The Mystical Order of the Ancient Red Truck
Both Lee and I have agreed that part of growing up involves having an ancient red Ford pickup where you can see the road through the holes in the floorboards and you have to tie the doors shut. We also agree that, now we're grown up, more or less, we don't have to endure wrestling matches with recalcitrant gear shifts that sometimes come out the victor or endless hours broken down at the side of the road trying to beat life into geriatric engines.
My dad, however, still has a penchant for red trucks. He has an American Motors Jeep pickup - red, of course - parked in his driveway in Lancaster. It gets run about once a week when he goes to pick up his mail but otherwise just serves to make his house look occupied. (There's also a 1957 Chrysler New Yorker in the driveway, but with its four flat tires, it wouldn't fool anybody.) The truck isn't powerful enough to pull his travel trailer, so it's otherwise pretty useless. When I asked him why he bought an underpowered truck, he just said the price was right. I also recall my parents' favorite car salesman was working for American Motors at the time. He also sold them several Plymouths over the years, including the van they used to pull the trailer until the van caught fire and burned one afternoon on Interstate 5.
The Van wasn't actually red. In fact, it was blue - but it should have been red, or at least, purple. On one memorable journey back from Oregon to Southern California in the Van one summer, my sister-in-law and I dubbed it The Grape of Wrath. It had stuff lashed on top, the rear cargo area jammed full to the ceiling, and of course, the trailer, which was itself fully loaded, trailing behind. Thus laden, the Van handled like a pregnant sow, and despite triple digit temperatures, air conditioning was out of the question. Winter wasn't any better. Driving back from New Mexico one winter with this rig, I gracefully slid completely past the stop sign at the bottom of the offramp at Cline's Corners and was profoundly thankful no one else was stupid enough to be out in such icy conditions.
So when my folks were in the market for a new vehicle a few years ago, I steered them toward reliable, safe, Japanese models. My mother wanted a vehicle suitable for dirt roads and the occasional snowy or wet conditions, but she also wanted one she could get into, drive if necessary, and be comfortable in. She also secretly confided she wanted a vehicle incapable of pulling the trailer, since she didn't think my dad should be doing that anymore. My dad abdicated all responsibility of the decision to us, presumably to reserve his right to grumble later. We ended up with a Subaru Forester. Blue. My mother was very pleased. My dad grumbled. If my dad hadn't taken a curve too fast out of Taos last year, he wouldn't have had any AAA calls on it, much less any work beyond routine maintenance. It's a great vehicle, but it's not big enough to bring everything my dad would like (some of the things he lost in the Van fire were things no normal person would have had with him), so he grumbles. It's not powerful enough to pull the trailer, so he grumbles. And has started to look at Suburbans, Explorers and their ilk with For Sale signs in the windows.
Yesterday he found a Suburban for $2900 OBO parked around the corner from here. It's red. He left the house announcing his intention of doing a little dickering, so I sent him on his way. I was in the midst of trying to e-file his income taxes, so I was glad to have him out of my hair. He wasn't back by the time I went out to get some printer paper to print the whole thing for my files, but when I returned, I asked him what he'd found out about the truck.
"What truck?" Erm. At that point, I wished I hadn't mentioned it. At the same time, I was rather dismayed that he had forgotten about an object of an obsession. I know his memory is slipping, but that's particularly unnerving. Usually, with a person with Asperger Syndrome, the easiest way to have a conversation with them is to talk about their special interest. With Lee, it's computer hardware; Glen, computer games or animation, and Evan, roller coasters. I had just hoped to have a conversation that didn't devolve into the umpteenth repetition of some old unpleasant memory.
"Uh...well...the Suburban?"
"Suburban?" I expect he was thinking of his old Suburban, the one he had between the time his van burned and his sudden death episode. My mother couldn't drive the monster, so she gave it to my sister and bought a comfortable sedan (a Plymouth Breeze; my parents were well-matched).
"Um...there was a Suburban for sale you were going to look at...?"
"Where?"
