I’m looking at my hands right now.
Pretty they’re not.
Lots of cracks in the skin filled with dirt and oil from chasing down some gremlin or other that had taken up residence in the engine of my son’s ‘69 VW.
Guys my age grew up messing with cars. Back then, we were mostly divided into two automotive groups — Ford (“I’d rather push a Ford than drive a Chevy”) or Chevy (“Ford: Fix or repair daily”).
Females were not, on the whole, cognizant of such distinctions. They did, however, place us into “has car” or “rides bus” categories.
Note: The “has car” group seemed to have a leg up in the ongoing effort to continue the species.
At the end of my sophomore year in high school, I got my driver’s license. Shortly thereafter, my dad asked me if I wanted a car.
I went to bed that night thinking of GTOs, Mustangs and Impalas. In more rational moments, realizing that my dad had never spent more than $100 on a car for himself, I let some thoughts of older cars wander through my head.
About a week later, I got home from school and dad said my car was in the driveway. I looked and it was the 1957 Ford he’d most recently driven into oblivion.
It had four doors and two flat tires. Only two of the four windows worked. The engine was seized tighter than a rusted nut and there was a pool of oil under the transmission. The seats were ripped and had stuffing coming out. This wasn’t an Impala or a GTO. This was a wreck.
I was upset at first, but a funny thing happened. I started thinking that if I took the engine out and rebuilt it, I could probably get some screaming horsepower out of it. Then I could drop the automatic and stick a three- or four-speed into it. As for the seats, a nice tuck and rolled naugahyde would sure look good.
By the time I went to bed, I had a pretty good idea of what “my car” was going to be like. The only problem was money. I didn’t have any and my dad had made it clear that the car, as is, was to be the extent of his largesse.
The solution was obvious. I needed a job. I had a bunch of friends who worked part-time at the local A&P Food Store and, through them, I got hired at the princely wage of $1.12 an hour. I worked on Fridays and weekends. My dad made it clear, however, that if my grades dropped, I’d have to quit my job and he’d take “my car” away from me.
I labored over that car for almost two years. After school, I’d do homework and then put in an hour or two on the car. On weekends, I could actually put in several hours after work.
This schedule almost cost me my girlfriend. Julie Vicknair (a babe of the first order) frequently wondered aloud as to whether I cared more for “that car” (said in a tone of voice that only women in such a situation can produce) or her.
I would reassure her of my everlasting and undying love and then quietly spend most of our date money on a new rocker arm assembly or some such.
I finished the car in my senior year. I’d worked like a dog to build it. I didn’t go out partying. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink. I didn’t argue with my parents and I seldom got into trouble. I didn’t have time. I simply worked on the car. It was a machine. It was butt-ugly, heavy and fast. It had more horsepower than I had sense.
Shortly thereafter, I left for college. The school I attended didn’t allow us to have cars and that’s where my dad stepped in to magnanimously help me. He offered to look after the car. He then drove it while I was away at school.
Have I mentioned that the men of my dad’s generation were nothing if not wise?
You realize these things as you get older.
My girlfriend?
Julie never lacked for good, old-fashioned, common sense. She dumped me for someone else.
I think he drove a Chevy.
Larry Simoneaux lives in Edmonds. His e-mail address is larrysim@att.net.
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