Monday, February 28, 2011

When Dads Become Cool

            There comes a time in every kid’s life when he gets his first inkling that his dad is more than just his dad—that he fits not only into his family, but into a workplace, a circle of friends, a church and a community.

            Depending on one’s parents, I suppose these could be dicey—even sobering—moments; for me, they were always points of pride that broadened my perspective and enhanced my appreciation of my father.

It was beneficial for me to see Dad as more than just the guy who mowed the lawn and dragged me to get haircuts every two weeks.   My best memories in this regard were the times I accompanied Dad to his workplace—the GM Desert Proving Ground in Mesa, Ariz.  The skunk works aura that enshrouded that facility, all by itself, made Dad seem like something different: cool.  Super-cool, even.  But then there was the fact that everywhere Dad went inside the Proving Ground, people knew him and seemed genuinely glad to see him.  Whaddaya know?  Dad’s popular!

Those glimpses gave me something to picture in my youthful mind’s eye when Dad would go off to work in the morning: a man going to an exciting place where he was liked.  Not a bad image for a kid to carry around.

If I struggled to understand what a mechanical engineer did, I’m sure my kids are hard-pressed to imagine what occupies my own days.  The truth is, most public relations tasks aren’t glamorous—phone-calling, writing, organizing.  Nothing fun to look at.  But yesterday, I had a chance to include my nine-year-old, Nick, in one of the more fun things I sometimes get to do: talk to a TV reporter.

            I’m lucky enough to work for a company that’s involved in racing, and we had the opportunity to talk about it a little bit with one of the morning news shows prior to the NASCAR race at Phoenix International Raceway.  Nick had never been to a big race, and to compound the thrill of being at a track on race day, we got picked up at the gate by a track official who whizzed us past security checkpoints and to victory lane, where the news van was set up.

            There was the usual standing around and small talk while a live-remote reporter awaited his cut-in.  Nick stood off to the side, tolerating the delay remarkably well.  Then the lights and camera came on, there was a mic in my face, and I did my thing.

            When it was over, Nick sidled up to me, smiled and gave me a squeeze.  No words—just a long clench as the reporter and cameraman wrapped things up.  But I knew what Nick’s hug meant:  You’re my dad, and I want all these people to know it.  Later, as we watched the race, I showed Nick our company’s ad in the program, telling him I’d written the copy.  “Dad!” he said. “You’re, like, famous!”

            I laughed off Nick’s exclamation, remembering what a pain in the butt writing that copy had been at the time.  Inside I was beaming.  See, instead of just being the dad who yells “NO!” a hundred times a day, in that moment I had become more: As cool to Nick as my dad had, upon occasion, been to me.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

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.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

No More Apologies

As a guy who enjoys driving cars, talking about cars, going to car shows, reading car magazines and just generally immersing myself in car stuff, I shouldn’t be surprised that car-related analogies creep into nearly everything I write.  They’re just so darned fitting, you know?  And there’s one for nearly every occasion.

Friends and co-workers enjoy pointing this out to me, because apparently I can’t tell when I’m doing it.  Just yesterday, in fact, when e-mailing a friend about needing some rest, I said I needed to “refill my tank.”  She wrote back, “See?  You’re doing it again.”    Funny how naturally that just happens.

In my professional and social writing, then, I find myself constantly not going with my first instinct when drawing a parallel or making an illustration (saying, for example, that a customer “blew a gasket,” or that a chatty friend “stumbled along like a dieseling engine,” or that a confrontational co-worker should “get out of my grille”), and trying, instead, to replace it with something less grease-stained and more universally understood.  I’m told this will make my writing have broader appeal.

Here in my blog, however, it’s gonna be pedal to the metal.  I’ve just decided.  And I won’t be checking the . . . um . . . rearview mirror to see if I’m leaving anyone in the dust.  You either get it or you don’t.

But I suspect you do get it.  I mean, the automobile is such an ingrained part of our lives that all of us can relate on some level—and probably in more ways than we realize.  Even if all cars did was get us from here to there, they’d still play a big role in our lives:  Not only do we spend an enormous amount of time in them (and resources on them), but they’re the venue for some of the biggest events in our lives—family vacations, poignant father-son discussions, first dates, first kisses, first . . . all kinds of stuff.

As meaningful as it is that we share life with our cars in all of those ways, it’s their power to ignite our imaginations and fire our fantasies that transforms them from mere transport into true transport of the soul.  You may not be fortunate enough to have it in your garage, but out there somewhere—admit it—is a four-wheeled daydream whose shape, sound and power whisper beauty and motion and joy to you in a way few things can.  You may appreciate a beautiful painting or sculpture, but you can’t climb into it and participate.  A scene in nature may give satisfaction, but you can’t take it with you wherever you go.  When a car is particularly involving (which, for me, mandates a manual transmission), the kinship that forms as driver and car work in concert on turn after turn, shift after shift and drive after drive is so sublime that their personalities virtually merge to form what amounts to an avatar for both—a being, if you will, that represents more than either man or machine alone. 

            Sure, we can miss all of this and merely commute; drive on autopilot, all preoccupied and uninvolved.  But sooner or later, the wind and motion and sound call to us, engage us.  It’s no wonder, then, that during these moments of heightened clarity we learn some of life’s greatest lessons—and therefore, in turn, no wonder that cars find their way into our speech.

            So really—can you blame me?