My Granddaddy Was King

I love my pickup truck. There. I said it. I love my pickup truck. It wasn't too long ago that I would never have considered owning the official vehicle of Texas, but in an uncharacteristic fit of Lone Star patriotism, I did it. I gave in to temptation the way that so many others do here. Today is the first birthday of my candy apple red Ford Ranger with its extended cab, flared sides, sprayed-in bedliner, big old tires and shiny chrome wheels. Her name is . . . Ruby. I fell in love with Ruby one joyous afternoon in November of 2003. Oh, how she stood out from the rest of the Rangers and her bigger F-150, F-250 and F-350 siblings. As if saying "Take me home with you. Take me home now," she flirted shamelessly, metal flakes sparkling in the bright sunlight. Though relatively petite in size by Texas standards, this little pickup was just what I had been looking for. Her smooth, nostalgic lines and flared sides reminded me of a smaller version of the truck that my Granddaddy Owens had driven for so many years. He'd pick me up after school, and after tossing my "grip" into the cab, he'd help me climb in to sit beside him on that big bench seat for the trip to his place way out in the "country". Bouncing along back roads in that dusty old truck was much more of an adventure than riding in our family's Ford Fairlane or the Rambler to Crook's Foodtown. It allowed me the opportunity to look down on the world from a totally different perspective . . . the perspective of a little kid riding in a big truck. I was King of the road. Well, more like Prince of the road. Because when we were in that truck, my granddaddy was King.