RG85

I learned how to drive a stick in 1968. Was a ’61 Ford Falcon, three on the tree. Mom coached me through it as she chain-smoked her Viceroys.  I don’t blame her a bit for being nervous as I hacked my way up, the hard part, and down, cake, the hills that surrounded our suburban Southern California home. After a while I got it figured it out, but there was plenty of error to go along with the trials. In retrospect I probably picked Mom for this chore because Dad was always at work and he being a ‘car guy’ would have undoubtedly been disappointed and frustrated that I was such a klutz with the clutch. Surely he would have chained his Camels likewise forced out of the drivers seat and into the passenger’s.

I have fond memories of the cars we had during this time, a golden era for both myself coming of age and the car culture of America that was blossoming like a filed of tulips. Dad would often bring home the car du jour to park in the garage and work on it at night for eventual resale. That garage was were I was introduced to tools, jacks, oil, grease and gasoline. We efficiently ran Fiats, Fords and the occasional Studebaker in and out of the detached space that Dad used to call the 80th Street chop-shop.

One night, I could always get out of doing homework by acting as Dad’s assistant, he was changing out an exhaust system on a Fiat 850. Tiny cars compared to the 1950 Cadillac we had just tuned up and considerably less ornamental than Grandma’s ’57 Chevy I had just washed and waxed. Dad was under the Fiat on a creeper calling for the metric 10mm socket. All I could see were his legs, wrapped in the navy blue jump suit he wore in the shop and his grease-caked work boots. Both of the left-side tires were in the air as Dad had used the big floor jack to lift from the Fiat’s welded jack attachment located on the frame halfway between the wheels. As I was instructed, before handing down the socket-wrench I carefully wiped it clean with the ever present red shop rag. A huge hand covered with grease reached out from under the green 850 to accept the tool. I placed it in the hand much like a nurse placing a scalpel in a surgeon’s palm. Dad grunted approval.

And then it happened.

To this day I cannot recall why, but I will never forget the how.

The four foot steel rod that was the floor jack’s handle stuck out from under the car like a compound fracture of a giant’s femur. As you know these indispensable tools employed a twist feature at the end of the handle, righty tighty, or in this case up, and lefty loosey, or down. The hydraulics made this a snap. And for reasons already admittedly vague, maybe to make sure it was properly tightened, I gave the handle a testing twist to the left.

And that ‘tiny’ olive green Fiat 850 came down on Dad’s chest as he innocently tightened the muffler clamp. The jump suit covered legs along with the grease-caked work boots went rigid, straight out and with violent velocity. My eyes opened as wide as baby moons.

‘Jack the fucker up’ I heard a strange voice wheeze. And I did.

Once the Fiat had enough clearance for Dad to roll out from under it, he slowly got to his feet and shot me a passing glance as he left the shop and headed to the kitchen. I was frozen in place shocked by my own ignorance and clumsiness.

He returned in about five minutes with a Camel dangling from his lip and a half empty Miller Highlife in his hand. I  had no idea what would happen next so I was both surprised and relieved when he calmly asked if I was ready to try it again.

That is but one of the hundreds of car stories I will always share with Dad.

Who would have been 85 today.