Sitting in line at Starbucks, palm trees behind me, dreaming of red trucks…
If you’ve read here for any length of time, you know it’s one of my dreams to someday have a red pickup–not necessarily a shiny Toyota, but maybe one more like those at the end of this linked post from last year about this time. But what you may not know is what began this craving.
I think it was in the Triassic period when my friend Kathy L helped me get a tech writer job with her company. Oh, how I loved that job. It was one of the first places I felt my skills were really valued, and I was treated like a professional. Sadly, as is wont to happen with space and defense contractors, work ebbs and flows, and my position fell to downsizing (but the HR guy helped me get my next also-great job, so it all worked out). Anyway, while I was working there, I burned out the engine of my car, and for a while until I could buy a new one, I was given the use of Big Red, which was sort of the company’s truck.
Big Red was an ancient pickup–I can’t remember if he was a Ford or a Chevy, but he was beat up as hell. He’d been part of a working ranch or farm (Kathy may remember more details), so he’d earned every dent, scratch, and faded bit of paint he wore. Every time I clambered into the cab, slammed the door, and cranked him up, I slipped inside the pages of a Larry McMurtry novel. And I love Larry McMurtry even more than red trucks, so I am talking BLISS.
I know that one day, somehow, another Big Red will come into my life. If he’s not pretty, I don’t care, as long as what’s under the hood will keep us on the run. And if it doesn’t happen before I check out, then I can’t think of a better way to be imagined: tooling through the universe–make me young and thin again, with long brown hair whipping around me, and all the dogs who went before me taking turns riding on the seat next to me. Whenever you’re sitting at home or inside a place of business, and you hear a bit of music as someone drives by–and if you know me, you’ll probably know what music is likeliest–then think to yourself, There goes Becky. Or, you know, Aunt Becky, Beck, Becks, Beckster, or any of the BettyPeggyBetsyDebby names I’ve been miscalled through the years. It’s all good in a red truck.