I’m sure that I have written often about my trusty old Ford pickup. It is an F-100 that I bought about a month after I got out of the Army. I had been looking for a pickup just like this one. Of course, I didn’t have any extra money, so my brother loaned me the $300 the fellow wanted for the truck.
I was down in Paso Robles going to summer camp at Camp Roberts when I saw it. It was just like the one my dad had driven when he was working down near Wasco. I had given up looking for this model and then I saw it sitting in front of a motel just off Highway 101.
Poor guy was suffering while he ran out of money. He didn’t want to sell it at first, and I had to drop by his office just about everyday I was down there. Finally, he said, “OK.” So I had to call my brother and he drove over from Wasco to make sure I got my money’s worth.
I was stoked, as this was a black truck. Someone as old as me might remember when each new black vehicle had to be picked out of the assembly line and hand sanded to make sure that all the bolts were snug. A black vehicle was more expensive than other colors.
I drove my truck home and took it apart, down to the frame. I joined a truck club and found out where all the cool things were for old trucks. The other day I saw a 1956 Ford F-100 sold for $56,000. To be honest, if someone were to offer me that much money for my truck, I wouldn’t take it. The truck has been in my family for over 50 years.
I like it so much I wouldn’t even trade it in for a new Tesla. Don’t get me wrong. The Tesla is a great car, and I know that the government would love for all of us to buy one; maybe that’s why gas is $7 per gallon. I’m pretty sure that even if gas continues to go up, most people including me can’t afford a $50,000 car.
My son came by to help me put a shiny steering column in today. He isn’t crazy about working on Sunday, but we always have a good time when he comes by to help me. We don’t get much done because we are having too much fun harassing his mom, or talking smack about his brother. My other son would have been happy to come by, but he caught the flu and is recovering.
To make a long story short, we didn’t get anything done that I wanted to, but it was no one’s fault. So I sat there after my son left and tried to do something by myself. But that didn’t work either, as I had to write my column. Sometimes thinking about it makes it more difficult, and waking up in the middle of the night doesn’t help either.
Lorraine can always tell when I’m awake because I will lay there and giggle hoping to make you all laugh at my scribblings. Why am I telling you this? I guess it’s because I am finding that I forget a lot more than I used to. I know I’m not the only one. If the things I forget are like the things you forget, I’m OK.
If I forget now, I just call someone and ask what I was thinking. I just got off the phone with my best friend Gordon. We have known each other a long time. Gordon was what we used to call a “Spook,” he spoke Vietnamese and was an interrogator for a unit that might have been a secret if Gordon hadn’t been there.
Gordon used to come by our condo when Lorraine and I lived together many years ago and help us drink whatever wine we had in the house. His birthday is next week and maybe I can throw a couple of bottles in the back of the truck while we are at his house for payback. We have the kind of friendship that I treasure. I am looking forward to his party; it will be a day to remember. Have a great week.