A Parent's Nightmare

The dreaded time has arrived.  Frankly it is one of the most dreaded moments in a parents life.  It is scarier than birth, more worrisome than marriage.  Harder than saying good bye as your child packs his bags and heads off to college.  No, all of those pale in comparison.  It is the moment when your child learns how to drive.  In America long ago we sold our soul to the devil.  In most societies driving is something optional that is eventually worked into as life and budgets permit.  People move with mass transit and trains.  America decided in the 1950's that we were not going to be this kind of society.  We were, and are a society of unchained freedom in love of the open road.  We should be the ones to decide where and when to go, not some transit planner. I wonder if the people that made those decisions ever thought about their kids?

The result of our liberation from the transit ties that once bound us was ultimate captivity for the aged and the young.  This occurs when the old can no longer drive and have no other alternative but sit in their homes and plead for a ride to the grocery.  It is viewed in the dependency of our children who must beg their parents for a ride to a friend's house or after school activity.   

In order to mitigate the impact on our children we as a society have departed from the tradition of affording most adult rights and privileges at the age of 18.  I say most because while we are content to send our children off to foreign lands to die in wars at 18 we don't let them have a drink until they are 21.  Necessity has moved American society to offer drivers permits at the wee age of 15 and licenses 6 months after.  Hell you can't even vote until you are 18 but we will give you the keys to a two ton piece of metal and allow you to wreak havoc on the world.  Having your first accident almost seems like a rite of passage.  Lord knows at 17 I wrecked my first car, a beautiful old MGB, 8 months after I bought it.  As you tick through the list of my son's friends the challenge seems to be to isolate the names that so far haven't been in a wreck.  

Just like our old Bus, Gus

Despite this horrifying reality I recently yielded to my son's desire to drive a car.  He started off dreaming of owning a Volkswagen Westfalia Camper.   As impractical as the idea seemed my father and I were both tantalized by the idea for the simple fact that he/we once had one.  His search for prospective candidates was a walk down memory lane. It reminded both of us of our trips out of Alaska and across America in our tan 1979 bus we called Gus.  My son simply loved the idea of waking up in the morning and cooking bacon on his camper stove.  Intelligent, well groomed and intellectual he has come to idolize the quintessential hippie.  Thank goodness he hasn't figured out many never bathed and he has no attraction to marijuana.  

As each day passed and each ad around the country was searched, contacted and monitored by a kid with no money I found myself gradually slipping down the sliding road of insanity.  Growing weary I gave into what he spotted and my father confirmed as potentially the perfect candidate.  With no job in site and no money to his name I consented to driving 6 hours to a town north of Orlando, Florida to examine a likely non-running bus with a decent body and an ocean of needed work.  Buying it would likely mean contracting a company to ship it back and a spot of immobilization on my driveway for at least a year while he worked on saving the money to rebuild it.  A job bagging groceries at Publix never seemed so far away.  My father became excited and talking with Noah continued adding fuel to the fire.  My wife simply shook her head unable to comprehend any of this.  Remember, she comes from a country where the vast majority of the population don't own a car and never drive in their lifetime.  Eventually I resigned myself to my fate if for no other reason than to hear him stop talking about and showing me pictures of VW Buses.  I took two days off work and made plans for the trip south.  

Not far from my house there is a private shop located in what was an abandoned Dodge dealership, a relic of when the company nearly ceased to exist three years ago.  I had noticed some buses parked there from time to time and I thought at the very least they might be a great reality check for my son. I have nothing against project cars, I just wanted him to better understand what he was getting himself into and obviously indirectly me into.  We found an older guy with shoulder length blond hair his feet kicked up on a desk.  He looked like a California Beach relic of the past.  He listened and then with frequent pauses told us that he only worked on luxury cars.  He did however have a suggestion.  The suggestion was prefaced with "I don't know if I am doing you a favor or not but there is this guy named Sam in town who works on VWs."  

He provided directions that seemed to mirror those you would find on a treasure map.  Take a left turn at the mail box, a right at the tree.  Somehow we located it, the location given away by the sight of an VW grave yard behind a well kept house on a mixed industrial/residential road.  The only thing missing was an X marking the spot.

We parked in front of the house and apprehensively walked back into the yard behind it.  The decaying hulks of numerous VW Buses, bugs and a few Ghias rimmed the yard.  In front of the yard sat a shiny black Karmann Ghia and a number of immaculately painted bugs.

On one side of the yard toward the front was a small collection of carports and buildings somehow joined together with a shipping container on the side.  It was obviously a shop as VW parts lay strewn about in seemingly unorganized piles of metal, nuts and bolts.  From the chaos emerged a moderately shaven man of 67 years wearing work clothes.  He introduced himself as Sam Yant.  Sam is a retired Federal Agricultural employee from Pennsylvania who at some point in his life realized a love for the mechanical.  He is the kind of mechanic that fixes an engine by listening to it talk to him.  He doesn't rely on computers or intricate gauges.  Instead, he bends his ear to hear the voice of the engine.  I explained our bus predicament and Sam ushered us into his office and motioned for us to sit. 

Sam's office was everything you would expect from Sam.  His office mirrored his garage in its state of general chaos yet I quickly had the feeling that he knew exactly where everything was.  His small desk was glued to the floor with a line of silicon and our seat was once a bench seat in a Volkswagen Bus.  Shoving piles of magazines, manuals and catalogs aside, I, Noah and Nikki listened intently as he explained the ups and downs of automobile restoration and owing a Volkswagen.    He then proceeded to give us demonstrations on what to look for in the Florida bus engine and taught us how to do a compression test.  Occasionally he would turn to his mountains of parts and retrieve one item from exactly where he had placed it to prove his point. 

