Red

So, I have a story for you.

Outside of my apartment building in the parking lot sits a 1973 Ford F100 pickup truck. It was probably once a vivid red color, now faded to orangey-reddish hue, with assorted dents and rust spots that serve as bullet wounds of the life it has led. It cranks up and can go, although I have let it warm up before I go somewhere in it. Red came into my life at a time when I needed family close to me, and a reminder that the stop in the story of my life at the time was not the finishing point, just a pothole.



About 6 years ago, I began a love affair with old pickup trucks. I was travelling quite bit so I saw some awesome ones. I always loved the beat-up trucks. They reminded me of my Dad, a Ford man until his death in 2002, and he always had pickups. I was drawn to them and thought that one day, I would try to get one for myself.



In my South Carolina hometown of 234 people is where I first met Red. I began to notice him in Bobby's backyard when I would visit my mom and I would always ask Bobby to let me drive him, and he would say No every time. So, when I would go home to see Momma, I would always "cut" the block and check to see if Red was still there.



In July 2006, I went home to see Momma and she said that Bobby wanted to see me. I got excited about the possibility of maybe finally driving Red, let alone entertaining the idea of owning him, So we made the drive to Paxville and went to visit. We all chatted for a while and then Bobby and I went outside to see Red. We cranked him up, it took a while at first, and we drove him around the block. No power steering, no AC, no radio. Just me and Bobby and a comfortable silence except for the unusually loud muffler.



Back at the house after the ride, I asked Bobby if I could buy Red. He looks at me and then smiles that fabulous smile, and says, sure, it will cost you a quarter...

I begin to cry, so did Momma and Bobby's wife Sharon. It was one of those moments that I will never forget. I have a picture of me handing Bobby a quarter from that day. He signed the title over to me and in September 2006, Red made the pilgrimage to Nashville and his new home.



I don't drive Red a lot. But when I do, it is calm and peaceful. No radio, in fact I usually sing at the top of my lungs, and I take him down back roads where the traffic is sparse. He is "Home" to me, a reminder of where I came from and all that I hold dear. My family, my roots, my small-town upbringing. He smells like my Daddy when he would come to get me on Friday afternoons after he had been farming all day. There have been nights I sat in Red and just cried on his shoulder.



So that is the story of me and Red. My little piece of Paxville here in Nashvegas.