Daddy's Old Truck


Madison, United States

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An old abandoned Studebaker truck found near New Glarus Wi.
Kodak Easyshare Z980
Image tonemapped with Photomatix

By Larry Lile

There is a pickup truck, which sits parked, just out beyond the back barn doors.
Where an old hen is busy building, a nest there, on its old rusty floor board,
Its old black tires have now rotted, clean off of its rims.
And there’s a tree growing up thru, where that old Oak bed had been.

That old truck has been here, most all of my life,
In Fifty years, it’s never spent more than a day or two, out of my site.
Some folks might see it and think , that it is just scrap iron and tin.
But there is a childhood of precious memories, still safely, stored within.

Sometimes when I look at that old truck, you might see a gleam here in my eye.
As it reveals again to me, a vision of a time, long ago gone by,
Like the way that old truck looked, back there on that first day.
When daddy drove it off the lot, and headed off together down their first highway.
Oh! He was sitting behind the wheel that day, wearing a big wide grin,
The woman he loved, my sisters and I, on that old seat there, next to him.

Or the day that in a farm boys heart, always delivered a thrill
The first time daddy let me go with him, down to the old feed mill.
Daddy loaded that old truck that morning, until it bumper nearly drug the ground.
Wiped the sweat from his face, looked over at me, and said,” get in, if you want to go to town”

Me in the seat, there on my knees, so I could see out that old windshield,
Wondering it that old truck would rear up, as daddy tried to drive it up, and over the hill.
That led out of our lane, near the mailbox, where our lane, met the old gravel road,
But that old truck did not stutter or spin, as is climbed that hill with its heavy load.

The sights, the sounds, and the smells, of that old feed mill, are still fresh in my memory today
Blocks of yellow, brown and white, molasses in the air, and the roar that hammer mill made,
The farmers sitting around discussing there crops, the heat, the rain, and the wind
My daddy welcomed there among them, with me setting there next to him

Setting on a coke crate, sharing a drink, and a bag of peanuts, from a big glass jar
Staring around at all the stuff on the walls, the shelves, and all those different candy bars.
Watching, as daddy drove the truck, when it became his turn to enter the shed,
As conveyors conveyed, its tail gate let down, and cables lifted her front much higher than my head.
The sounds that were made, as they fed in the hay, and the thump and roar as corn hit the mill,
The sound of the mixer , and the sacks that were tied, are things that I remember still.

Oh how I hated wakening, those cold winter morning, here on the farm
When daddy would already be milking, down there in that old cold and drafty barn,
But he would always take the time, to start the truck and let it set and warm up for us
So my sisters and I, could drive to the road, and be warm while we waited for the bus
He would walk out to the truck and get it, once his morning chores were through
But it would be back there waiting, when we would get back home that day from school.

Or the day, we were working together, in the tobacco, here on the back of the place
When I heard daddy yell “come running”, with a worried look there on his face.
That was one trip, this old truck made, when its tires barely touched the ground.
And we pulled in, just in time to see, my uncles burning barn fall down.

There was days of cleanup that followed, and logs to be pulled to the old saw mill
And back with lumber and nails and the other things that were needed to rebuild.

Cows, calves, hogs, and pigs, tobacco, hay, and corn from the crib
Rakes, shovels, axes and wire, strings, beans and old flat tires
Seed, feed, b***s and bats, shotguns, dogs, and old wooden racks
These, are just a few of the things, which that old truck has hauled on it back.

It also carried it share, of a young boys, hopes and dreams,
Of lessons taught and learned, – forgotten, and taught again
Sometimes it was the scene, of sharp words, that were spoken in hast.
Words that were always tempered in love and never a word of hate,

A junk man stopped by here today, and offered to haul it away
He took out his pencil and figured, on just how much he thought it would weight
And for the place, where I learned how to be a man, he offered me a hundred bucks
I just looked over at him, grinned and said, “Not for my daddy’s old truck”

There is a pickup truck, which sits parked, just out beyond the back barn doors.
Where an old hen has built, a nest, safe within on its old rusty floor board
And like her mother before her, she will lead her chicks out of it, and into the light
Yes that old truck has earned the right to stay here, at least, for the rest of my life!

Artwork Comments

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