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Reflections June 2015

Dad Spoke Car-lish

By Teresa Ambord

Car-lish was his language of choice, and it was really the only way he knew how to talk to a houseful of girls. But he got his message across. He taught us to notice details, to be alert to our surroundings, and to remember that, in all things, maintenance is cheaper and safer than repair.

Dad was a red-blooded American male, but English was his second language, at least with his daughters. To us, he spoke car-lish.

“Look at your tires before you leave, honey,” he’d say. That became a familiar warning in our home once my sisters and I started driving. Over the years, his admonitions probably saved us from countless roadside emergencies, though we still had a few. He taught his daughters basic car maintenance and emergency measures to take if we had a breakdown or got stuck in the snow. That was how he related to us, through our cars. Remarkably, none of us grew up to be tomboys.

 

Outnumbered

For several years, Dad raised us four girls alone, and he was a true fish out of water. He did his best, but he just didn’t know how to talk to us about much of anything, let alone girl stuff. Then out of the blue, when I was a teenager, Dad got married again. Our stepmother, Polly, also had a young daughter, so while Dad remained the only male, the total females in the house rose to six.

Once Polly joined the family, Dad left it to her to talk to us girls about such things as curfews, permissible skirt lengths, and the birds and bees. Maybe it was a generational thing, or maybe it was because he was seriously outnumbered, but except for the occasional corny joke, he was a father of few words. As a lifelong mechanic and the head of bus transportation for a school district, cars were the language he spoke, so… he taught us what he knew best.

On Saturday mornings, he’d have us change our oil or check the fluids under the hood. He had us change tires in the driveway, just to make sure we could do it in a pinch. He insisted that we each carry in our trunks a small can of gas and a flashlight. I guess he accurately predicted that we’d be distracted with the things that fill a teenage girl’s head, and forget to put gas in the car now and then. He showed us how to remove the cover of the carburetor and pour gas directly in, to get the car started again if we ran out of gas… and we did that, too many times. I hated the way the gas messed up my fingernails, but was grateful for the fix.

The nearest town, where our high school was located, was 15 miles away on a long, lonely road with no street lights. Cell phones didn’t exist, so if a breakdown occurred and we couldn’t fix it ourselves, we were in for a long walk. That might be why Dad insisted we girls all learn car maintenance. Or maybe he just wanted to pass his vast knowledge of cars onto his offspring, and we all happened to be female.

 

Car Talk Saved the Day

Even as adults, Dad spoke to us in car-lish. When we’d call him, his first question was always, “how’s your car running, honey?” Sometimes if we had a car problem we’d call up long distance and say “Dad, the car made this noise, ‘grrr, shhsh, ruh, ruh, ruh’ and over the phone he’d diagnose it, with pinpoint accuracy. Then he’d hand the phone over to Polly. She’d ask the life questions, and fill him in on the details later.

I never forgot the car lessons Dad taught me, though these days I rely on others to handle oil changes and roadside emergencies. Glancing at my tires is still second nature, because every time I get in the car I hear Dad’s voice, saying “look at your tires before you leave, honey.” I even notice other people’s tires and have been known to point them out to strangers in the hope of saving them from a flat.

With cars and with life, Dad was Mr. Maintenance. Car-lish was his language of choice, and it was really the only way he knew how to talk to a houseful of girls. But he got his message across. He taught us to notice details, to be alert to our surroundings, and to remember that, in all things, maintenance is cheaper and safer than repair.

Today, society expects dads to be more touchy-feely. Some might criticize my dad for not being more verbally communicative with his daughters. But I wouldn’t have changed a thing about him. When he passed away last fall, a friend brought to his memorial service a plate of elaborate cookies that were shaped and decorated like cars. He was the car guy.

For my sisters and me, this will be our first Father’s Day without him. Naturally we miss him. But one thing we know, heaven’s cars have never run more smoothly than they do now with Mr. Maintenance keeping them tuned.

 

Teresa Ambord is a former accountant and Enrolled Agent with the IRS. Now she writes full time from her home, mostly for business, and about family when the inspiration strikes.

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