My beloved truck is getting old. I drive a 2000 Toyota Tacoma. It’s red and has the extended cab. I love my truck. I’ve had my truck 14 years come April 9^th. This is significant, as the typical person keeps their car for 7-8 years before swapping it for something new (according to what I read online). My truck has 208,000 miles now. The driver’s side window was ripped off in a car wash back in 2010 or so – I was able to install a new one with the help of a YouTube video. I keep up on the oil changes. The cardinal red paint on my beloved pick up is fading. The driver’s side arm rest on the door is held together with electrical tape. The driver’s seat has a tear in it. The passenger window struggles to slide down sometimes because of all the grit and sand caked into the crevice. My truck sometimes smells like a wet dog. Coffee stains are on the carpet space between the driver’s seat and center console. The only things these days in the truck’s bed are a dog-float toy, a tennis ball, and a “Chuck-It” stick for beach adventures.

This well-worn truck is a stamp of my life, though. I’ve owned my truck for nearly half of my existence. Many of my friends have had four or five vehicles; my Tacoma is just my second (the first a ‘92 Dodge Dakota that croaked). My dad bought mine for me, back when I was 19 years old. I had long hair back then and was highly focused on my schoolwork. I wanted wheels for my activities – mainly, getting to and from college campus and church, plus a way to get to my best friend’s house. My father accompanied me to the dealership and he paid outright for the truck. I’ve realized now into my adult years that vehicles are expensive: buying, maintaining, insuring. All that’s in my name now.

I thank my father for buying me a truck that has been of great value to me in the past 14 years. It’s chauffeured me to and from undergrad and grad school. It’s been an adventure mobile for both me and my husband and for a few wonderful dogs along the way. The passenger seat has hosted some good friends through the years, including my maid of honor, my sister-in-law, a Brazilian jiu jitsu whiz, and even my esteemed grandfather who has gone ahead. The bed of the truck has carried groceries, beach coolers, and bicycles. It was around when Richard and I were dating, when we got married, when I moved out of my parents’ home. It’s gotten me to and from different jobs. It’s been to the Eastern Shore of Virginia and to the mountains of Virginia. It’s made it to Chesapeake and Moyock and to the ocean. It’s still running, like me. I’m not eager to swap it in for a new shiny car that has touchscreens and back up cameras. Somehow the rust under the seats, the grit in the windows, the dust on the dashboard, the broken and antiquated CD player, the taped up armrest – is me. ~