Margie
Sounds Good
I never knew what her name was but it
seemed to describe the old truck very well, it was a 1962 c-10 Chevrolet pickup
that my grandpa made his pride and joy, and it was me and my cousin that slammed
it against a tree in the woods on a lane as we were speeding around a corner. I
kinda slid off the edge from going a little fast and snagged the side right in
front of the rear fender well and it bounced off the tire slamming us out into
the road. Neither of us were hurt, but the truck finally disappeared after that
, grandpa had a new one and he was afraid my cousin and I were going to get
hurt in it running around the farm so it had to go. Where the fender was
slammed and dented in was on par with the rear tailgate which also had its
share of dents some so bad that it made closing the tailgate a real chore by
this time of its long life. I could remember getting the truck when it was
brand new and grandpa kept it nice for quite a while.
It had one of those slide in campers I have been thinking about building
lately. The ones where you could climb up into the bed overlooking the top of
the pickup roof and we would ride up there as he travelled down the road. The
truck was pink as grandma was into the art deco stuff of the time and the
camper was white. I don’t think grandpa could have a gave a crap what color it
was back then as long as it wasn’t yellow. He hated yellow. Myself I can’t
think of any color I hate, and although they don’t classify black as a color
but instead a shade, it being my least favorite color but even though, it still has its purpose in life. Grandpa was a
large man much like myself and would never think of letting anyone think he was
a sissy for having a factory painted pink truck. In fact I tried to find a pic
of original factory pink color from that time on the internet and there was
none. We should have kept the old girl, she was worth a mint, maybe not then
but today on the market I am sure you could have asked just about any price.
It was in this pickup with the camper and
spare tire rack in front of the hood hanging off the bumper for easy access in
the front, that I caught my first fish while out camping in the camper, at a
creek on a cane pole in the overflow below the Clendenning Dam when I was
seven. It was the biggest one caught and we brought it back and played with it
till it died. I was kind of sad I remember at the time, but didn’t understand
fish very well in fact I was still pretty naïve about life at the time. It was
a big event to get away and yet it seems like only yesterday I was there. I
drove past where that overflow was with a friend last summer and it flooded my
mind with memories as we were in seventh heaven camping out with grandpa and
grandma in their pickup and camper, we
felt like we were rich even if we were not.
Grandpa also used the truck to gather hay
bales and one could hardly guess how many bales of hay he would have put on it
or for that matter how many tons of sand it had hauled over the years on that
old truck. Its little six cylinder engine was still purring when grandpa traded
it up for an 8 cylinder Chevy c-10 in 1972. 10 years the truck worked and
played with us, and in the meantime I had a lot of memories riding around with
grandpa. We would go get lumber and grandpa would record all his purchases on
tiny notebooks accounting for every penny we would spend except for our trip to
Mc Donald’s after loading the lumber. We would stop at Mc Donald’s and I would
have a cheeseburger and fries and grandpa would get the same, and we would sit
and he would fudge in his notebook while he ate his sandwich and drank a milkshake
and the whole thing would cost maybe 2 dollars and 50 cents at the time.
The reason he would fudge his notebook was because grandma would want to
know what all he spent money on and why he was buying food at fast food places as
this was nonsense when he could have had the same thing at home for a lot less.
Of course as soon as we finished eating he would say to me you know we got to
keep this a secret and he would look at me and wink , we can’t tell nobody not
even grandma , if she finds out neither of us will be going anywhere. I would
nod yes and as soon as I was home my brothers and sister would wonder what and
where were we up to and soon I had to tell. Then everyone would get mad.
Grandpa would swear he was never going to take me again but he always did and
he would always sit there and record it in his notebook. Then make me promise
to not tell like the last time.
Grandpa cherished his pickup till he was stuck or backing up, and in
both cases watch out as grandpa was quite dangerous in both. For some reason he
had a hard time trying to turn his head to look behind himself when backing up.
Mostly when he was by himself that he would back up until he hit something,
then slam on his brakes and cuss under his breath. Trying to see through
mirrors was useless and usually ended up the same way with him backing till he
hit something. In fact the old Chevy was so tough that the tailgate back then
which was usually down was a tale of his bouncing off things with dents almost
four inches deep in places where undoubtedly he must have been travelling fast
to dent that tough old metal that deep. We would ride up into the woods with our
feet dangling over the edge of the tailgate till he was going to backup and
everyone knew to pick up your feet or lose your legs . Grandpa meant well but
just couldn’t see to back up till he felt the old truck shutter from a violent
and abrupt halt then he knew he was back far enough as the dust would fly from
uncertain places in the cab with a fog
so thick of loose dust would be so bad he would have to roll down the window
and yell close enough as a cloud would erupt out the window. We would yell well
enough in return to him, if not he would try again.
It was in much the same way he
did when my dad offered to open the gate to the barn while grandpa did his best
stock car imitation, while Jim, my brother and I would sit over the wheel wells
for added weight and traction in the bed of the truck as he sped through the
pasture field, all the while sliding this way and that on the soft slimy mud
sometimes sideways scattering mud towards the barn and Jim and I would hold on
to the fender tight. The rear of the pickup fishtailed for the barn and grandpa
let up on the gas, and then it slid the other way as we passed through the gate
and as we did we looked back at dad holding the gate open and as it started to
spin and lose traction as grandpa goosed the accelerator and the wheels were spinning
as the truck was still moving and it went up over a metal post laying on the
ground we had not seen. It picked that post up from the tire spinning over it
and shot the post right out behind the truck straight into dads chest almost
fifteen feet away just like a six foot long steel spear, and hit him almost
knocking him to the ground. We could see the whole thing from the back of the
pickup and we yelled for grandpa to stop, but he too must have seen it somehow
or heard us yelling as he braked the old 62 to a stop and we all ran back to
see how he was doing. Dad ended up in the hospital with a collapsed and
punctured lung then pneumonia afterward. Yeah the old 62 brings back memories.
When I said it had a pink paint job , well that was when it was new
because after years of grandpa chewing tobacco and spitting his drool out the window
where it would streak and stain the side of the pickup all the way to the tire
in the same area where I had slammed it into the tree. In fact when me and my
cousin were out surveying the damage we had thought of stealing some Mail Pouch
chewing tobacco and spitting it all over the side of the truck so he wouldn’t
notice. The stain was part of the reason he was able to get a new pickup, as
grandma I think couldn’t bear to see herself climbing into that pickup and
riding anywhere with him anymore with that tobacco stain down the side. She
wouldn’t let him chew tobacco in the new 72 Chevy but that was also the year he
had his teeth pulled and was going to get dentures but died after a sudden
illness. We all figured that giving up the chewing tobacco was too much for him
to take.
what i would like to have, this is sweet and i am not a chevy fan. but this caught my eye
Have been thinking lately of those times and have been toying with the
idea of building my own slide in camper, taking the truck camper and a small
trailer out to do carving shows in other
areas where I could pull in and set up and carve a couple of days make a few
bucks, or possibly heading to a river someplace and just sleep my time away in
that bunk over the roof of my old pickup. I don’t have a 62 Chevy but do have my
dad’s old 89 Ford 150 which is from Roswell, New Mexico and is still running
good. Want to repaint it and build a camper all out of wood with metal roof.
Would like it to reflect my carving lifestyle so would probably adorn it with
carvings making the whole thing mine. Just need to work out the shower issue in
my head and who knows may still be able to get this together sometime soon. It
is kind of low on the list with the cabin taking priority first. Work before
play. Anyhow was looking through Facebook and saw this pic of an old Chevy and
thought about our old one and all the memories from those days. Not all good,
not all bad, just memories still.
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