Humorous essay written when teenagers lived at home

Kids and Cars

I can remember the day thirty-five years ago when I told my Dad I wanted a car to drive on a date.  My peach-fuzzed and freckled face beamed in anticipation of the certain moment when he would reach in his pocket and toss me the keys to his car.

            Dad said, “Great son, go get one.” 

            Following a moment of contemplative silence, while I tried to figure out the meaning of his words, I realized that Dad’s keys were in his pocket to stay.   Dad went back to his paper and I went to the back yard to kick the heads off dandelions out of complete frustration.  Eventually I scrapped up seventy-five dollars and bought a rolling death trap with paper-thin tires and four-barrel carburetor.  Dad looked it over with aloof detachment and allowed that it might need some new rubber.

            My kids have a way nicer dad.  He is intelligent, thoughtful, warm and understanding …er…I mean… gullible, dumb, blind and apparently with excess cash.  When the time came for my kids to drive I told them to go get a car in just the same tone as my Dad used with me.  This time, however, the blank stare came from my wife who clearly signaled with her eyes that I was a thoughtless dinosaur.  The kids, each in there own tone of incredulity, simply replied, “Ya right!” 

            My wife explained with firm exasperation that the kids could not go buy their own cars because they needed help locating, financing and insuring a safe and acceptable vehicle.  I always thought my Dad had the right approach until my wife began to explain how little we, as underdeveloped males, understood about automobiles and the requirement they are safe and dependable.  She is right of course.

            So, I have bought enough cars to start my own used car lot.  Fortunately they are not all at my house at the same time.  My teenage son ensures that.

            When it comes to cars my son is truly a multitasking sort of guy - multitasking in the sense that it takes three cars to keep him mobile.  At eighteen years old, he is a magnet for car problems.  It must be an elevated testosterone level that attracts car problems.  Someone sideswiped his pickup while parked in front of the house.  While he was pushing its replacement out of a snowdrift, a friend driving made a mistake and blew up the transmission.  The next car had the brakes fail while it was sitting in the driveway.

            I have, as a father of kids driving, developed survival skills.  I know a guy out in the country north of town who does inexpensive body work.  I have a buddy out in the country south of town who does major mechanical work.  When I was a kid, a Sunday drive in the country was a treat but now it means we are going to get one of the cars repaired.

            My brother who lives in balmy Biloxi, Mississippi is also a big help in keeping my kids' cars running.  Over the phone, he will tell me that some mechanical problem is a minor repair.

“That’s easy to fix,” he’ll say.  “Put that water-pump in last week in twenty-minutes.”

Deluded by the notion that I can do anything my brother can, in a ten-degree garage with frozen fingers, the wrong tools, no skills, no experience and a bad temper I spend two days on the same minor repair.      
            So what’s the point, you might ask.  If you have teenage kids about to drive, move to a tiny island with no roads.  If that won’t work, just send the kids.