Old pickup truck in Mexico
Don Whitehead, distinguished author of "The FBI Story" and twice a Pulitzer Prize winner for reporting on the Korean War, was an early hero of mine.
In semi-retirement, Don was a columnist for The Knoxville News-Sentinel. In the wee hours, when I'd be the only night owl still in the newspaper coop, he'd drop off tomorrow's column and pause to talk. He never left without leaving an encouraging word. It was his way of feeding a fire.
Whitehead was a magician with written words. He could transform the proverbial sow's ear of a subject into a flawless silk purse of a story. No way could I ever approach his artistry but, here's a little secret: Even in old age, I'm still trying. It remains a burning desire.
That said, go with me now to a very simple subject, Salvador Chavo Ramos' maroon pickup truck, a Christmas gift to himself two years ago. It's the oldest four-wheeler in Nestipac, modest bedroom community on the outskirts of Jocotepec, at the west end (naturally) of Lake Chapala, in the beautiful state of Jalisco, in southwest Mexico.
This old (I suppose "mature" is the politically correct word) Nisson has changed the life of the Ramos family, our friends across the street. Before Salvador saved enough pesos to make the purchase, he had a bicycle. Most days, if both tires were up, it took him toward his construction job -- but there never was much room aboard for Magdalina or the five children, Gabriela, Salvador Junior, Gustavo, Adriana and little Magdalena. Wherever they went, they walked, walked to the bus or hitched a ride.
The truck is not yet a certified museum piece but it does have wrinkles and folds. It has been hand-painted at least twice to cover bumps and bruises. The radio antenna is broken at the base and wired to the steel bed rack to keep it from flopping aside. The passenger door won't open from the inside.
That doesn't dampen Salvador's pride. He installed a coffee-cup holder near the gear shifter and a used CD player under the dash. He borrows music from his oldest daughter, and, on occasion, cranks up the volume and sings along.
Monday through Saturday, this is a working truck, even in the holiday season. It hauls a giant load of debris or enough bricks to make the springs sag. It hauls wheelbarrows and heavy scaffolding and five-gallon paint buckets and a variety of tools. Sometimes it hauls away trimmings from our modest courtyard garden. Bougainvillea is sticky stuff. Best I can tell, the old pickup truck never complains.
The maroon Nissan is slow to go in the mornings. Salvador raises the hood and tinkers with something before he turns the key. All are aware when the old engine roars to life. It is our 7:25 wakeup call. The warmup lasts only a few minutes and then the truck goes with enthusiasm. There's some rattling and shaking but no hesitation as it clears cobblestones and a gosh-awful speed bump.
Strangely enough, you have to be watching to catch it coming home at night. It is much quieter when tired.
The truck is the family chariot on Sundays. Salvador, Magdalena and the first girl out of the house ride in the cab. The boys and the other girls hop in the back. Choice seats are on the spare wheel.
The truck may make a church run or go visit relatives. One Sunday it went to Guadalajara. One Sunday it went on a picnic. One Sunday it went all the way to the Pacific Ocean and didn't return for a week. The children brought us souvenirs and showed pictures from a disposable camera. The tents on the beach were nifty and the smiles were priceless.
We never discuss such things but it appears several Sunday adventures have been first-time experiences. We often get youthful reports. Alas, they are mostly in Spanish, at a high rate of speed, which means we miss many details.
Only once has the Nissan been in the Jocotepec spotlight, the equivalent of the 6 o'clock news. That was a wedding day in the neighborhood, two doors down from the Ramos home. A crowd had assembled for the joyous occasion and the children were obviously seeking an escape.
Salvador Junior, then 13, was learning to drive. After numerous requests, Salvador Senior handed over the keys with specific restrictions. Go slowly here and here but not there. The truck bed filled fast with youngsters going along for the ride.
Salvador Junior, who could barely see over the dash, led the maroon Nissan astray, far beyond his boundaries. Cheering children eventually attracted police attention. A siren signaled the end of that outing. One officer replaced the frightened, young driver. Two others provided escort service. Homecoming was somber.
The wedding celebration stopped between notes. Never have so many youngsters spilled from a truck only to disappear without a peep. The ranking policeman talked to the father. Father talked to the son. Salvador Junior was repentant. He walked home, head bowed, without any wedding cake.
The truck went home with daddy.
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