1955 Ford F100 – Shell Faulkender

My Old Truck.
I am not even sure how to start this story, because every thought of it takes me in a different wonderful direction. I suppose it starts with me as a 16 year old wanting to drive and wanting that nice car thing with the hot motor and all. My dad had different thoughts though. “Here” he says “take the old pickup”. So I take what I can get and off I go back and forth from school and all through the small town roads of western Kansas I go. Amazingly to me anyway, the great memories start to pile up. It turns out that old big red, that’s what I called my 55 F100, was a big success with my friends and of course the girls, the girls I liked anyway. I went back and forth from school during the week and out fishing, hunting, and roaming the country side anytime I could fit it in. I believe I even parked out in the country with my girlfriend a time or two. Well, as always, all good things come to an end. High school ended and college was ahead. It was time to park old red and use my car to head to college. So was the old pickups story over I wondered? It not only was not over, it had hardly just got started.

I don’t even know the Ford pickup’s story before 1974, but it sure has a wonderful history with me and the people in my life. When I was old enough, I worked summers at my dad’s welding shop. I am not sure why, but my father and I didn’t have the best relationship growing up. That changed the summer I came home to work for him and I had made a decision to go to Seattle to dive school. Kansas to the state of Washington seemed like a long way from home. It was a long way from home, but I had this thought rolling through my mind. Suppose I start fixing old big red up with my dad’s help for the journey ahead. A little motor work, some new tires and shocks, fix the brakes, check the steering and throw in a little paint and that ford is ready to roll. What really got fixed that summer was my relationship with my dad. I took that journey to Seattle and came back the following year through a snow storm in Wyoming. Me, wrapped up in a blanket and enough cold air blowing in under the dash to knock my hat off.

I parked old red, and in to my car I went once again. It was time to get in the real world, so off to find work I went. I figured my great moments were done this time with the old pickup, but I was wrong again. It just took a little longer this time around. I traveled to Louisiana, and then to Miami Florida to find work. I actually still live in South Florida but my heart never left Kansas. It turns out that summer working on the F100 was the last substantial time I had with my father before he unexpectedly pasted away a few years after I had moved. Time pasted by and life got busy, but every now and then someone would call from Kansas about buying the old ‘55. The dilemma was it just set there all those years with no one driving it. Flat tires and all as time went on. I often thought it selfish to eventually let it rust away to nothing just because it was hard to part with. That old pickup just set there for some 25 years waiting for me. When my kids both left for college, I needed something to fill the void, guess what came to mind? I had a friend put some tubes in the old tires and they rolled her up on a truck and big red was on its way down. When that old ford rolled out of the trailer a million memories came rolling out with it. I sure missed my kids not being around, but boy did the pickup help fill the void. I would rush home from my job to work on that old 55. Sometimes it was bedtime before I knew it. I even missed a few meals here and there. Plan this, order that, fix this. I would roll up under that old truck and I could just smell that Kansas dirt field I drove through a million times. It just shows you how they used to make things back in the simpler days. In 3 days I had old big red running. The most amazing thing of all ties my father back into the story. When my father died years ago I kept his old rolling tool box. Over the years I left everything as it was in it. Well, when I stared the project on the old pickup I broke out dad’s toolbox. Every time I needed that special tool to turn this, or fit in the tight spot, or adjust the brakes, or whatever it may have been, it was there to be found. One evening I was working on the truck and thinking about how far along it had come, and thinking about my dad being proud to see me with not only big red but his old toolbox too. I went to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer all the time staring at the old 55. “Hmmm… no twist off on this beer I see?” So I walk toward my dad’s old tool box again all the time thinking, “ok dad, every time I have needed the tool for the job it’s been there.” I open up the small drawer at the top and sure enough there it was, that old metal bottle opener. It was just the tool for the job again. In a way we kind of had the chance to work on the pickup together again. Now-a-days my son is back close by, and on Sunday mornings we take that old truck out for breakfast. It runs just fine for us! The old faded paint and all the rattles are still there, but that’s what we most enjoy on are new journey. Who knows maybe someday my son will make a few of his own memories with her.