It Started With a Haircut
Some of my favorite childhood memories didn’t happen during holidays or family celebrations. They happened on ordinary Saturdays when I was lucky enough to spend time with my grandparents.
One visit still stands out after all these years.
I had been staying with Grandma and Grandpa while my parents were in Olympia for the legislative session. School was just across the street, Grandma always seemed to have something good waiting in the kitchen, and Grandpa never had trouble finding something interesting for us to do.
One Saturday morning he looked at me and asked, “Want to ride to Davenport with me? I need a haircut…and I’m going to buy a new pickup.”
I don’t remember answering.
I probably jumped into the truck before he finished the sentence.
It wasn’t the pickup that excited me.
It was the chance to spend the day with Grandpa.
Ed’s Barber Shop
Our first stop was Ed’s Barber Shop.
If you grew up in a small farming town during the 1950s, you probably knew a place just like it.
The walls were covered with mounted deer heads and photographs of local ball teams. Farmers wandered in and out, catching up on crops, weather, and neighbors while they waited their turn.
Ed had been cutting hair for what seemed like forever.
He wore a white barber shirt, moved with confidence, and worked quickly.
When my turn came, I climbed onto the booster seat and tried to sit perfectly still.
The haircut didn’t take long.
A buzz cut.
A quick shave around the back of my neck.
A splash of inexpensive cologne.
A dusting of talcum powder.
Then came the part every kid waited for.
Ed slipped a piece of Juicy Fruit gum down the back of my shirt before sending me on my way.
To a young boy, that was worth the price of the haircut all by itself.
A Question I Never Expected
From the barber shop we drove over to Hernas Chevrolet.
Several shiny new pickups were lined up on the lot.
Grandpa walked around them without saying much. I followed behind, looking at each one a little longer than the last.
Then he stopped, looked at me, and said something I never expected.
“Bill, I want you to pick out my new pickup.”
For a moment I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.
Adults usually made those decisions.
Kids watched.
This time was different.
I walked from one truck to another before finally settling on a powder blue and white 1959 Chevrolet Apache Fleetside.
That was the one.
Grandpa smiled, nodded his head, and disappeared into the dealership to finish the paperwork.
A little while later we drove home in his brand-new pickup, and I sat beside him feeling ten feet tall.
Why That Day Stayed With Me
I’ve often wondered why that afternoon stayed with me so clearly.
It wasn’t because of the pickup.
It wasn’t because of the haircut.
It was because my grandfather trusted me.
Looking back, I doubt the color of the truck mattered very much to him.
What mattered was letting his grandson feel included.
Children remember moments when adults make them feel important.
I certainly did.
Grandpa never gave a speech about confidence or responsibility.
He didn’t have to.
Sometimes a simple gesture says more than a long conversation ever could.
More Than Just a Truck
Years later, whenever I thought about Grandpa’s Apache, I remembered much more than the truck itself.
I remembered the ride to town.
The smell of the barber shop.
The farm conversations drifting across the room.
The feeling of sitting beside him on the drive home.
Those details have stayed with me far longer than the truck ever could.
That’s the funny thing about memories.
The objects fade.
The people don’t.
Looking Back
There are bigger stories in Crab Creek Chronicles. There are stories about football, ranch life, family, and the opportunities that shaped my career. But there are also quiet moments like this one. A Saturday. A barber shop. A new pickup. And a grandfather who made a little boy feel like his opinion mattered. Looking back now, I realize that was the best part of the day.