I’ve never
spent very much time pretending to be an automobile mechanic. I believe the preferred descriptor is now
“automotive technician. At an age when many males were busily souping
up their first cars or taking
“auto-shop” classes, I had no interest in joining the ranks of those who could
rebuild a motor, perform brake jobs, or rebuild and paint the rusted out body
of some early 1950s derelict coupe.
There was a
select group of students at that time that drove new or nearly new cars to
school. They were the children of
automobile dealers who were allowed to drive demonstrator vehicles, piling up
miles on some local buyer’s new car before the ever saw it.
In nearly
the same category were the fortunate sons and daughters of local surgeons,
members of state government, and other upper social class families who were
willing to provide their offspring with Detroit status symbols. Also mentionable were the local standout ball
players who were pampered and treated by booster clubs, all too eager to
introduce young athletes to that world of under the table goodies.
In those
distant days, a high school parking lot held mostly family cars on loan for the
day, various pickup trucks driven in from local farm to market towns, and ten-year-old
specimens in various states of repair that belonged to the vocational class’s
students.
That is in
stark contrast to what I have seen since.
Many high school student parking lots have newer and more expensive
vehicles than do the faculty lots. There
seems to be a sense of obligation that compels parents to provide new vehicles
as 16th birthday gifts. I did
not and do not subscribe to such a practice.
I had no
personal vehicle. I could sometimes
share rides with friends, sometimes get a family car for events that required
extra hours on campus. I often road the
city bus line, often walked in good weather.
As a last result, there was school bus coverage. I generally preferred the five-mile hike home
to the yellow cattle hauler.
I never
became infected with the desire to rebuild and repair vehicles. At this point in my life I was a decent
woodwinds musician and was becoming a better than average acoustic guitar
player. Had I not intended to enter a
university after high school I might have been qualified for enrollment in
motor-shop classes, to find a mechanic’s job that would fill the gap between
high school and induction into the armed forces.
Almost to a
person, the males attending motor-shop were there because they had no interest
in any academic courses; while I was carrying a full college prep class-load and
instrumental music classes. Had I entered
motor-shop I would have been immediately the outsider. That certainly dampened an interest I might
have found in such education. However,
the thing that really was the single most determinant lay close at hand. Nearly every one of the motor-shop students
and instructors were missing digits.
That single factor was all I had to see.
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