My father bought a new pick-up truck in 1974. I grew up knowing that truck. Long story short, he bequeathed that truck to me in 1990. For the next six years, I drove that truck from middle America to the right, left, south, and north of all the continental united states. I even dragged it into Canada a couple of times. Six years in that truck, all to myself.
This is a great and sad story. Really. I love talking about the truck. Ask me to tell you more the next time I see you. The day I lost that truck was a day I learned that it might be better to invest your emotions in living breathing reciprocating animals, preferably human beings.
There was really nothing I could do. It was number eleven in an eleven car pile-up on the Delaware Turnpike approaching the Delaware Memorial Bridge, on August 30 1996. Nobody died, medically.
This is a photo I took with an old camera of mine. I have neither the truck nor the camera, but I do have this photo and their memories. Sometimes we’re lucky to have just that.
