The Old Truck: Perseverance & Grace
by Jarrett Pumphrey | February 9, 2020
On a quiet road, an old truck hummed and idled. The old truck was my dad’s. A 1986 Mazda B2000. Not quite the classic you think of when you think old truck, but I loved it. One day that old truck would be mine. First, I had to learn to drive it.
* * *
My dad bought the truck brand new when I was seven. My brothers and I grew up riding side by side, crammed in across the truck’s tiny bench seat—as many as could fit—seatbelts be damned. The best spot was straddling the shifter. You always got the most space, the clearest view, and on a good day, you got to help drive.
The engine would rev. My dad would say “go for it.” I’d pull the shifter back or push it forward. At first, his hand on mine. Eventually, all on my own.
For a few minutes here, a few minutes there, I wasn’t a little boy anymore. I was a man, or what I thought a man was: cool and confident and in control. And at seven years old, it didn’t get much better than that.
* * *
The old truck revved and rasped, grated and gnashed. At fifteen, though, it could have been better.
“Whoa. Calm down.” She put her hand on mine. My mom sat next to me in the tiny cab, seatbelt securely in place. “You’ve gotta use the clutch.”
The clutch? No one told my seven-year-old self anything about a clutch. Maybe there was more to driving a stick—more to being a man—than revving the engine and pulling the shifter.
“Take it a step at a time. First, press the brake with your right foot. Then push the clutch—yeah, that one—all the way in with your left. Good. Now slide it into gear.”
* * *
A step at a time. A patient perseverance. That might be the best way to describe my mom.
She got her drive from the women who came before her. My great-grandmother—who could have passed for white—would walk clear across town, past numerous white-only facilities, to proudly use the colored ones. My grandmother—who worked for the US Post Office in the segregated South—had to fight discrimination on two counts: race and gender. Both women had grit. Neither had much patience.
Patience they left to my mom. And she owned it, a step at a time.
A step at a time, she raised a family.
A step at a time, she built a business.
A step at a time, Grace Marie Pumphrey left a legacy.
* * *
The old truck lurched and sputtered. It turned out getting it into gear was the easy part.
“Slower,” she said.
That was slower! No, the clutch was broken. Had to be. No, no, it was stupid—yeah, that’s what it was. Gah! I hit the steering wheel, frustrated.
“Take a breath. You can do this. Just let the clutch out a little slower. And remember, when you feel it grab, give it some gas. Let’s try again.” Her patient perseverance.
For the umpteenth time—brake down, clutch in—I turned the key in the ignition to restart that old truck.
And I tried again.
* * *
My parents tried three times and never got the girl the family wanted. My mom would later tell us she’d secretly always wanted boys. That she’d wanted four of them, to be precise.
She had me and my twin brother Jason first. She was petite. We weren’t. It wasn’t easy.
Jerome, smaller and solo, came next, two years later. Her sweet “Romeo.” A sweet relief.
Three years after that, she had Eric. Due to a bad sonogram, Eric was a girl before he was born and, boy, had the family rejoiced. He surprised everyone when he arrived. Well, almost everyone.
* * *
The old truck revved and rolled.
“I told ya!” She smiled— “Don’t look at me—eyes on the road!”
I straightened up. Ten and two.
“I told ya you could do it.”
I pushed the accelerator. The old truck pushed back.
“You hear the engine? Get ready to shift.”
There was more to this? I tensed up.
“Take a breath. Foot off the gas. Clutch in. Mm-hmm. Now slide it into second.”
The old truck relaxed. So did I.
“See? Not so hard once you get going.”
* * *
Being the working mom of four growing boys had to be hard, no matter how easy she made it look.
They called it the Dental Cosmetic Center of Houston. My dad in the back fixing teeth. My mom in the front fixing everything else.
Together—from nothing—they built the business that gave us everything. And yet, despite the long hours at work, somehow, she was still there for us at home.
When we fought, she broke it up.
When we loved, she showed us how.
When we cried, she made it safe.
When we laughed, she laughed the loudest.
When we worked, she made us earn it.
When we played, she set us free.
When we hurt, she took the pain.
When she hurt—she protected us.
She’d already been fighting it a while when she told us.
Cancer.
Fucking cancer.
* * *
The old truck stalled and shuddered. We sat at the end of the road.
“Clutch.”
Stupid clutch.
“When you’re in gear, you’ve gotta push it in as you come to a stop. Or else...” She nodded at the stalled truck.
I sighed. She smiled.
“Listen, you’ve got this. A little practice and you’ll be okay.”
* * *
I sat next to her in the tiny hospital room. We’d run out of road.
She couldn’t speak. She didn’t need to. It was my turn.
I put my hand on hers.
“We’ll be okay. You’ve raised us well. We are who we are—I’m the man I am—because of you. You’ve filled us with love and kindness and strength. You’ve carried it all for us. We’ll carry it for you now. We’ll be okay.”
* * *
On a quiet road, an old truck hummed and idled. The old truck was mine. A 1956 Ford F-100. A real old truck.
It was early morning. The sun was barely up. I sat alone in the old truck’s cab, in front of my house, contemplating my next step.
Weeks before, Jerome and I had just turned in the final art for our author-illustrator debut The Old Truck. The culmination of years of hard work, I’d decided to celebrate with more hard work: restoring a real-life old truck. I’d found one hiding in South Carolina and after a 48-hour road trip to rescue it, I was back in Texas with a problem.
Getting the truck off the trailer had been easy. A good push and gravity had taken over. But now I needed to get it up my hill of a driveway and gravity would be no help at all. I’d have to drive it.
Problem was: a previous owner had flipped the “three on the tree” to lefty. And they’d done it wrong. The loud grinding noise told me that. It seemed this old truck shifted gears backwards and upside down.
I took a breath. I pressed the brake with my right foot. I pushed the clutch all the way in with my left. Twenty-five years after my mom taught me how to drive a stick, I grabbed the left-handed shifter and slid it into gear like it was the first time all over again. I let out the clutch—slowly—and gave it some gas. The old truck revved, and we started to roll.
It was all gonna be okay. A step at a time, my mom made sure of that.