drink bottles, candy wrappers, and lots of dust and dirt in the floor and on the seats. The windows rarely worked, and all were missing some part of the door latches or window knobs. The passenger side of the old dump truck was welded shut, lest it fall off the hinges. It’s true, not one of his vehicles had completely functioning doors and windows. It was also true than none of them had working heaters, air conditioners, radios, or seat belts. My dad was particular about his mirrors and nobody was allowed to adjust them – period. If your head accidentally hit the rear-view or side mirrors while you were crawling in his truck, a tongue lashing was certain, and a spanking was possible. I learned to drive without mirrors, mostly because my dad wouldn’t let me adjust them to accommodate my shorter stature.
Another detail that stands out vividly is the way he kept a roll of toilet paper in each vehicle, usually slid down on the gear shift or brake stick. How many times have I been with my dad as he recklessly parked on the side of the road, grabbed the roll of toilet paper, and ran off down through the woods? I’m pretty sure he must have had some undiagnosed intestinal problem like Crohn’s disease or something. He was a remarkably fast runner when a bathroom emergency occurred, and they often did. While others reminisce about fishing poles, sweet smelling tobacco and Old Spice in their dad’s trucks, I’ll be thinking of watching my dad doing a 50-yard dash down through a briar patch while I sat in the familiar old dirty cab waiting for him to hurry up and finish.