Ah, it’s that time of year to fondly remember those men we call ‘Dad’.
Just try not to remember TOO many details, though…
“Hey, son! I got a new starter for your pickup–why don’t you and Phillip K. Ballz1Do I have to point out that’s not his real name? But may I point out that Phillip K. ----- is a real name? come on outside and help me get it up running again!”
Despite it being one miserably cold Kansas spring evening, you better believe that it wasn’t more than 30 seconds later that me and my bestie, ol’ PKB, found ourselves on our backs on the half-frozen ground, one holding a flashlight and the other passing parts and tools to my dad. But lemme tell you boy: the pain, suffering and sacrifice was going to all be worth it.
Getting ol’ Peppermint Paddy up and zooming around Rolla and surrounding countryside again? I mean, what more could two teenagers with 1 driver’s license, 0 reliable modes of transportation, and 31 total years between them ever dream of?
Now, I need to back up a sec because you’re probably thinking, “Hey, who or what is this Peppermint Paddy gal? Obviously, you’re trying to retroactively name a vehicle from your youth, but you’ve never mentioned any other sweet, sweet rides other than Kountry Kommodities and Moby D*ck. And that one tractor of your neighbors that you royally effed up.”
While ’tis true that Moby D*ck was my first true vehicular love as a teen, before that there was Peppermint Paddy: the old red-and-white striped ’87 Chevy Silverado flatbed farm pickup that used to be my Grandpa Harold’s before he passed away. It had been sitting abandoned in one of our fields halfway on the other side of Morton County for a good 4-5 years, when one day, my dad says to me, “Son, I’m tired of hauling your ass to and from school every day. Now that you finally got your license, it’s about time we hauled that pickup out of the weeds and fixed it up so it can be your very own. And, also, so you will stop bothering my wife2I.e., my stepmom. to let her lend you her sweet, sweet Eagle Vision every time your want to go bum around in town with you city-slicker friends like that dipshit, PKB.”
And let me tell you something: you would be surprised at how out-of-my-mind excited I was to hear those words coming out of his mouth. Sure, one might listen to him and hear: “I’m going to spend almost exactly zero dollars on a vehicle for you, and instead going to give you this old, stinky, mouse-infested, barely-running, incredibly unsexy, busted-ass pickup that I totally forgot we even owned.”
Or, if you were like me, desperate for any set of wheels that could transport me off and away from the boring-ass farm any time I wished, you would have heard: “Hark, my youngest and most beloved son, behold: something that barely qualifies as a ‘vehicle’, all for thine own sole possession! Verily, I know you have wept countless nights out of desperation for such a miracle, and, lo, I have heard your cries, and I have answered them.”
In other words, I cherished that gift like he had just given me the keys to a shimmering-purple Lamborghini instead. Sure, it actually had been mouse-infested when I took possession of it (both dead and alive, and plenty of murine fecal matter thrown in just for funs).
And it was greasy. And it was dirty.
And it was stinky because Grandpa had been a smoker.
In fact, it was such a teen-girl-turn-off, Hot-Wheels-hot-mess, that for a moment I had to question my memory of the chronological events of my high school days on the farm, because I’m almost certain that–though impossible without the aid of time travel–the legendary “Dirty Bob” must have been driving it regularly before I got it. Dirty Bob–you remember him, right?
But I digress; back to my love of this motorized means of transport: I mean, who has two thumbs and would spend an entire dreary Saturday in March with a bucket of soap and water, scrubbing down every square inch of a piece-of-shit pickup, inside and out?
I’ll tell you who: this guy! *points at self with both thumbs*
And, seeing as how, well, you’re never going to get some of those particular smells to ever truly go away, I even treated my baby to not one…not two…but THREE of those vanilla and/or coconut-scented cardboard trees you hang from the rear-view mirror. You know, the ones that most people think don’t actually exist outside of the smoke-filled taxi cabs of the silver screen.
Ah, yes, my Sweet Chariot…she swung low for me and carried me away from my boring-ass home on the farm maybe 10-15 times before her starter went out, and instead of finding herself abandoned in some wheat field, she found herself abandoned in our driveway where she would sit for weeks before that fateful day Dad came home with a new starter in hand…
“Oh my god, I know sometimes he can be a real oaf sometimes, but sometimes Dad can be the best dad in the whole world!”
I couldn’t help mildly gushing to PKB behind my dad’s back while we both lay there in the dirt with random rocks indubitably poking us in the kidneys. Dad had just ran inside to grab one last tool before we put the finishing touches on ol’ Peppermint Paddy’s new starter, and we were taking the opportunity to let our inner giddy schoolgirls shine.
It would be an understatement to say that we were both pleasantly surprised by Dad’s somewhat out-of-character act of altruism, yet there we were, on the verge of having a ride that would allow us to actually hang out after school once again.
“All right, boys, fire it up! Let’s see if we’re back in business!”
I hopped in the driver’s seat as PKB dusted himself off before slamming the hood shut. Dad, for his part, just stood back to admire his handiwork as I held my breath and turned the key.
“VAAAAAROOOOOOM!”
She fired right up just like the day she was driven off the lot.
I hopped out of the pickup and on over to PKB, where we proceeded to exchange a copious and unnecessary amount of high-fives.
“We’re back in business! We’re back in business! We’re back in business, Babyyyyyyy!” we chanted.
Dad looked at us kind of funny and flashed his sh*t-eating grin like he knew some secret we didn’t or something.
“What do you mean ‘we’, Kemosabis? You two turds aren’t back in nobody’s business. When I say ‘we’re back in business,’ what exactly did you think I mean?”
“Well, Kind And Loving Father, you did just fix my pickup, no?”
“Son, what kind of ‘business’ are you ever involved in? Pfft! I’m talking about the family business, where real work is done. Our farm is back in business.”
“Uh, dude, what is your old man talking about?” PKB, in his sincere confusion, unintentionally did one of his best Beavis and Butthead to date (’twas 1997, after all).
“Oh, I forgot to tell you? Yeah, um, so I’ll be needing to use your pickup in the morning. And for the indefinite future. My pickup blew a transmission line and I’m not sure when we’ll have enough money to get that fixed, so…”
*crickets*
“Yeah, well anyways thanks for your help boys. I couldn’t have fixed ‘er without ya.”
Why, that son of a biscuit…
Content created on: 11/12 June 2022 (Sat/Sun)
Footnotes & References:
Leave a Reply