My Dad and His Cars

Growing up, my dad loved nothing more than a good deal. Especially when it came to cars. He preferred the classics, preferably American made but really anything that caught his eye. 

I can remember more than a couple of times where we were driving along, sometimes on vacation, when suddenly Dad would do a double take, his head halfway out of the car as he hit the brakes and told us to hang on. Then he'd pull the car around for a better look at some old clunker with those two precious words scawled across the windshield:

For Sale.

“Let’s just take a quick look,” he’d say to us, his fingers dancing on the steering wheel. 

There wasn’t much he loved more than popping the hood of some roadside vehicle, muttering in some foreign language about cylinders and horsepower. Most of the time he’d hop back in the car and we’d get back on our way. But other times—when he got that look in his eyes—my stepmom knew that she was about to take the wheel and follow some sputtering heap home.

So many Saturday mornings I spent with him, driving out to the edge of town so that he could see about some unpolished gem. With a boyish gleam, he’d tell me how he’d bought and fixed up his own first car at fourteen, then another at sixteen. Then at seventeen…and so on.

Where most people saw a hunk of junk sitting in a field at the edge of the woods—tall grass creeping up the dry-rotted tires and a dull coat of spray paint on the hood—my dad saw a memory. I think those cars took him back to that carefree place of yesteryear, of saving and fixing up a car and hit the open road without a worry in the world.

One particular evening after work, Dad was all geared up about riding out to take a look at a “classic”. While my stepmother wasn’t exactly unsupportive of these ventures, she didn’t share his passion for them either. How could she? My dad brought home used junkers like a little girl with lost puppies. Nevertheless, we loaded up for the trip, my stepmother's face a paint-by-number portait of frazzle and my father's slapdash smile bouncing along as he gushed about the '57 Chevy we were about to see. Oh, and by see he meant buy.

I think the rest of us were a little underwhelmed when we saw it. Sure it had the cool fins stretching off the back and the rounded windshield, but even I could see that there was a lot of work to be done. But Dad didn’t even flinch, hopping out with stars in his eyes.

After a quick test drive came the haggling. No stranger to negotiation, I watched a master at work. And just as soon as the handshake, my dad whipped out a screwdriver from his back pocket and proceeded to unfasten the license plate from the front of our car and secure it on the rust-kissed back bumper of our new “project” car. Yes, we were driving that beast back home, because to my dad, inspection stickers were mere suggestions. If it cranked up and had four tires, it was ready to roll.

Today, being married myself, I can only imagine what went going through my stepmom’s mind as she followed us home. Was she praying that the brakes didn’t give out on that rolling wreck she was tailing? Or maybe hoping that her madman husband would stop honking and pumping his fist, revving the engine at every stoplight and drawing attention to the sketchy vehicle with unlicensed tags.

Meanwhile in the Chevy, Dad and I were born to be wild. He looked over to me, the wind in his hair and his arm hung over the door, nothing but pure satisfaction on his face. I tried to smile back but I was a bit preoccupied with my task of "keeping an eye out for cops".

We pulled into the driveway. I was somewhat relieved to see that my stepmother hadn’t made a run for it. I guess by then— after the DMV had already contacted my dad about getting a dealer license due to his incessant buying and selling of cars—she’d come to grips with my father’s impulse decisions.

Dad coaxed the lumbering antique onto a patch of dirt just under the maple tree, where it would come to rest for the next year. For a nine year old boy, having a car sitting in your front yard was a dream come true. I still remember that giant, rope-like steering wheel in my hand, as I became a ship captain in stormy seas, an astronaut, or just a regular getaway driver. With push buttons and gauges, roll down windows and more, that old car became my own personal playhouse.

Dad spent the weekends tinkering with the engine. He started mending the bench seating. I imagine the neighbors began to hate us. There was me, scaling the greenish-blue hunk of metal as part of my obstacle course. Our german shepherd barking from the carport. The gravel driveway chocked full of cars. Did I mention I had a mini-bike?

