The story behind this song
He warmed the truck up before church every Sunday — thermos on the dash, engine running, said they die from sitting still. The driveway has been too quiet since, but the key still turns the way he taught, and the seat still holds his shape.
Now a grandkid starts her every Sunday, and the little ones learn his name from the bench seat. For the family keeping grandpa's engine — and memory — running.
Lyrics
Sunday morning, cold garage,
I turn the key the way you taught.
I turn the key the way you taught.
You warmed her up before church each week,
thermos coffee on the dash,
said engines die from sitting still —
so you never let her rest.
The seat still holds the shape of you,
the radio's on your station too.
thermos coffee on the dash,
said engines die from sitting still —
so you never let her rest.
The seat still holds the shape of you,
the radio's on your station too.
You're gone — we don't dress it up.
The driveway's too quiet now.
The driveway's too quiet now.
But your truck still runs, Grandpa —
I start her every Sunday like you're watching me.
Two-stroke smell and an old bench seat,
your handprint on everything.
You're gone, and that won't heal quick —
but your truck still runs. So do we.
I start her every Sunday like you're watching me.
Two-stroke smell and an old bench seat,
your handprint on everything.
You're gone, and that won't heal quick —
but your truck still runs. So do we.
Your grandkids fight for shotgun now,
the little ones know your name —
I tell them how you'd tap the wheel
to songs from another age.
The vinyl's cracked, I won't repair it.
Some things should stay the way you left them.
the little ones know your name —
I tell them how you'd tap the wheel
to songs from another age.
The vinyl's cracked, I won't repair it.
Some things should stay the way you left them.
You're gone — we say it straight.
And still, the engine turns.
And still, the engine turns.
'Cause your truck still runs, Grandpa —
I start her every Sunday like you're watching me.
Two-stroke smell and an old bench seat,
your handprint on everything.
You're gone, and that won't heal quick —
but your truck still runs. So do we.
I start her every Sunday like you're watching me.
Two-stroke smell and an old bench seat,
your handprint on everything.
You're gone, and that won't heal quick —
but your truck still runs. So do we.
Someday I'll hand these keys away
to a kid who never met you —
and teach him: warm her up first.
That's how you stay.
to a kid who never met you —
and teach him: warm her up first.
That's how you stay.
Your truck still runs, Grandpa —
I start her every Sunday like you're watching me.
Two-stroke smell and an old bench seat,
your handprint on everything.
You're gone, and that won't heal quick —
but your truck still runs. So do we.
I start her every Sunday like you're watching me.
Two-stroke smell and an old bench seat,
your handprint on everything.
You're gone, and that won't heal quick —
but your truck still runs. So do we.
Sunday morning, cold garage —
she started first try. Just like always.
she started first try. Just like always.
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