We bought it for $1000 from our best friends a little over a year ago. It’s a 1989 S10 Chevy Durango pick-up truck. Once it was grey. But after a brief encounter with some not-so-swift thieves who painted it in an attempt to avoid getting caught by the authorities, it is now Microsoft Word-icon matte blue.
Not too long ago we were house shopping on a well-manicured street. I looked at our pick-up truck and thought we’d have to hide it because it was simply embarrassing. I commented as much to our realtor and to my husband, Loch. Our realtor — a male — enthusiastically went to bat for Loch. “Oh no, a man has to have a truck,” he stated rather emphatically. From that point on, it became a running joke. “Hey, this house has a place to hide the truck.”
Now, it’s not that I’ve never driven the truck before. I have. It’s just that usually Loch uses it to ferry himself to and from work. And I use the family car for our baby. Often, he puts our three-year-old’s car seat in the truck since he does most of the daycare pick-up/drop off.
Recently I had a great weekend with the truck. So great, in fact, that I think I’m in like. We had a weekend that felt like rhythmic breathing. By Sunday night, we were both commenting on how easy the weekend had been, how relaxed we felt. It was because we had spent two days swapping kids: Loch took Corbin in the mornings and I took him in the evenings. This meant that for the majority of the weekend we each had only one child, and our three-year-old got some great one-on-one time with each of us.
Because Corbin’s car seat was in the truck, we each used that vehicle when it was our turn to hang out with our eldest son. Could it have been my Albertan roots rising to the surface or was it the fact that we had to drive with the windows open? I’m not sure, but that day something shifted for me. The truck smelled like sun-warmed old man and there was a mountain of junk behind the red tweed seats. Among other things, Loch’s fast food evidence was piled up, creating a moving junk drawer, if you will. The floor in front of Corbin’s car seat, for example, was a veritable graveyard of wrappers.
So there we were, my beloved verbose son and I, bopping around the city on Saturday and Sunday afternoon in the truck that I despise. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so free. Was it the sun resting on my arm? Or, perhaps, it was the cozy summer breeze tickling our hair follicles? Maybe, it was his proximity to me. Unlike our conservative Volvo wagon where the kids are in the back seat, in the truck, Corbin sat next to me chatting about the scenery, trains and Lightning McQueen. We grooved to the random rock music flowing out of the fairly crappy speakers. We were free spirits.
We had a great time, my little man and I. We went to the Starbucks drive-through and got smart drinks, drove to Beacon Hill Park, to the grocery store, the liquor store and to his best friend, Lily’s. Sitting in his car seat, his feet dangled and his small hot chocolate rode next to his side in the console. He talked about the road construction we passed and we agreed that we were having a great day. And, the whole time I felt so damn fine, so in tune with my pre-schooler that I am not only not ashamed of the truck anymore. I do believe that this part of his childhood has been irrevocably tied to the truck and I will be sad when we have to kiss both goodbye.
Recent Christine Shaw Roome Articles:
- Becoming Me
- An Award for Being Herself
- World's Smallest Book
- Giving up My Birthday for Water
- International Women's Day 2012: Connecting Girls, Inspiring Futures.
As it is said very often…keep on truckin’! .
I love the happy up beat to this article.Thanks for sharing your joy.