We were city slickers. With the stroke of a pen, Jim Pop had turned us into country folk. Now we owned a "ranch". 12 acres and a barn out in the sticks, a mile from the closest people. We went to town--Goodman's, Mel's, Steve's--to get out-fitted. Boots, cowboy hats, work gloves and lots of tools. How cool was this? The ranch would take a lot of work.

Next thing you know, Jim Pop drives up in front of our Piedmont house in a 1950 GMC pickup truck. Laid out 600 big ones for it. The year was 1957.

Burgundy red and snub nosed, this classic had "compound low", a foot starting throttle, choke, running boards and a spare tire on the side.

We'd never ridden in a pick up before. To a kid, it was a veritable carnival ride. Being born thrill seekers, we couldn't imagine all the games one could play in truck “bed”. Remember, this was before anyone knew failure to wear seat belts caused global warming.

We never rode in the cab. That was for old people.

First thing Jim Pop did was build a wooden "corral" that fit in the back bed. Now we could stand up and feel the wind in our face, without fear of tumbling out. That truck was transformed into a jungle gym on wheels.

It didn't occur to us that the wooden posts could break. Bundled up in jackets we'd stand tall in the back as we drove up highway 80 from the city.

A major game was a form of roadway skate boarding. Conn Valley road was windy. The mile long dirt road to the Lazy J was pot holed and almost impassable. One of us would position himself in the middle of the bed and try to remain upright without holding on. The turns, jots and bumps would hurdle us into the railings of the corral like drunken sailors. Why we never broke though nor lost our teeth remains a mystery.

Off road, the truck became a midway ride. We claimed "spots" on the truck, as Jim Pop slowly drove to get hay, fix a fence, gather rocks, or work on the road.

Running boards framed each side. There spare was an easy-to-grip hand hold, with one's feet on the running board. We could stand in the back, or lower the tailgate and sit on it and drag one's feet lightly over the ground.

Each "spot" was daring, exciting. Nothing was more fun than hauling hay. We'd drive over to McVeigh’s or down to Ed Webster's Napa Milling, and pile the truck high with hay bales--tied down with ropes.

Once we'd leave the county road, we'd make Jim Pop stop and we'd climb high atop the bales and lie down flat, riding like cowboys who shot Indians from the top of stage coaches.

One time we piled the bales too high. Jim Pop went around a corner and inertia took over and the whole load shifted, snapped the ropes and tumbled to the ground. We were in hysterics, for it was like slow motion as each bale broke our fall while we tumbled to the ground. Maggie wasn't pleased.

I was 12 when Jim Pop taught me how to drive that truck. Learning on a clutch took some effort. There was method in his madness. Our road needed constant attention. Pot holes needed to be filled, ditches cleaned, culverts cleared.

What better way to get a boy to do the work, than to let him drive the truck on his own? You felt so grown up. Who wouldn't want to fill in pot holes, knowing that he got to drive a real truck all by "self?"

I think of that often when I hear helicopter parents talk about kids and self-esteem. Today, adults always try to build "self-esteem" by telling a kid how good he is--by supporting him with encouraging words.

Our folks rarely did that. They built "self-esteem" by giving us grown up responsibilities--letting us drive on our own--teaching us to shoot a gun--trusting us with a chain saw or an ax--having us drive tractor--even letting us take risks by riding on running boards.

Yes, that used pick up hauled gravel, hay, logs, lumber, rocks, and cattle. That's why Jim Pop bought it. Did he know that what he was really purchasing was a vehicle to help turn a boy into a man? I wonder.