Chapter 4

My mother, easily the wisest person Ive ever met, once said to me if your children show Damn It, How Cool Do Your interest in anything, treat it like a flower, because if you dont, Parents Have to Be ? youll kill it with neglect or worse. It was easily the best piece of advice Ive ever gotten from anyone, anywhere, about anything. Maire Anne and I have raised our boys, Ethan, Kyle, and Aaron, with my mothers dont kill the flower mechanism front and center. All three have found their passions (Ethan film; Kyle theater technology; Aaron photography) and have evolved into wonderful interesting human beings. And as you give, hopefully you shall receive. What was the theme song from that old TV show? Its about time, its about space. I love playing with cars. It is my flower. It appears to be something that is essential to my continuing emotional well being. My family gets that and gives me the physical, temporal, emotional, and financial space to do it. Let me lay this out for you. When Im in the midst of a major repair, I will retreat to the garage every evening for weeks plus consecutive weekends. And if, in the middle of the repair, I catch a whiff of some car thats advertised, I will drop everything on a moments notice, run out, withdraw several thousand dollars in cash from the bank, drive a hundred miles, and come home with another hobbled car that Ill then work on for months, starting the cycle all over again. Maire Anne wont say another car? What are you, nuts? She wont say were due at my mothers at 3:00. She wont put her hands on her hips and shrilly declare I want to buy new furniture youll have to sell one of those things if I cant buy new furniture. She sees that buying and working on cars gives me pleasure. She trusts that I am responsible, and that, for the most

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part, I know what I am doing. I would say that, for this, I love her, but its the other way aroundin our world, this is how people who love and respect each other behave. Maire Anne has her flower as well, and unlike my automotive hobby, hers is also her livelihood. Her interest in animals led to a degree in zoology, which then led to her becoming the co-owner of a business called Bugworks. She and her business partner bring insects and arthropods into classrooms to teach kids about respecting the natural world (professionally, she is the bug lady). So in our house, in addition to my garage, we have the bug room, which hosts terraria that contain tarantulas, scorpions, praying mantises, giant African millipedes, lubbers (grasshoppers of biblical proportion), Madagascar hissing cockroaches, meal worms, the beetles they metamorphose into, and a vinegaroon, which sounds like a cookie but I assure you is not. In return for the bliss I receive working in the garage, I leave Maire Anne alone when she is upstairs feeding the tarantulas. Recently, Maire Anne called me at work, quite excited. One of my scorpions had babies! she said. Im a grandmother! I rushed home with the camera to find ten snow-white baby scorpions, each the size of a thumbnail, on the mothers back, with an eleventh emerging from beneath her. Maire Anne explained that, unlike the majority of arachnids, scorpions are viviparous, meaning they give live birth. It definitely rang my weird-shit-o-meter. One could say, Oh your wife brings bugs home so she cant really complain when you bring cars home, but that misses the point. Its not like we keep score, where one new project car equals two tarantulas and a millipede (though I should try that; the baby scorpions alone should justify at least that 63 Rambler Classic). Maire Anne has no more squeamishness about coming into the garage than I do journeying into the bug room; in fact, she probably has the same overall reaction, which can be summed up as: what is that smell? In my space its the curious combination of brake fluid and rust inhibitor; in hers, high humidity and dead crickets. I did give her a hard time when, one night, while working at the computer, I felt something on my ankle and found a cockroach the size of a Swiss Army knife crawling up my leg. (Response: Honey, one of your cockroaches got out. Again.) But then again, she still doesnt know about the time I used The Good Bread Knife to trim a power steering hose.

