The first pickup
that I remember was a 1951 GMC. It was rated a half-ton model, but it
had a ¾-ton bed. My father kept it seemingly forever! It must have run well, as
I have no memory of it in a repair shop. It was a silvery pale blue. It boasted
a 1940s underdash heater that was an aftermarket installation by Glen Bisel,
who owned the Sinclair station in my hometown; he found it in a wrecked
Oldsmobile car. The heater was shaped like a shield and had two doors with
round metal doorknobs. When a door was opened, the heat poured out. Actually,
the heat poured out even when the doors were closed! I always sat between my
father and my brother on the bench seat. The heater was close to my knees. On
bitterly cold winter days, the heat felt good; otherwise, the heat was too
intense, and I compulsively drew my knees back into the seat as far from the
heater as I could get.
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| My Father and the 1951 GMC Pickup |
On a farm,
a pickup truck gets constant use; for that reason, I have scores of memories of
the faithful old GMC! My father often chose a rainy day to load two or three
hogs to take to the market. If the loading went well, my father would not
sustain a scratch; frequently, though, he had to wrestle with the pigs to get
them up and into the bed of the pickup, and he would be cut. As my father bled
freely from even the smallest nick, he would soon have a trail of blood over
the back of his hand or on his forearm. Once the pigs were loaded, he would run
to the house to wash his hands and coat his scratches with tincture of
merthiolate (an antiseptic in a bottle with a thin glass tube attached to the
lid). The tincture left orange stains. My father would hop behind the wheel,
and we would be on our way to one of the livestock sale barns near our home.
The rain
would slosh across the windshield from side to side as the wiper blades worked
back and forth in a lazy rhythm. I was a youngster sandwiched between my father
and my brother. I would listen to their conversation and the peaceful beat of
the raindrops. Our damp clothing and the scents of earth within the cab mingled
in waves of tropical heat exuding from the heater slung beneath the dashboard.
Slowly but surely, I would fall asleep.
That sleep
was the soundest sleep that a boy could have! I wish I could experience such
tranquility today! I felt secure and toasty warm. I assumed that life would go
on like that forever.
Of course,
life didn’t go on in that same way, but I have the memories of that comfortable
time when I was really young. Such recollections sustain me now.
I can
hardly conclude without mentioning that I often washed and waxed the good ol’
GMC. In waxing and polishing vehicles from the decades of the 1950s and 1960s,
jammed fingers were always a possibility. Where I most often rammed my fingers
into a space too small for them on the GMC was between the back fender and a
vertical support for the pickup bed. My hand would smoothly slip down the
rounded curve of the fender and get caught near the bottom of the curve. Ouch!
No matter how many times I told myself not to do that, I did it anyway!
What would
I not give to return to the 1950s for another ride in that GMC truck? Maybe my
father would be hauling sacks from the feed store in town to our storage shed
for livestock. The sun would be shining, the heater would be turned off, and we
would be sharing a small bottle of Coca-Cola. How did I let those wonderful
days slip away?
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