Fixing things, more than just part of the job.

I think the first time Dad had to help me fix my car, I had shaved too much off the sides off my pinewood derby block and it was dangerously out of balance. It sort of wobbled to the left and jammed two wheels against the track edges. It was light, out of alignment, didn't roll right, and it looked like a needle-nose Stutz Bearcat, but without the speed. As usual, we (my dad telling me what to do) eventually got it running.

Usually with a smile on his face, but sometimes muttering uncontrollably and shaking his head, Dad fixed quite a few of my automotive indiscretions over the years.

Dents were the deal with my first car, the green Vega. Body work was also common for my "Silver Bullet" pickup. He also kept my older sister's Chevy II running long enough that you could splash yourself through the floorboards if you went through a mud puddle, and later, a '59 Plymouth known as the "Batmobile." My younger brother and sisters stories were similar as well.

Of coarse, he fixed a lot of things other than cars, over the years. He would tell you it was just part of his job of being our dad. Believe me, it was more than that.

Following are some related stories. Click on the title to view:

On the road to ruin, but making good time.

Mean, green, and not too far in between.

Wolverines in Colorado?

Message driven home.