What an odd relationship Dad had with cars. His sense of direction was non existent; his tales of woe and side streets and off ramps missed when going to his union meeting were the stuff of legend, so much so that we all wondered how he and Harry ever found California when they drove out from Michigan in 1961; for all we know he was heading to Buffalo.
It never occurred to him to buy any of his kids cars but for some reason he very enthusiastically spent hours and hours performing questionable repairs on the ones we bought. Unfortunately, WD-40 was his answer to almost any repair problem, including squeaking brakes. Using it on Pat’s brand new bicycle brakes didn’t teach him a lesson, probably because I did the test drive and suffered the subsequent crash, but using it on the Moped’s brakes finally cured him.
And he very nearly scared off what eventually became a son in law when John Yenny happened upon him with a can of white latex paint and a brush, heading toward the white station wagon to paint over a scratch.
Every trip in the car was an adventure, mainly because none of us kids were ever truly confident that we would arrive at our intended destination. But the trip was usually narrated with him talking into the seatbelt buckle like a microphone pointing out local history which he made up on the spot.
And getting lost, or not arriving at intended destination wasn’t limited to driving. In 1981 we were all together in Yosemite in a cabin. One morning dad pointed to Wawona Point, grabbed a backpack and a hat and announced that’s where he was headed. He was gone for so long that mom sent us out looking for him, but he showed up just before dark telling tales of sites seen and danger barely averted.
That night we all went to the Wawona Hotel for a drink and as we crossed the porch every other table said “hi Jack” as we passed. It didn’t take long for the sisters to realize it was all rangers and firemen who were greeting him so they insisted on an invitation. Turns out dad had only gotten one mile from the cabin before happening upon the ranger/fireman annual picnic, so instead of climbing to Wawona Peak he played horseshoes and availed himself of their keg for the entire day, and only headed home because it was getting dark.
So he seldom got to where he was going, and if by chance he did get there, he had no idea where he was. In 1987 mom and dad took all five kids to Hawaii for Thanksgiving. Dad found a bar he liked and told us kids to meet us there. Gave us vague directions … go that way to you reach some stairs … go up … the place is called “the house of the three brothers”. We wandered and wandered until we finally found him in a bar with some unpronouncable Hawaiian name. Since he couldn’t pronounce it, he simply renamed it. And, of course, he couldn’t understand why that didn’t make sense. We should have figured it out since the three guys in the band were all brothers.
And while I’m talking about names, now would be a good time to apologize on his behalf to all our friends and old boyfriends and old girlfriends who never once got called the correct name. If they were lucky, they got called the same wrong name more than once. The only indication we ever had that he liked the people we eventually married was when he made a since attempt at correct pronunciation, although “Yenny” never did sound right with his accent.
And God help any friends of ours that he liked. They were treated like members of the family, which unfortunately included orders to take out the trash, move their car from the lawn and opinions on haircuts and attempts at fashion and critiques on jobs done. Fortunately John Yenny was already married to Anne when dad dragged him and me to Desert Hot Springs to work on their place. John Yenny began the weekend perfectly capable of hammering a nail but by the end was rendered incapable of even being able to hold a hammer.
Mom seldom left us alone with him for long, but there is a cooking story for every meal he was responsible for. The worst trip, for us kids at least, was when mom went to Australia for 4 or 5 weeks, with a one-week layover in Hawaii on the way home. She left a house of mostly adult children, who soon became so driven to distraction by dad missing mom and his attempts at housekeeping and cooking and insistence that whatever we were doing was wrong that we got him on a plane to surprise mom in Hawaii. He met her and our Aunt Margaret at the airport and in the cab home politely informed her that when she returned home she would be greeted by the pitter patter of little feet.
Now, while we were adult children, we were all adult UNMARRIED children. After the blood drained from her face he informed her that Galahad had joined the family in her absence. And little did we know that Galahad would soon become not just a favorite pet, but a favorite family member.
And God help any friends of ours that he liked. They were treated like members of the family, which unfortunately included orders to take out the trash, move their car from the lawn and opinions on haircuts and attempts at fashion and critiques on jobs done. Fortunately John Yenny was already married to Anne when dad dragged him and me to Desert Hot Springs to work on their place. John Yenny began the weekend perfectly capable of hammering a nail but by the end was rendered incapable of even being able to hold a hammer.
We were all so lucky that dad raised us when it was still “raising your kids” as opposed to “parenting”. When one friend asked him why he took his kids with him everywhere he simply replied “whose kids am I supposed to take”. But fortunately he could count to five and didn’t …. Often … leave any of us behind. He was very good about stopping by the courtesy desk at K Mart or Zodys and picking up the ones he had misplaced. Before we could read we knew how to recognize a name tag and knew that indicated a responsible adult. We would simply turn ourselves in and await collection. His reputation was such that when he lost Jonathon in a toy store, when Jonathon was only three, Jonathon marched up to the clerk and informed her that his Granddad was lost and somebody had better start looking for him.
But lucky him, eventually he would have to count to 10 when we all got married and the number of his kids doubled. Someone once asked him how many grand kids he wanted and he replied that he wanted 11 since that would give him a soccer team. When the final number came in at 15 he told everyone that it was always good to have a few subs on the bench.
And what musical taste. For years we listened to him singing “do you think I’m sexy” and Luciano Pavrotti singing opera on the stereo.