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At this point, men are probably thinking who is this woman and how do I inject her Zen-like emotional state into my wifes body? I suspect that many women are thinking two things: I would never let my husband do that. What does she get out of it? (If you have to ask, you dont get it, but how about love, respect, fidelity, and your own space?) The second thing is, Bugs? Really? Now, you could say, Well, a woman who handles live tarantulas is the poster girl for non-traditional gender roles, so okay, theyre both weirdos no wonder she puts up with him, but, actually, Maire Anne has documented the parameters of her tolerance: I dont know what my limit for these cars is, but Ill know it when I see it. Just remember that I have threatened to get dung beetles if you overstep the car line. And regarding dung beetles, some insect caretakers have observed that, with respect to dietary preferences, dung beetles can be sustained on something other than poop (preferred poop seems more vital to breeding and rearing). Beetle chow can be mixed by adding the following to a blender: half an apple, half a banana, a protein source (a four-inch minnow or about ten earthworms), a quarter cup of wheat germ, a handful of freshly pulled grass grown from bird seed, including the roots and a bit of soil. The resulting mash is rolled into little pellets and stored in the fridge. DO YOU WANT THIS IN OUR FRIDGE? Think about that when that next ad on Craigslist lights a fire under your creeper. God I love this woman. But I must point out that threats of nasty bug-related entities in the refrigerator dont scare me; we have had a dead solpugid (sun spider; go ahead and Google it) in the freezer for six years. Why? Beats the hell out of me, but who am I to question passion? It does give me food for thought, though, every time I go in there for a Popsicle. When both Aaron and Kyle started doing stage crew for their high school theater productions and began spending every waking hour in the theater, initially Maire Anne and I were concerned. I mean, dont kill the flower is fine advice, but what about their grades? We quickly

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realized that, in fact, having them passionate and committed to a constructive activity was a gift. So to any long-suffering spouse of a threeyears-to-do-a-frame-off-restoration guy, I can say only this: at least you know where he is. Seriously. Our kids have always accepted dads working on the car as just one of many points of interest on the landscape. Professionally, Im an engineer, working in geophysical applications related to the detection of unexploded bombs on old military training ranges, and sometimes Im gone for weeks at a time on field surveys. Maire Anne and I were in and out of rock and roll bands together for many years (Im a guitarist, shes a drummer), and Im still a quasi-working singer/ songwriter. Weve often joked with the kids: Bugs, bombs, cars, and guitarsdamn it how cool do your parents have to be? Familiarity may not breed contempt, but it does foster yawns. The boys friends may drop jaw when they see the garage full of cars and the terraria with Maire Annes IOUS (Insects of Unusual Size), but it no longer registers much on the boys personal radar; its just part of the furniture. Now, it is a well-known fact that Dad likes to work on his cars. I am out in the garage many evenings and weekends. Over the years, Ive let the kids know that they were welcome in the garage, but I neither begged them to join me, nor hung out a dad achieving 3rd level of Zen in the garage do not break the trance this means YOU sign. At dinner, Id talk about my current automotive project, generally to minimal interest. Now, I am a realist in these matters. In a world of cell phones, instant messaging, and downloaded video, I never constructed wholesale Ward and Beaver fantasies of greasy meaningful father-son bonding over guibos and gaskets. So when the two older boys headed out for the night and the young one queued up in front of The Disney Channel, I shrugged and scooted for the garage. Ive solicited their help when I needed a strong back or an extra pair of hands, and Ive tried to mandate Ethans participation when Im working on his car, but if wrenching is in their genes as it apparently is in mine, it hasnt been expressed yet. Ethan is a big picture guy. If his car is running, he wont do a thing; if it dies, hell call me. Kyle, on the other hand, is very much an implementation guy, but he does not yet own a car. When he does, he may be seduced by the sirens of wrenching, as I was. Aaron is still a work in progress. But so am I.

