The Green Studebaker

By Dr. Michael Robinson

The arrival of two green Studebaker pickup trucks was a surprise. I am not even sure my father discussed them with my mother. If he did not, well that was a risky maneuver on his part. All I know is that suddenly we had two more vehicles at the house. One of those became the coolest piece of playground equipment a kid ever had. 

As I understood it, my father had a plan. He purchased both a 1942 and a 1946 pickup with the goal of cannibalizing parts from the slightly newer pickup to get the older one running. He must not have paid too much because my mother did not object. Although my father was a state trooper, he was not what I would consider a car guy. He could do basic maintenance but he wasn’t the sort who fixed up engines for fun or who tricked out hot rods to show off at car shows. Apparently my father had a friend who would help with the mechanical expertise. That guy never did though. I think that friend got a new job or got transferred.

So, pretty soon, we had a car lot. The 1946 model did not even make it into the backyard. It sat off the side of the end of the driveway, near the thick wooded lot that used to sit next to our house. For that reason, we rarely messed with it. Like all empty lots in Cape St. Claire, there was a lot of poison ivy in those woods. Even with my supposed immunity to such plants, I would not risk it.

The 1942 pickup sat in the back yard near the woodpile. My yard was not particularly large (although it seems huge in my memories). The vehicle was near the swingset and the metal tower that we used to call the “lunar lander” because of its visual similarity to the Eagle module. Thus, the old green truck became something else for my friends and I to play on. 

The truck was in a condition I would now call “good enough.” Sure, it had an old green paint job, almost like a military green. Sure, it had no front windshield. Sure, its seats were old and dirty. That didn’t matter though. That pickup was perfect for our imaginations.

First and foremost, this was a car that me and my friends could play on. We could climb inside and turn the wheel. We could pretend to ride in the flatbed. We could climb along the sides imagining some perilous adventure. Heck, with the windshield missing we could even pretend to crash and go flying through the gap and onto the hood. 

The only thing that my father frowned upon was standing on the top. I guess he was worried we might put dents in it or somehow fall through. 

That old truck was not just a truck. With the imaginative power of kids fueled on Hawaiian Punch and candy, it became so much more. It was a boat. It was somehow a plane. It was a tank. It was a submarine. 

Heck, it was even a spaceship with reliable lightspeed engines and trusty sublight drives. If you think it was fun to pretend to be heroically jumping out of a moving vehicle, imagine doing so at the speed of light. 

And one day, the 1942 Studebaker actually functioned like a 1942 Studebaker. My father must have had the day off and fiddled around with the truck because when I got out of elementary school, there it was waiting to take me home. My father just grinned at my surprise reaction. 

The ride home was hilarious. With no front windshield, the faster my father drove, the more the wind buffeted us. This truck had no real suspension to speak of, so we bounced around inside, even on the relatively level and easy roads of the Cape. It was crazy and joyous. The truck may have run a few more times, but that first time was absolute magic. 

Years later, we got rid of the trucks. Again, I do not remember much discussion about it. They left with as much mystery as they arrived. My parents noticed my friends and I had outgrown playing on the ‘42 model. So they sold the trucks. 

I wonder sometimes if that old truck is still out there somehow. It would be over eighty years old now. Somebody would really have had to really love it to keep it going.  Maybe our imaginations gave it a bit more longevity. I’d like to pretend that was so.