"Around the corner? Ah...at the repair shop...?"
He chuckled. "I don't remember." At this point, he took out the pocket calendar I got for him, one juuuust small enough to fit, but with room for notes, and looked at it. "Oh. Yeah. I wrote it down." And he read off the phone number along with some other particulars.
I told him flatly that he would have to make the phone call himself; I wouldn't do it for him. I also mentioned that he'd have to get rid of his old red truck to make room for the (ahem) "new" one, and suggested he donate it to Make-a-Wish or some other charity so he won't have to pay someone to haul it off. Normally I don't speak so bluntly to my dad, but in this case, I felt I had to. He may have been imagining his own fleet of trucks, one for each imaginable purpose. Yeah, two to take up space and cost registration fees, and one to actually use.
However, I really don't expect my dad to be able to call a total stranger about the Suburban. And, with any luck, if he does manage to make the call, the owner will speak very little English. At times like this, I am glad my dad has become more of a dreamer than a doer.
My dad, however, still has a penchant for red trucks. He has an American Motors Jeep pickup - red, of course - parked in his driveway in Lancaster. It gets run about once a week when he goes to pick up his mail but otherwise just serves to make his house look occupied. (There's also a 1957 Chrysler New Yorker in the driveway, but with its four flat tires, it wouldn't fool anybody.) The truck isn't powerful enough to pull his travel trailer, so it's otherwise pretty useless. When I asked him why he bought an underpowered truck, he just said the price was right. I also recall my parents' favorite car salesman was working for American Motors at the time. He also sold them several Plymouths over the years, including the van they used to pull the trailer until the van caught fire and burned one afternoon on Interstate 5.
The Van wasn't actually red. In fact, it was blue - but it should have been red, or at least, purple. On one memorable journey back from Oregon to Southern California in the Van one summer, my sister-in-law and I dubbed it The Grape of Wrath. It had stuff lashed on top, the rear cargo area jammed full to the ceiling, and of course, the trailer, which was itself fully loaded, trailing behind. Thus laden, the Van handled like a pregnant sow, and despite triple digit temperatures, air conditioning was out of the question. Winter wasn't any better. Driving back from New Mexico one winter with this rig, I gracefully slid completely past the stop sign at the bottom of the offramp at Cline's Corners and was profoundly thankful no one else was stupid enough to be out in such icy conditions.
So when my folks were in the market for a new vehicle a few years ago, I steered them toward reliable, safe, Japanese models. My mother wanted a vehicle suitable for dirt roads and the occasional snowy or wet conditions, but she also wanted one she could get into, drive if necessary, and be comfortable in. She also secretly confided she wanted a vehicle incapable of pulling the trailer, since she didn't think my dad should be doing that anymore. My dad abdicated all responsibility of the decision to us, presumably to reserve his right to grumble later. We ended up with a Subaru Forester. Blue. My mother was very pleased. My dad grumbled. If my dad hadn't taken a curve too fast out of Taos last year, he wouldn't have had any AAA calls on it, much less any work beyond routine maintenance. It's a great vehicle, but it's not big enough to bring everything my dad would like (some of the things he lost in the Van fire were things no normal person would have had with him), so he grumbles. It's not powerful enough to pull the trailer, so he grumbles. And has started to look at Suburbans, Explorers and their ilk with For Sale signs in the windows.
Yesterday he found a Suburban for $2900 OBO parked around the corner from here. It's red. He left the house announcing his intention of doing a little dickering, so I sent him on his way. I was in the midst of trying to e-file his income taxes, so I was glad to have him out of my hair. He wasn't back by the time I went out to get some printer paper to print the whole thing for my files, but when I returned, I asked him what he'd found out about the truck.
"What truck?" Erm. At that point, I wished I hadn't mentioned it. At the same time, I was rather dismayed that he had forgotten about an object of an obsession. I know his memory is slipping, but that's particularly unnerving. Usually, with a person with Asperger Syndrome, the easiest way to have a conversation with them is to talk about their special interest. With Lee, it's computer hardware; Glen, computer games or animation, and Evan, roller coasters. I had just hoped to have a conversation that didn't devolve into the umpteenth repetition of some old unpleasant memory.
