Long Road To The Galaxie
When my grandfather died, we inherited his rusty, 1949 Chevrolet truck. It was ancient and I thought everyone who saw me riding in it would start humming the tune to The Beverly Hillbillies. To make matters worse, my father painted it dark green using Sears exterior paint applied with a brush. It gave the truck a homemade recklessness, as if it was just crazy enough to hump a Pinto at the traffic light. The Chevy was my grandfather’s favorite thing on earth besides my grandmother (I think).
The inside smelled like wet Prince Albert tobacco, red clay and sweat. The seats were stuffed with some type of horsehair material that years of asses had honed into prickly needles. It was like riding a cactus. Perhaps that is why my grandfather drove the truck like he was running from a porcupine. He called it “balls to the wall.
The floor was rusted through so the road was visible beneath. I dropped a Coke can through it one day and the undertow sucked it out the bottom and into the truck’s wake, ready for the prison road crew to collect with a nail on a stick.
Riding with my grandfather was a windows-down-taste-of-mud experience. By seventh grade, however, he was dead and I was embarrassed to be associated with the green machine.
Eventually we had to push the truck down hills to get it started, my father pushing the starter to the floor, igniting the old Detroit pistons as I jumped in the back and hung on. By eighth grade, I thought it was the coolest thing on the road because its unstable demeanor frightened respectable citizens and churchgoers. Amazing how puberty can adjust your point of view.
The day we sold it felt like a funeral. That was 39 years ago. I can still smell the burning clutch that represented my grandfather’s last years on this earth. His other vehicle (he called it his Sunday car) was a 1962 Ford Galaxie 500. The long Ford was new before President Kennedy was shot in Dallas. I drove it in high school and college in the 1970’s. My oldest son drove it in high school and college just a few years ago. I am looking at it right now in my garage, Peacock Blue, low and wide, sheathed in Pittsburgh steel. It is just a few years younger than me, looks better than me, and has outlasted two generations of my family as well as Chrysler and GM. Scary. I am feeling a little nervous. I’m next.
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