I love old trucks. And for me that means pre-1965, before I could drive
and trucks were relegated to tasks, jobs, and other non-pleasure activities.
They weren't called work trucks, just trucks, as that is what trucks did-they
worked. Back when accommodations were sparse, and they were designed for work.
Rubber mats, no radio, and rough rides. And as much as I like old cars, given
the choice between an old 1960 Chevy pickup or a 1969 SS396 fully restored, I'll
take the old truck, rust and all every time. Seems old trucks reflect daily
life, like horse and wagons that proceeded them, these beasts of burden worked
until death, then were set out in a field to fade away. Not forgotten, just
forgotten about. Replaced with something newer and better, yet I wonder why old
trucks seem to last, while new ones are so readily replaced?
Trucks of my youth I remember are an early fifties canopy truck, a dark
Chevy, selling meat in my Grandma's neighborhood, the clanging bell announcing
meat for sale. When Hetfield Avenue was repaved, B model Mack trucks hauled the
asphalt. When Algonquin Village was built, a suburban development, late fifties
ford pickups were everywhere, blue for carpenters, gray and white for plumbers.
Mr. Pillar across the street had a 1957 Dodge pickup. I loved all the dump
trucks building roads and hauling dirt around town. I can still hear the gear
whine while under full load, then the air brakes when they stopped. I always
wanted to drive one, or at least ride in one, they were so cool. Tow trucks, we
didn't need flatbeds yet, were cool, hauling old wrecks, or responding to dead
batteries. So many memories, and looking back at a slice of Americana-watching
as the sixties unfolded, and America grew. Semis and Jake brakes, the smell of
brakes at the bottom of Jugtown Mountain, the smell of diesel, and the smell of
diesel exhaust-good stuff. A patina that seemed to be factory installed and
only got better with age-or use, whatever came first. Knowing the difference
sound between a Ford six cylinder, or a V-6 GMC. Knowing that a Dodge worked
hard, but not as hard as a Ford, and not as hard as a Chevy. International,
Mack, Kenworth, and Peterbuilt-all with a single purpose-work. So simple in
purpose, yet so complicated in design. Hard work never killed an old truck,
they just got old like their owners, and faded away. A far cry from today as
the F150 outsells any car model in the US of A. and I even have two trucks
myself, considered mini-trucks compared to their huge big brothers, but the same
size I remember from 50 years ago. From beast of burden to beast of play to
retirement out in a field, they have changed. Oh for one last ride bouncing in
the front seat of an old truck, speeding along at 30mph, windows down, head out
the window. What do dogs know about riding in trucks we don't? Did we change
them, or did trucks change us?
We got the news last night that Penny's horse Barney had to be put down.
He was a show horse, and definitely not a work horse, such is the world today.
Tractors and diesel power have replaced horses, and they find their way into our
hearts as riding partners and friends. So I feel bad for her, losing a friend
after 17 some odd years. I can relate as we had to put Trigger down long ago
suffering from spinal meningitis. It hurts, and some may think "it's only a
horse," but it signals a relationship ending. A time when only memories count,
as the new ones end. A time of sadness, and an emptiness that words cannot
describe, nor fill. Barney was fed, ridden, shoed, and vetted out for a long
time, and now an empty corral sits where he once stood. Keep her in
prayer.
After I did Lee's funeral a few years ago, an old Marine wrote to Suzie
telling her of my performance. He related how he had been to many Marine
services, but cried at this one. My words telling the crowd that it was "OK to
weep as Jesus wept," touched him. He didn't know he could or should. But now
sees Jesus in a different way-a man of compassion, who cried with others as they
cried. Who made it personal in death, but even more personal in life. And in a
year of my Dad dying, open heart surgery, a house fire, and Andrew's MX accident
and surgery, it is nice to know Jesus cares. That He has taken my burdens,
because He cares, and loves me just as I am. How He comforts me, and how I know
He will comfort Penny. How He listens to our stories, and memories, and has
time for us, meeting us where we are, coming down to our level. So I encourage
all who have had a loss, or are enduring hard times, give it to Jesus. Let Him
shoulder the weight-he can do it. Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with
those that weep. And to Glen and Penny my empathies go out to you, over the
loss of your friend. No words will express how you feel, only Jesus knows, and
only Jesus can comfort you.
Old trucks, old horse, and old friends. Some beasts of burden, some just a
beast, and some a burden. But precious to us all the same. It's Ok to mourn,
and cry. It is also OK to share the memories and reflect on the good times.
The rides, the roads built, and times spent when nothing special seemed to be
going on-just life. God gives us these memories as a gift to remember,and He
records many memories in the book He has on us. Good only, the sin is gone and
forgotten. No more weeping, the tears are wiped away. With only the sad, heavy
eyebrows over the headlights of a 1960 Chevy truck to remind me.
Patina is a word that only comes from experience and being used. You can't
fake it. Let the patina of knowing Jesus shine through today-no facades. Your
new truck will be old someday-and so will you . Only Jesus will be the same. A
comforting thought, as in this world you will have tribulation, and it is easier
to look back than look ahead. Only in Jesus are the best times yet to come for
those who believe. Keep on truckin', or riding, or galloping into the future,
knowing that Jesus has your back. And your front, and all around you covered.
Let your patina show as Jesus will provide all the shine you need. A beast of
burden hung from a cross. Don't put Him out to pasture....
An empty garage can be filled, and an empty corral refilled-but that empty
tomb can never be replaced.
love with compassion,
Mike
matthew25biker.blogpsot.com