Ford Model AA Trucks

Growing up, my dad was a one-man repair shop. Our driveway was less of a place to park cars and more like a battlefield where mechanical parts went to be fixed—or sometimes just to die a slow, oily death. Dad worked on everything: VW Bugs, VW buses, and our trusty Ford F-250.

If a vehicle had wheels and the slightest chance of running, Dad believed it deserved to be saved. As a kid, I didn’t always share that belief. My dream world involved sprawling Lego cities on the cool carpet inside, where my cars never broke down, never leaked oil, and always ran perfectly. But no matter how far along I was in constructing my Lego empire, Dad’s voice would come thundering through the open window:

“Wade! I need an extra set of hands out here!”

And just like that, I was drafted into the garage army, usually wearing shorts and flip-flops—the worst possible uniform for the job.

One of my earliest “responsibilities” was to hold a wet rag while Dad welded. He’d be outside the car, mask down, sending sparks flying, while I was inside, gripping that wet rag like my life depended on it.

“If you see anything catch fire, put it out fast!” Dad would shout over the crackling of the welder.

Nothing makes a kid appreciate air conditioning like sitting in a sweltering VW Bug in the middle of summer, praying the seat cushion doesn’t spontaneously combust. OSHA would have had a heart attack if they’d seen our setup, but to Dad, it was just another day in the shop.

VW Bugs have engines that come out like stubborn teeth—they don’t want to leave. Dad was always pulling one out for a rebuild, and my role was part assistant, part pack mule, part comic relief.

“Hand me the 13-millimeter socket with the extension,” he’d say.

I’d hand him what I thought was the right tool.

“No, not that one—the other one!”

This exchange was repeated so often that I thought “the other one” was an official tool name.

One of the most memorable “roadside adventures” came on a hot summer day when we were driving the VW Bug. Suddenly, the engine revved like a banshee, but we didn’t go anywhere. Dad muttered something under his breath, pulled over, and hopped out.

“Throttle cable broke,” he said matter-of-factly, like it happened every Tuesday.

Sure enough, the cable had snapped right at the carburetor. Dad popped open the engine lid, examined the break, and then gave me that look. The one that meant, “Hold this and don’t screw it up.”

He rooted around in the glove box and under the seats, emerging with a piece of old wire and some electrical tape.

“We’re gonna fix this, Wade. Pump the gas pedal real slow.”

I dutifully climbed into the driver’s seat, pressing the pedal while Dad jury-rigged the cable back together. After a few tense minutes—and a lot of new vocabulary words from Dad—we were back on the road. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked, and to Dad, that was what mattered.

Of course, not all our car adventures involved breakdowns. Some involved sneaking in.

Whenever we went to the drive-in theater, the mission was always the same: save money by smuggling me in behind the backseat of Dad’s 1965 VW Bug. I’d curl up like a pretzel, trying not to sneeze while the ticket-taker shined a flashlight inside.

Dad, cool as ever, would chat with the attendant like nothing was amiss. Once we passed through, he’d laugh and say,

“Alright, kiddo, you can come up now.”

I’d pop up grinning, feeling like a master criminal who’d just pulled off the heist of the century. Watching a movie was fun, but nothing beat the thrill of getting away with it.

Then there was the whole process of putting the camper on the F-250. It required the entire family and a communication system that rivaled air-traffic control.

Dad would be behind the truck, shouting directions. Mom was at the wheel, muttering under her breath. My job was to act as a human buffer zone, ready to dodge out of the way of both the truck and my parents’ growing frustration.

Somehow, against all odds, we’d get the camper lined up and settled in. Dad would dust off his hands, step back like a victorious general, and declare, “Perfect. First try.”
The rest of us just exchanged looks.

Over time, I started to figure things out. I learned how to anticipate which tool Dad would need next, and I stopped confusing the half-inch socket with the 12-millimeter. I even started to feel a strange satisfaction when a stubborn bolt finally gave way or when a repair worked on the first try.

Back then, I didn’t appreciate these moments. I thought they were just hot, sweaty, grease-stained interruptions to my Lego-building career.

But looking back now, those were the best days.

They were more than just repairs and roadside fixes. They were lessons in patience, problem-solving, and the fine art of making do with what you have.

Even now, when I pick up a wrench, I can almost hear Dad’s voice saying, “Hand me the 13-millimeter.”
And this time, without fail, I always grab the right one.