As I was growing up at 656 Elm Street in Hurst, Texas, I lived through many stressful situations. Take for example the distribution of dessert at a table of seven with eight servings of cherry pie. Will that last slice belong to me or will my dad insist on saving it for his lunch the following day? Looking back, I realize that was always a silly question. There was also the stress of maintaining my solid C- grade average over the long haul. Hard times indeed.....but the worst stress I ever suffered was that of helping my dad work on the car. Oh I wanted to help! Every time daddy raised the hood of whichever old car was sitting in the driveway, I was right there offering to help. Little did I know I should have made myself scarce when those opportunities arose.
I was rocking along just fine in life with only the stress of not getting enough dessert or watching my grade point average drop another point or two. Why did I have to offer to help work on any of those old cars? Luckily for me, I was well-known as a klutz and possible slow learner....I know, it surprises me too. For a long time during those carefree days, my offers to help were answered with, "If you really want to help, stay out of the way!" A whole new level of stress began for me when the answer became, "Yeah, you can help. Hand me a three eighths box end." Whut? Let me ask you, if you were a ten year old who had never even peeked in a toolbox, would you know what a three eighths box end might be? My first stabs at grabbing the right tool were chuckled at because working on old cars was my dad's happy place. After a few failed attempts at choosing the right tool though, the comedy was over and I was told to go away. It took a long time to get another shot at helping with the mechanical work, which looked really fun and made my dad happy. Little did I know....
Being the inquisitive sort who was always searching for knowledge.....HAHAHA, please stop it! Okay, being the sort who desperately wanted to please his dad, I researched tools, their use, and their nomenclature. Naturally I approached my cousin, Mike. Mike's dad also loved working on old cars and surely Mike had already gone through this trial by fire of learning everything there was to know about tools. I called him and explained my situation. He did indeed know what a three eighths box end tool was and told me important details. It seems a three eighths box end was not a three eighths open end. He went on to tell me it was also not an adjustable (better known as a monkey wrench for some reason). WHAT is it? "Oh", Mike replied. "It's a wrench". Did everyone follow that? I didn't either. Mike admitted he too went into a major panic whenever his dad asked him to hand over a tool of any kind. He had learned the simple things like box end, open end, monkey, and channel locks but his dad started throwing things at him like, "Hand me that fifteen sixteen whoopydoo". No, there is no tool known as a whoopydoo but there may as well have been. Some of the things both Mike and I were asked to hand over were just as bizarre. If the request for that 'big monkey' came along for the first time would you have known what to grab? I didn't think so....but I knew for a lifetime after getting it wrong once.
I finally got to where I understood the odd names shade tree mechanics had for their tools but I still struggled with sizes. A request for a three eighths box end went from "what is he talking about?" to "good grief, which box end is it?" In my own defense we had not covered fractions in school yet....or maybe we had and I spent the time watching the pretty little birds playing in the trees. Once I did know fractions I still had trouble figuring out the specific box end or open end daddy wanted. I was just as apt to hand him a 5/8ths rather than a 3/8th...(notice how I switched over to fractions? I'm not that slow!). This lack of ability to judge sizes still haunts me today. I never could look at a nut or bolt and say with any certainty "that there is a 5/8ths hex nut....for sure". It got to where whenever I had to hand over a tool, I would have three or four more options in my other hand, just in case.
I treasure those memories of "helping" my dad work on things. I didn't learn much but some of the lessons stuck. I've managed to keep all my family's old wrecks running longer than they should. My brother Glenn soaked it up like a sponge. Even today he has several old and classic cars he maintains. He's also teaching his two grandsons everything he knows. He suspects the older one is actually learning while the younger one is dreaming of being a rock star but he hopes he can teach the blooming rock star how to at least keep the oil changed in his car. As for me, I tried to teach both of my sons everything I knew about keeping the old car in good shape. It didn't take long of course. I didn't have that much to tell them but neither of them seemed interested anyway. My oldest son Jamie even told me all he needed to have in his toolbox was a roll of quarters and a list of good mechanics. Fortunately they took their school work seriously and now each enjoy a successful career....AND a list of good mechanics.
I still think of myself as a good shade tree mechanic. That's how I think, but I know I'm not. I still can't figure out what size tool I need to loosen or tighten a bolt or nut. When the leaders of the free world decided we should all convert to the metric system my problem was doubled. Fortunately, I've been successful enough that I bought myself a spiffy new toolbox called a roll-away. Whenever I decide to do something stupid, like my own repair to an ailing car, I can roll that shiny red toolbox right out there in the driveway and pick the wrong sized wrench to my hearts delight!
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