At Home Mechanic

It only took me less than a week after receiving my driver’s license in the summer of my 16th year to stuff the right front corner on my Mother’s 1971 Pinto Runabout into the wheel well of a parked truck while making a U-turn in a strip mall parking lot. The heavy gauge sheet metal of the truck barely noticed the intrusion of the tiny Ford. The truck driver wiped away the smudge in the paint with the moistened tip of his finger and told me to be more careful. The fiberglass headlight surround and the first three inches of tinny fender on Mom’s Pinto were crushed like my hopes of ever dating the Homecoming Queen.

I do not remember Mom’s reaction to the way I had re-sculpted the compound curves of her car’s front fender, I suspect that she was less than pleased about what I had done to her car. I do remember that Dad was philosophical about it and glad that the damage was not far worse. For my sins I had to buy a new headlight surround and Dad supervised my work with a jar of Bondo to put the fender back into a semblance of order. While the body and fender work I did on the Pinto was something less than perfect, the experience made me a much more careful driver; in the following 35 years I have barely done more than brush a bumper.

I now have a 16-year old son of my own who is a new driver. Rather than have him experience his first accident in a car that I care about I bought him a nearly pristine, though very used, 1990 Honda Prelude. Clean, straight and mechanically sound I figured the Prelude would offer a young man a modicum of style and performance in a reasonably economical and reliable package. Normally I would have insisted that my son use his own hard earned money to acquire a car; I see this as a character building opportunity. But our family’s circumstances are not normal and it is to my advantage to have my son fill in as second driver for the household. I console myself by knowing that I have bought him a car that will serve him well through the remainder of his education through graduate school.

When my son first started to drive I would hold my breath and wait for the cell phone call telling me to come help sweep up the debris from his first accident. A month passed and I never got that call. A second and third month passed with no incidents. By the fourth month I began to relax. But it was while I was lulled into a false sense of security that I finally got the call.

Parking is tight at his high school and he must jockey for a spot on the street. While backing into a spot he lost track of a telephone pole and clipped the corner of his car. The actual damage is minor; it could even be ignored, as the damage does not affect the car’s safety or performance. But my son is proud of his car and the thought of a self-imposed blemish marring the otherwise virgin flanks of his car is more than he could bear.

If we took the car to a body shop the repair shop, I expect that the repair bill would top $500 easily. My son does not have that kind of scratch rattling around in his pockets and I may be an indulgent Dad but even I have my limits. So I have sourced a piece of replacement sheet metal and a generous supply of rattle can spray paint. I will provide the supervision but the boy will supply the labor.

My son will get some hands-on auto repair experience and maybe a life lesson about paying attention. I get the satisfaction of seeing my son learning the consequences of his actions. And my Dad gets see to how life repeats itself.