Dad and his toys
I’ve always been mystified by my dad’s fascination with his toys. When my siblings and I were kids, we’d joke that he would eventually be buried in his Nissan Pathfinder. While he was proficient in the art of mechanics, I was bored, usually disappearing when he was working on the many cars I had driven into the ground as a teenager. I was into the arts. He was into machines.
As I got older, I learned to appreciate the unusually zen-like calm exhibited by my dad while he turned screwdrivers or was underneath a propped vehicle. He wouldn’t say much while he was working on his toys. His responses are short, just like mine are when I work on one of my various art/writing projects as if any broken concentration would result in the interruption of our diligent serenity. We couldn’t be much more different from each other if we tried but, throughout the years, perhaps out of mutual curiosity of our obsessions, we learned to respect and enjoy the other’s company. I learned how to finagle interest in his work. I think he tried, too.
I’ve taken some pictures of my dad these last couple of trips to Miami to illustrate the pleasure and pride he takes in his work. These pictures are my bridge into his world.
My dad will probably flip if he sees this post. “Everyone is going to think I’m egotistical!”