One glance at an auction listing for classic American trucks makes me think of my uncles.
Uncle Ellis and Uncle Billy and my aunts were some of our closest neighbors, as my mother and her siblings all built on land inherited from their parents in the Riceville area east of Asheville.
Family stories say the brothers drove at an early age—before turning 10—using their father’s truck to help haul water back for their mother from the spring located a few hundred yards away.
When I arrived decades later, they were master mechanics, keeping their vehicles running well.
Both served in the military in World War II, and I believe neither ever owned a brand new vehicle. Those I remember, however, were all styles I would love to own today.
You would think I could remember what make of truck Uncle Ellis drove, but, maybe I can blame my memory and age and just say it was a half-ton model from the 1940s—likely a Ford—with the rounded hood that opened from the side, and a rounded top to the cab. It had a split windshield and laminated glass. At some point over the years the cranked windows on both sides were cracked, but the metal frame that ran all the way around the glass and the laminate held the glass together.
To start the truck, Ellis would turn the key, adjust the choke on the left side of the steering wheel, then press down on a pedal that was to the right of the accelerator—the starter pedal. I remember thinking that was so cool.
The cab of his truck smelled like smoke and charcoal because Ellis often carried his fire department turnout gear on board. For several years he was chief at Riceville Volunteer Fire Department, and he remained an active member long after stepping down from that role.
At some point, likely around 1980, Ellis replaced the 1940s truck with a ‘70s Ford F-150 with a camper shell. It was a fine vehicle, as well, but I’d love to have thought at the time to offer him a couple hundred dollars for the old one.
Billy had a Chevrolet station wagon that he kept going from my earliest memories until I was an adult. It was painted green—maybe what Chevrolet called Surf Green—and ran well enough that he and his family drove it from Asheville to Edisto Beach, South Carolina.
It was a comfortable car—I think the name on the rear fender was Bel Air, and it had tons of space inside.
Billy’s truck, a 1953 Chevrolet flat bed, was memorialized in song by a late friend, Dave Turner, who was a popular Asheville-area singer-songwriter.
Now, the story was that Billy’s truck was an amalgamation of several different truck makes. I don’t know all what went into it, but the hood ornament was a unique bulldog with both front feet outstretched. It didn’t look like the Mack truck bulldog, nor the Brockway motors truck husky icon.
The Chevy didn’t go fast, which was fine when I was 13, riding in the bed with my pony, Pokey, as we moved him to a spring pasture further up Riceville Road.
You can see images of Billy’s truck, and the hood ornament, if you google “Billy Ray’s Chevrolet” and find the Youtube video Dave made.
Billy had a yellow ford Galaxy sedan that was bought for one of his daughters to drive. It was a solid car with a fairly big engine. Back then, though, few of us in the younger generation looked at those style cars or trucks.
One car I did like was the 1966 Ford Fairlane station wagon my mother drove.
I just googled it and saw the Fairlane described as “a functional, stylish family hauler with substantial cargo space.”
I spent many hours in that Ford, riding to school or waiting in the car while mom was shopping. Back then they thought nothing of having six-year-old me in the front seat, and I baptized the soft plastic dashboard of that wagon with a tooth mark when I was getting a new tooth.
That dent remained for years afterward.
—Jonathan Austin