Sunday, May 8, 2011

A goodbye tribute to an old friend.

The Truck was adopted into our family in 1989. I was 4 years old and we were trading in our Jeep Cherokee for a truck for my dad. I remember driving through the winding New Hampshire roads to the dealership, which was forever away since we apparently didn't live near civilization.

I remember when we picked him out. To me he was the prettiest truck on the lot. A big shiny gold and black 1989 Chevy Silverado. I thought the name of the truck in and of itself was so cool. Apparently when you're 4 years old Chevrolet is such a fancy word, because I named about half of my My Little Ponies Chevrolet after that.

My booster seat fit perfectly in the back seat and I just thought I was the coolest kid in the planet riding in this huge (to me) pick up truck.

The Truck has many memories that stick with me.

About 6 months later we got our dog Bridgette, and I remember riding home with her sleeping in a little ball of puppiness on my lap in the backseat. She threw up all over me and the new interior. About 5 years later, when we were living in Arizona, we made a road trip to Arkansas to visit family. We stopped in Texas and Bridgette apparently picked up a million pin sized ticks that flooded the entire back seat. I looked down from my book and the seat looked alive. I screamed and we spent the next 2 hours at a gas station vacuuming the dog and the Truck. That truck was also Bridgette's truck, as she spent hundreds of times sitting proudly next to my dad in the front seat, muddy and exhausted after her hunting trips with him. She rode on a soft blanket in the same spot when they took her to be put down when she was too old and tired and sick to live her life many years later.

He took us deep in the woods for many many family camping trips and my dad's hunting trips. It was gutted once by my dad when he drove directly over a tall stump. He also managed to back him into a hole (the only hole in their entire 1/2 acre backyard by the way) when doing yard work and messed up the axel. He had the Truck's engine replaced, as well as his transmission several times over 20+ years.

Once when riding with my dad when I was 6 or so, I was rolling a marble sized ball bearing in the track where the window goes down. If you haven't noticed, there is a hole where the track ends and the side panel meets. The ball bearing went down into that hole and into the hollow of the door. My dad could never get it out and ever since then, whenever he turns a corner it bounces around like a pinball machine and he shakes his head. He says he thinks of me every time. A few years later I found a tube of touch up paint in the glove box and decided to surprise my dad by touching up all the scratches and dings. I didn't know that the tube came with the Truck, was over 3 years old, and dries up after awhile. I also didn't know that touch up paint is not water soluble, so adding water and shaking it does not make it liquid again. I apparently thought globs of paint would just smooth out because when my dad came home from work he found his truck covered in lumpy patches of darker gold paint and me standing proudly next to my handiwork. He didn't have the heart to yell.

When I was 16 I learned to drive with the Truck. My dad's reasoning was if I could handle driving the beast with tough steering and crappy brakes, I could drive most anything. We had some close calls, the Truck and I. He overheated on me many times, but since the speedometer quit working I got to be pretty good at guessing my speed. The cops helped with that too.

The Truck spent many summer nights driving us out to the desert so we could lay on his roof and watch the meteor showers.

He hauled my stuff to my dorm my first year of college. He then moved me to various houses and apartments all throughout my years at ASU and Grand Canyon. He pulled the trailer that held our furniture and my son's crib to our first house.

For you fellow CPSTs, there truly is a niche for the Coccoro. It's in the center front seat of an 89 Chevy Silverado.

295,000 miles later, the transmission bit the dust again. The cost to repair it was too great. The Truck was tired, and could no longer pull trailers or go up the winding mountains to go camping. So he was donated to a veteran's organization to be auctioned off for charity last week. My dad sent me a cell phone picture of the Truck being loaded up.

I know in the end it's just a piece of metal. But that piece of metal held a LOT of memories. That funny black and gold pick up truck will be missed. See ya Truck. Thanks for everything. <3

1 comment:

Lori Knobel said...

Aww.... I remember riding in that truck too! May it rest in peace... =)