There have been times in the past two years, sans truck, that I've looked over at Jay in a quiet moment and I see his face soften ever so subtly and a look of fond nostalgia washes over him. He reaches for my hand and begins to speak....
Expecting to hear him recollect the time we spent at the beach or the early days of our courtship or tell me one of the infinite reasons he loves me (or something of the like), I'm jolted to reality when I hear him say,
"Remember that green and white truck we had? Nothing has ever been as comfortable to travel in as that truck. And remember that black truck that I had to start with the screw driver? Man, those were great trucks. I miss those trucks. Maybe we should never have gotten rid of those trucks. I had this truck once...."
And then his eyes glaze over and he's detailing every truck that he has had and the ailments that each one possessed. Jay is lost in a dreamland of glow plugs and transmissions.
It is both endearing and baffling. Me? I like to own a really nice vehicle and get good use out of it and then send it on its way, never looking back. Jay? He loves 'em and leaves 'em, but not without first fixing and tinkering and caring deeply for them and then bringing them up years later with great affection mixed with a bit of longing, perhaps feeling a little guilty for ever letting them go in the first place.
Apparently this love of trucks has a genetic component. While my father-in-law has passed down many enviable traits like honesty, compassion, work ethic and humor, he has also passed down this inclination for all things truck. Big trucks, bigger trucks, fancy trucks and plain trucks.
As long as I've been a part of this great family, I have seen trucks grace the front of their eastern CO desert home as plentiful as the sandy earth upon which they sit. And just as easily as a desert wind can blow, so can a new truck find its way to the Spencer abode.
They have a good life there. Hauling trailers with horses to a rodeo here or a ropin' there. You just never know what kind of truck (or how many) will greet you as you drive up to the house. And while the elder Spencer seems to have no particular brand favorite (Dodge, Chevy or Ford), it seems as though Jay has broken from the mold and become a "Ford Man."
And so it is that I now find a giant red and gray 1996 Ford F350 PowerStroke parked in front of our not so large .5 car garage. And it is a dually, no less. That means it has 6 wheels. Six. The more the merrier, I suppose? We don't really need the additional 2 wheels but there they sit on my driveway, barely squeezing themselves between the bushes on one side and the grass on the other.
Also, it has two fuel tanks. Two. (Please note that I said "fuel" and not "gas." I've been thoroughly schooled throughout my 11 years of marriage in the ways of trucks. Diesel is "fuel" not "gas." I think I learned that on our second date, or something.)
As genes have a pesky way of sticking with the bloodline, I noticed a disturbing (yet sadly predictable) incident when Kai laid his eyes on our truck for the first time. He walked up to the giant metal behemoth with awe, gingerly climbed onto the running boards and pressed his nose to the window. Reverently he said, "Daddy, I yike your twuck."
After that declaration of solidarity and admiration, he gently stroked the side of the truck as if to say, "You're home now, buddy. We'll take care of ya. I've got your back."
And with a parting pat, he walked into the house secure in his knowledge that he, too, is a truck man. Third generation. It runs deep.
2 comments:
I can totally relate. When Clark gets nostalgic, it's about a Volkswagen. He's also second-generation, and he's already looking at pink Craftsman toolboxes for Lucy.
There's somethin' women like about a pickup man, right? You've got yourself a manly man there and he deserves a manly steed!
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