Da Goddess

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There are always all these nuts and bolts holding our lives together. Keeping us from being flung from cars, off bikes, or from falling down from the treehouse. Did/do we pay attention to them? Or were/are we only interested if it meant time helping Dad?

I loved helping my dad with anything and everything when I was a little girl. There was something special about it and it felt like a great big fun secret when we’d run out to the hardware store to buy something, or to the junkyard to see if something else we didn’t necessarily need but might someday come in handy was available.

The hours spent driving around, digging through dirty and greasy-smelling hardware doesn’t really seem all that girly, but I didn’t care. I was spending time with my dad. If I was lucky, our outings included a donut or a milkshake, a stop (that would allow us to linger) to see friends, hot dogs, and usually some little trinket unrelated to the project that was meant solely for me. Maybe it was a rock or a sprocket or a spring or a candybar. It didn’t matter. It was from my dad and it was all about the day we spent together.

One of my favorite memories were of us working on one of my dad’s antique cars. My job was to hand him tools, which meant I needed to know the difference between a flathead and a Phillip’s screwdriver and to know what a hammer, a torque wrench, and a grease gun, etc. And then there came the moment for my favorite job of all: bleeding the breaks. That put me directly in the driver’s seat. Okay, due to my age, it was more like me trying to sit on the seat and reach my legs far enough, but more often than not resulted in me sitting on the floor of the car and pushing pedals. I loved the quick and easy push push push of the beginning of the job. As the air was bled out, though, the resistance increased and I’d have to push harder — puuuush puuuush. Then there’d inevitably come another round of push push push, followed but puuuuuuuush puuuuuush. The whole time, I’d have to listen for my dad’s voice so I would know what was coming up next.

There were days when we got very little done and other days when it seemed like we’d just built an entire car from the ground up. The memory allows what the memory allows.

This was a bit of a ritual with my dad, though when we moved to California, we definitely spent less time together in the garage. Still, when the opportunity arose, I was there because it was “our time” and I didn’t want to give that up. I’d even fight my little sister for the easy, meaningless jobs just to hang out.

Of course, it wasn’t always fun and games. There was an incident. Whilst waiting for my dad to come out and get to work, I did the one thing I was told never to do: I pushed the button that started the car. (Yes, a button starter.) The car started and I jumped! My dad came running out of the house, knowing what I’d done and praying I hadn’t hurt myself or anything around me (the car, mostly). I lied, I cried, I wanted to die. In the end, I got a mild grumbly lecture on safety and listening to my parents and then what passed as a hug.

Life moves quickly as you start growing up, though, and time for working on cars with my dad fell by the wayside as my world began to include things like softball and friends, more friends, and later with trouble. To be fair, my dad was busy trying to keep food on the table and his schedule became crazier over the years.

I miss those days. I miss those opportunities to spend time with my dad, to learn basic car repair, and to be the princess of the garage. It was OUR time and it was special. I never want to forget it either. These days, every nut and bolt and air filter and bottle of oil reminds me of a simpler time, a happier time.