in the bed of my chevy


I think I spent the best days of my life travelling in this 1989 Chevy, spending my last teenage weeks cramped in a bed with four other people using lawn chairs as car seats hoping we didn’t get pulled over by the cops. Eating oranges for breakfast by a lake in the rain in the rocky mountains. The best trips are never planned; they’re the ones where you wander, never saying no when something comes your way.


Requested by @janaespecter14

Reminder to send in requests because my ask box is empty!

“You’re fucking kidding me!”  Dean shouted, waking Sam from his bed in the small motel room with a start.  Sleepily he rubbed at his eyes, slowly sitting up as Dean let the window curtain drop back into its place.  “She took my fucking car!”

“Who did?”  Sam asked, voice raspy from sleep as he rose to his feet.

“Y/N!”  Dean was already reaching for his phone.  Pulling up your cell number he dialed it and held the phone to his ear.  “I’m going to kill her when she gets back.”

“Built from a long bed into a short bed. Shortened frame. Complete frame-off restoration. Smoothed firewall & frame, filled in stake holes in bed, 350 4-bolt with Lunati cam, Edelbrock Performance intake and carb. custom built headers. Built by me and my cousin.”-Gene Stills on His 1968 Chevy C-10 Custom Cab#trucktuesday #showandtelltuesday #headturnertuesday

My daddy hung the moon

Dad had an old ‘65 Chevy pickup. It was a beater, already rusty at nine years old. It had the small back window and a step side bed. I remember thinking it looked old timey. I was four.

I knew for sure that my dad had hung the moon. It was a long time before I learned that he was as flawed as any of us. I don’t remember that disappointment, but I do remember him rolling up in that truck and waving to me as I ran across the yard. I remember him lifting me over his head and flying me around like one of the airplanes he built at work.

Earlier tonight I clipped his fingernails for him. I watched him strain to remember something that should have been easy. I listened to his slurred words. I watched him try so hard to smile for us. He didn’t quite make it. I watched the first serving of nutrient slurry snake its way down his new feeding tube and into his stomach. He looked at the floor with his good eye.

I have a strong gathering instinct. I collect boxes, hats, rusty flattened bottlecaps for collages and creek-worn sticks to color with my hoard of Berol prismacolor pencils. When I was a kid I’d lie in bed imagining I was a squirrel who lived in a hollow tree, foraging for acorns, twigs and whatever it takes to make squirrel furniture.

Most of us have collections. I ask people all the time in workshops, Do you collect anything? Stamps? Shells? ’57 Chevys? Raccoons? Money? Leopards ? Meteorites? Wisecracks? What a coincidence, I collect them too. Hats, coins, cougars, old Studebakers. That is, I collect the words. Pith helmet, fragment, Frigidaire, Quarrel, love seat, lily.
I gather them into my journal.

The great thing about collecting words is they’re free; you can borrow them, trade them in, or toss them out. I’m trading in (and literally composting) some of my other collections— driftwood, acorns and bits of colored Easter egg shell—for words. Words are lightweight, unbreakable, portable, and they’re everywhere. You can even make them up. Frebrent, bezoncular, zuber. Someone made up the word padiddle.

A word can trigger or inspire a poem; and words in a stack or thin list can make up poems. Because I always carry my journal with me, I’m likely to jot down words on trains, in the car, at boring meetings (where I appear to be taking notes), on hikes and in bed.“

– quote from Susan Wooldridge’s book called “Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life with Words

When I’m 83, and my mind starts to leave, I’m pretty sure all that will be left are a couple black and white memories of you and me.

While an attendant smiles through the changing of my bed pan,
I’ll be rambling on about getting drunk with you in the parking lot after a highschool dance.

From my nursing home bed I’ll be putting my dad’s Chevy into gear, putting my arm around you while you whisper sweet nothings in my ear.
When we pull up to your house and i lean in to kiss you, I really hope the nurse understands.

When my family comes to visit good ol’ senile me, I’ll probably hug my niece and call her Ann Marie.
I’ll probably ask her if she’ll wait for me.
I’ll probably hope that while im away fighting the war she won’t forget about good ol’ 18 year old me.
Besides, when I get back well both only be twenty.
Well both we ready, young and with so much left to see.

When the doctor starts the morphine pump, I’ll most certainly see you reading me to sleep.
But tomorrow I have work, so I set my alarm as you book mark your page.
I want to get to bed early so tomorrow I have time to eat breakfast with Ann Marie.


Baby slide off your boots down to your bare feet, those cutoffs and tan lines are killing me, move on over lay your head on my shoulder we’ll stay a while, steal a little kiss as the whipperwill sing through the trees with a southern feel we can sit on the tailgate and wait till it feels right…..   

in the bed of my chevy on the outskirts of town we can dance standing up or lay a blanket down I can show you how much I love you if you let me, make a memory we’ll never forget whisper little words I’ve never said, I’ll pull you close when it gets hot and heavy in the bed of my CHEVY 



In The Bed of My Chevy, Justin Moore