As a young man, my dad developed a fascination for a car's engine, then the bodywork, the tires and the brake system, even the glass that went into the windshield.
He'd done his time breaking in new horses fresh off the train from the west as a teenager, getting bruised and tossed like a rag until he limped away every day of the week.
But a car engine. Sweet.
He learned to be a mechanic, the leader of the pack of his younger brothers who followed in his footsteps as soon as they reached their manhood. All but one brother, who preferred to wing it with his cars.
Dad loved to take an old car and work on it in his spare time, to restore it to more than working condition, to a beautiful piece of art, and then sell it.
But he had to make a living for his fast-growing family, so he took jobs all over the place, moving as necessary, so he could work in a garage where he learned every aspect of cars, even painting them in enclosed areas, breathing in the deadly fumes that one day would ruin his lungs.
The growing dream that he entertained late at night while the house slept made him restless to see it happen.
He began to buy up old cars, really old cars, like the 1930 Duesenberg, a 1930 Cadillac V16, a Pierce Arrow Model B built in 1933, and a 1938 Dodge Coupe - all great cars that were severely damaged and easy on his wallet.
But he never had the spare time to restore them, so he had to let them go, eventually.
When I was a kid, he switched to any old car that had to be towed to our yard, so he could work on them at a faster pace, because they needed less than the luxury cars to make them beautiful.
But our yard, out behind the sheds, started to look like a junkyard, and Mom got disgusted.
She told us to stay away from the cars, but they were too fascinating for a young kid's mind. We hopped in behind the wheel and raced those things all over the country.
We shifted and squealed the brakes around corners and turned our rides into stockcars on the local dirt track.
One of dad's cars had a rumble seat, and one was so large inside that we turned it into a bed, laying down the backseats to make a smooth mattress and tossing on an old airforce blanket leftover from Dad's war years as a plane mechanic on an airforce base. With our pillows under our heads and the sound of crickets under a moonlit sky, we thought we had it all.
Dad's dream never came true. But he was the best car mechanic around, because he took that dream and turned it into an everyday thing, fixing people's cars for nearly fifty years of his life, and loving every minute of it.
He'd done his time breaking in new horses fresh off the train from the west as a teenager, getting bruised and tossed like a rag until he limped away every day of the week.
But a car engine. Sweet.
He learned to be a mechanic, the leader of the pack of his younger brothers who followed in his footsteps as soon as they reached their manhood. All but one brother, who preferred to wing it with his cars.
Dad loved to take an old car and work on it in his spare time, to restore it to more than working condition, to a beautiful piece of art, and then sell it.
But he had to make a living for his fast-growing family, so he took jobs all over the place, moving as necessary, so he could work in a garage where he learned every aspect of cars, even painting them in enclosed areas, breathing in the deadly fumes that one day would ruin his lungs.
The growing dream that he entertained late at night while the house slept made him restless to see it happen.
He began to buy up old cars, really old cars, like the 1930 Duesenberg, a 1930 Cadillac V16, a Pierce Arrow Model B built in 1933, and a 1938 Dodge Coupe - all great cars that were severely damaged and easy on his wallet.
But he never had the spare time to restore them, so he had to let them go, eventually.
When I was a kid, he switched to any old car that had to be towed to our yard, so he could work on them at a faster pace, because they needed less than the luxury cars to make them beautiful.
But our yard, out behind the sheds, started to look like a junkyard, and Mom got disgusted.
She told us to stay away from the cars, but they were too fascinating for a young kid's mind. We hopped in behind the wheel and raced those things all over the country.
We shifted and squealed the brakes around corners and turned our rides into stockcars on the local dirt track.
One of dad's cars had a rumble seat, and one was so large inside that we turned it into a bed, laying down the backseats to make a smooth mattress and tossing on an old airforce blanket leftover from Dad's war years as a plane mechanic on an airforce base. With our pillows under our heads and the sound of crickets under a moonlit sky, we thought we had it all.
Dad's dream never came true. But he was the best car mechanic around, because he took that dream and turned it into an everyday thing, fixing people's cars for nearly fifty years of his life, and loving every minute of it.
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