Published: June 18, 2009 04:49 pm      

Lessons learned in the garage

If my Dad would have been Mr. Mom, my brother and I would have eaten frozen pizza and french toast for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And it would have been great, but it was the never case in the Parsell home. My Dad was not a stay-at-home dad, but he did his fair share of parenting in the evening time and weekends. While my Mom was at work, my Dad would turn into Mr. Mom. And like most dads, he made the evenings one giant adventure. A little more relaxed, a lot more laid back, evenings and weekends with dad guaranteed a change of pace, a mess and great father and daughter memories.

With Dad, a weekend adventure would involve trips to places I would have never seen with my Mother. For example, the trash dump. Yes, the landfill. I would watch — in horror and disgust — as he would load the bed of the truck with branches, old furniture and bags of who-knows-what else. Slowly, the truck would descend down Route 460 towards Bluefield, until a turn and then the truck would switch gears, pulling to the top of the hill. I could always smell the landfill before the truck crested the hill. I would close my eyes, hold my nose and try not to pass out from the sights and smells. Locked inside the cab of the truck, I counted the minutes until the truck roared to life and we sped back down the hill — free of the burden of trash.

Another trip — this one was not as bad as the landfill — involved another man’s domain, an auto salvage. Parking the truck, my Dad and I would start walking the lot, looking for an elusive part to repair a broken church van or my mom’s car. It was like looking for a piece of glitter in the middle of rusted vehicles, wrecked beyond repair. In the middle of summer, weeds gathered around the cars and yellow jackets buzzed in and out of open car windows. I followed my Dad, glancing around, not wanting to touch the hot metal of the car hoods. After awhile, the trip became more like a scavenger hunt. My Dad and I became a team, and instead of following, I started walking beside of him.

From hardware stores to auto repair shops, I tagged along side my dad. A mechanic, he spent many weekends working on church buses. Therefore, I spent many Saturdays poking through tool boxes and pretending to work on buses and cars. Socket wrench in hand, I would crawl underneath a bus, imitating the best mechanic in the world. It was all fun and games until I smashed my hand with the socket wrench. I cried girl tears. The blood flowed down my finger; Dad slapped a Band-aid on the wound, kissed my cheek and got back to work. I stopped sniffing. But it was a while before I picked up another socket wrench.

Because of trips like these, I became my father’s daughter, a daddy’s girl. I learned essential lessons, ones that can not be taught by mothers or grandmothers. For example, the landfill is necessary; even if your a female, somebody has to take out the trash eventually. And until someone invents flying transportation, cars and trucks will always need an auto salvage lot. Finally, a tool box is almost as important as a make-up bag. With a hammer and a nail, a female can hang a picture. With a wrench, she can tighten a loose bolt. My Dad taught independence, with plenty of princess glitter to balance. Yes, I grew up thinking I was a princess; but my Dad showed a princess the difference between a bolt and a washer. He pointed out a Phillips screwdriver and a flat screwdriver. He made certain I knew to check the oil before a road trip. Just last year, I took his power drill and put together an entertainment center, two book shelves and two end tables.

Dads are a lot of things, but most of all, they are efficient. They can change a tire, mow the grass and put air conditioners in the window. Yes, they turn into Mr. Moms, washing clothes and changing diapers. But it is not an important part of parenting. The most important lessons happen on weekend trips looking for a car part or making a trip to empty out the bed of a truck. It happens in hardware stores, paint shops, garages, sports stores and even the gas station. We — daughters and sons — listen to dads explain the difference between tools. We talk in the stores and on the ride back home. And even if they think we are not listening, we are secretly hanging on to every word.

On Father’s Day, it a good bet somebody will give a dad a tie or a macaroni necklace. I bought Twizzlers and a card; my standard Father’s Day present. But this year, I am going to spend a Saturday with my dad, hanging out in the garage. Hopefully, he might need to make a run to the hardware store or the auto salvage. And if he has to go to the landfill, I know exactly when to start holding my nose.



Jamie Parsell is the Lifestyle editor of the Daily Telegraph. Contact her at jparsell@bdtonline.com.