"Uh...well...the Suburban?"
"Suburban?" I expect he was thinking of his old Suburban, the one he had between the time his van burned and his sudden death episode. My mother couldn't drive the monster, so she gave it to my sister and bought a comfortable sedan (a Plymouth Breeze; my parents were well-matched).
"Um...there was a Suburban for sale you were going to look at...?"
"Where?"
"Around the corner? Ah...at the repair shop...?"
He chuckled. "I don't remember." At this point, he took out the pocket calendar I got for him, one juuuust small enough to fit, but with room for notes, and looked at it. "Oh. Yeah. I wrote it down." And he read off the phone number along with some other particulars.
I told him flatly that he would have to make the phone call himself; I wouldn't do it for him. I also mentioned that he'd have to get rid of his old red truck to make room for the (ahem) "new" one, and suggested he donate it to Make-a-Wish or some other charity so he won't have to pay someone to haul it off. Normally I don't speak so bluntly to my dad, but in this case, I felt I had to. He may have been imagining his own fleet of trucks, one for each imaginable purpose. Yeah, two to take up space and cost registration fees, and one to actually use.
However, I really don't expect my dad to be able to call a total stranger about the Suburban. And, with any luck, if he does manage to make the call, the owner will speak very little English. At times like this, I am glad my dad has become more of a dreamer than a doer.
Labels: Asperger Sandwich
posted by Jeannette | 10:38 AM
4 Comments:
My own red truck experience was somewhat different from Jeannette's. In my early teens my parents decided to expand the house by adding another room and a (much-needed) second bathroom. My dad was an engineer and had worked for a contractor in his youth, so he designed the room himself and we built it ourselves. We were working on a shoestring budget, so Dad bought a 1950's vintage red Ford pickup. It was incredibly beat-up but just the thing to haul lumber, pipe, cement and so forth. Once the room was done, we really didn't need it anymore, but Dad kept it for several years since it was handy for hauling large items. Also, he parked it on the street in front of our house and that REALLY annoyed our next-door neighbor, who had "house beautiful" ideals for the neighborhood. Dad didn't approve of her snobbishness, so it amused him to keep the truck around just for it's annoyance factor. Unlike Jeannette's family, our Red Truck is only a long-gone memory.
...Lee
Jeannette, there was some other truck we had for a short while, wasn't there? Look like a hot dog stand had blown up on it?
I'm remembering an old white truck with what looked like ketchup and mustard colored blotches. I also seem to remember helping push start the darn thing up our street.
I must have been in high school; I don't know why I've forgotten so much!
I did leave out a couple of trucks. You may actually be remembering The Old Jeep (Wagoneer), which did start out its life with us as white and Rustoleum, until Daddy painted its body olive drab & the roof dunes tan.
I wish when Bob totalled it (I'm certain you recall the incident, Charlotte) that Daddy had been able to walk away from it. Instead, he bought the wreck for salvage and, using a saber saw, cut the back half of the body away and replaced it with the corresponding half of a Wagoneer from the wrecking yard. A lot of body putty, a couple of fenders and a bunch of cans of olive drab and dunes tan paint, and the Old Jeep was as evil as ever.
He still has the left over half-bodies; the fenderless front is rusting out in the back yard, and he's using the crumpled back as a storage container in the garage. I guess Daddy has always been pretty weird.
The more I think about it -- the hot dog shop pickup must have been something we had up here for awhile. One of those experiences one tends to block, I guess!
The old jeep spent most of it's declining years up here in my driveway. I think we "sold" it to a friend (Dave "Oatmeal") who ended up totalling it not long after. Don't tell Daddy!
I drove it to and from work for a bit, where my boss used it as a landmark for a client: "Just past the low-life vehicle." He did look a bit embarrassed when I said, "I'm going to climb into my low-life vehicle and go get some lunch."
Post a Comment
<< Home