one old truck

My first husband, Scott, had an old Ford, F-150.  The truck is not so old that it has become collectible or in any way unique.  No power windows, no power door locks, no CD player; but she is strong, dependable, and reliable in a crunch.  That old truck reminds me a lot of my husband.

When Scott died, I kept the pick-up.  In the days after the loss, I would climb into the front seat, sit alone, and let the numbness wash over me.  Other times I would slam the door and cry or curse depending on my mood, but I rarely drove it, and as the months and years passed, the truck sat mostly vacant and idle in the driveway.

When I met my second husband, Tim, he bonded with the truck.  He changed the oil, bought new tires, had the dent fixed where the mailbox had T-boned me one hectic morning years prior.  He washed her, waxed her, steam-cleaned the interior, and he drove her (apparently it is not good to let a vehicle sit too long without being run. Who knew?)

That old truck has hauled dirt, and gravel, and camping gear.  Furniture, dogs, and children.  She is a one-ton pick-up but one miraculous afternoon, Tim loaded her with a ton and a half of flagstone, and she carried it without complaint.

I like to think that the two men I love most have bonded over that old Ford.  They have gotten to know each other through that truck, created a relationship, and an understanding.  They both saw her value and her beauty.  They both cared for her, admired her.  Both of these amazing men have repaired her and me.

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3 thoughts on “one old truck

  1. Caryn says:

    Stabs me right there, in a good way. 🙂 You do things with your whole heart, Kate. Amazing. Love you!

  2. Sally Ball says:

    What a great story! It brought me to tears and a smile.

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