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Memories of the old truck
Pritchard House Tales
By Ludford Creef
Life was so warm, wonderful and simple when I was 5 years old. Except for tying my shoes and feeding my dog "Duke," there were very few demands. The pressure to be a good example began to increase, though, as I was the oldest of the brood of three (en route to six). There must have been competition for food but it did not make a memorable impact, so I reckon it was of small consequence. Actually, the new kids were a welcome relief because their mistakes took the pressure off me. Holding me responsible for their stinky diapers would be unrealistic, even for young parents.
My favorite things were in pretty colors and, to my mind, they held everlasting beauty. Our cocker spaniel was tan. He was my best friend. When I called Duke, he came running with a dog smile for me. His crooked, stubby tail no longer wagged so good because his hatred of moving hub caps resulted in numerous injuries. He was still pretty to me.
Our bright red cub tractor was a status symbol in spite of the fact that it would only pull one plow. Just to look at it made me smile. Our 1949 Ford pickup truck was a pretty dark green and I spent a lot of windshield time in that truck. Back in 1950 the term "safety" was about six years away in the future. It was standard procedure for kids to stand up in pickup trucks about three inches from the flatwindshield. I memorized the sights, sounds and smells of that truck. When I see one today, I get flash backs of the aroma.
I stood was right in front of a plastic grill with "FORD" stamped into the plastic. I loved that smell. Daddy said the fancy Fords would have a radio where our plastic grill was. Sometimes we went to places where I could not go in because the guys cussed too much and were not good examples for young malleable minds. I learned all of those words in the Army 15 years later from those striped masters of profanity.
While alone in the truck, I always pulled the owner's manual from the glove compartment and reviewed the pictures I had already memorized. I guess Daddy never read that manual because once, we had a flattire and he could not findthe jack. I showed him. On another occasion when the lights would not work I introduced him to the fuse box under the dash.
Our truck was our ride to everything. It took Daddy to the Naval Base in Norfolk to work fivedays each week. One weekend each month it took him to the Naval Base for his Naval Reserve duties. When we needed groceries, we all piled into the truck and drove to Portlock or Great Bridge. Sometimes the trips were not much fun because in those days, parents did not drag their kids into public places and turn them loose to terrorize strangers. Wal-Mart had not been invented yet. We would sit in the truck and wait for mom to hunt and gather our week's groceries. The cab of that truck seemed to shrink to a small, intolerable space as we waited for the bag boy to emerge and load up the bags. It was a ritual for Mom to get into the truck with our 12-15 bags of groceries and Daddy would ask, "What did we spend?" Mom would almost apologize as she said, "It was $17." Then all the way home they would talk about how expensive everything had become.
I know now we were not really unusual; it was customary for poor people to hold family meetings in a pickup truck on the way home from the grocery store or doctor's officeonce a week.
We had wooden unpainted sides on our pickup truck because occasionally a cow, goat or pig had to go for a one-way ride to market. That was Daddy's secret way of raising quick cash for unexpected needs. As I look back to those really good days, I wonder how we lived through it all because there were no safety features on that truck. It was basic transportation without all the idiot-proof features of today's pickup truck (and it delivered 25 miles per gallon, but at 23 cents per gallon, nobody noticed).
Those were the days when people accepted blame for their mistakes. If a driver got drunk and hit a tree, he was ashamed. Today, he calls his lawyer from the ambulance and then sues the bartender, the tree owner, and the guy who sold him the truck.
One of the joys of my golden years (now) is to ride around in a 1951 Willys pickup truck, which is worth about 30 cents to an accountant. The old truck is different looking, as it has real steel fenders, a two-piece flatwindshield and a real bumper made to bump with gusto.
So many things have changed since those days of basic pickup trucks, resulting in the demise of many of the pioneers such as Willys, International, Studebaker and Hudson. The survivors are made in whole or in part by other countries and they are more like women - pretty, curvy and too complicated to understand. The old truck appeals to my basic caveman instincts - sort of ugly, sporting flatmetal with sharp angles, no curves. Best of all, when I raise the steel hood, I can see and identify its parts which include carburetor, distributor, spark plugs, water pump and my all time favorite, the master cylinder.
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