Why Does He Do It?

Last Saturday, I dropped in on an old high school buddy of mine. I didn't call first, though. If I had, he would have gotten out from under his car.

You see, fixing that old car is what he does for fun. It's a '67 Pontiac something or other, and it's been in his garage for as long as we've known each other. His dad bought it in 1982, and he sort of inherited it last year. He says that he'll get it going, as a memorial to his dad.

I can respect that, but I don't think that 25 years in a garage, with a couple of guys tinkering on it one weekend a month has done much to improve the drivability of this vehicle. Of course, wild horses couldn't drag that opinion out of me within 10 miles of my friend. It's a good thing this blog is sort of private, isn't it?

So there I was, sitting in my old bud's garage, with my feet propped up on the rear bumper of this car, beer in one hand and scratching his dog behind the ears with the other hand, and wishing that there was better heat in there. His wife was in the kitchen, baking cookies with their kid. If it weren't for the beer, I'd've felt like I was sitting inside a Norman Rockwell painting.

But then, what's wrong with that? Small town America might be fading, and it's hard to find it in the suburbs, but it did exist, and it still does exist, and there was something bright and beautiful about it, for all it's provincial garb. And maybe that's what his car project is really all about.