Prompt No. 2 : Red Pickup Truck

Daddy drove an old red pickup truck. I don't fully remember what year it was, but it was definitely a Chevrolet. Daddy would NEVER drive a Ford. Never. It was a single cab pickup truck. I was an only child, there was no need for more room.

The air conditioner didn't give out a lick of cool air. But that was alright because Daddy loved riding with the windows down. He used to say there was nothin' better than cruisin' down the highway with the wind blowin' through your windows. I liked the wind blowin' through my windows just fine.

The seats were so old and worn, pieces of foamy stuffing stuck up in tufts through the ripped leather. I used to pull it out and crumble it between my fingertips. You could smell the leather on a hot Texas day.  It was a deep, musky, familiar scent.

Daddy's radio only played one station, pure country. Lots of Garth Brooks, George Strait, Reba McEntire. That was the only music that made sense he said. I liked it just fine.

Sometimes, if I was real good, Daddy would let me ride in the bed of the truck. He would cruise down the back country roads. I felt so free sitting back there by myself. My tiny fingers would grip the bench until my knuckles turned white. The mesquite trees would whistle by as we turned sharp corners. If Mama ever knew, I would surely get scolded. But it was our secret, mine and Daddy's, riding in the red pickup together.