Mufflers have a life span. I had accepted the fact that my car produced
more decibels per liter than any vehicle save a B-52 a take off. I was
proud of this characteristic: I could set off car alarms even on the
least sensitive of settings.
Those days, like the care-free ones of my youth, are gone. After my
Father and I completed some much needed repairs, he decided to take the
B to the muffler shop and have new glass packs welded in.
You have to know my Dad, but when I was a teenager, I had delusions of
my Buick Regal being a sports car. I was delighted the morning he left
to have new tires put on: I was hoping for some Goodyears or at least
Pirelli's. Imagine my surprise when he came back with some generic
"fuel-saver" tires.
Of course I understand his logic now, but hard lessons stay fresh long
after the pain has eased. When he announced he was going to have a new
muffler put on, a familiar uneasiness came upon me. I easily envisioned
a shiny $19.99 muffler crudely welded to my B's pipes.
So great was my trepidation, I almost stopped him. Twice. I almost
could see "fuel-saver" stamped into the muffler. When I called to tell
him not to worry about it, he had already left.
My Father did good. When I inspected my car Saturday evening, there
were two new glass pack mufflers right where they should be. In fact,
every major fault that had been wrong with the car when I left it with
him had been corrected: new clutch, new windshield, and new oil hoses.
I had plenty of time to think about it on my midnight drive through the
pine-forest back to my apartment. Dad had paid for all the pieces to
fix my car. I guess he spent close to $400 for a car I drive once a
week. He has his own project car to fix up: it needs new carpet and
some A/C work. I couldn't imagine why he had spent that much of his
money on my car.
Then I understood as I crested a small hill and saw lightning flashing
in some far-away clouds. The entire time Dad and I spent pulling the
engine or replacing the windshield, we were Father and Son. We never
complained about the work we were doing because it wasn't work: it was a
time for my Father and I to be alone, together, and sharing an activity
we both enjoy - working on cars. It doesn't really matter if it's a '63
Nash or a '77 Honda or a '70 MGB. It's about us being together, not
having to say a thing, but understanding everything.
A few months ago, I offered my best friend my near-pristine MGB for some
bits and pieces of a Land-Rover he had rusting in a barn. The offer was
unfair, and Jim refused to take advantage of it. I'm glad.
I have so many great memories of my Father and I working on that car, I
could never part with it.
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