“Below is a story about a father & child bonding over a muscle car.”
My dad is made in Detroit. He is raging pistons and molded steel. He is a union man to his core and will probably never set foot in a foreign car. I remember sitting down to dinner when I was little and eating with him before he set off to work his night shift at the Ford plant. As kids we always adopted his silence when he was around. Not because we were afraid of disturbing his thoughts or making him angry, but because we didn’t want to miss anything he said. He was a man a few words and he meant the ones he spoke. We would do anything to elicit a few words of praise from him during that window of opportunity right before he left for the night.
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I spent most of my youth in awe of him. He was big and broad and gentle with us. He wasn’t the type to rough house, but his lap was always open if you just wanted to sit and just be with him. As I got older, I began to resent his silent ways. The more I learned about the world, the more sheltered and ignorant he seemed. My new world view warped and twisted my perception of him until he became a target for my judgment. I began to take digs at him in the way teenagers do. I questioned everything he did, right down to the clothes he wore. Didn’t he know that that wash of jeans was so out of style?
Inevitably, I noticed him begin to retreat. He never met my scorn with equal scorn. His moments of silence simply became deeper, longer, and more charged with meaning. Our existence was almost like two boxers circling each other in the ring. We knew we were adversaries for some reason, but no one threw any real punches.
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It was during this period of mutual avoidance that I caught him in the garage swearing at his truck. It had been a long time since I had heard him unleash so many words at once and they were all aimed at his prized Ford F150 truck. I was almost scared to ask, but I walked up slowly and asked what was wrong. He grumbled something about a problem with the engine and slammed down a wrench in frustration. I knew that there were few things in life he loved more than his pickup, so as silly as it seemed at the time, I asked him if there was anything I could do to help. He looked up at me in surprise and crossed his arms as he considered my offer. After a long pause, he ordered me to reach in the tool box for his pliers.
It was during this period of mutual avoidance that I caught him in the garage swearing at his truck. It had been a long time since I had heard him unleash so many words at once and they were all aimed at his prized Ford F150 truck. I was almost scared to ask, but I walked up slowly and asked what was wrong. He grumbled something about a problem with the engine and slammed down a wrench in frustration. I knew that there were few things in life he loved more than his pickup, so as silly as it seemed at the time, I asked him if there was anything I could do to help. He looked up at me in surprise and crossed his arms as he considered my offer. After a long pause, he ordered me to reach in the tool box for his pliers.
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I tried to overlook his gruff response and quickly handed him the tool. That simple exchange seemed to melt the ice. We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening tweaking the engine, testing the timing belts, and celebrating when it finally fired up with that familiar rumble of horsepower. Thinking back, he probably could have fixed that engine in half the time if I hadn’t been there asking questions, but he took his time and explained each part and its function. He told me about the factory and how everything was assembled. He could even each man who was in charge of attaching each part as the chassis moved down the line.
I tried to overlook his gruff response and quickly handed him the tool. That simple exchange seemed to melt the ice. We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening tweaking the engine, testing the timing belts, and celebrating when it finally fired up with that familiar rumble of horsepower. Thinking back, he probably could have fixed that engine in half the time if I hadn’t been there asking questions, but he took his time and explained each part and its function. He told me about the factory and how everything was assembled. He could even each man who was in charge of attaching each part as the chassis moved down the line.
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He was an integral part of something bigger and there was beauty in the work he did and beauty in the way that work shaped his broad shoulders and his knicked hands. At the same time, I could see the strain and sweat on the brows of the men depicted and I felt bad for my dad and all the evenings and bedtime stories he missed. I suddenly realized that his life was not about settling, but about pride and sacrifice. I went home that day and asked my dad one simple question: “Why do you work so hard?” His answer was simple: “So you never have to worry or want for anything.”
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For as long as I lived under his roof, I never wanted for anything, including his attention and he has never mentioned my high minded opinions of his clothes and habits that I relentlessly fired at him as a teenager. He has even foot the bill for my college degree even though he wasn’t sure what good an English degree would do anyone. He was always telling me to do something with my hands. What about nursing? But he let me choose my own path and learn my own lessons.
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Now that I am all grown up, I drive my own Ford, a Mustang. It is a little faster and sportier than his old truck, but even she has engine problems every once on a while. Just the other day, I woke up on a cold Michigan winter’s morning to a car that wouldn’t start. The dealer gave me a quote on what it would cost to get it running again.
Dad might have been right about that English degree because the repair was more than I could afford. At first, I went home sulking and then my disappointment turned to anger and I found myself kicking the tires of my Mustang and vowing to buy a Volkswagen Engine next time. Once I had worn myself out and found myself sitting on a pile of junk in my garage with my head in my hands, I was brought back to the day we fixed my dad’s truck and all the tinkering lessons he had given me since that day. I could hear his clam voice talking me through the engine and all its parts as I opened the hood and began to take a look around.
Before long, I was digging out tools that were scattered around my garage and what seemed like no time at all, the used engines for sale in AZ fired and I let out a whooping cheer of relief. He had provided me with so much, including the tools to provide for myself.