I used to sit in the driver side seat of the old Ford pick up my family bought when I was a young boy so that my mom would have a truck to cart compost around in.

The inside smelled like oil, metal, age, and worn fabric. The seats themselves were decorated in a rug-like material. It was coarse and hearty.

I’d sit on that bench seat kick my feet as I couldn’t touch the ground or the pedals. I’d switch the scant few buttons on and off eventually draining the battery. It didn’t matter much since the truck wasn’t driven anyway.

I still love old trucks. I used to read auto trader magazines my dad had in his shop. It made me imagine a type of life that was feasibly attainable.

I haven’t owned any cool cars in my life. Everything has been functional, more or less. But I certainly have a proclivity for station wagons and anything that can haul large amounts of soccer equipment.

It’s funny how these things work. What portions of our personality are dedicated to small moments that are easily forgotten.