Sometimes something will happen, or somebody will say something that makes you wonder.
Many years ago, I was home on leave from the army, and it had rained during the night hard and long. I found dad out front, looking under the hood of his old Pontiac. He'd tried to start it, and it had cranked and cranked, but wouldn't catch. I came over stood beside him, and looked into the engine bay at the big 389 V8. Dad like as big an engine as he could get in a car. He like the cars big as well.
"If you have to go someplace, I can drive you in my car." I told him.
Dad looked over at my Volkswagon bug with a wary eye.
"The day I need a nazi taxi with an American car here, the devil better get a warm coat." was all dad had to say on that matter. "Get my emergency kit from the back."
While I did this, dad took out his little penlight flashlight he always had in his pocket, and carefully examined the coil and spark plug wires. I went back and got the olive green canvas bag from the Catalina trunk, and dad rooted around it for a bit. He came up with a small bottle of Old Spice after shave lotion. He'd found some cracks in the rubber coating of the wires, and he carefully sprinkled some after shave on each crack. I was shaking my head, and wondering if the old man had lost his mind. After each wire was doused in the after shave, dad blew on it for a bit.
"Get in and crank it." He told me when he was done anointing the engine.
I was skeptical but he was the old man, so I did as I was told. The engine cranked, nothing happened.
"Crank it boy, don't baby it!" He yelled.
I laid on that starter and to my surprise the engine coughed, sputtered, coughed some more, then caught. It ran rough for a minute, then slowly smoothed out until that V8 was purring like a big cat.
"What the hell?" I asked.
"Alcohol boy. If you remember any of your high school science class, it dries out moisture. Some moisture from all that rain last night got into the cracks in the old wires. I'll put new ones on this weekend, but we had to get it going first. "
Dad took a roll of black electrical tape and wrapped the cracked coil wire. As he was reaching into his pocket for his little peanut I beat him to the draw and offered him my German Herter sodbuster I'd picked up while in the service. It was a large one, maybe 4 inches in the blade. He looked at it with a frown.
"I'm cutting a piece of tape, pup, not exploring the Amazon jungle." he said.
He took out his well worn peanut, and opened it with a careful snick, and sliced off the tape. The thin blade slice through the plastic tape like a fresh razor blade. The old man did keep a sharp knife. I couldn't help but comment.
"Yep, that little sardine skinner is sharp, I'll give ya that." I told him in a smart aleck way.
That's when he did it. I'll never know to my dying day if the old man was a mystic or something. He looked at me for a moment, smiling, then he held up his little pocket knife in front of my face. The thin worn main blade was maybe 40% gone, the bone handles held only a ghost of the jigging left. It was very pocket worn before anyone at Case dreamed of the word.
"Someday, I don't know if I'll live to see it, maybe not, but you're gonna come to appreciate this little knife. Maybe even if you live long enough to grow some bark on you, you may even carry one."
Dad was finished with his patching of the wires, and he closed the hood and got in his car. He revved up the engine, and the 389 made a muted roaring. Backing out of the driveway, dad waved, and then with a grin, nailed it. Dad always had a hot rod streak in him, and the Pontiac burned some rubber with a screech, launching the white Catalina down the street. Mom came to the door and asked what was gong on, and I told her it was just dad off to the auto parts store. She said okay and went back in the house. She knew dad and his Pontiac well.
I sit here typing this, many years later, and there is a peanut in my pocket, and I have come to appreciate the little knife.
I never did totally figure the old man out.
Many years ago, I was home on leave from the army, and it had rained during the night hard and long. I found dad out front, looking under the hood of his old Pontiac. He'd tried to start it, and it had cranked and cranked, but wouldn't catch. I came over stood beside him, and looked into the engine bay at the big 389 V8. Dad like as big an engine as he could get in a car. He like the cars big as well.
"If you have to go someplace, I can drive you in my car." I told him.
Dad looked over at my Volkswagon bug with a wary eye.
"The day I need a nazi taxi with an American car here, the devil better get a warm coat." was all dad had to say on that matter. "Get my emergency kit from the back."
While I did this, dad took out his little penlight flashlight he always had in his pocket, and carefully examined the coil and spark plug wires. I went back and got the olive green canvas bag from the Catalina trunk, and dad rooted around it for a bit. He came up with a small bottle of Old Spice after shave lotion. He'd found some cracks in the rubber coating of the wires, and he carefully sprinkled some after shave on each crack. I was shaking my head, and wondering if the old man had lost his mind. After each wire was doused in the after shave, dad blew on it for a bit.
"Get in and crank it." He told me when he was done anointing the engine.
I was skeptical but he was the old man, so I did as I was told. The engine cranked, nothing happened.
"Crank it boy, don't baby it!" He yelled.
I laid on that starter and to my surprise the engine coughed, sputtered, coughed some more, then caught. It ran rough for a minute, then slowly smoothed out until that V8 was purring like a big cat.
"What the hell?" I asked.
"Alcohol boy. If you remember any of your high school science class, it dries out moisture. Some moisture from all that rain last night got into the cracks in the old wires. I'll put new ones on this weekend, but we had to get it going first. "
Dad took a roll of black electrical tape and wrapped the cracked coil wire. As he was reaching into his pocket for his little peanut I beat him to the draw and offered him my German Herter sodbuster I'd picked up while in the service. It was a large one, maybe 4 inches in the blade. He looked at it with a frown.
"I'm cutting a piece of tape, pup, not exploring the Amazon jungle." he said.
He took out his well worn peanut, and opened it with a careful snick, and sliced off the tape. The thin blade slice through the plastic tape like a fresh razor blade. The old man did keep a sharp knife. I couldn't help but comment.
"Yep, that little sardine skinner is sharp, I'll give ya that." I told him in a smart aleck way.
That's when he did it. I'll never know to my dying day if the old man was a mystic or something. He looked at me for a moment, smiling, then he held up his little pocket knife in front of my face. The thin worn main blade was maybe 40% gone, the bone handles held only a ghost of the jigging left. It was very pocket worn before anyone at Case dreamed of the word.
"Someday, I don't know if I'll live to see it, maybe not, but you're gonna come to appreciate this little knife. Maybe even if you live long enough to grow some bark on you, you may even carry one."
Dad was finished with his patching of the wires, and he closed the hood and got in his car. He revved up the engine, and the 389 made a muted roaring. Backing out of the driveway, dad waved, and then with a grin, nailed it. Dad always had a hot rod streak in him, and the Pontiac burned some rubber with a screech, launching the white Catalina down the street. Mom came to the door and asked what was gong on, and I told her it was just dad off to the auto parts store. She said okay and went back in the house. She knew dad and his Pontiac well.
I sit here typing this, many years later, and there is a peanut in my pocket, and I have come to appreciate the little knife.
I never did totally figure the old man out.
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