At some point my dad grew tired of the Chevy. With its rust and tears and exhausted engine, it turned out to be a little more than a man with three kids and a full-time job bargained for. One Saturday another man came out to look at the car, and I couldn’t help but notice that he had that same nostalgic gaze in his eyes. I watched as my clubhouse on wheels sputtered out of the driveway, and I’m not quite sure of it, but I do believe there was some celebratory singing coming from the living room window.

As the old car stalled and stammered down the road, I glanced up to Dad to see how he was making out with the deal. He put his arm around my shoulder and with a familiar look on his face, he said, “So I was thinking about going to look at a dune buggy. You wanna come along?”

Today's Moments Are Tomorrow's Memories...

As a dad I have some lofty goals when it comes to raising my son.  Let’s see.  Keep him off of meth, out of the emergency room, and in school.  Oh and out of jail. Okay, there, that’s a good start. Perhaps off the meth thing and the out of jail thing go hand in hand, but I really want to hammer that one home.  Moving on..

So I was on the way to work the other morning and thinking about memories.  Everyone has childhood memories, no matter how great or painful, or in my case embarrassing they are. Hopefully the good outweighs the bad and no serious damage occurred.  But then my brain continued to roam and dream and come up with ridiculousness and I thought, I’m kind of the maker of my kid’s memories.

Not that I’m so self-centered as to think that every memory will involve me.  Actually I don’t want that. Who needs that kind of pressure?  But still, most of his childhood memories, whenever they start, will involve his mother and me.

So that means everything I say, do, how I react, will all be recorded in his little black box in his mind. And one day, when my son looks back on his amazing life and all of the things he accomplished because of/despite his father, he’ll sit down to write his memoir.  And I want to look good in this thing.  I mean, not play myself in the movie adaptation good, but not Joe Jackson bad...

That means…

Let’s say I make a habit of getting wasted on the weekends.  Well, my son’s memoir could include the following passage:  Dad called me over to him and I forced myself, with timid steps riddled with fear, towards the familiar aroma of George Dickel and smoke.   See what I mean? 

Or he could go into his hatred of sports.  And then, in the tell all book he drops this little gem about dear old Dad…

It was during halftime of our little league game.  Dad had been taunting the officials and threatening the coaches for most of the morning when another parent asked him to knock it off.  What happened next would render the game pointless and the field bloody…

Let me go ahead and note here that I haven’t been a fight since I was 14 and don’t make a habit of drinking bourbon, so I think I’m safe with either of those scenarios.  But you get the point.

As a memory maker, or at least shaper, I have to show self-control and discipline.  I have to watch my language and from what my wife says, even my expressions. It sounds so easy until I’m sitting behind a tractor trailer stuck in traffic and late for work while I’m carting the little sponge in the backseat…. But I’m working on it. Let’s turn the page of this little memoir…

Dad’s laughter bounced off of the walls, filling our home with the warmth and joyous gift of happiness that I’d come to love.  He once nursed a butterfly to health with dental floss and toothpicks...

Okay, a stretch maybe, as I haven't done the butterfly thing yet. But at least I’m not knifing people at the mall.  Or doing meth. (reading this you might think that I have a thing against meth). In all seriousness, I'll probably fall somewhere in between.  But whatever he does remember, I hope there are more smiles than tears, and I hope he knows that I cared and that I tried.  Because I do and I will.

I smell a best seller. 

 

Time Is Flying..

That’s my guy right there.  He’s a slobbering mess of a good time.  He’s a lot of work and a lot of fun. A gurgling chunk of love.  We’ve got big plans, him and I.  We’ve got messes to make and dishes to break.

He’s a happy guy.  His smile lights up the house and his laugh keeps our spirits high.  It’s hard not to smile when you hear a baby laughing.  Even if he is expensive and Daddy has to steal bread from the pigeons at the park to eat lunch...

