Brad Nelson

I sometimes get accused of unduly embellishing a story. When writing a history about my father, an older cousin told me I didn’t have my facts straight. I told her to give me a break; I was only 4 years old when the event in question happened.

I’ll hit the big 70 come August, and my body remains afflicted with eyes that see the world as though I was still 35. I still cuss the Ford Mustang for being too small in the driver compartment so I never even got to drive one.

This year’s annual meeting and show for the American Truck Historical Association was held at Salem, Oregon.

I had never worked on a diesel engine before. It was about 1969 and I was working for Charles Warnick at Pleasant Grove, Utah, while going to college. One morning, he asked me to grab my toolbox and drive over and help a neighbor.

I think it was about 15 years ago. I was minding my own business, getting a few groceries on my way home. The total fit into two or three plastic bags. The young teenage girl bagging groceries asked me if I needed help out with my purchase.

I taught my 14-year-old grandson how to open a can of chili with a pocketknife the other day. We were at a campground, and it was a “Grandpa and boy only” outing celebrating his birthday. The always-ready camp cooking box wasn’t, which we didn’t notice until we couldn’t produce a can opener.