It must have been about 1961 when Old Lizzy showed up in our backyard. Old Lizzy was a 1946 Chevy pickup truck. My dad scored her in some kind of interesting barter/trade that involved a rusty shotgun, homebrew, and some farm animals. We had a 1957 Plymouth Belvidere, an excellent car with huge tail fins and looked like some kind of mutant shark, but dad reasoned, “ A man needs a truck.” He did the deal.
Lizzy arrived one Saturday afternoon in the spring. Dad parked her up under the clothesline and put a brick behind a wheel to keep her from rolling back into the house.
It was hard to tell the color of the old truck because she had obviously been painted with a brush many times through the years. The paint had peeled away in places, which made her a kaleidoscope of blue, red, and green with varying shades of rust. When the sun hit Lizzy just right, she looked like a stained glass window.
She had a stick shift in the floor, and the tires were flat most of the time. When we had something to haul, we’d pull out the bicycle pump, and pump until our arms felt like rubber. The battery was always dead too, so Dad would pull the Plymouth around in front of Old Lizzy, slap on the jumper cables, pour some gas in the carburetor and fire that baby up.
When the old gal first cranked up, blue-gray smoke would pour out the back. These days’ folks would consider the truck an environmental hazard, but we didn’t have many mosquitoes in our neighborhood, thanks to Old Lizzy.
The muffler had a hole as big as a football, which made the clunker as loud as a NASCAR race. Only high decibel communication took place in the cab when the motor was running. It was not uncommon to be a little hoarse after a day in Lizzy.
Each time we drove Lizzy, we had to mindful where we parked, because getting her cranked was always a concern. We either had to leave her running or park her on a hill so we could get a good rolling start.. So many times, dad would say, “Ok boy, we’re gonna have to push.” I would get behind and push with all my might. When Lizzy would get a head of steam, he’d say, “Jump in!” I would run around the side of the truck, get inside and slam the door. Dad would pop the clutch, she’d spring to life and we would putter home.
The windshield tilted inward from the bottom to let in a cool breeze while we cruised down the road. In my young life, I didn’t think it got any better. I use to sit in that truck for hours on warm Saturday afternoons, shifting gears, and wrestling with the steering wheel, pretending to drive Old Lizzy all over the planet.
I close my eyes and remember the smell of old leather, aging metal and burnt motor oil. There is where I worked out the hand/foot finesse required to drive a stick shift. Lizzy is surely the reason that almost every vehicle I have ever owned has been a straight shift.
