I love my dad.
I have many memories of him looking under the hood of a car in this driveway, listening to the crackling oldies station on a dusty radio.
This week, I got to be just like him. He's not here, my brothers weren't around, and I don't have a husband... so it's up to me.
I busted out the owner's manual (I don't know much yet...) and got oil stains through the creases of my hands... all the while serenaded by the Doors, Marvin Gaye, and Sunny and Cher.
Dad would come in to the kitchen and talk to me as he scrubbed his hands with soap and water, drying them with a paper towel so not to get oil on any dishtowels. I did the same, but two days later I still have oil under my nails.
Just like Dad.
Dad would come in to the kitchen and talk to me as he scrubbed his hands with soap and water, drying them with a paper towel so not to get oil on any dishtowels. I did the same, but two days later I still have oil under my nails.
Just like Dad.
2 comments:
What a sweet memory. I came to your blog looking for comfort, and I found it.
I used to be a do-it-yourselfer too. There was a time I changed my own oil and brake pads, gave my car its own tune-up, including replacing spark plugs (including gapping them) and wires, fuel and air filter etc., I even changed my own starter once, arms blackened to the elbows in the driveway of my house across the street from BYU campus.
But three years ago I married a guy who, despite having an engineering degree, just doesn't do work on his own car. Instead he prefers to have a new-ish car that requires professional maintenance. Two days ago I had to replace my windsheild wiper. I went into the auto parts store and, much to my embarassment, I couldn't remember the first thing about how to find the right one or even get them on and off my car. I had to have an employee do it for me (a girl, mind you, much younger than me). I wanted to tell them all about my past mechanical know-how, and how it was really cool, for a girl, to know how to do all that stuff. But of course I didn't say that, and they all just thought I was a dumb, helpless, yuppie mom. Which, I guess, I am.
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