There’s just nothing like a girl and her truck. Nothing like the bond between her steel steed and velvet seats. There’s a sort of magical thing about rolling the windows down, country music blasting on the radio, cruising along the highway in SoCal, the diesel chuggin’ engine growling under the hood. Sunglasses high on her face, black hair whipping behind her, pearly white teeth smiling to herself, because there’s absolutely nothing better than this feeling of being free. Free and at the mercy of the steaming road underfoot.

Sometimes, this truck creates ideas. Hoping for inspiration, she doesn’t have to do more than glance out her window, and that black hunk of metal can take her away to wonderful lands. That truck of hers, it’ll send her off on a flurry of adventures and expeditions. That truck of hers, it’ll never cease to supply her with creativity and dreams.

That truck of hers will be where she spends her first tailgate at a football game. She’ll be hanging out the window of that truck of hers when she’s at the drive-thru movies. That truck of hers will be where she gets her first kiss, and spends her first heartbreak, a bag of fast food and ice cream in the passenger seat. That truck will be where she comforts her friend, and offers her a shoulder to cry on, and open arms for protection.

When school starts, that’s where she’ll spend her time studying. That truck of hers will take her to her high school. It’ll drive her to her volleyball games and tournaments. That truck of hers, it’ll faithfully carry around her AP textbooks and binders, papers discarded across the dash and passenger seat. Sometimes, she’ll be doing last night’s Calculus homework right there in that truck, knees up against the steering wheel, pencil scribbling furiously. At lunch, that truck of hers will grumble its way down to the grocery store for an Arnold Palmer’s and a granola bar.

That truck of hers, it’s not anything special. It’s not a new Ford. It’s no jacked-up truck riding of thirty two’s. No, it’s a ’63 Chevy, a two-seater classic, with a decent baby blue paint job and polished hood. Every Saturday morning she’s out in her driveway, giving her ol’ truck a good once-over. And every Saturday evening she’s out on a drive, windows down, blasting country music that makes her peers cringe, cruising along a highway in SoCal, her diesel chuggin’ engine growling under the hood. Yeah, there ain’t nothing that compares to a girl and her truck, because that’s a little something we Southern-hearted girls like to call “Truck Magic.”