I remember my dad washing his car on a Saturday morning; his trousers rolled up past his ankles so they wouldn't get wet, his white T-shirt hanging from a tree branch. He saw me looking and handed me a sponge, showing me how to rub in circles with a lot of elbow grease, and once the car looked like a giant blob of soap bubbles, he sprayed it off, then handed me the hose, which wasn't such a good idea as I turned the hose on him. I chased him around the car, his laughter a memory I've always held close to my heart.
Once we wiped the car dry, he showed me how to apply a coat of wax. Small sections at a time, he told me, round and around; then, letting the wax dry, we moved to the next section, doing it over until the first section was ready to buff. And now the secret weapon, he said as he opened a box containing an automotive buffer that Mom got him for Father's Day this year. Round and round he went, letting the machine do in half an hour what would have taken hours by hand. He let me try the buffer, but on my first try it flew out of my hands, which he thankfully caught before it hit the ground.
Next was the interior, where he vacuumed up pieces of candy and some popcorn from the drive in a few nights ago. He wiped off the dash and cleaned the windows inside and out, then handed me a clean cloth and told me to make the hubcaps shine. When we were finished, he rolled down his trousers and put on his shirt, yelling to Mom we'd be right back. Hop in, he told me we're going cruising. We ended up at the curbside burger shack where dozens of guys were showing off their rides, and none got as much attention as my dad's 's' 55 Ford coupe. I always just thought of his car as a car, nothing that special, but I was dead wrong.
I inherited that coupe and still have it today, locked up in my garage, only driving it on special occasions and an occasional ride to the burger shack for people to see. I still wash it the way Dad taught me and the way I taught my son. It's the little things we remember in life, and that 55 Ford coupe stays locked up in my book of special memories every time I hear Dad's laughter as I chased him around and around with the garden hose on a sunny Saturday morning.
Next was the interior, where he vacuumed up pieces of candy and some popcorn from the drive in a few nights ago. He wiped off the dash and cleaned the windows inside and out, then handed me a clean cloth and told me to make the hubcaps shine. When we were finished, he rolled down his trousers and put on his shirt, yelling to Mom we'd be right back. Hop in, he told me we're going cruising. We ended up at the curbside burger shack where dozens of guys were showing off their rides, and none got as much attention as my dad's 's' 55 Ford coupe. I always just thought of his car as a car, nothing that special, but I was dead wrong.
I inherited that coupe and still have it today, locked up in my garage, only driving it on special occasions and an occasional ride to the burger shack for people to see. I still wash it the way Dad taught me and the way I taught my son. It's the little things we remember in life, and that 55 Ford coupe stays locked up in my book of special memories every time I hear Dad's laughter as I chased him around and around with the garden hose on a sunny Saturday morning.
Mike 2026
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