I’ve said it often, but it’s worth repeating: Once you’ve owned a truck, you won’t want to live without a truck. If you face a hard decision about which vehicle earns a spot in the driveway, a pickup truck is a darn good choice.
And when you’ve had that truck for some time it becomes a part of the family, like a dog or even a hamster … if you’re good with a 2-year life expectancy and an exercise wheel that sees less use than a Hellcat’s cruise control.
Before you think this polished redneck is writing his first country song and turn the page, I’ll suggest that it’s not merely the truck that builds the bond, but the experiences associated with your rig.
I need to remind myself of the following, when in weak moments I consider replacing the Liberty Blue 2013 GMC Sierra SLT I bought in the fall of 2012. I admit, there’s plenty of good reasons to step up to a newer truck, but it’s hard to sell my loyal rig. Here’s why:
In the middle of the night on January 27, 2015, my wife Genevieve selfishly snapped on the bedroom lights and rattled me out of a sound sleep to announce her water had broken. The news was hardly startling; one of us is always breaking something.
Before we headed to bed for our abbreviated night’s rest, I had parked my truck in the garage facing out. For good reason. The worst blizzard in memory was well underway.
When the garage door rolled up, Genevieve, older daughter Geni and I stared out at snow driven sideways by raging wind. A foot of snow had already accumulated in the driveway. I clicked onto 4×4, pressed the right pedal and didn’t stop for silly distractions like stop signs and red lights until we arrived at the hospital.
We were literally the only non-snow-plow on the road. Yet our truck successfully delivered my wife, who repaid the favor by successfully delivering Emerita Suesan Whipple.
A few short years later when it was time for Geni to practice driving, I pointed to the Sierra.
“If you can learn to drive and park that, you’ll be able to drive anything (smaller),” I explained.
The high school parking lot and Walmart soon saw a lot more of the blue truck creeping into parking spaces and parallel parking.
Just as my dad had done with me, I jumped out of the cab and stood rigid at the edge of one parking space.
“You have to be accurate because I’m not moving from this spot,” I announced to my nervous-but-determined daughter. I’m still standing thanks to the successful working relationship between Geni and the truck which eased into the adjacent space without crippling me.
Another milestone arrived in August of 2022 when the truck and the minivan safely delivered daughter and the contents of her dorm to the university where she studies things too complicated for this keyboard to spell.
Our sibling cats Oreo and Cheska both died within months of each other. One day I climbed into the truck and told a heartbroken Emerita I was going food shopping. When I returned, the truck’s back seat contained no groceries. But it did hold a pet carrier with a pair of sister kittens who adore Emerita beyond words.
This month the truck will transport Charlotte and Snowball to the local pet infirmary where veterinarians will ensure that no further kittens will be surprising the Whipples.
On snowy days when my wife’s Toyota minivan started right up but wouldn’t conquer snowfall, I’d start up the Sierra and dial in the 4×4 for her to get safely to and from work.
In the spring, said truck delivered Avedisian’s red mulch to our front yard for dispersal around the property.
When my ladder could use a few extra feet, I’d plant it in the bed of the truck to get me to the height I needed. One day I was painting second-story clapboards on my truck-ladder when I got a phone call from my brother Bruce. Our good friend Matt Halaby’s fight with non-Hodgkin lymphoma was approaching the final bell. More than a few tears hit the Sierra’s tailgate that day and probably a few more since his passing.
We moved a bit farther down the road this summer and the truck again was a huge part of that, from delivering furniture, clothing and toys to the local Goodwill to hauling a 12-foot U-Haul trailer crammed with my valuables — tool box, water-sports stuff, generator, air compressor, Life magazines from the 1970s – as well as unnecessary junk like bedding, clothing and blood-pressure meds.
I stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts and happened to glance at the truck’s receiver hitch, now pitched downward at a 30-degree angle. The U-Haul hitch was only a few inches above the ground and a puddle of rust and metal had formed at this crime scene.
A significant portion of the receiver hitch had vanished, thanks to a dozen years of road salt and generally unkind road conditions. However, circumstances dictated that we push on. Chaos, the Greek god of family mayhem, guided us to our destination without the trailer ending up in someone’s swimming pool.
So today it’s 89 degrees with 147 percent humidity. Ideal conditions for dropping a truck’s exhaust system to assault the remnants of the receiving hitch with my impact wrench and bolt up the new one.
It seems the half-ton has come through with a ton of reasons to keep her around and we’ll oblige.
