Jackon's Truck

My great-uncle was rich by way of 100 acres of land beside a lake. His father gave him both the land and his name, Jackson. He was my grandmother's brother, kind and humble. His fortune never ruined his character, though it easily could have with other men. He was a millionaire for certain by the time he reached fifty. Just before his eighty-sixth birthday he died of heart failure.

There was nothing in his will for anyone. I got nothing, my father got nothing. His brothers and sons and daughters got nothing. The thing was, he had given away all his riches while he still breathed. I think he turned most of it into silver dollars while I was a boy; he always put one in my hand when he would see me in his fields or at church.

One time, just before his heart failed, he came around with his old truck. He had driven that truck for twenty-five years, longer than I'd been alive. It was rusty and the horn didn't work. I took my seat and he slowly wheeled us to town. We went to the Deluxe Grill and had corn dogs. We talked about Ronald Reagan and baseball.