I like old trucks. They have a certain smell, a certain patina, and a
certain attitude all their own. For me it started at about age 5, I can still
remember the 1959 Fords building houses in our old neighborhood. Not really
sure what a Ford was, I must have heard it somewhere, but I thought all trucks
were Fords. I was to learn later, when moving, that an old Dodge Job Rated
pickup across the street from the early fifties enlightened me. But soon big
trucks, real trucks, trucks meant to work and build things came into my life.
Building the new development across Hetfield Ave. meant Public Service gas
company trucks, 1 ton canopy trucks pulling compressors, for jack hammers.
Cement trucks from Wel-Don pouring curbs and gutters, and graders filling in
between with gravel. And big dump trucks, B Model Macks, GMC’s, and
Internationals, all hauling asphalt for Hetfield Avenue’s resurfacing. It was
Ollie Howarth’s GMC dump truck with a trailer pulling his backhoe, and his long,
lowboy flat bed for bulldozers and steam shovels, sans steam. It was a truck
junkies world to live in, and the early sixties with subdivisions being built
was the place to be. It gave me Mad Truck Disease, suddenly all my Tonkas had
names, I knew the drivers from countless hours sitting as close as possible
without getting in the way. Teams of men swinging shovels, shaking with jack
hammers, and using words I never heard before, but knew not to repeat at home.
And at night after the crews had gone home, we would go and look closer at
the construction equipment, daring to sit on bulldozers, climb into the cab of
graders, and stare up at the steam shovels, wondering what all the black handles
were for, half afraid we might get caught, even more afraid if we were asked if
we wanted to sit on them. But it was the trucks, the dump trucks, the flat bed
semis, the cement trucks, and other large trucks that made me decide at the time
I wanted to drive one. Even a cool 1960 Chevy with the heavy eyebrows, caked
with mud. Sneaking a peek next door at Ollie’s GMC, enough to make a young
man’s mind go crazy and dream. It was cool watching the cement truck driver
spray off the chute with his hose, after guiding its load to perfection. And
finally the smell of fresh asphalt, which still smells good to me today, from a
line of big dump trucks. D&L Construction’s big B Model Macks in
procession, then back home to the Tonkas. With Joey’s Big Mike, a dual axle
dumper my favorite, and with my name on it, made it even cooler. We had our own
construction projects, damming up the gutters, flooding them with water, and
then bulldozing them down and starting over. But somehow it wasn’t the same,
maybe in our minds, but the men that worked them never got called in for dinner,
never had to clean up, and even ate their lunch on the tailgates. Sometimes
buying them from Canteen trucks, the precursor to the roach coach. Even Cisco
in his 1952 Ford Good Humor truck was good on any hot summer afternoon. It was
all about the trucks, it seemed they were the most important aspect of my life,
and someday I would own one. Building, hauling, and dumping-making America
great. If only I cold wait 20 years....
But not all trucks were for construction. I remember the coal truck at my
Grandpa’s house, raising its bed in the air, then dumping it down a shoot. I
remember Nana’s fuel oil truck with its 100’ hose parked out front. The time a
dump truck got stuck in the mud in our back yard. Watching the Railway Express
trucks predating UPS at the train station. Route 22 filled with semis, the
smell of diesel, grease and oil, and of brakes and clutches burning. All were
part of Mad Truck Disease for which there is no cure. And somehow over the
years driving anything from bottle trucks to bobtails to semis, it hasn’t been
the same. It seems that the dreams seen through younger eyes, when they are
still wide open, is the best, but demanding even more. And with today’s trucks
a little more than heavy duty cars with pick up beds, add in SUV’s and trucks
are a sad commentary on what they used to represent. It took men, tough men who
got dirty to work in trucks, now I’m not so sure. Sitting in an air
conditioned cab, using a i-pad to determine loads, take me back. They aren’t
the cure, but only make me want the old trucks even more. There is no cure for
Mad Truck Disease, and as long as the memories can be remembered, the disease
will continue. At least at my house I hope it does.
Being a Christian for almost 40 years, I have changed a lot. And so has
the church. Saturday night services, mega churches, on line churches, and
digital Bibles. In some ways I fell like we don’t get down and dirty in our
walk any more, we have too many committees, budgets, and polls on what people
want. We have forgotten to ask God what he wants. Big screens have taken over
for small meetings at home, too many leave Jesus in church, or as an old boss
told me, “it only makes sense not to bring God to work.” So many don’t. We
don’t see spiritual construction projects the same, true we have Harvest
Crusades, and retreats, but we are missing the neighborly visits, the
spontaneous meetings on the front yard, and that it is all about Jesus. We need
to get back to our roots, we have become an air conditioned work truck never
getting dirty, that’s for someone else. We miss the chance to build
relationships because the people may stink, they may have tubes running out of
them, or be in jail. We are missing out on the one to one gospel sharing, and
rather than becoming a team, have become a crowd. Some pass out tracts, “let
God sort them out,” they say. While others pick up the tracts thrown on the
ground. Some stand on corners and yell, scaring me away. Some invite others to
church, over and over. Never listening to them, just talking. No way to build
any relationship, or any road. Maybe that is why I like old trucks, they are
simple like the gospel. Built to do a job, not pretty, but functional, their
beauty coming from within. Not afraid to get dirty, to just do their job day
after day. Year after year. Letting the creator guide them, following his
plans. Like the gospel is, and should be. I have this weird idea that if we
all did as Jesus instructed, we would all be happier, more successful, and see
church growth like never before. Share with the Lazarus God puts in your way.
Pour love on them. Be kind and good to all, a fruit of the spirit. Listen to
them, build a relationship, and let them see God in you. Introduce the spirit
in your life, and watch as roads are graded, bridges built, and lives changed.
All by Jesus. You just get to drive the truck. Or the grader. You get to pour
cement, but God provides the growth. Like any worthwhile project it takes
teamwork. With Jesus at the head. Maybe we need a little Mad Truck Disease to
spread through the church, to get us excited again, to be the kid in Christ we
are called to be. Maybe it’s time to let God be God, for all men are liars. To
trust him daily, to see a family built using all its members. Maybe climb up in
the cab with him and see where you are going...according to his plans.
It is time to bring back Mad Truck Disease. To go forth with the gospel
following the plans of Jesus. To get excited,and be excited about him. Let the
pretty boys sit in their air conditioned tomb, I want to get out where the
action is, where Jesus is. I want to smell grease, taste the gas in the air,
see the dirt move, and touch lives. I want to see Jesus....wish I hadn’t sold
all my old Tonkas now. Big boy toys come in all shapes and sizes. Regardless
of their age, some never are put away. Don’t put away Jesus, get him out and go
back to the basics. Paul bulldozed, Apollos graded, but it was Jesus that
provided the growth.
love with compassion,
Mike
matthew25biker.blogspot.com