Demonstrating ‘the value of our country’
The 23rd annual parade is a showcase for unity
For more than 40 years, the 1951 half-ton Chevrolet pickup Bob Mason inherited from his father sat on cinder blocks in the backyard.
It wasn’t quite a bucket of rust.
But it was far from parade worthy.
That wore on Mason, whose aviator father was given the truck as payment by the postmaster in Wickenburg. That man, George Wentworth, owed the elder Mason for building him a biplane.
It didn’t seem right for such a storied pickup to sit
in perpetuity, Mason thought.
So began the Mason family project.
From the ground up, and with the help of friends and family, the stripped-down truck started to take shape once again. A chopped frame, newly fabricated suspension, turbo and small block engine breathed new life into the burnt orange pickup.
It hit the road in 2016. On Wednesday, Mason fired the engine once more and eased it into the starting spot for the 23rd Annual Arcadia Fourth of July Parade. It’s not a grand festivity by any stretch — the roughly 15 vehicles coupled with kids bikes and a few dozen marchers trek around the block in 20 minutes.
But for Mason, it was important to be there this year, if just to momentarily find some common ground in an especially divisive world.
“There’s too much of this fighting back and forth going on right now,” Mason said. “This demonstrates the value of our country and the value of our lifestyle.”
Even on the Fourth of July, it’s impossible to escape the campaign signs in an election year. While there were booths and candidate-advocating crowds for all levels of Arizona government, the political split was civil.
There were no clashes. Just classic trucks, pieeating contests, kids amped up on sugar before 8 a.m. and goats draped in red, white and blue garb.
“Unity instead of division,” said Kevin Riley, an Arcadia resident who distributed parade flyers in 1999 and gradually took over parade planning. “Small town, big city.”
Mason’s Chevy was a hit all morning, turning heads as it inched through the neighborhood. He plans to give the truck to his daughter one day — at 85 years old, he admitted he can’t do what he did 20 years ago.
But he smiled a bit each time he looked at the pickup doors, each with a painted decal of a truck and a biplane, sandwiched between two lines of text his father would have appreciated.
“Grandpa Bob’s Rat Rod.”