the heartbeat of america

OK... I'm only on random-thing-about-me number four and already I feel like The Devon Show has run its course. I may not make it to 25.

Random Thing #4
My first love was a 1969 Chevy pickup truck named Bessie. Before we left New Hampshire, we had to sell it. And I cried like a baby.

This truck had holes clear through the floorboards, and even though it was patched up with scrap metal and old license plates, I could still see the ground rushing by underneath. This truck was the first vehicle I ever drove. This truck had those old-fashioned "fly windows" where you turned the boomerang-shaped hook and pushed out to let the breeze in. When Dad and I drove into the National Forest every December to cut down our Christmas tree (and almost skidded off the icy "road" a few times), Bessie was there. When I spilled Swiss Miss all over my mittens and seat, because the frost heaves were four times the size of speed bumps, Bessie was there. When Dad gave me a piece of chewing tobacco — and I swallowed it — and we had to stop on the side of the road so I could drink from a creek, Bessie was there. This truck took us on fishing trips, where I caught seven Trout, and camping trips, where the blow-up mattress flew off the back. This truck went to the dump every Saturday, blasting Paul Simon songs, and (much to Mom's dismay) brought home more than we left with (like semi-broken typewriters and Big Wheels without seats). Sure, there were many mornings when it took three or five times to get the engine going — but in my book, Bessie remains the greatest Chevy to ever roam the back-roads of Grafton County.