Ford Model AA Trucks

Wrenching with Dad

Some kids spent their childhood Saturdays at the movies or the mall. I spent mine under the hood, or more accurately, standing next to my dad while he did the real work and I tried not to lose the 9/16″ wrench he just handed me.

Dad’s garage wasn’t just a garage—it was his kingdom. Every tool you could ever imagine lived in there, piled on benches, hanging from hooks, tucked into drawers. And somehow, Dad knew where everything was. If he needed a left-handed metric crescent wrench, he’d dig into the chaos and produce one like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

The worst crime I ever committed as a kid wasn’t breaking a window or denting the car—it was the day I “helped” by cleaning and organizing his rolling tool chest. Every socket lined up by size, every screwdriver standing at attention. Beautiful, I thought. Dad came home, opened the drawer, and looked at me like I had just betrayed the family. “Now I’ll never find anything!” he grumbled. Lesson learned: don’t mess with a man’s tools.

One of my earliest jobs was standing guard with a wet rag while Dad welded on our ’65 VW Bug. Sparks flew, little fires popped up, and there I was, patting them out like a pint-sized firefighter. I felt important—saving the car one glowing ember at a time. Dad never worried; he trusted me. Or maybe he was just too focused on laying down a good bead.

Working with Dad wasn’t just about grease and busted knuckles. On hot summer days, after sweating over the old Ford truck, we’d crack open a glass bottle of Squirt. He’d split it with me, half for him, half for me. Sitting there, hands still dirty, sweat on our brows, it was the best drink I ever had. Sweet, cold, fizzy—tasted like victory.

Not all repairs happened at home. One time, on a dusty dirt road south of Dillon, Montana, the car decided it had had enough. There we were, tools spread on the gravel, Dad under the car, me handing him wrenches while the wind carried dust into our faces. It wasn’t fun at the time, but we got it running, and that road, that fix, still sticks with me.

And then there were the ice fishing trips up by Havre. The car—a California transplant—wasn’t exactly bred for Montana winters. Every time we headed out onto that frozen prairie, I wondered if the old thing would even start afterward. More than once, I pictured us stuck out there, future frozen exhibits alongside the walleye. But somehow, Dad always coaxed it to life, the engine groaning back into service.

At the time, holding rags, handing wrenches, and standing around in a cold garage didn’t feel like fun. I probably wished I was anywhere else. But looking back now, those were the best days. They weren’t just about fixing cars—they were about time spent with Dad. About learning patience, problem-solving, and the value of doing a job right. About watching a man who could make order out of chaos, except when his kid reorganized the tool chest.

Life goes by quick. Cars break down, engines wear out, garages fill up. But those memories of working side by side with Dad—they don’t rust. They just get shinier the older you get.