Dad’s Old Pickup

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In 1960 my Dad traded a riding lawnmower to a friend for an old rusty green 1932 Ford Pickup Truck, a work truck he called it – a ‘beater. ’ Dad then drove that old truck to the far side of our little town each day to work for the next 4 years.

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I remember the truck well because on many Saturday’s I rode to work with him in it.  We traveled out Hanson st. across the hump at Fowler, the rugged RR tracks near the radio station, around the sharp bend eventually making it to his ‘shop’ on Palm Beach Blvd.  For a boy of ten the truck was a mechanical goldmine – like a carousel it was possible to feel and see many of the parts that provided ‘life’ to this machine.

Dad was always up before the sun and as we rode through the still and dark of the early mornings the doors would shake, the cab would rattle and I could feel the damp breeze seeping through the many cracks of the cab as we tunneled through the thick Florida fog – to say the least the rides were very impressionable.

At the time, a friend of his owned a race-car so Dad often carried a couple of gallons of ‘nitro (high powered fuel for race engines) in the back of the little pickup.

One morning in 1964 (I wasn’t with him) this little truck ran out of fuel – so he resorted to using some of the ‘nitro to complete his drive to work – the story goes that the little motor “ran like someones scalded dog” (I think it was a boy dog because in the actual exclamation it was a “son of” something….), point being that the motor literally blew apart it ran so well.  The rusty truck was simply towed to an open field off Palm Beach Blvd, covered with an old canvas tarp and left to stand in the weather.  Over the next few years I visited that field numerous times not only to remove the standing water from the tarp, but to slip under it and onto the driver’s seat to pretend to drive as my father had.

Years passed before I was old enough for a ”hot-rod,” so in 1969 we retrieved the truck from the field and towed it to Dad’s welding business where he and I completely dismantled it for reconstruction – that was the fun part.  Unfortunately, months later the business closed and we had to load the little pickup (in pieces) into the ‘nose’ of a semi-trailer for storage – where it remained dry and hidden for another 24 years.

Pile of 'Bones'

I married, raised a family in NC, and in 1992 when I turned forty – Dad turned the relic over to me.  I borrowed a trailer, loaded my kids (and the p-bucket) to Florida and retrieved the ‘Pile of Bones’ to the Carolina’s.

Gray inside, at ten (1992)

In the Carolina’s I had a barn with a dirt floor, but no garage.

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The parts were stored in an empty stall within the barn – it was always my favorite corner of the building after a few beverages. Ever riding in the truck again remained a remote possibility, a distant dream, for I had never owned a home with a garage (a cement floor) and reconstruction wasn’t going to happen in the dirt of the barn.

Thirteen years later (2005) we moved into a home with a real garage, a cement floor, internet, and ebay!  Now with the kids mostly up and gone I felt a ‘byte’ of hope.  Along came a torch, a welder, a spare frame, a refrigerator (a shop necessity) and a television on the wall – my friend Bruce Dewey donated an engine, a real boost to the project.

After 41 years, work resumed on the old rusty pickup truck.

As I contemplated direction the parts and ideas slowly came together – I watched as people on TV completely redid cars in a week! (I also saw folks on the same TV catch boat loads of fish in thirty minutes) – I couldn’t do either so I’ve just set my own pace, sometime working hard and long, and then sometimes I just got completely away from it.

exhaust day

Three years later (2008) the 12-year old boy that pretended to drive his Dad’s old pickup stepped in as a 55-year old adult and did just that.  It was the first time in 44 years that the truck had been on the highway under its own power – and it was a great feeling.  Still there are many little things left to accomplish, none-the-less each short ride becomes a little longer.

Gray inside, 16 years later

It is my hope to drive it to work sometime in October (I just want to do that once), and I’d love to show it to Dad whom is now 82, but lives some distance away.

(The trip to Dad’s)

1932 Ford B Pickup

48 years later, 76 years old

When I drive the little truck now the doors and cab still shake – but for a much different reason, the rusty and dented fenders have been replaced with modern fiberglass and the remaining steel of the cab and body shines with the ‘Cool Vanilla’ paint.  The splintered wood of the old floor in the ‘bed’ is all new and unscathed, the glass is uncracked.

I know that somewhere in the heart of this machine is Dad’s old Rusty Pickup - the same old pickup truck where 45 years earlier a boy of nine once listened to his father’s conversations and dream that one day he too could drive this truck to work - just like his Dad.

In its own way its all been a pretty special ride.

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(The trip to Dad’s)

( Dad’s ride)

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Last Day of My 'Career

In 2009 on the last official day of my 31 year career at the Asheville Fire Department, and 50 years after my Dad first drove it to his workplace – I drove the old truck to work one last time.

Generation next

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RIP

W.T.Haynie 1926-2010

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