I used to look forward to my son growing up, I couldn’t wait until he was old enough to enjoy things with dad.  But at four months in, I kind of want to slow the ride down.  This kid is growing overnight.  With each day comes a new surprise and I’m enjoying it more than I could have imagined.  But maybe that’s why it’s happening so fast.

I take pictures like crazy, hoping to capture the moment.  Childhood is a beautiful thing.  Looking back at my own, I’m only beginning to realize the sacrifices made in efforts to make it happen.  And now I get to do it all over again. 

Rhymin' With Simon

Long before the days of rapping cartoons, kid shows, and pop tarts commercials, rap music was a unique musical form carving out a place for itself in our culture.  This was Pre Vanilla Ice and MC Hammer, (the beginning of the end), when rappers had crews and posses and all. It was a simpler time, when people wore pajamas and lived life slow.

This is not to say I’m from the streets, well my house was on a street, a Cul de Sac to be exact.  But we still laid the cardboard down and wore our parachute pants with pride.

UTFO, The Fat Boys, Run DMC, and The Beastie Boys were all a big part of my childhood.  My friends and I used to mimic their movements, gestures, and when no adults were present, their lyrics.  Duel cassette was a luxury few of us had, we made copies of tapes by placing two boom boxes together, pressed play on one and record on the other before tip-toeing out of the room. (Many of our tapes began with Shhhh, I'm recording!)

At the bus stop, videos were discussed and new songs discovered.  A pair of fat laces and parachute pants were must haves and accessorized my mullet in a perfect blend of eighties train wreck fashion.

In middle school, my cousins and I smuggled NWA (Does not stand for Ninja’s With Attitude) tapes into the house, scraping off those pesky Parental Advisory stickers and listening to the explicit content in wide-eyed amazement.

Today, with some years behind me, I’ve noticed that the influence is still evident.  Many of my playlists jump from extremes.  The other day an Avett Brothers song was followed by Talib Kweli, I had to laugh.

Just as generations before mine flock to Graceland, remember Woodstock (somewhat), or in the case of The Rolling Stones, sit in the AARP section at concerts, I find rap lyrics from over twenty-five years ago still rattling around in my head. And I've found that they make excellent nursery rhymes. 

This led me to some interesting thoughts.  When my generation grows old and gray and enters assisted living homes, will we listen to Eric B and Rakim beaming with a nostalgic twinkle in our eyes?  Will the poetic harmonies of Slick Rick and Doug E Fresh trickle down the hall from Old man Earnest's room? Will dance night consist of such sweet serenading melodies as Do Me and Shoop? 

It’s Grandpa, he’s in the hospital.  There was a dance off at Shady Oaks, he was poppin’ and lockin’ and threw his hip again. 

But back to my son.  My sing alongs already include sucka mc’s, bustin’ moves, and crews getting wrecked,   (I try to keep the gunplay to a minimum), one day I’m bound  to walk into the living room and to catch my son doing a backspin on his play pad.  Actually, that would make Daddy very proud.

John Denver and The Muppets

The sounds of the season make Christmas all the more enjoyble, and it seems everyone and anyone has put out a Christmas album at some point.  Elvis, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, and Nsync have all made Christmases more enjoyable over the years. Well, three out of four anyway.

For me, nothing reminds me of early childhood Christmases like The Muppets.  That’s right, the Muppets.  In 1979, the stars aligned as John Denver, along with Kermit, Mrs Piggy and the rest of the Muppet gang collaborated on a Christmas album that has stood the test of time.

The album takes me back to a special place, to a small house where a Kerosene heater warmed the living room, a rotary telephone was fastened to the wall in the kitchen, and music was played by setting a needle onto the grooves of a record as it turned at 33 revolutions per minute.

My sister and I would sing along to this record as we bounced around the room with spirited excitement, feeling the Christmas magic in the air (it may have been the fumes from the kerosene).   Family and friends would stop by and we would welcome them in from the cold, inviting them to sing along as we decorated the tree.

