I grew up in the 1970s in a small Eastern Pennsylvania town with one traffic light. A blue collar mill town along the Schuykill River, not far from Philadelphia.

Back then there were three TV networks and three car manufacturers that mattered. No need to mention the other ones, suffice to say we were a Ford family: eight kids plus mom and dad. Naturally we had a station wagon, but my older brother drove a truck.

A 1963 Ford F-100 4x4.

And at 16 she was given to me. Or loaned to me, or shared with me, or, I was simply allowed to drive it when I got to high school. I don’t remember the particulars because all that mattered was I was behind the wheel.

It wasn’t an instant connection. After all, she wasn’t a looker. She wore an unashamed amount of rust over a worn-out bench seat and a dinged-up dash and a top speed of 50 miles an hour.

But I did fall in love. And I learned even more about myself.

My Ford truck made me a rebel. In a high school pecking order defined by the what’s brightest and best, I broke the mold in my 1963 F-100.

My Ford truck made me an apprentice. From oil and tire changes, driving stick and patching holes, I learned valuable and practical skills.

My Ford truck made me independent. I found a job I could drive to, learning the life lessons of responsibility and accountability.

My Ford truck made me a friend. Having wheels, my friend Kyle and I would drive for hours out to nowhere and everywhere. Talking. Bonding. Laughing and living.

I passed my driver’s license test in that truck. She made me a man.

One funny story:

“Do not take that truck into the corn field,” or so said my brother. But what 16-year-old listens to rules? Four wheeling was living! Or lying about it.

My friends and I decided to test the F-100’s capabilities. It was decided that the corn field would be the ultimate arena. And we had a blast. Mud flying, corn stalks across the windshield as we bounced and flew in and out of the ruts.

When all was said and done, we washed her from front to back. But regrettably, not from top to bottom. Being inexperienced as we were we hadn’t counted on the entire undercarriage acting like a combine harvester, stuffed with corn in every crevice.

Being forced to explain it, we said a truck in front of us had spilled some corn and we’d run over it, and the case was closed. Weeks later while driving past the same cornfield with my brother, he looked over at it, then back at me. I saw the slightest smile on his face as he shook his head.

The time you spend in a truck can have a language all its own. A lot was said right there without saying anything at all.

Why this truck and how long have I been looking?

Your first car is your first step to freedom, independence and adulthood.

First road trips, first dates and first jobs.

And I guess the further along we get in life, the more life’s “firsts” become fewer and farther between. Maybe it was nostalgia, maybe it was wanting to feel something deeper again, but I had to have that truck back.

I’d looked on and off over the years. A deal fell through in Wyoming. An owner in Maine wouldn’t allow a test drive. Another in Delaware that was sold before I could get there!

And then in late December 2024 I would give this one more try. And wouldn’t you know it, there was one 20 minutes from my hometown. This same model F-100 had likely driven all those same roads, probably been through our same solitary town car wash, and maybe even rode through that same cornfield. It was as close as I was ever going to get.

Before I even drove it, I knew I was driving home in that truck.

And I did.

The moment that made it mine.

I went out to buy it with my brother. My brother who’d given me the original F-100 and taught me to drive. My brother, I should say at this point of the story was more a father to me than a brother after our dad died. He bore so much responsibility then, he could never really have the teenage life I could. He gave a lot of himself, and he never asked for thanks.

At the end of the day, driving off in truck he said what a blast it had been. And he thanked me for the day. Like it was a gift. After all he’d given me.

I think the moments we create, or better still, the moments that create us, are often unspoken.

And that’s especially true with brothers. It’s hard to say what we want to say.

As we sat in silence after that, watching our familiar hometown float by, it was easier to let the truck do the talking.

Glenn Schubert is a creative director based in New York. If you have a story and, like Glenn, want to share it on From the Road, email us at fromtheroad@ford.com.