Before we left Sinclair, I looked at some old automobiles strewn on the station ground. I sure remember seeing few of them in American movies or photographs. They certainly looked different from the ones at the museums which had shiny coat of bright colored paints. These here must have been driven on the road around this area until they ran no longer. One of them was looking down on a fallen headlight in front of it. Perhaps, old things that hadn't been thrown away get even older and become antiques. These cars that surpass one or two generations before me were as romantic as they can get and were whispering to me to reminisce the memories that did not exist in me. I was a blank sheet. I've never spent time in these before. So I wondered what they could ever mean to me.
As we were leaving Sinclair, I found another old Ford truck someone had driven here parked on the side of the road. A Missouri plate, must belong to someone from around here. I don't know about cars much, but looked like it ran for several decades. Is everything, even the trucks that people drive around here antique? I thought briefly, but that is just a nonsense a city person thinks up. It is just that the things around here exist longer than those in the cities. They are stronger and healthier, and there are plenty of apt care and maintenance around for them, so they thrive without the worries of getting thrown out or stopped working. I could not start calling these antiques simply because they are thriving longer than the others. So I did some research online. They were 1966 Ford F-Series pickup trucks. If it was bought the first year it came out, it is running in its 49th year between the cornfields in the Midwestern United States. Now I knew the model of the car, but that didn't mean that I had particular feelings toward it. Staring at it certainly wouldn't bring out any emotions, either, however, I looked around and around at it. I looked at the back of suspensions of rear wheels and underneath the oil pan as if the non-exsistant sentiment is hiding under the car. Then a couple of men wearing blue jeans hopped in the car, noticing me looking at their car, talked to me,
"Where are you from?"
"New York… no, Korea."
I almost said the word that would get myself killed the next scene.
"Are you traveling?"
"Yes, your car is very nice."
"Thanks, it got a lot of work done on it."
"Does it run well?"
"Good enough to pass onto my son."
"It looks like it"
Two men in jeans drove away bidding me a good travel in the truck that looked older than themselves. Heavy metal sound and dirt cloud from the disappearing 1966 Ford truck again told me to go search for the memories. So I decided to think of the memories of past few days driving through the Midwestern states.
It's a crack of dawn. Sleepy eyed, I'm driving my 1966 Ford pickup through the cornfields. Twenty years had passed since I was able to drive by myself. Loading and unloading this truck countless times. I went to the large corn contest and county fair with this guy every year. Baseball games and football games were with him always. We went to Indiana for the Popcorn Festival and dodged tornadoes. It was beautiful and exhilarating looking at lightning strikes out front of the windshield. Numerous camping trips with friends and looking at star studded night sky with my girlfriend next to me on the hood of the truck. My young son sat in the seat next to me smiling at me. Looking back, this truck was my best buddy that was with me at any time and any place in my life, a part of me. Once again, I'm driving through the cornfields toward the sunset.
This was what 1966 Ford F100 meant for me.
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