It was the early 1970s. Dad had rescued an old red pickup truck from the woods of a golf course with the intention of restoring it. It was a 1953 Ford — which would be like us rescuing a truck from the 2000’s today. I was his full-time helper –a job I did with great pride.
We were in our basement. I remember I was cutting my six-year-old molars, so my mouth hurt. Dad had the drop-socket light hanging from the steel beam that ran the length of our 1960’s ranch house. I’m not sure what he was working on in the engine compartment but my job was to fetch whatever tool he needed. My guess is that he was putting on an alternator.
“1/2 socket. Phillips head screwdriver. Regular screwdriver. 3/4 socket,” he’d call out. I’d deliver the particular tool to his giant outstretched hand.
Little did I know, he was also teaching me about tools. That’s how dad, taught — without me having a clue he was teaching me.
Then it happened. I’m really not totally sure what happened –all I know is that he smashed his hand. That’s when my dad let out a string of obscenities that caused the truck’s paint to peel.
I was stunned.
I stood there looking at him — my father had used words in combinations I had never heard before. Sailors would respect the old Army man for his verbal gymnastics. Me, being a religious scholar at the age of six, said, “Dad, God doesn’t like it when you talk like that.”
Dad didn’t miss a beat. “God and I have a deal. I try to be good to people and He will forgive me if occasionally say a bad word.”
Now while dad’s religious theology may not line up with yours, I did take note of the “I try to be good to people” part. And the part about God’s forgiveness. Dad was very good to people. It was something I’d find out nearly 45 years later.
You’re probably wondering, “How was his hand?” It healed. And that time he spent working on the red truck led to the next chapter of his career — he and our neighbor bought a gas station soon after that. For 15 years, he worked on even more cars and helped even more people.
The truck? He sold it. And he went on to live to the ripe age of 81. When he died, there was a long line of people at the reception who told us stories how he helped them. He was good for his word — event if it was an occasional cuss word. He taught me about tools, being good to people and forgiveness while working on that red truck. And he taught me some new words I still use in Atlanta traffic to this day.
