“Go turn on the water,” my dad instructed. Seven-year-old me ran up the hill, turned the knob and he hosed off the car (I am not sure why he didn’t buy a sprayer, but I digress). We did that same routine so many Saturdays in a row.
Dad was the Master Car Washer. I was his apprentice.
By the time I was 13, I had my own car-cleaning business. A clean car meant a happy Marshall. Then as an adult, I kept the same routine up — every Saturday, I’d scrub both of our cars.
Life got busy and my routine was disrupted. By the time our first child was born, Amy didn’t want me out there washing the cars on Saturday. She wanted me to help with the baby. The life got busy. And busier. And then insane. And the cars got dirtier. Every once in a while, I’d even cheat and run through the car wash. The car was clean. But I felt dirty.
Today my youngest and I washed the cars. I watched as he sprayed me, the car, the house and anything else that did and didn’t move. I called up dad to tell him. I hung up and smiled.
Like Darth Vader once said, “Once I was the apprentice, now I am the master.