An Old Red Truck

Our next-door-neighbors have a friend with an old red truck. Tattooed with a couple well-placed political bumper stickers, a dashboard chock full of “important” paperwork, and an assortment of tools and treasure in the back, it has obviously been well-loved in its many years of service. And though it still runs, it is apparent some parts are working better than others. For instance, the parking brake must have gone on strike because I’ve noticed pieces of wood or bricks wedged in front of the tires when it’s parked on an incline. It’s so old, it doesn’t even require the yearly emissions test. That old and still runnin’.

The best part about this old red truck is not simply the character and personality with which it sputters. The best part about this old red truck is its driver. Because, if I glanced at him quickly enough, I might mistake him for my father. Long-hair, a full beard, glasses and a down-to-Earth presence, I made it a point to talk to him; I had to. It was as if my father’s spirit was beckoning me to be generous and accepting of this individual I didn’t even know. Now, I know this man is not my father. But I do like to think that his appearance (and appearances) might be a way for my dad to connect with me. To nudge my memory in his direction and to hold it more fully in my awareness.

This man – whose name I learned is Phillip - is anti-government and believes in self-sufficiency. His dream is to live “off-the-grid” and to be as self-reliant as possible. His mother was a Native American. My dad was anti-government; believed in self-sufficiency; loved Native American spirituality; and, lived “off-the-grid” at the time of his death.

Needless to say, Phillip has become a pretty big symbol to me. I’m happy to see his old red truck amble by. A couple weeks ago, I saw Phillip while I was working in the front yard and he stopped and we chatted. Afterward, I went in the house and while looking for something, ran across a small photo album my dad carried in his car. In fact, that’s where we found it after his death. And in this album, my dad kept his favorite pictures. Pictures of my brother and me, his tipi, garden, windmills, a tractor, and . . . an old picture taken in 1974 of he and my brother standing in front of an old red truck. My dad’s old red truck.

This morning, I noticed Phillip’s sweet truck in the neighbor’s drive-way. I went outside, we got to talking, and I asked if I could show him a picture. I had already told him he reminded me of my father but I wanted him to see what I was seeing. I ran and got the small photo album and showed him my dad and his truck. Phillip laughed and said, “My gosh, that could be me!” And I was thinking, “Yes, you could be him. You’re not. But, in a lot of ways, you could be . . .”