Today, I rented a pickup truck at Home Depot to haul 40 bags of mulch back to my house. When I go into the truck, I had an immediate, visceral, throwback feeling to when I was a tiny girl, riding with my Uncle Frank in his truck.
I loved riding with Uncle Frank. All of us kids did. But sometimes I got to go by myself because my cousins Francine, Vivien and Candy were busy in school. Francine was in the third grade, Candy in the first, Vivien was in “kinnygarden” (as she frequently reminded me, as if she were in college or something), and Alicia was still just a twinkle in Uncle Frank’s eye, so she hadn’t yet usurped my position as the baby cousin. But since I was in the half-day program at McGuffey Center pre-school, my afternoons were free and sometimes that meant I got to hang out with Uncle Frank.
There was no one like my Uncle Frank. He was sweet (but pretended to be gruff), smart and funny and he loved me like one of his own. He constantly teased me and always greeted me with “How ya doin’ “Stephanie Joyce WOOTEN Jones?” He could built or fix anything. New baby? Bam! The house would spring another room. Grammy needs a bathroom on the first floor? Voila! Grammy has a new bathroom on the first floor.
When I told him I didn’t like that my feet couldn’t touch the floor when I sat on the grownup furniture, he built me my very own little wooden bench so I could sit with my feet firmly on the ground (or that I could prop my feet on when I sat on the sofa). He painted it a soft pink with a glossy black top and made sure everyone knew “that’s Steffie’s bench.” I watched the Beatles’ Ed Sullivan debut and President Kennedy’s funeral on that bench …
So, I loved it when I got to spend time with Uncle Frank, especially when that meant going anywhere with him in his truck. I’d scramble in and park myself in the passenger seat, Uncle Frank would start the motor, which was really loud. Then we’d back out the driveway of the house he had built, the tires making a crunchy sound as soon as we hit the street, and off we’d go! Uncle Frank drove and I talked. And talked. And talked. And he pretended to listen.
I don’t remember where Uncle Frank and I went (other than the time he drove me to Cleveland and we stopped at McDonald’s on the way back – he said the only time I stopped talking was when I was chewing and even then I still had something to say), but I’ll never forget how it felt riding with him at that truck.
All of that came back today when I climbed into my rented pickup truck in the Home Depot parking lot. There was no crunchy sound when I pulled onto the street, but driving that truck brought back such a happy memory and filled my heart with such joy that I burst out laughing and called out, “Look, Uncle Frank! I’m driving a truck!”
And I swear I could hear him laughing right along with me.