Written by The men in my life are diverse, so when attempting to size them up I employ their relationships with cars as a way to help me understand them fuller.
My own father has ever been very outdoorsy, which suited him perfectly. He worked as a life scientist, but is retired now. Picking up a fossil here; chip a rock there, that’s my daddy. He never managed to grow any fondness for machinery. He was raised by his parents to act like a gentleman, but engines and geartrains appeared to produce the worst in him. I have early memories of him blaspheming the Industrial Age as he was bent over an engine.
My father would invariably change the tires on our VW van when they required it, but you would never see him admire aftermarket center caps or custom chrome grille work on a car. 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 dash. 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 probably ever travelled the Pennsylvania turnpike. Scrubbing whitewalls or ogling a 1962 Chevy at the Antique Car Club show is his idea of a well-spent Sunday.
He graduated rapidly from a pacifier to a pitchfork and wrench while growing up in a rural area of Pennsylvania. Learning all about animal husbandry and the ABCs of automobile mechanics was expected of young farm boys. His interest in things with gizmos, wheels, and motors seemed to stick even though any affection for animals did not. He made the decision to leave the farm and go to college and he never looked back.
My hubby is a professor, just like his father and my father, but that is where their similarities end. He doesn’t meticulously clean his cars, collect rocks, or go camping. He likes to spend Saturdays enjoy java at a local Starbuck, marking papers, and catching up with friends on Facebook.
He has no trouble putting gasoline in his car, but he would in all likelihood use his American Racing center caps as paperweights on his desk, than as a cool way to floss his ride. Not that he has anything against anyone who toils over their center caps. He vacuums his vehicle bi-annually, but is content to ride about town with “Wash me!” scribbled above his rusted bumper for a year at a time.
My daughter’s boyfriend is a juiced up variation of my father-in-law. (I think they would bond quickly if sent together on an errand to a car parts shop.) The Boyfriend got a aftermarket exhaust kit for Christmas and is happy as a clam now that his car’s tailpipe growls deeply, letting everybody know he has arrived. “I can hear him coming a mile away,” my daughter smiles, plainly in the throes of young love.
Yes, men and their relationships with automobiles are complicated. Sometimes their relationships reflect an expression of a man’s maleness, while others treat cars as a foe – a required nuisance to conquer or at least endure.
Some men give their cars names and some curse them. Some give their cars a deal of TLC and others claim bragging rights because their car or truck is beat up or has the most mileage. Car stories are sold over beers, like war stories used to be shared around a campfire.
Why else would the auto industry regularly sell billions of dollars in decals, automobile alarms, hoods, exhausts, center caps, dashboard accessories, fancy headlights, window tint, backup sensors, seat covers, rims, and chrome?
Whether the ride in the driveway is the reason for cooing or cussing, there has to be some kind of mechanistic mojo occurring – something like, “if you build it, he will come.”
