Saturday afternoon, I drove an hour to my dad’s homestead, my daughter riding shotgun. Over four months have passed since I last spoke to my dad in person. I had only been at his place 5 minutes when he threw a magazine, dedicated to the history of the Camaro, in my face.
Featured within was the 2010 Camaro. Jesus, fuck! What a fucking beauty! He and I drooled over the full page photograph of a really slick, shiny black number for many long, silent moments. You see, cars are our “thing.”
My dad eats, sleeps and breathes cars. He has ripped apart and successfully rebuilt more classic muscle cars than I can recall. Currently, he is working on a 1970 SS Nova. I haven’t seen him so excited about a project since he began re-tweeking his Chevelle (again) two years ago.
So anyway… sitting at the dining room table, my dad and I talked about vehicular mechanics, a subject that I am all too familiar with. Thanks to him, (and I mean that sincerely) I am more knowledgeable about cars than any woman I know.
Fuck, I know more about cars than most men I’ve met. I am almost drunk enough to believe that I could rebuild a car of my own, even though my experience with maintenance is limited to the replenishment of fluids, changing of oil/air filters, tires and the like.
As I flipped through the pages of dad’s magazine, all the while listening to him explain (for the eleventieth fucking time in my life) the difference between a small block and big block, and how these differences affect the type of transmission that is installed, my protege pointed at the photographs of the Camaros that she deemed either abhorring or absolutely stunning.
For every photo she commented on, my dad replied with a mini history about the manufacturing of that particular year and model.
He appeared quite pleased that granddaughter showed genuine interest in the subject. I made a mental note of the way in which he looked at her when he thought no one was paying attention, and wondered if when he looked at her, he saw the eleven year old version of me.
Some of my favorite childhood memories of time spent with my Dad involve old American cars.
When I was a little girl, I used to play with my metal “Big Foot” monster truck in our unpaved driveway when the weather was warm.Over the course of four years, I happened upon hundreds of screws, washers, nuts, bolts, etc., etc. I’d proudly saunter into the garage and give them to my dad. He always thanked me, and taking my findings, he’d unscrew a jar and say, “I’ll put ’em in here for now because I know I’ll need ’em later.” To this day, he displays the very same jar he used to contain the scraps on a shelf above is work bench.
Oddly enough, the jar is still fucking full. Hmmm…
One of my favorite cars that belonged to my dad was a sage green, 68 AMX.
My dad-that crazy mother fucker, would actually allow me to stand up in the front seat, safety belt secure, (of fucking course!) while he flew down the road…
I learned at a very early age that in order to operate a manual shift vehicle, you have to really listen to the engine. You have to feel the car. You have to be the car. Eating candy, drinking soda and standing up in the mother-fucking front seat of a speeding mass of beautiful metal, I’d call the time to shift. Having to compete with the screaming engine, I’d stomp my foot and shout “Get on it, dad!” – My dad bangs gears like no other. No lie.
As much as I adored the AMX, I’d say the most beloved car to grace my dad’s collection is his 1970, 454 Super Sport Chevelle. This particular car once belonged to my uncle.
After his baby brother tragically, and very suspiciously died while living in Florida, my dad, traveled south to claim the car. He’s won ass tons of trophies and medals at car shows with the Chevelle. This car is fucking immaculate. I’m more than happy…I’m fucking over the moon, shitting fucking rainbows ecstatic to share with you the awesome beautitude.
Long story short: My dad, although he kicks ass hard core, must have a mother-fucking screw loose. Who the fuck lets their kid stand up in the front seat while eating candy and drinking soda?! Had I not choked to death, I very well could have flown through the windshield and fucking died to death! Happy Father’s Day.