I drive a beat-up 2002 Chevy Silverado, and I love driving it while wearing my sparkly pink cowboy hat. You see, I am driving the truck of a legend. My dad passed away when I was nine and this was his truck. 

When I got it, it had been sitting in our driveway for eight years. I was initially disappointed because taking his old truck felt like taking away the last bit of his identity. However, I slowly figured out that by driving his truck, I was keeping his identity while discovering my own. 

This truck is a perfect representation of me—a little beat up on the outside, but on the inside, filled with so much joy, love, and memories. The truck connects me to my family and my favorite moments, while also teaching me valuable lessons.

I named it “Big Hank” after my dad—my dad’s nickname was “Tank” because he was a big truck of a guy, and the Chevy itself is a hulking beast of metal. So when I pulled into Sonic for a milkshake, the lanes were a really tight fit for Big Hank. I’ve done it successfully before, so I didn’t think anything of it.

I pushed the red button ready to place my order and waited. And waited. And waited. My brother Nick sat alongside me in the passenger seat while his friend in the backseat complained about the wait time.

“Something must be wrong with the speaker,” I said, deciding to go into another lane to order. At this point, I felt confident in my ability to maneuver Big Hank around, so I zipped out and over without adjusting the truck’s position. But Big Hank is a big boy of a truck, and the Sonic lanes weren’t built to handle him. 

Maneuvering the truck, I suddenly felt sweat on my hands as fear zapped me. I was so conscious of the driver’s side that I was hardly paying attention to the bulkiness of the right. I successfully pulled in on the left side and wanted to rejoice because I did that. My celebration ended when I looked to my right and saw the bright red Sonic menu nudged into the passenger side of Big Hank.

“You are so dumb, Katie,” Nick shouted. “What are we going to do now?” I was trying to come up with something to say to him, but he would not let me get a word in. My voice escaped. There was nothing I could say. There was nothing I did say. There was only one thing I knew I could do: laugh. 

At this point, Nick, thinking he is the left arm of God Himself, decided that he could get us out of this. As soon as I exited the truck to observe the damage to the old blue paint, Nick hopped into the driver’s seat and took control. He yanked the gear shift straight down into reverse. As his hand glided across the steering wheel, I saw the truck brush even deeper into the “Go-To Milkshake” guide. 

There was no getting out. Nothing I could do to fix this. I had to suck up my pride and call in the big guns: my mom. The uneasiness of my stomach squirmed as I pressed “Momma” on my phone. How mad would she be? This is my dad’s truck, of course, she is going to be mad.

More questions speared as I saw her car whip around the side of the parking lot. As she slammed her door open, my heart dropped. When she finally stepped out, we looked at each other, took a deep breath, and laughed. Obviously, relief takes over.

My mom and I have grown up together since my dad’s passing. We have learned many valuable lessons, one of those being that ten percent of your life is the things that happen to you while the other ninety percent is how you react to it. Every day, we choose joy, positivity, and laughter. Choosing to value the happy moments and the laughter has gotten us through the last eight years without my dad, and I continue to learn more as I drive Big Hank as I honor him...of course, while adding a little flare of my own.