Today, I had the pleasure of my little brother’s company. We chatted and caught a movie. In the afternoon, we worked on my old trucks. Anyone who knows me, knows I love old vehicles. Especially trucks. I am the proud owner of a 1999 Dodge Ram 2500 flatbed dually, a 1989 Chevy Cheyenne, and a 1984 Dodge Power Ram. I also own a 1989 Chrysler New Yorker and a 1965 Chrysler Newport.  

Yeah, I like my stuff.  

My brother and I sat out to get the Cheyenne running. It had been sitting out in a pasture for over a year. We put in a fresh battery, turned it over, and it fired right up. Then while I had access to him, we worked on my Power Ram. After some gas in the carburetor it finally caught and roared to life.  

I sat on the seat and listened to the roar of good ole American muscle. “Dad is probably sitting in Heaven elbowing Jesus in the ribs,” I thought as it rumbled. “That’s a Hemi,” I pictured my dad telling Jesus. I could see my dad looking down on me and my brother, as we laughed at the smoke from the truck after two years of sitting.  

I miss my dad.  

Naming your favorite vehicle is like naming your favorite girlfriend. It’s hard to choose. Who says romance is dead? I can tell you the story to every vehicle I own. I bought the 1989 Chevy in Tennessee for 1800 bucks. It was sitting under a pecan tree. I love that truck. The old boy I bought it from attempted to convert it into a race truck. The points were filed to 3-8-3. Given the light body and semi-muscular 350, it has some quickness to it.  

My 1999 Ram 2500 was my dad’s truck. Enough said. 

The ‘84 Power Ram is a truck I’ve long coveted. My dad had a ‘77 Power Wagon with a 440. I was just a boy, but I fell hard for the truck. In polite terms, the truck was beastly. I loved it and swore I would have my own one day.  I went to Tennessee to visit my parents and there it was in their front yard. My mom and dad sold it to me, and I have been the proud owner ever since.  

Nothing beats the rumble of a powerful engine. Or the looks of those sitting in the lane across from you in traffic. The roar of headers and scream of burning rubber, man, it makes your heart pound. I am excited sitting in my recliner. It makes you want to turn up the volume of Sammy Hagar singing, “I can’t drive 55.” 

I am thrilled I have my trucks operational again. My dad would be so proud.  

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