March 2021

A broad and calloused hand rests atop a black worn-in steering wheel. It’s obvious that this white Silverado is not new. She’s got chrome paint peeling off the bumper, torn seats, and a dashboard protected from the Southwest Colorado sun by stacks of papers, receipts, pictures, and everything else my father has come in contact with on his excursions. The back seats are filled with tools, having to shove past Husky and DeWalt to even buckle up. The front is no better. The passenger seat/ my late-night throne and bed is often topped with Conoco cups and miscellaneous snack bags. If you’re lucky, there’s may be a few Doritos that aren’t stale and a fresh drink to wash them down. If not, stale chips can always be washed down with a flat Dr. Pepper from the other day. There’s the hard-working man smell intermingling with hardware store and girly perfume from my sisters and I. We tell my dad, being the only man in a. house of girls, “You’re living the man’s dream! You get to be surrounded by beautiful women constantly.” To this, a light chuckle and an eye roll.  During longer trips, my sisters and I always play a little game of “Who can Find the Most Bizarre Thing in Dad’s Truck”.  So far, my baby sister, Allison, has found quite the collection of batteries. Do they work? Maybe. Maybe not. That’s part of the thrill. If you dig in my dad’s truck, you’d probably be able to map where he goes throughout his long days. Receipts from Tractor Supply, various feed stores, Walmart, Home Depot, and various fast-food places will lead you to him. 

I affectionately call this truck “Bertha”. I used to walk past her on my feeding route and lay a gentle hand on her hood or tailgate. Her tailgate drops and makes the best seat in the house. I believe the tastiest ham and Miracle-Whip sandwiches and the most refreshing Dr. Peppers were enjoyed on this scratched up perch. Sunsets always looked a little extra beautiful from my spot on the tailgate. On 4^th of July, a yearly gathering in the McDonald’s-Train Station dirt lot takes place. On 4^th of July, my father does his yearly sweep-out of the bed. My sisters and I gather, wrapped in blankets and sitting among the various cushions my mother let us bring, we watched fireworks. Gold-willow tree sparkles raining down were always my favorite and before we know it, the big booms of liberty are replaced by the uproar of a Chevy engine followed by a deep and steady hum. We’ll all probably make one last trip inside of McDonalds to refill drinks and get more nuggets before we make the thirty-minute trip towards our Roger’s Lane home. 

Big Bertha is often a cause for groans, as her long bed and big frame don’t often have a place in the close parking spots. “Dad, do we really have to park all the way out here?” “Yes, Madison. It’s the only place we fit.” She’s broken down before, leaving us in front of Home Depot across from our beloved Conoco. A tank of diesel later and my dad’s steady listening, we survive another day! We celebrated when she was paid off. Godspeed, Bertha. Thank you for raising me.