Living in the Past

1941 Chevrolet AK series 1/2 ton pick-up truck

I'll give first credit to Jethro Tull for this posting's title, I've always liked the feel of it. And its interesting multiple interpretations - but I'll use this one: this is living, in the past, this is its life, and what is it - what are we studying and what are we dealing with?

If we're going to look at past, present, and future, I'm going to argue that they're all existing simultaneously. The age of things, from the ancient rock crushed into a gravel driveway to the morning's newspaper, are not broken into time frames on their own, we do that for them.

There is, there must be, a very seamless link between them all. We may be far removed but we can trace a line between these things. Like this (bear with me):


. . you'll note that bit of "for sale" sign in the cracked windshield. Or you're still mesmerized by the amount of chrome.

"Does it run?" Yep, let me start it up and let it idle . . you ever double-clutch a non-synchronized transmission?" "No? - well, here's how you do it."

"What kind of work does it need? . . hmm, okay."

So we bought it. Amber and I had talked about a truck for a while, but nothing came of it. Nothing seemed worth the effort. Earlier this week, we came across this, for about as much as a used, non-descript, albeit possibly newer truck. It runs, it shifts, it needs some interior work and some lights wired up. No, I don't think it needs a paint job. Yes, we really did buy it.

Chevrolet started production, of what became known as the "art-deco chevy" in late 1940, and this was the only year during WWII that the grill work was chromed. The cab and bed are actually from a 1941 military issue truck; olive drab paint is visible on the firewall and door handles. And if you fix one up really well, it can look like this. But not this one: I'm going to do some interior work, and fix the lights. I found out it came stock with a single housing in the back, on the left, for a running light and brake light. Still from the age of hand signals.

It came with three pairs of running boards, extra windshield . . and a full bed of spare parts.

6 cylinder, 216 cubic inch. 12 Volt upgrade (but 6V lights), 4 speed manual. Yes, it runs.

Enclosed driveshaft, leaf springs, gas tank (moved from under the bench seat!), worn tires.

I mentioned the interior needs a little work. . .

In this great state of Colorado, transfer of title is a cinch. Bring your paperwork, and the county will send you your plates. No safety inspection in this part of the country.

Somewhere, not too long before this was just starting down the assembly line, my grandfather, Bas Kamerbeek, was enlisted in the Dutch army. This is him, on the left. He was a motorcycle guy his whole life, whether or not he owned one. I remember him telling me once about riding in the middle of winter, and getting so cold that he felt like everything shut down mentally and physically except the push to get through to his destination. Well, what he really said was that he got so cold that after a while he couldn't even take a leak, even if he'd wanted to.

He recently passed away and my mom and dad went back to the Netherlands for the funeral. He didn't leave much as far as physical mementos, but a family member scanned some of these pictures. This next picture was with them, I don't know if he's in this one or not:
It makes it a funny sense of timing. I got sent these pictures the same week that a truck, almost as old, ends up in our driveway. From the same intense period of war, and aggression, and occupation. But 60 years later, where I am, there's some very different feelings as well. The intensity lessens, and something a little richer and deeper remains with me from my point in this time. I'm left with something very real but indescribable from these things: the expression on my grandfather's face, the pictures that were once in his possession, the captivating sheet metal and the simplicity of an old truck. And there it is.