I have several significant men in my life that are all very distinct. In an effort to size them up, I have employed the relationships that each of them has with cars in order to understand them a little better.
My own father has always been very outdoorsy, which suited him perfectly. He worked as a life scientist, but is retired nowadays. Pick up a fossil here; chip a rock there, that’s my pop. He never managed to acquire any affection for machinery. He was raised by his parents to act like a gentleman, but motors and power trains appeared to bring out the worst in him. I have early memories of him blaspheming the Industrial Age as he was bent over an engine.
Dad would change tires on our VW camper vans when required, but would never have been one to fawn over chrome grill work or aftermarket center caps. He might pour some H2O in the radiator or dab Rust-oleum on rusted patches on our van, but scrubbing up headlights with toothbrushes or guiding Q-Tips around dashboard knobs were not affairs that occurred in our garage.
My father-in-law, on the other hand, is a auto man all the way. He knows make, model and year of everything that’s in all likelihood ever traveled the Pennsylvania turnpike. Scouring whitewalls or ogling a 1962 Chevy at the Antique Car Club show is his thought of a well-spent Saturday.
He graduated speedily from a pacifier to a pitchfork and wrench while growing up in a rural area of northern Pennsylvania. Learning all about animal husbandry and the ABCs of mechanics was expected of young farm boys. His interest in things with gizmos, wheels, and motors seemed to stick even though any fondness for animals did not. He made the choice to leave the farm and go to college and he never looked back.
My husband is a teacher like his dad and his father-in-law, but that is where the resemblance ends. He does not camp, collect rocks or meticulously clean his vehicles. His idea of a good afternoon is sipping coffee at Starbucks, grading tests and tripping along the bunny trails that are Facebook.
He keeps his car full of gas, but would in all likelihood use his Toyota center caps for paper weights instead of using them to floss his ride. No offense to hard working wheel center caps. He makes it a point to vacuum his car twice a year and doesn’t mind driving around with “Wash me!” on the back window indefinitely.
The young man that my daughter dates is a juiced up version of my father-in-law. When I have the opportunity, I am going to send them to an car parts store together so they can speedily bond. My daughter gave her boyfriend a performance exhaust kit for his birthday and he is thrilled that the tailpipe growls deeply. He says it lets everybody know he’s arrived. My daughter smiles saying, “I can hear him coming from more than a mile away.” It’s obvious that she’s in the throes of young love!
There’s not question that the relationships that men have with their cars can be complicated. On occasion, the car can be a expression of a man’s masculinity, while other men act as if their vehicles were a foe that are a nuisance to be subdued or at the very least, endured.
Some name their cars, and others blaspheme them. Some treat their vehicles with TLC, while others cop bragging rights because their car or truck is beaten up or has the most mileage. Car tales are exchanged over beers, like war accounts used to be told around a campfire.
This is the reason the auto industry sells billions of dollars worth of window tint, aftermarket center caps, dash accoutrements, chrome, seat covers, rims, car alarms, backup sensors, hoods, exhausts, and decals.
Whether the ride in the driveway is the reason for cooing or cussing, there has to be some form of mechanistic mojo happening - something like, “if you build it, he will come.”
