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More than Machines

  More than Machines “All right, son. If we ever get into an accident, just run away as fast as you can.” My seven-year-old eyes widened as I squeaked out, “Ok, Dad.” Dad was always one to have beat-up cars that he would fix up to his “good enough” standards. Some of his cars were just clunkers that he’d keep running for a year or two, but others were cool muscle cars or antiques. His favorite ride was a 1939 Chevy Sedan Delivery that was rough, but pretty solid, as he had welded in a new floor and braced up the fenders. I remember a faint smell of gasoline in the cab because the makeshift gas cans were bungee corded behind the front seats, and if we were to get into an accident, gasoline could spill out, thus run run as fast as you can. Thankfully, that never happened, but it was always in the back of my mind as we would cruise to auctions, motorcycle hill climbs, or car shows. The ’39, as it came to be called, was powered by a true 327 V8 with headers and, of course dual stra...
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Your Unexpected Journey

       A lifetime of memories has pushed much of my early childhood out of my mind. Only a few memories are left of my Aunt Kathy’s house save some blurry images of warm summer afternoons, the thick blueberry patch, and my cousins’ Lego collection. What my father lacked in a college education he made up for with his unwavering work ethic, but still, a blue-collar factory worker could only bring in so much money, so my mother would clean houses for a few friends and family to help make ends meet. Before I was in school, mom would cart me around from house to house, but I didn’t mind, especially when we went to Aunt Kathy’s. Her country ranch-style home was more modern and much less cluttered than our home. It was fun to feel the thick carpet underneath my toes and listen to the cows bellow in the neighboring field, but the best part of Aunt Kathy’s house was her overflowing cereal cupboard.      With a bowl and spoon in hand, I would look up at what see...
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Never Say Never Land

     Friday nights were a very special time when I was a boy. School could be forgotten for two glorious days, and teachers’ scornful looks were behind me. I struggled through grade school and wanted nothing more than to be running barefoot outside, but Fridays were the light at the end of the long tunnel. Fridays were extra special because Mom would take us down to Video-1 to rent the latest new release on VHS, and we were allowed to stay up as long as we wanted, which never lasted much past midnight as my sisters and I would drift off on the couch or in our sleeping bags laid out on the living room floor. My younger sisters called their pile of blankets and pillows their “nests” and would go to great lengths to make them just right. Occasional bickering over territory was pretty common, as a clear view of the television was paramount.       I was usually reclined on the couch or soft chair and would yell at them to stay out of the way of our glowing ...
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