(Riding in the Back of) My Grandpa’s Pickup Truck

a song

Looking back through my memory

I remember how it used to be

As we all went down to Sandy Hollow

Dive from the platform, play in the sands,

Catch a li’l animal in our hands

And when the sun went home we all would follow—

Riding in the back of my grandpa’s pickup truck

With the sun on my face, the wind in my hair,

I hadn’t a worry, I hadn’t a care.

It always seemed like a stroke of the greatest luck

When I could ride back home

In the back of that old truck.

Sometimes we’d go and pick sweet corn

When we had enough, Grandpa’d honk the horn

We’d sit next to piles of corn in that pickup bed

Clean that corn, have us a ball,

Maybe even make a cornhusk doll,

And at Gramma’s house we were always very well-fed.

Riding in the back of my grandpa’s pickup truck

With the sun on my face, the wind in my hair,

I hadn’t a worry, I hadn’t a care.

It always seemed like a stroke of the greatest luck

When I could ride back home

In the back of that old truck.

Now time has passed, and I’ve grown up,

But I miss riding in Grandpa’s truck,

Wish that I could do it one more time—

Riding in the back of my grandpa’s pickup truck

With the sun on my face, the wind in my hair,

I hadn’t a worry, I hadn’t a care.

It always seemed like a stroke of the greatest luck

When I could ride back home

In the back of that old truck.

Thanks, Grandpa.