Our vacation vehicle is a dusty truck.
This pick-up has been wiped down, vacuumed out, steam cleaned and power washed; and it still smells like the dust particle to air ratio is not in the favor of my breathing. Although lung cancer by pollen isn’t my favorite thought on this long drive, I find the smell oddly soothing. It’s the smell of trips to the farm alongside my dad. It reminds me of individual pizza boxes from the gas station and Dr. Pepper bottles rolling around the floor. It seems to me there should be an open licorice package on the dashboard. It reminds me of my brother slumped against my arm asleep, our bare arms sticking together because there was no air conditioning. If I got to sit by the window I’d stick my arm out and feel the air current move my hand up and down until it felt numb from the wind stream. But we normally fought about who got to sit in the middle. Who would get to sit beside our father? Who would get his right arm over the back of the seat to be a protective barrier behind their head? And when the sun got too low that the visor couldn’t block it from our eyes, would get to wear the sweaty green Pioneers hat.
It was an honor. One I wasn’t aware of until the fields got so dry there weren’t any crops to check on in the dusty pickup. But it is still such a pure memory. A gravel road, a pickup, and dirty green hat.