It started with the weed eater. “Whipper Snipper” if you’re Aussie, mate.
“See if you guys can fix this” Dad said, so in that humid Maryland summer, bare feet cool on the concrete and tile floor, three Urban boys peered at the mystery. It wouldn’t run.
Somebody noticed a speck of dirt clogging a fuel line. “Hey, poke that with some wire.”
With that, the smallest amount of gasoline flowed, bursting the dam on the mechanical revolution.
We’d walk the neighborhood, watching the neighbors mow their lawn. “Man, one of these days we need to upgrade to a four cycle.”
The 1960’s mower, rescued from the neighbor’s jungle, nearly sent Dad to the hospital with a gash on the hand. We fixed it (the mower–his hand healed by itself), named it The Plague, and sold shiny inkjet transfer T shirts to sponsor parts. I think Uncle Joe got one.
Cars came along before most of the mechanic team could drive–on the road. I had the distinction as the eldest.
The Z-28 Camaro roared. Or it didn’t. That’s the way Chevy is. They’re either breaking the law or breaking your heart. The middle ground of a sensible 55 miles per hour is reserved for Honda Accords and worrying about property taxes.
The Present
“Past performance is not a guarantee of future results” or something. I’ve been delving into a little more of that 55 miles per hour ground. Once the market opens in twenty minutes I’ll buy some cough cough.
What’s that?
Oh nothing.
No, really.
Index funds.
The younger me leans back and tries not to open his eyes in horror too noticeably.
(He fails.)
But you’d think that I’d be working on that ‘35 coupe by now, chopping the roof and painting flames down the gangster sides.
Someday.
There’s something super-animate about cars. I can almost hear they cry as they rust in the fields. The metallic click of the ratchet teeth sound like a medical device, surgery late into the night, and then…
It lives!
That first roar is a gasp back to life, and my heart fills with gladness as the purring of the engine fills the air.
The ‘65
I’ve been working on a few things lately, but they go much farther than cars.
If Star Wars was real, and was good, and we all traveled the galaxy, maybe I’d be a bounty hunter or an interplanetary naturalist. But now I’m a mechanic in the garage where they service the time machines.
The ‘64 is running good. I had it out the other night. The ‘65 is the latest in the bay, and what a beauty. She’s got a little slip in the Right Ascension, and something is out of balance. There’s a weird reflection in the signal chain, but what a class act. She aced her test drive, with a quick spin to an hour ago.
The ‘42 is going to be a challenge. He’s a beast. A tank. I don’t know why anyone would let him rust so long, but a pal saved him in the nick of time. I keep walking by him, eyeing what needs to be done. I think the brass should be cleaned, first.
The ‘57? Ain’t that green trim purdy? She showed up turnkey, but is only a Sunday driver. Oh, she’ll go back a good ten million years if you know how, though.
I heard a rumor there’s an 1893 around, though. Now that’s a time machine worth checking on. I hope someone is using it. It’s time to find it.
(Telescopes, folks.)
Swing by Josh’s garage on your interstellar trip. Now open late.
Coffee’s on.
-Josh
The 4” f/15 1965 Edmund Scientific refractor takes aim at the Moon.