Bird droppings and rust had eaten away at the paint, but it didn't matter, I had to have the old truck.

It sat, grown up in tangled vines and weeds, all but forgotten, its headlights for all the world looking like a sad faced pup, wanting to follow me home.

"So, what are you asking for this old heap?" I played coy. Sometimes it helped, sometimes it didn't. The old gent stood, pipe puffing, kicking gravel around with the toe of his well worn work boots.

"Well, ya sure don't see many like her 'round anymore." He looked up, a glint of defiance in his eyes.

I had to buck up now, the "war" was on.

"Tell you what, I'll give you four-hundred." I started low, you never know what someone will take. And the old forty-nine was covered in rust.

Mr. Lind's response was typical. "I don't know now, ain't that kindy low for an antique?"

"Lots of rust there, Mr. Lind. The hood's all eat up with it. How about four-fifty?"

The work boot moved gravel again and I stepped back, away from the man and his truck. Just a couple of feet, a false warning of backing out altogether.

"Ya know, that was my very first truck."

There it was, the sentimental value.

"How old are you, Mr. Lind?" I was genuinely curious. I liked him, I just didn't want to pay too much for the old Ford.

"I'll be eighty-seven next month."

"And your truck was new in forty-nine? That's something." I was giving myself away now. But I said it with conviction. I loved all things old, people included. But I still didn't want to over-pay for the thing. I would have to spend thousands rebuilding it, not to mention the time it would take getting it back on the road.

Mr. Lind tapped his pipe on his hand, as a smile caressed his leathered face.

And I stood there, totally lost in time, as Mr. Albert Lind took me back to nineteen forty-nine and the day he brought Bugtussle home.

The old man spoke softly now, his memory and reflections intense. His mind went back, his words spoken with a sharp clarity that made me feel as if I were reading a well written book. It was as if we were there. I rode with him as he took his now dead wife on their first date. I was there as they fixed flat tires while their two kids played alongside the dusty roads. And I rode with him as he drove Bugtussle for the last time, soon after his daughter passed away. The old truck had played an integral part in his life. It had been his helper, his friend and even though it was just a machine, it had a personality all it's own. And as I left him late that day, I carried the well-kept title with me, a testament of new-found friendship and mutual respect.


************


It's funny, I feel the old man's presence every time I drive my little Bugtussle. I learned that he died not long after letting the truck go and I attended his wake with real sadness. And joy. I was grateful not only for the old pick-up, but for his visit that day. And for just knowing him. I drive Bugtussle on weekends, just to let my dog catch a breeze when the days are warm and fair and I need to go back in time for a while.

The old flat-head purrs along, smooth as a Singer sewing machine. And I smile.

Mr. Lind wound up giving me Bugtussle that day almost four years ago, with my promise to fix it up and never sell it.

Someday, I hope I'll have a grandchild to give it to, so I can pass along the best of yesterday.