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EXCERPT
Truck Of Dreams
"My memories are inside me – they're not things or a place – I can take them anywhere."
—Olivia Newton-John
It was only a rental pickup truck. As white as snow, and every time you jumped on the back you felt like you were in a John Wayne movie, speeding across your thousand-acre cattle ranch deep in the heart of Texas. It was only a week, during a visit to our in-laws in Naples, Florida, but that pickup became the highlight of our trip. Every time my kids climbed aboard, they smiled from ear to ear, looking like they were ready for some big adventure.
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“This truck is so cool, Pops,” said my son Jeremy.
“I love the color, Daddy,” said my daughter Jenna. They were both comfortably perched in back.
“C’mon,” I called, “one of you sit up front with me.”
“No, no,” they shouted in chorus. “We love it back here.”
I couldn’t believe it and never expected it, but that white truck was the star of the week. To my kids, it was like a big toy that moved fast. As we drove around, I could see them beaming. Wherever we went, no matter how close it was, they refused to walk. They had to ride in the pickup. Before the week was half over, my wife must have taken more than twenty-five pictures with my kids in different poses—all in back of that truck.
Everything went into the truck—towels, bathing suits, sandals, and even things the kids didn’t need. They kept piling in the stuff, telling me over and over again: “Daddy, it is a truck, right?”
“Yes,” I kept saying, “but not that kind of truck.”
This year the weather couldn’t have been better. It was hot and clear almost every day. The beaches were great and we played tennis once a day. But none of this mattered. All my kids kept talking about was the white pickup truck. At one point, Jenna remarked, “It’s not a truck, Daddy. Let’s pretend it’s something else. It’s soooo cool.”
“What should it be? Jenna,” I asked.
“Let’s play a game, Daddy.”
“A game, Jenna? With the truck?”
“Yes,” she continued.
“What kind of game?” I knew Jenna had a great imagination, but a game in a pickup truck? I couldn’t imagine what she had in mind.
“Pretend, just pretend, Daddy, that we’re on a safari.”
“A safari? Where did you learn about safaris?” I asked.
“On TV, of course. Well anyway, pretend we’re on a safari, just you, me and Jeremy, something like Jurassic Park, and we’re all in this white truck looking for the dinosaurs—except there’s one problem.”
”Which is?” I asked, not having a clue what was coming.
“Well, dinosaurs hate white,” she explained. “It’s like bulls hate red, Daddy.”
At this point, I was more caught off guard by her knowledge than her story. “Jenna, where do you learn all this?”
“TV, of course,” she said.
“Of course,” I replied.
“So remember, Daddy. We’re dodging these huge dinosaurs, right and left. They breathe fire, knock down trees, and throw big rocks at us, just missing the truck. Jeremy and I are in the back, yelling and screaming all the way. What do you think, Daddy? Good story?”
“The story’s great, Jenna, great! Where did you get such an imagination?”
“I’m a kid, Daddy. You know that. We all have a great imagination. Don’t adults have a great imagination?”
“Not really,” I said. “Most of us lose it when we get older. We’re too busy.”
“Too busy! At what, Daddy?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “Just too busy, having kids, working, that sort of thing.”
“Is that good, Daddy?” she asked. She was serious. And for a moment so was I. But I never answered her question. Not because of her, but because of me. I didn’t want to hear what I was going to say.
Three days later, it was time to go home. I dropped the family off at the terminal with all the bags, and went to take the white truck back to the rental place. Usually, I go alone. This time, however, both Jenna and Jeremy wanted to come with me. Or, should I say, they wanted one more ride in their chariot. We all loved that truck.
As I drove into the rental return area and gave back the keys, we all said good-bye to our snow-white truck, the truck of dreams that had brought us safely back from our dangerous encounter with those fire-breathing, rock-throwing dinosaurs in far off Africa. |
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| A child enters your home and makes so much noise that you can hardly stand it, then departs, leaving your house so silent you think you will go mad. |
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—John Andrew Holmes
( 1874-?)
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