My father owns a Royal Blue 2001 Nissan Frontier Truck, 4 doors with 140,000 miles on it, a vehicle he affectionately calls his 'War Pony.' Many people who see it in the parking lot or on the road are very likely to either ignore it or see it as a 'junker,' a 'beater,' as it shows a lot of wear and tear. Compared to the new, large and shiny Chevrolet Silverados, Toyota Tundras and Ford F-150s that people drive around, it cannot compare. But then, what is a truck supposed to be? Is it meant as a vehicle that the owner obsesses over and keeps in mint condition, like 'an action figure still in the packaging?' Or does a truck merit scratches, dents and broken tail lights in its lifespan to reflect the work it served to its owner? I argue here the later but also a little bit more. At some point a truck takes on the personality of its owner.
Like an insurance agent, looking to save his/her company some money, I will talk about these 'marks of deprecation' on my father's truck, one-by-one. But I do not mention them to take away the monetary value of the vehicle. I list them to show the entrepreneurship and labor he has put in these past fourteen years to create roots, a solid foundation for both his wife and his sons.
There is a tar burn on the hood, a spill that occurred when working on a roofing project. The antenna is bent from the wind and tree branches beating against it over time. There are, of course, small pings in the windshield from gravel kicked up from larger trucks, but then every vehicle on the West Coast experiences that at some point. There are deep scratches on the side of the cab, the cab's door, and in the bed lining from all lumber and the various construction materials he brought up to his property the first five years. Since then more marks have appeared: scratches and dents from the trash, dirt, plants, furnishings, fixtures and containers that have traveled back and forth from home to shopping center or other facilites. The left tail light is broken and cracked, a mishap in backing up too far one time where a pile a lumber stuck out near the community garden just a year ago where he lives.
Both inside the truck and around the crevices of the hood and the windshield wipers are Pine needles and the variable leaves of Coastal Redwoods. There are a collection of pebbles and rocks beside the transmission from beaches along the Mendocino Coast that my father explored these past fourteen years. There are markings on the seats from paint, turpentine and oil. There is the remote scent of last dog my father and step Mom cared for, not a strong odor but also not a pleasant scent. The dog could not control her bowl movements in her last remaining years. For a stranger that was not familiar with my father’s entrepreneurship, generosity and kind-spirited nature with living things, to climb into this truck cab would be a horror story. But I and my brothers entered into it with enjoyment over the past decade-and-a-half. We saw our father in this truck, not ‘marks of depreciation.’
At some point, a material good: whether it is an article of clothing, a toy, a tool, and even a vehicle, surpasses a point where it is sterile, new and a general commodity placed on the shelf or parked in a car lot. It takes on the character of the owner who wears, plays, uses or drives it. I had the honor of using my father’s truck for the past two weeks in order to establish myself in my new job. And as I sat in Bay Area traffic, listening to music and slowly navigating through accidents, construction and speed traps, I felt a deep sense of admiration and respect for my father. He lives a good and honorable life. His War Pony is a testament to that.
