In order to understand the very different men in my life, I attempt to size them up by using their individual relationships with their automobiles.
My own father has ever been very outdoorsy, which suited him perfectly. He worked as a biologist, but is retired now. Picking up a fossil here; chip a rock there, that’s my dad. He never managed to grow any warmth for machinery. He was brought up by his parents to act like a gentleman, but motors and power trains appeared to expose the worst in him. I have early memories of him cussing the Industrial Age as he was bent over an engine.
My father would invariably change the tires on our Volkswagen van when they needed it, but you would never see him drool over aftermarket center caps or custom chrome grille work on a vehicle. You might see him checking the water level in the radiator or putting some Rustoleum on spots that had oxidized on the van, but you would never see him using a toothbrush to scrub headlights or using Q-tips to clean the knobs on the dashboard. These things just didn’t take place 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 travelled the Pennsylvania turnpike. Scouring whitewalls or squaring a 1962 Chevy at the Antique Car Club rally is his thought of a well-spent Afternoon.
Growing up in rural northern Pennsylvania, he quickly graduated from teething ring to pliers and pitchfork. Farm boys learned the ABCs of automobile mechanics along with animal farming at an early age. The affinity with engines and wheels and all the associated gizmos stuck, although fondness for animals did not. He left the farm to go to college and never looked back.
My hubby is a teacher like his pop and his father-in-law, but that is where the resemblance stops. He does not camp, collect rocks or meticulously clean his vehicles. His idea of a good afternoon is sipping coffee at Starbucks, marking exams and traveling along the bunny trails that are Facebook.
He keeps his car full of gas, but would probably use his Enkei center caps for paper weights rather than 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 for a year or more.
Our daughter’s boyfriend is exactly like my father in law, but a bit more juiced. He got a high performance exhaust kit as a gift last month and has been thrilled ever since beyond his tailpipe growls deeply. You can see that our daughter is in the throes of love when you hear her talk about how you can hear him coming from a mile away.
There’s not doubt that the relationships that men have with their cars can be complex. On occasion, the car can be a manifestation of a man’s masculinity, while other men act as if their vehicles were an enemy that are a nuisance to be subdued or at the very least, tolerated.
Many men blaspheme their automobiles and others name them. Some men give their cars heaps of TLC while some fight for bragging rights because their car has the highest mileage or is the ultimate beater. Men swap car stories over beers, just like war stories are shared at the campfire.
Why else is the auto industry capable of selling billions of dollars of chrome, rims, seat covers, backup detectors, window tint, upgrade headlights, dash accoutrements and aftermarket center caps, exhausts, hoods, automobile alarms and decals?
Whether the vehicle in the driveway is fuel for swearing or cooing, I’m apt to believe there’s some kind of mechanical mojo in there – something reminiscent to “If you build it, he will come.”
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