Money was tight and times were tough, but our troubles were forgotten--if only for a night--as we sang along to our favorite Christmas album.  We played it over and over again, as Mom would flip the record when the needle began its rhythmic bumping on the label.  A little bit of heat, The Muppets album, a few neighbors, and we had ourselves a party.

I'd help my mother with the decorations, as she would always save her Christmas cards and use them to decorate the house, I still remember looking through the cards that felt like a lifetime ago in my four year old mind.

Later, as I lay in my bed, too wound to sleep, my sister and I would listen for Santa’s sled up on the roof, singing the songs from the album that were still fresh in our head.  Did you hear that?  My sister would say, and I would try my best to hear the sound of the sleigh on the roof.

Not long ago, at an estate sale just down the street from my house, I was flipping through a crate of dusty albums when sure enough, I came across the familiar cover.  I opened the sleeve, and for a moment I was back in that small house from my childhood, singing songs and decorating the tree.  I held onto the album, unashamed as I walked through the house with my childhood treasure tucked under my arm. I ended up paying two bucks for the record, and as I walked out with the record I couldn't help but wonder if its previous owner enjoyed it as much as I had.

As an expectant father, I can't wait for my son to experience this album, the full experience.  From the crackling sound of a real record, to the timeless songs that I loved as a child. Not to mention the great singing voices of The Muppets. I look forward to enjoying this classic with my son, and hopefully it can spread its magic all over again.  But I'll have to make it clear, if he makes fun of The Muppets he's grounded.

Grandpa...

When I was younger, my dad could always be counted on to embarrass my sister.  As she entered her teenage years, it was as if her hand was glued to her forehead as she walked behind the rest of the family with her head down during public outings.  School events, sleepovers, or a trip to the mall would often end with my sister rolling her eyes and covering her face.  Between my dad and me, my sister’s social life often times took a hit.

As a little brother and a constant pest, I found my father’s antics (and my sister's mental discomfort) to be hilarious. Later I learned from my aunts how he had tormented them as a child as well.  Not that they were totally innocent, it seems my family has a long history of pranks and practical jokes throughout the years.

But today my dad is a reserved man who carries himself with dignity and respect.  Often shy and introverted, it takes some poking and prodding to get him to come out of his shell.  See for yourselves, a quick look at the man who raised me:

Here's a picture of Grandpa on a recent shopping trip out on the town.  Looks like he's found a hat and a necklace of some sort.  This is why my sister would stay in the car when we were kids.

And here's another, shortly before security escorted him and Grandma out of the store.  Let's hope that's not a gift for Simon!

He will be a great role model and influence in his grandson’s life, just as he is in mine, teaching him invaluable lessons about fire safety or the art of finding a great deal at the flea market.  But perhaps most importantly, he will teach him all about having fun.  Under adult supervision of course...

Role Models

As I try to do my part during my wife’s pregnancy, I’ve taken to reading some of the literature that she has brought home from the doctor’s office.  I enjoy looking through the stages of our progress and what each week brings to the baby’s development.

There are also many sections for expectant fathers.  I was reading one article titled The Five Myths of fatherhood.  One in particular stood out from the rest. 

Myth 5:  You’re destined to be just like your own father.

In my case, I hope this one is true.  I have nothing but fond memories of my childhood, most of them due to my father.  We had many fun adventures (getting into some trouble involving motor scooters and park rangers along the way).

The article goes on to suggest looking to other sources of influence as well.  Teachers, coaches, friends, uncles, brothers and so on.

Considering our nines and tens little league football coach once instructed us to “Break his G@! Damn neck!” during a time out, I think I will scratch him off the list.  Sure I had some good teachers, but no role models there.  Uncles are great but their main job is to tease the little snot that is their brother or sister’s child.

For me, the best part of growing up was being at home.  I guess I was lucky, because when I was a child there was nothing more exciting than dear old dad walking through the front door.