Cars in Common

            I just brought a new photo of my boys, ages 13 and nine, to work, and I’m already getting the “Enjoy-them-while-you-can” talks from co-workers whose kids are older.  “They grow up so fast,” they all repeat.

I think that must be a page in the Empty Nester’s Hymnal.

            The truth is, I’ve been trying all along to absorb as much of my kids’ growing-up years as I can.  I’ve heard those ubiquitous advisories about the fleeting nature of childhood so often that it’s almost turned me panicky.  My dinner table inquiries each evening (How was school today?  Yeah?  And then what?  And THEN what???)  must have my guys thinking Dad is paranoid.

But time does march on, and while the sentimental slob in me wants to hold on to every moment of my kids’ boyhood, I realize my ultimate job is to help them grow up.

            The process seems to happen in phases, doesn’t it?  Eras marked by whatever your kid is into at the moment.  And have you noticed how quickly old enthusiasms are tossed aside for new?  It seems that if I’m to share anything at all with my kids, I must forever be learning—and then immediately discarding—comprehensive information about whatever they happen to be smitten with this month.

But even as my 13-year-old’s voice deepens and he packs on pounds and muscle and inches seemingly overnight, I’m noticing a constant.

Cars.

Jake’s liked cars since he was little.  Whether it’s been a chunky Little Tykes IndyCar, Hot Wheels or the latest car chase video game, my son and I have been sharing a love of cars his entire life.  The nine-year-old, Nick, is on board now, too: This year was the first that I took both boys—not just the older one—to the Barrett-Jackson auction in Scottsdale.  They loved it (and, increasingly, they don’t seem to mind when I force them to watch Barrett-Jackson reruns on Speed).  And this coming weekend, Jake and I will once again be out at Phoenix International Raceway for the Sprint Cup race.

            I look back at my relationship with my own dad, who passed way in 2008, and I see that he and I shared this bond, too.  Like a continuo running through a piece of Baroque music, there were always cars.  No matter what else was going on, we had that.

As a General Motors engineer, Dad was privileged to bring home a company car every day.  It was always something different, so each evening when it was time for him to come home, I’d run down to the end of our block to see what he was driving.  He’d pull over, pick me up and take me back to the house.  Between then and dinnertime, I’d push every button, flip every switch and inspect every square inch of the car.  (Funny note: Dad came home with a very small car one night circa 1967, when I’d have been about six.  I remember being surprised to discover the car had no back seat.  It wasn’t until years later that I realized the car had been a Corvette Sting Ray.)  If Dad cared that I’d left the wipers on or his seat way too close to the steering wheel, he never said anything.  Even in those awkward ’tween and teen years, when Dad and I would struggle to make conversation anytime we were alone in a car, we could talk about cars themselves.  It was a starting point, a comfortable forum that could lead to talks about . . . heck, pretty much anything.

When I went to put my boys’ photo into a frame, I found a couple of older photos stacked up in there.  Yikes, they do grow up fast.  But then, as if to assuage the oncoming tide of sentiment, I remembered something Jake said the other day when I drove him to his basketball game in the GTO:  “Nail it, Dad.  You haven’t nailed it in a while.”

You know what?  Cars are just freakin’ awesome.