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Illustration by Beck Deresse

As I was driving to the airport last week the odometer on my truck rotated to 100,000 kilometres. This led me to pause and think about trading the truck in, it also made me think about all the life I’d lived in this truck.

When I repatriated to Canada after nine years overseas, I was going to spend a large amount of my time in northern Quebec. What better way to fit in with les locaux and to immerse in rural culture than by buying a pickup?

The day I rolled out of the dealer and hit the first gravel road in my Toyota Tacoma was exciting, until my nerves kicked in as rocks hit my new purchase. But all that quickly evaporated when I received my first call through the truck’s Bluetooth phone. It was the doctor, to say that my Dad was hospitalized in a remote location. I immediately plugged the co-ordinates into the truck’s GPS and trusted it to get me there expeditiously and safely.

Since there were no available motels, I ended up sleeping in my truck for three days. It’s safe to say the new car smell was short-lived. I was with Dad for his last two days. And so the first memories of my truck are images etched as it took me from the hospital to the funeral home to the cemetery.

As the kilometres of my life rolled on, Lyon, my English bulldog who came back to Canada with me from France, claimed the back seat as her domain. It didn’t matter how short or long the trip was, she stared at me in the review mirror for the duration. Most often, I would arrive at our destination and Lyon would stay in the back seat, basking in the sun with the door open, knowing I would return. There was an overwhelming sense of comfort between us in that truck.

In the early days of truck ownership, I panicked at how dirty it became given the firewood hauling, helping friends move and back road country living I enjoyed. I soon realized, though, that it was part of the truck’s character. Each little dent was a dramatic moment at the time but now I look at them and recall the story or adventure that put them there. I began to see it as character-building, much like wrinkles appearing on my face. The truck was simply aging gracefully and began, like humans, to display its experience and wisdom.

The Tacoma exercised a lot of patience with me, too, as it taught me how and why to use four-wheel drive. It never complained when I couldn’t back up a boat trailer properly or was slow to figure out that I needed to weigh the cargo bed down in winter. There were certainly disagreements – the dashboard lights would flicker and blink and also beep at me as I figured out how to drive in snow and maneuver a busy shopping centre parking lot. My truck was just trying to keep me safe. Trickier was learning how to park up a snow bank to save space. In small-town Quebec, this was a mandatory driving skill. On most, if not on all occasions, the mechanical brain of the truck guided me forward.

As the kilometres continued to roll on, Lyon could no longer jump into the back seat and had to be lifted in and out. Her supervision in the rearview mirror grew shorter and shorter. She became more inclined to nap in the sun rays that the truck windows never failed to provide. Although it saddened me to see that the inevitable was coming, it warmed my heart to see her comfortable in our truck.

There are those that think a vehicle is just for travelling from place to place. I’ve always envisioned a vehicle, as going from life event to event. My truck navigated me to more funerals, weddings, through snowstorms, and quickly home from Florida when COVID-19 meant the government called everyone back to Canada.

Unfortunately, this summer I was diagnosed with cancer requiring surgery. The night before the surgery, Lyon had a stroke. I truly believe it was her last unconditional act of love thinking that caring for her would hinder my recovery. I lay with Lyon all night until I could carry her to the truck for her final journey to the vet. My knees weakened as I lifted Lyon out of our truck into the vet’s office wrapped in her blanket, which still remains on the back seat to this day.

After my surgery, part of me didn’t want to wake from the anesthetic. But, somehow, as I drove home, my truck knew how to navigate me through the pain and heartbreak.

This was a hard time. There were still some dog hairs on the backseat, a few kibbles in the console and a collection of sand and dirt from my North American travels floating through the cab. Maybe it was time for a new truck, I thought, one that wouldn’t remind me of the bookends of my Dad’s death and my dog’s. I didn’t know if I could bear to live with the memories.

I drove it to the dealer.

As I approached the car lot, I stopped at a red light and the little glass jar of Lyon’s hair that the vet gave me to hang over the rearview mirror caught my eye. My eyes blurred and tears started to flow. I took a deep breath. This truck possessed so much of the scar tissue of my life. I realized the truck was telling me that the only bookends that should be measured are what happens between birth and death.

I’m not sure if it was the truck or me, but the left turn indicator came on and I did a U-turn.

Once again, I’m putting my heart back into the truck and letting it navigate to accumulate more kilometres and memories on the highway of life.

Dale L. Sheehan lives in West Kelowna, B.C.

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