Memories of an old maroon Ford pickup

The pale yellow light gleams softly through the tall trees in their lifeless state and illuminates the white snow on the ground before it.

While the birds chirp and cheer for the rise of a new year, frost covers the once unsuspecting plants. And the way the sun’s dull light reflects off the jagged icicles creates a thousand offspringed mosaics against the dark landscape behind it. And the sky looks like it’s on fire with the pale yellows and bright oranges that envelop it.

But not a piece of nature protests or fights against, because for just a moment, the world is in perfect harmony, and I am left mesmerized at the bright prospects that once again lie before me.

Looking at the smooth satin maroon on the old ’92 F-250 a flood of memories come back. And as I begin to pull on the worn-out tan seat belt, I’m suddenly two, interested in what my parents are doing and repelling out the window by the once new seat belts and scaling the jacked up Ford before it’s a cold winter day and my dad and I are plowing until we are sucked into the ditch, left sitting sideways for what feels like hours.

And when I turn on the radio I remember an AC/DC song coming on and screaming “Cause I’m TNT” at the top of my lungs. And when I push the clutch in I remember begging “Daddy! Please! I want to drive!” before he’d give in and let me sit on his lap so I could touch the steering wheel and help him yank on the stick shift.

I remember thinking I could be a racecar driver when we’d fishtail or drift as I screamed with delight — when days blurred together and so little mattered.