By the time Sam was done Noah seemed to be truly contemplating his situation.  I pointed out the shiny Ghia at the front of Sam's yard and asked him what he thought of it.  "How much for this one Sam?"  I called out. 

"$4,800."  Sam answered, "but I will sell it to you for four.  I put a new engine in it and it runs great."

I watched Noah and he seemed interested.  Sam walked over to me and said in a hushed voice.  "I am sorry if I was too realistic about the bus in Florida.  I just want Noah to understand what he is getting himself into."

"Sam," I replied. "If he changes his mind I will owe you big time." I later brought him a six pack of Bavarian beer.  

Noah continued to circle the Ghia.  "I like it Pop.  I like it a lot."

Less than an hour later I was calling Sam back and telling him we would buy the car.   I knew in my heart it was a hell of a deal.  Not only was it an amazing price for a car that should sell for at least seven, it came with the knowledge of not only a wise man but a new friend. 

We returned the next day with a deposit and Sam told us to come by anytime.  He told Noah that he would teach him all the things to look for in an old VW and show him the basics.  I could tell he liked my son.  I think he also had a crush on my wife when at times during his office visits the subject of VWs would vanish and he would be asking her about the Philippines. 

Sam makes his own wine and he gave us a bottle of blueberry wine.  At 12% by volume the stuff does have kick.  He likes to harvest the grapes growing along the edge of his property and yearly he makes a batch.  Some of them have even intruded into the rust hulks of his cars. I like to think it ultimately gives the wine a special VW flavor.   I told him I had noticed the Hyundai in front of his house and what my father always told me.  "Son, it is okay to own an MGB, just make sure you have a Japanese car to take you to the parts store."  Sam laughed and said it was his wife's.  I could tell that in Sam's life his wife owned the house and the front.  She owned a small fenced back yard that was likely well kept.  Beyond that, it was all Sam.

As the experience continued I knew that Noah was already starting to see the world in different terms.  He was learning that it was okay to use your hands.  That you could fix things yourself.  That the tradesman was as intelligent as the college man he just had skills in a different arena. 

We have visited Sam many times now and my son has actually become a business associate of him.  Sam is computer illiterate.  He calls Noah's iphone his computer.  Noah has become his sales intermediary and exchange Sam gives him a cut.  Noah lists Sam's vehicles and finds buyers.  Today they successfully completed their first transaction and Sam is already eager for him to list another.

The Ghia is now in my garage as Noah learns to drive a manual.  We have started little projects and made plans for future renovations.  Noah is proud to have a car even if he only has a learners permit.  There is a psychological factor for him in his world.  He attends a school where the students drive BMWs, Mercedes and Mustangs.   His civil service father could never compete. Every kid wants to be different and inside the lines of his nearly 40 year old Ghia he is.  He is unique. 

As a parent I am resigned to do the one thing my parents couldn't afford to do with my MGB.  I will keep my little Toyota for him because I know in my heart he will need it one day.  He will discover in the beautiful curves and lines of his Ghia that dependability is a concept not a guarantee.  He will have girlfriends that while impressed just won't understand why it doesn't start one day.  Why the seats are old and low and there is no air conditioning.  Why they will smell of gas from the engine and wonder why the car is so loud. 

Still, my son is learning. He is learning to be a man.  With each turn of a wrench or problem to solve he is learning that he can do things mechanical.  That he can fix things and work with his hands.  The other day we sat with Sam in his office and listened intently as Sam told us various stories.  I think for Sam at 67 the thought of having a man and his son so interested in his life's passion is exciting.  Sam's sons are grown and gone.  Time is marching on yet here are two people however ignorant that actually care about his craft.  Sam referred to himself as a dinosaur, a dying breed of men who made things and fixed things with their hands.  He pulled out a copper street lamp yet to be hung.  It was made by his brother in law from scrap copper.  Each piece had been lovingly pounded, straightened and reformed.  I mentioned my grandfather to him and my father.  How each had talent beyond my ability to create something from nothing.  To fix, to solve.

Recanting the story to my father I came upon an analogy for Sam.  It is almost as if Sam speaks a language.  It is a dying language that reflects a culture and tradition.  Every year fewer and fewer people speak it as the cadence and rhythm gradually disappear from the collective consciousness.   Only those truly interested in it will learn it.  They will learn it for the tradition and the culture.  They will learn it to let a piece of history and knowledge continues to survive.  I will never be fluent in this language nor will my son yet we will try in our own ways to keep it alive.

My son asked Sam who grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania if he had ever gone to Woodstock?  Sam's eyes lightened.  "I sure wanted to."  He said.  "I would have but I was in student at Penn State studying to be a teacher.  I couldn't leave but I was so close.  I wanted to go."  He then motioned for us to follow him and led us to his stereo in the garage.  It was a whole rack and as he cranked up some classic rock and pointed at the speakers on shelves above the countless parts and bins.  The music got louder.  "See no distortion.  They can hear this down the street! BOSE SPEAKERS!  GOT THEM FOR FREE FROM A GUY I SOLD MY BACK LOT TOO.  HE HAS A STORAGE UNIT BUSINESS AND HE WAS CLEANING OUT ONE THAT HAD BEEN ABANDONED!"

Visiting Sam is an investment in time but when we leave I always feel I am a little smarter.  He handed me another bottle of homemade wine and told Noah that when you drink it, it brings out your true self.  The great thing about owning a 1973 Karmann Ghia is that the work never ends.  That means another visit to Sam is just a weekend away.