Childhood Memories of Dad

Childhood Memories of Dad

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Cold winters, hot summers, pokey gravel, darkness, inconvenient tools and deterioration of the old hotrods. All of this came to an abrupt hault when a father and son's dream became a reality. A place of our own to operate without distractions. A place to bring our thoughts together and mechanically reconstruct cars and repair them within our own limits. This place that my dad and I started building would be known as "The Shop" or a.k.a. "Hopshop." This shop is the last project that my dad started and I was going to finish it.

It all started by excavating the ground that would one-day support this shop. The shop plans had been previously made and were followed exactly. After the concrete was poured and steel beams were secured, it was ready to put the metal siding on. Within the concrete is our handprints and names, which makes it even more special to me. This sturdy architecture was unable to be finished because of the lack of expenses, after my dad's death. After that cold lonely winter, leading to the on coming year flew by very swiftly. I finally overcame my fear and decided that it was time to step up and find the will to complete the project. It took some time and money, but finally it was completed. It included automatic garage doors, sophisticated lighting system, a pellet stove for the cold winters and an air conditioner for the scorching summer. I moved all of our air tools, craftsman wrenches, sockets, vises, grinders, and the vehicles.

In addition to the shop, there are things within the shop that have stories to them, making it what it is, such as the toolbox, Mustang, and Bronco. The Mustang was my dad's and it has been his since it was first manufactured. We were going to restore it to its original look that was established from my dad's artistic ability. Designing it with gloss black and flames coming from both fender wells. It had 20 inch racing slicks with a 4:11 positive track pushing 400 horses with its 302 boss engine. I remember how it used to smell, like hot dust leather and it used to suck me back in the seat almost giving me whiplash. We called The "Stang." It has been wrecked but only has a minor dent in its front right fender. The engine is now in my dad's 79 Ford but the

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Related Searches">memories will soon be restored and brought back to life. Now, my friends and I work to rebuild the Mustang. While the shop protects the old hot rod, just like wine, they get sweeter in time.

Behind the old hotrods stands a toolbox. It stands about 6 feet tall and is red with chrome pinstripes. It holds numerous amounts of tools and is seriously unorganized. The first and second drawers do not open all the way and neither does the very last one. The rollers on the bottom are rusted so it does not roll easily and one is broken so it tips back and fourth when you lean on it. This is ironic because when I was younger (around 4) I used to sit in this same tool chest admiring the tools as they showed my reflection in the shinny new chrome finish.

Now I have scratched them up so badly from hitting them against the ground in anger. You can't read the size, but that's okay I can still tell what size it is from using them so many countless times. After a while, when I would go get a tool I would find old pictures of the "Stang" or my dad's old name patches for his work shirt that would sometimes make me weep and have to leave. I would also find some magazines, but those are a little too revealing if you know what I mean. The real special thing about this toolbox is that it was my dad's and I'm never trading it in for a new one.

On the opposite side of the tool chest is the bench that holds everything. It is a very nice bench it covers the whole 40ft backside of the shop. It is made of plywood and double 2x4's. It doesn't have much of a story but like wise takes more of a beating than everything put together.

Furthermore there is my 69 Bronco. It has five dents, a little rust and has been painted primer gray. It previously was painted blue and was our hunting truck. Being the hunting truck that it still is it takes quite a beating but is very reliable. I shot my first elk from the hood and along with that it was my first vehicle. I plan on keeping it until the day I die just like my dad said he would.

This shop has no cold winters, hot summers, pokey gravel, darkness, or inconvenient tools but only the preservation of the old hotrods. I see this shop as a stepping stone for me and a new place to store the old memories. I can sometimes feel my dad there with me helping me to break that one bolt loose so I don't break my knuckles again or giving me advise. These cherished memories can never be taken away and I will not ever give them away.
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