I looked out of my window this morning and noticed that my neighbor across the street had the hood up on his Jeep. The hood has been up periodically for the last two weeks while he does some work on the engine underneath. Growing up in a family whose father did all the minor and most of the major maintenance on the vehicles we owned, I find it pleasurable to see that hood open. It brings back many enjoyable childhood memories.

One Saturday in the 1950’s my Mother and I had gone to town, twenty miles distant, to buy groceries and other items. We traveled this distance once a week and bought enough food and other items to last for the coming week. On our way home, about three miles outside of town, the car began to make a noise, unusual to any we had heard previously. We stopped at a nearby house whose occupants graciously let Mother use their phone to call my Dad. (Cell phones were unheard of in those days.) Of course he didn’t answer, as he was working outside and did not hear the phone ringing. Unsure of another course of action, we drove the vehicle home at a very slow pace, clunking the entire way.

Dad, upon hearing about the problem, took the vehicle into the shop and began disassembling parts in order to locate the source of the problem. It took several days (weeks) to get the problem repaired. It was farming season which meant he would only work on the car at night after chores were done and supper eaten. This amounted to one or two hours maximum each night, if other events weren’t on the calendar. And he wasn’t known as a fast paced mechanic.

Dad’s truck, our only other means of transportation, became the primary vehicle. A family of four in the cab of a 3/4 ton truck was a little crowded, especially on Sundays when we were all dressed in our best clothes. We would crowd into the cab of our truck to travel the three miles to the church building. Dad would drive so he got the most space. My brother or I would sit in the middle, straddling the gear shift, with Mother on the passenger side and the other child in her lap. She never complained, but I’m sure her dress was quite wrinkled by the time we arrived at the Church.

Eventually, the car was fixed and back on the road. Thinking back, I’m not sure which parent was the happiest to have it running once again. Daddy, because it was one less thing he had to do at night and could stay inside the house after supper instead of going out to the shop to work on a vehicle. Or Mother, who could now continue with her volunteer efforts in the community and drive herself to wherever she needed to go. You see, the truck was a manual shift and she only knew how to drive an automatic. While the car was down, she had to rely on my Dad to drive her around and he didn’t have time to do much of that. Therefore, they were both very happy when the backyard mechanic got the primary family vehicle running smoothly once again. As for my brother and I, we liked riding in the truck. Crowding into the cab and wrinkled clothing didn’t bother us.