We each have our way. Some things are good, some aren’t. Them’s the breaks.
Missed opportunities really grate my potato because they can cause regret. It’s an awful feeling to look back in that context. What could have been or what shouldn’t have been. It becomes a feedback loop if one isn’t careful. A horrible screeching sensation.
A free form inventory starting in 1982:
Pop’s daily drivers – white 1978 Chevy pickup, white-then-silver 1963 Chevy Nova stationwagon, yellow 1957 GMC pickup. The latter was in the worst state of all his project cars and sat in the driveway until he decided to invest. He turned her around real nice. He chose sunshine yellow, if you can believe it. Solid red oak for the bed slats. It’s a beautiful ride. He sold his stationwagon this year and decided to flip the GMC over to his daily driver. That stationwagon was a monument in front of our house for 24 years. It sold for $1,000.
Pop’s project vehicles – black 1965 Chevy Impala, black 1961 Ford Galaxie Sunliner, that GMC pickup. The cars were purchased in running condition but not painted black until he fixed them up. They got hot in the summers and on long road trips through the desert. Thighs readily stuck to the vinyl upholstery of the bench seats.
Pop’s purchases for mom – orange 1978 Chevy van, white and brown pin-striped 1982 custom Chevy van, dark blue 2005 Nissan Pathfinder. The vans were family vehicles that discouraged my mother from ever driving on the L.A. freeways. The Pathfinder’s a much smoother ride. She still avoids freeways.
Pop’s purchases for me – brown 1983 Oldsmobile Cutlass, black 1998 Toyota Tacoma pickup, gray 1978 Chevy Nova. The latter two were for his use, but he passed them on to me as daily drivers when other members of the family needed cars. The black pickup was passed on to the next son in line, and I wrecked the Nova. He removed the engine from that one to build up his GMC.
Pop’s purchases for Abe – the black Toyota pickup. Abe never did let it go. Turned out to be a real frugal sumbitch.
Pop’s purchases for Cris – gray 1993 Toyota Camry. Cris hasn’t shown much interest in buying his own car either.
What I missed was the engine swaps and maintenance he did. I didn’t care for it and only now do I have a taste for taking things apart and rebuilding. Whether it’s a delayed response or a genuine interest, I caught on. Late to the party is my way. I wonder if I waited too long. I mentioned my motorcycle and got nary an excited comment out of him.
The realization that life is an attempt to make him proud. Imagine it.
I don’t bring up my mother much and I can’t speak as to the exact reason. Or write about it. Looking at a body of work (think of my collected ramblings lost to a hard drive in a electronic scrap heap), there’s a tone to me. Aluminum plating welded to a step and covered in mud. I’m this way about myself, my father, and the women I run across and through. My mother doesn’t get this prosaic treatment. I get the feeling that she doesn’t deserve to get dragged through this mud.
But she pops up yet. She most often appears when I absent-mindedly sing. “Mama told me a dark car’s done come, come to take me home.” Doesn’t much matter where the song’s headed. She’ll be there.
