At World Series time my thoughts turn to my baseball-venerating dad, but I’m not sure he’d be enticed by the Texas Rangers, a struggling expansion team when he died, vs. the Arizona Diamondbacks, who didn’t exist.
He’d probably be in the garage half-listening to the radio play-by-play while pursuing his other pastime: working on his car. It wasn’t out of passion, but because the jalopies he bought always needed fixing.
His taste ran to fancy cars, but he could afford them only when they were 10 years old with 100,000 miles.
He especially cherished his T-Bird from one of the years Ford redesigned the classic sports car to a big sedan. The hood spread for acres. It drove like a Rose Parade float.
It must have been something in its prime, but too many miles had eroded functionality by time Dad bought it.
“It has eight cylinders,” he’d boast.
But only five fired, and it could barely scale the small hill to his house.
“Check the leather upholstery,” he’d enthuse.
More like foam upholstery with a few dark patches barely resembling Corinthian cattle.
The paint was faded. It crept like an old dog looking for a shady place to rest his aching bones. But I’ll never forget Dad’s satisfied smile as he cruised with his elbow out the frozen-open window.
He passed it on to me. While my wife always had new cars, I favored clunkers.
As I once negotiated on an 8-year-old Chrysler New Yorker full of luxury gone limp, I told the salesman I was in the market because my kid totaled my previous junker.
“Give the kid a break,” he said. “You never wrecked your dad’s car?”
Yes I did. It was the only brand-new car Dad ever owned: a 1964 Datsun from Japan whose compact size delighted him. I destroyed it joyriding with friends on Mauna Loa’s Kulani Road.
Speeding down the dirt road, I hit a bank and flipped the Datsun. We crawled out the crumpled holes that once were windows. The others were uninjured but I split my scalp.
The three of us couldn’t budge the car trying to right it. A prison guard took us to Hilo, and my dad didn’t say a word as we drove a borrowed car back up the mountain. He looked sadly at his prize sitting demolished on its roof, then with one angry grunt turned it back on its wheels.
As I pondered how such powerful fury might
manifest next, Dad finally spoke: “Get in the car and see if it starts.”
I looked at the crushed hulk and said, “Can’t we call a tow truck?”
“Get in the car,” he repeated. It started right up, and he made me parade it through Hilo to the body shop past gawking townsfolk, my head pressing the crunched roof as dripping oil mixed with blood from my scalp.
“I should get this stitched,” I said.
“Let’s wait until I get through with you,” he replied. “You can get all the damage fixed at once.”
Then he gave his look that said, “Just kidding … maybe.”
Reach David Shapiro at volcanicash@gmail.com.
