On a Father’s Day many decades ago, I made pancakes for Dad’s breakfast. Afterwards I cleaned up the kitchen and anticipated spending a lazy afternoon at our local swimming pool. Two days earlier, I had passed my driver’s test and my new license was blazing a hole in my pocket. My father’s voice shattered the daydream.
“If you’re going to drive my cars, you’re going to learn how to take care of them,” he said as he marched me into the garage.
My father was like the copperhead snakes that frequented our New Jersey property — fascinating to look at but only from a distance. At 6 feet 2 inches tall he was an imposing figure, generous with criticism and stingy with praise. He was an expert at catching his four children doing something wrong. At an early age, I learned the best way to get along with Dad was to stay out of his way.
He lifted the hood of the 1968 Chevy Bel Air as I peered at a dirty heap of metal, belts and hoses. He showed me how to pull up a metal ring to reveal the oil dipstick. Then I turned a greasy knob counterclockwise while he reached for a funnel and a quart of oil. In subsequent sessions, we progressed from changing oil to measuring the gap in spark plugs, filling radiator, brake and windshield wiper fluids, adjusting the timing belt, and maneuvering the jack to change tires. Each time I raised the hood of that Chevy, a song from childhood played in my head — “The Knee Bone’s Connected to the Thigh Bone.” I was learning automotive anatomy.
After graduating from college, I moved to Ohio for a teaching position and those lessons were often put to the test. On a regular basis, I spent part of a weekend hunched over the hood of the Chevy performing routine maintenance. Before I became a card-carrying AAA member, a flat tire was no longer a catastrophe, just a temporary inconvenience. One morning as I headed out for a job interview, I discovered my right rear tire was flat. Within 15 minutes I was back in the driver’s seat, a smudge of grease under one fingernail the only evidence that disaster had been adverted.
When I was young, I used to watch my friends with their fathers and it was impossible not to feel that I’d been cheated in the parent lottery. Barbara’s father was a jolly soul who often played jokes on his six children. Debbie’s father turned into a jungle gym each night when he came home from work, his four children swinging from his shoulder and legs as he delivered hugs and kisses. Nancy’s father was the coolest father of all, demonstrating a perfect handstand and teaching Nancy and me how to do cartwheels.
My father wasn’t one to show affection. He saved his praise for the times when he was with friends and neighbors, often bragging about his children’s accomplishments or job titles. At some level, I understood that he wanted the best for us, but he pushed us pretty hard. I remember the butterflies beating my chest when I called home to tell him I had earned my master’s degree. His response was a knife in the heart. “When are you getting your doctorate?” he’d asked.
My attitude softened somewhat when I became a parent and navigated the tightrope between love and discipline. Maybe this explains my annual ritual on Father’s Day, a gesture that has meaning only to me. Often those Sunday mornings dawn sunny and warm as I lift the hood of my Hyundai and peer inside. Much of the automotive autonomy I recall from long ago is now encased in metal so the relationship between the knee and thigh bones are less apparent. Yet I still recognize many components in the four-cylinder engine and am grateful for the gift of self-sufficiency this daughter received.
This is a contributed opinion column. Jean Francis is a Whitehall Township resident. The views expressed in this piece are those of its individual author, and should not be interpreted as reflecting the views of this publication. Do you have a perspective to share? Learn more about how we handle guest opinion submissions at themorningcall.com/opinions.
