My dad used to have this '63 Chevy pickup truck. I think it was his favorite vehicle - ever! It was tan, with a couple of white areas where some of the rust spots had been half repaired. There were places where the paint was chipped. The wood in the bed was chipped and warped. The metal slats between each piece of wood was rusted, and some of the bolts in the metal were loose or missing.
He bought it from his friend Ray when we lived in Colorado Springs, Colorado. He paid around $500 for it, and it was a bargain. I think Ray shed a tear when he gave dad the keys. Ray had a motorcycle and always wore cowboy boots and a big belt buckle with a gold cowboy riding a horse. It was a rodeo trophy replica. He liked to do the Texas Two Step, and I always wanted to learn.
We had the Chevy for a few months when the muffler or something fell off. I was only 10 at the time, so I didn't really care what was wrong with it. I could feel the rattle against the seat, and I remember dad getting pulled over for noise pollution. He didn't get a ticket, though. As soon as he showed his military ID, the officer let him go. His military ID always got him out of trouble.
Whenever we went to the grocery store, he'd drive the buggy to the holding area, instead of just walking it back. He'd stick his arm out the window and hold the buggy until he got to the holding area, and then he'd give it one hard push. He always laughed when people looked.
He loved to have my brother, sister, and me stand up in the bed and hold on to the back of the cab of the truck. There was this small groove in the metal, and I always held it tightly. He would wait until we had a good grip, and then he would pop the clutch over and over again. He told us a couple of times he actually got it to leave the ground. We'd laugh and let the wind whip through our hair. My sister and I didn't care about the tangles, although I should've been. Her hair was thin and easy to brush. Mine was like the tumbleweeds dad said he saw when he lived in Oklahoma.
We had the pickup for the remainder of the time we lived in Colorado. Dad loved it so much, he went and bought a '63 Chevy Suburban. It was dark red and had windows in the back that were spray painted black. You couldn't see through them at all. The vehicle didn't run, so it just sat in our yard. He just wanted it because it looked like the truck, and he thought he might be able to fix it up one day.
Dad bought an aluminum camper top with these ugly, convex, green windows that were like Plexiglas. The windows in the side had a handle on the inside that we had to use to get the separate panes to roll out. At most, they rolled out to about 70 degrees. The roof of the camper leaked, and if we were riding in the bed when it rained, we had to stuff extra clothing or something between the roof and the support rails. Of course, the added benefit of the insulation was the fact that we didn't have to listen to the aluminum rattle.
The Chevy was our only source of transportation when we made the trek from Colorado Springs to Tuscumbia, Alabama. We still had the Suburban, but it didn't run at all, and dad decided to save money by loading up our belongings in the back of Suburban. We needed more room, so he bought a trailer with another camper top on it. The trailer was made out of the bed of another '63 Chevy truck. He was obsessed.
He didn't sleep much during the trip. My mom didn't drive, and my siblings and I weren't old enough to drive. We stayed in the bed of the pickup, and mom sat up front with dad to help him stay awake. If we needed to go to the bathroom, we would bang on the window of the camper top until dad heard it. We traveled for about 22 hours, and we only stopped once for him to sleep. I think he slept around three hours.
We arrived in Alabama around dawn and we all had cabin fever! Dad was even more determined to make record time, and he pushed that poor truck to its limits. I remember thinking that we never named it. I tried to come up with a name on the spot, but I drew a blank. I decided I would name it when we made it to grandma's.
On our way to my grandma's, we had to go through an area in Tuscumbia called Colbert Heights. We had to drive up a steep hill known by the locals as "the mountain." The truck sputtered all the way to top, dragging the Suburban and the trailer with it.
We barely made it up the mountain, and when we got there, dad pulled over in the school yard. He came to the bed and opened up the camper top.
"We started a new religion, kids! Do you see all of our followers?" He pointed to the road we just turned off of, and there were about fifteen cars speeding by. They were behind us as we went up the hill. He told us it took about ten or fifteen minutes to get to the top because of all the weight the truck had to drag.
We all got out and stretched our legs, and as were climbing back into the bed, he got into the pickup and tried to start it. It wouldn't start, no matter what he tried. We waited about two hours and tried again but no luck. It was dead.
Dad and mom walked to one of the local houses and called grandma. She sent our uncle, and he came and picked us up. Later that day, he and dad went to try to get the truck. They came back three hours later but they didn't have it with them.
My other uncle ended up towing the pickup to grandma's. They had to make two other trips to bring the other vehicles.
Dad didn't find another '63 Chevy truck within his price range, so he settled on a '93 Aerostar. He mourned for his pickup every time that van broke down. He's still looking for his '63 Chevy.
