Growing up, I truly think Dad thought of himself as a “handy” kind of a guy. He would seem to get really excited about “building a closet” - the end result of which was a raw wooden frame, with the pole clothes hanger made out of a broom handle. This happened at least twice. Usually, these projects did not add financial value to the home. As the two eldest children, Maureen and I knew we would be first picked for family work duty, so we would often try to “be busy”. Sadly, our excuses never worked. We would end up nervously holding two by fours, while Dad drilled screws into the wood, close to our hands, stripping the head of the screw, and swearing loudly. One time, Maureen and I helped Dad put up a fence around the perimeter of our Oswego, NY yard. Did I mention I don’t think Dad had ever done this before? Of course, because we had to try to do it as cheaply as possible, we were doing it ourselves, manually - every step of the way. The fence post-digger thingy gave the user blisters on the hands, whereupon one then switched to a shovel, followed by the ground being too hard, followed by swearing and the obligatory screaming session. The process was then repeated about twenty times. I am quite sure the fence is still standing, in all its glory. Someday, a curious person might happen upon a smashed level, which I believe was thrown over the fence because it did not “read straight”. Straightness be damned.
Luckily, what he lacked in skills as a handy man, Dad made up for with his driving prowess. For as long as I can remember, Dad has been what I would describe as an “aggressive driver”. It is a miracle we are all alive, and Dad has never had an accident. I remember being around 12. I sat in the front passenger seat, as an old lady pulled out in front of us. I guess she didn’t see the speeding bullet of our Chevy Cavalier. Besides making the mistake of cutting off an insane person, the lady in the car in front of us had the bad luck of being about 95 and going 15 miles slower than she should have. I experienced severe reverse G Forces as Dad slammed into a lower gear, narrowly avoiding rear-ending the geriatric, who chugged on, blissfully unaware of the locomotive behind her. As Tom Petty’s “Live like a refugee”finished, Dad began to accelerate the way cooler mandatory stick shift car. Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band started up. “Waaaaahhh...Aaaaahhhh...Aaaaaahhhh” Along with the sound of the gear protests at being violently tested, there was a strange rocking motion in the car. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. I carefully reached behind me, where my sister Maureen sat, and poked her in the leg. I carefully looked to my right, as we passed the car going 40 in the 55 zone, I got the distinct impression that we were doing at least 70. I saw Dad repeatedly making a very strange exaggerated forward bobbing motion with his head, which became more pronounced with the acceleration of the car and the blaring of Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run”. I felt Maureen’s finger poke my arm. “Up your nose with a rubber hose!” dad screamed at the driver of the other car. Granny waved, and Dad flipped her off. Naturally, he then asked God to forgive him.
”Maureen hazarded a seemingly suicidal question, “Dad, why are you doing that?” No answer; he was busy playing air guitar. “Dad?” “What are you doing?”
“What!!”
“Nevermind - I thought I saw a deer.”
The car careened violently around a curve in the road, and then eventually slammed into our driveway, barely avoiding stalling out. Dad finished the air guitar, added a drum solo, and exited the car in a blaze of glory. The crowd went wild.
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