Wednesday, January 12, 2011

My First Car

  My first car was a 1973 Ford Mustang that had cycled threw my brothers clutches before I got my hands on it. They had both crashed more than on one occasion. It was light pea green, gray patches painted over the rust fenders and the front spoiler was missing.
  My dad joked and said if I was willing to wait I could find a better car for myself. I asked if he could just help me fix up the mustang.
  He smiled and said, "Of course, do you have any ideas."
  "Yep, how about a white paint job, and maybe tented windows?" I asked.
  "I am surprises you want it white, why not another color. Such as blue?" he answered with a question.
  "Because white will reflect a lot of heat," I answered, walking around and looking at the rusty quarter panel. "I need to rework this fender also." It was from the accident that my second oldest brother had managed to get him self into. He hit the restaurant that he worked at. (Yes, the very building he worked at.)
  "It will need a lot of work but I am willing to help, but you are going to need to work on it too," he barked.
  "I will," I answered, kicking the tired. (Back then I thought that was what one did to check if the car was mechanical sound.
  "And you are going to need some tools," he said, turning pull a piece of cloth off a set of tools.
   He had planned it from the beginning. He knew I would want to fix up that old mustang. He wanted this more than anything. It was always a learning experience when it came to our father/son relationship. Over the summer we reworked the fenders and replace the parts that couldn't be fixed. We rebuilt the head on the engine and by the time I passed my drivers test my car was finished.
  A year later, someone hit me in a parking lot. He they paid in cash and we sat around my dad’s counter and decided to fix it ourselves. I was older and we decided to paint it Fire engine red and added a sunroof. That was my favorite car. Not because it was a sports car, because it wasn’t. It was because it was an extension of my father’s love. It was rebuilt be us twice and it made me feel free when I drove it. He showed me time, and time again, that he really did know me best.

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