START ‘ER UP, MAYBE

Dad wasn’t a rich man, haD to work all his life and never owned a new car until he was in his 70s right before he died that he finally purchased a new car.

Driving with Dad was an experience as you sat next to him and he zoomed along the highways and byways of Long Island, and speeding wasn’t even in the top ten. All of dad’s cars were either second or third hand, not one under ten years of age and all could have qualified as antiques in those days. Some of his cars you were able to tell if the line on the road was solid, double solid or, broken, JUST LOOK DOWN BETWEEN YOUR FEET!

When it rained the wipers would skip over the raindrops and clear away scrapping about 2 inches wide, maybe one at the top and one at the bottom of his windshield. He tried very hard to stay off the roads on a rainy day or night because the water content on the windshield was heavy from the rain sticking to the wipers and the only thing you could say about the wipers was that they were getting clean from the rain.

Heavy humidity that would form on his windshield was another problem, you were not allowed to touch the defroster because: “It will kill my battery!” So, to save his battery he would take a dishtowel and wipe the windshield as he drove. If I sat next to him, wiping the windshield became my job.

There was one very strict rule he had, and if you were a teenager, it was: “Turn that radio off, you’ll ruin my battery, and I don’t want to hear that crazy music!” Getting a ride from Dad was too much punishment, so I’d walk.

The snow was the most fun though, as it snowed and the fog built up from breathing, you had to open the window during a snowstorm while scraping the window while driving, timing it with the wipers, a coordinated effort to say the least.

Borrowing the car was another thing. There was a radius you could not exceed and when you did borrow the old coach, you made sure you put gas back into that which you used.

Not being a businessman he did manage to turn his used car into a breakeven proposition. Living a few miles from where he worked in the factory, he would drive four women who worked in his factory. Picking them up (old maids and widows) at their door in the morning and depositing them at their door after work, he would charge them $2 a week for the privilege. In those days $6 more than paid for the gas and errands he needed to do on the weekends.

Every summer while his kids were off from school, they worked in the factory earning money. Being the son, I had to contribute my 40 hours a week forty dollars to the family coffers, leaving me not very much until I became a junior in high school and started to save up for college.

The strangest thing about Dad was he was NOT cheap, as he could spring for someone else’s welfare while denying himself. He had nothing and I knew it, was glad to contribute and that contribution made me feel good that I did. He would give a lot of his time helping others with physical problems, poor families that needed food or clothes he was there for, and while he was always on the lookout for side jobs, he made sure to include me in those plans.

I got a lot out of helping Dad. I learned carpentry skills, electrical skills, plumbing skills and confidence to learn anything new I needed like fixing my car when I was too poor at the beginning to buy a new car.

Thanks, Dad, I love you.