Papaw’s Power Wagon was a venerable ’68 Dodge, its original sky-blue paint slowly succumbing to spots of sun bleach and a patina of deep-orange rust on the roof, hood, and bed. Papaw kept saying that he would repaint it, year to year, but somehow that never seemed to happen. He liked the rust. He had covered the bench seat with a brown and white cowhide cover that matched the rust a lot better than the original paint.

I climbed up into the cab and immediately felt anxious as I started up the engine. I had been riding in this truck since I was a toddler. The first time I held the wheel, it was bigger than I was; I sat on my grandfather’s knee pretending to drive while he rolled through the spring fields.

Since I got my license, I’d taken it to the feed store once or twice for “emergencies”. And by “emergencies”, I mean ” hot summer days when Mamaw took the station wagon to town and Papaw wanted me to sneak off to the feed store and get him a cold Coke before she got back”. We both knew we were conspiring, when I drove the Power Wagon. I wasn’t supposed to drive his truck, he wasn’t supposed to have soft drinks. It was our secret.

But it always felt strange to be an adult behind this massive wheel. My instincts kept telling me that my legs shouldn’t be long enough to reach the brake pedal, my arm shouldn’t be strong enough to wrangle the shift. I rumbled out the gravel lane, but I felt more like a kid playing dress-up in her father’s closet than a responsible adult.