The evening of my 8th grade year was turning cold, but cold in a California way. Chilly in its 50 degree late-spring night.
My dad and I had two days before taken the ’78 Ford over Donner Pass through the Sierras pulling a red gooseneck trailer. The yellow pickup protested by Lovelock and we turned around.
The decision was easy. Replace one Ford truck with another. The truck that comes into play as “Old Blue” in my novel came home with us in that summer of 1990. One truck crapped out, so you buy a new one. A trip had to be taken. It’s the way it had to be.
I stretched out in the Supercab, at that time just long enough for my 14-year-old frame to fit on a sleeping bag and look up at the stars through the big back window as we ascend to Truckee. My dad had the wheel and everything was safe as a man can make it for his son.
I drive Old Blue now. It sits in my garage and I start it from time to time to get the quirks out, and it hauls deer and leaves for me in the fall. But sometimes I have to take it out just because. The wheel begs to be turned and, despite the white smoke blowing out of the maltuned motor, it’s mine and has been ours. Mine and my dad’s.
It’s telepathy.