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Ill lie, for just a moment, on the couch. Between my fathers getting sick, his understandable remoteness, and his dying, he wasnt around much. A few years ago I read Iron John by Robert Bly (and anyone who thinks its a book about men beating drums to get in touch with their inner warrior hasnt read it; I can assure you it is 100% drum-free). Mr. Blys analysis of how, prior to industrialization, sons worked in the fields or in blacksmith shops next to their fathers and absorbed, at the psychic and cellular levels, their maleness, and how this was lost once men began leaving their families to go to work at factories in cities, is remarkably insightful and quite moving. When I read it, I did in fact begin to think that perhaps Id missed an opportunity for this kind of bone-level bonding, but Im not sure what I wouldve done differently. Im sorry, our time is up. Even if we dont wrench side-by-side, I cant think of a better example to give my kids of how to live than seeing me working towards a goal, doing things that constructively engage my passion and give me pleasure. A man I know, Jim, has a well-known BMW-specific repair shop. Every few years Ill call him up with a transmission-related question. Last year when I called the shop, his son Teddy answered the phone. Id never heard Jim talk about his kids, and I was intrigued that Teddy was now clearly part of the family business. As Teddy and I developed a rapport, I told him about my kids having little interest in accompanying me into the garage and asked him what his path was. Well, he said, like your kids, my interest was always elsewhere, but my dad always made sure I knew that the door was open. It just took me a long time to walk through it. Maybe, in this world, the best a father can do is let his kids know the door is open.

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established 1950 Automotive Reference

BentleyPublishers
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Memoirs of a Hack Mechanic

(a memoir with actual useful stuff)

How Fixing Broken BMWs Helped Make Me Whole

by Rob Siegel Price: $29.95 Bentley Stock Number: GBRS Publication Date: 2013.06.03 ISBN: 978-0-8376-1720-6 Softcover, 6 x 9 Case quantity: 10 432 pages, 37 photos

For over 25 years Rob Siegel has written a monthly column called The Hack Mechanic for the BMW Car Club of Americas magazine Roundel. In Memoirs of a Hack Mechanic, Siegel shares his secrets to buying, fixing, and driving cool cars without risking the kids tuition money or destroying his marriage. And thats something to brag about considering the dozens of cars, including twenty-five BMW 2002s, that have passed through his garage over the past three decades. A geophysicist by day and self-professed car junkie in his free time, Siegel explores his passion for cars with unflinching honesty and offers a unique window into the Car Guy mind. Along the way he reflects on the genesis of his fascination with boxy little German sedans, the miserable Triumph GT6+ he owned in college, rebuilding the engine of his wifes VW bus in the kitchen of their first apartment, how cars affect family dynamics, and why men really love cars. And in showing how cars have repeatedly been the conduit for deep human connections in his life, Siegel reveals his controversial theory that beyond their greasy fingernails, gearheads are actually intimate, caring creatures. Siegel also explains why, in a world over which we have so little control, the act of diagnosing and painstakingly fixing broken cars can be immensely therapeutic. Just dont ask him to fix other peoples cars! With a steady dose of irreverent humor, Memoirs of a Hack Mechanic blends car stories, DIY advice, and cautionary tales in a way that will resonate with the car-obsessed (and the people who love them).

Rob removing the engine from Maire Annes 72 VW Bus in preparation for rebuild and transplant into a 68 VW Camper. (Photo by Maire Anne Diamond)

Putting the coupe to bed for the winter. This photo, shot by Yale Rachlin, so beautifully captures the care and intimacy that men are capable of feeling for their car. (Photo by Yale Rachlin)

The 73 Malaga 2002 with camping gear at a Colorado trail head. Tucked into the backpack is the engagement ring Rob would give Maire Anne at the summit. (Photo by Rob Siegel)

It is heartfelt; it is quirky; and it is mine - a memoir with actual useful stuff. Who else is going to tell you car stories, give you parenting tips, and tell you how to burn out a snapped-off stud with an oxyacetylene torch? - Rob Siegel, Roundel - October 2012

Bentley Publishers, 1734 Massachusetts Avenue, Cambridge, MA 02138-1804 USA Tel: 617-547-4170 Toll Free: 800-423-4595 Fax: 617-876-9235 http://www.bentleypublishers.com/contact-us
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