I’m composing a series of posts for my author/writing website that will, through the course of the series, tell the story of my wife’s and my relationship–and how it somewhat paralleled that of my parents’ relationship. The notes on my parents’ relationship come from my mom’s handwritten story of her life, marriage and family that I came into possession of after she died (at 86). We lost my dad many years earlier (when he was only 54 and she was 52). I am hopeful this series will especially be a blessing to my children and my siblings (and extended family and friends). I’m calling the series The Ties That Bind and I’m going to call this first entry ...
The Roughneck & The Valedictorian
Let me tell you a story.
Long ago, there was a beautiful young girl of 16, devoted to her studies, on her way to becoming Valedictorian, busy with extracurricular activities—captain of the cheerleading squad, student-government treasurer, class activities planner, chorus, and so on—she also worked part-time in a lakeside diner to help out her family.
There was this hot-rodding, roughneck character who started hanging out down by the lake. Like Jungleland’s Magic Rat, he “drove his sleek machine” (an immaculate, souped-up ‘47 Ford pickup truck, banana yellow with polished chrome,), “over the [town] line,” revving its loud engine and making a scene.
Once he’d laid eyes on the girl, everywhere she went he’d show up, revving his engine when he saw her. If she looked, he flashed a smile. If she didn’t, he’d rev the engine again. He’d strut into the crowded diner like he owned the place and try to scheme his way into her section. He’d position himself to flirtatiously block her path as she served, forcing her to step around him, smiling as they made eye-contact. He was annoying. “A real pain in the ass.”
But charming.
One day the girl came home from school and her mother met her at the door. “A boy named George called. He wants to stop by,” she said. The girl was thrilled. She thought George Hintzman, the captain of the basketball team, was coming over to ask her out on a date.
Then she heard the roughneck’s loud hot-rod pulling in.
The girl’s mother was very strict. ‘This guy has no idea what he is walking into,’ she thought, certain that once her mother saw that this boy was actually a smart-ass young man from Libertyville, and heard that his plan was to drive her daughter, in that hot-rod, far away from Grayslake where they lived and into downtown Chicago to see the Harlem Globetrotters, she just knew his plan would be dead in the water and that he’d be “out on his ear.” She sat in mouth-wide-open-shock when her mother said yes. He’d pick her up Saturday.
Saturday, she slid into that hot-rod next to him … and never left his side.
I got a ’69 Chevy with a three-ninety-six, Fuellie heads and a Hurst on the floor,
She’s waiting tonight down in the parking lot, outside the Seven-Eleven store;
Me and my partner Sonny built her straight out of scratch,
and he rides with me from town to town,
We only run for the money, got no strings attached,
We shut ‘em up and then we shut ‘em down.
Tonight, tonight the strip's just right, I wanna blow 'em off in my first heat,
Summer's here and the time is right, for racing in the street.
[Bruce Springsteen, "Racing in the Street," track 5, Darkness on the Edge of Town, 1978]
Working on the car with Dad was a right of passage in the Shaw family—each of the five of us Shaw kids had our turn. The stories are legendary in family lore. Cherished memories.
So many invaluable life lessons Dad taught me along the way … like how to turn a can of WD40 and a lit cigarette into a flame thrower! No kidding, as we were working on the car one night, I watched the old man take out a nuisance flying hornet, mid-flight. He pulled the lit cigarette from his lip, lined it up with a can of WD40 … Aim. Fire! POOF! Torched!
Hornet ash rained down. The, without missing a beat, like a gunfighter holstering his smoking side-iron, Dad twirled that cigarette right back onto his lip, took a deep drag, and went on working like nothing happened.
Each of us siblings have stories of working on our first car with Dad. Mine was the cream-colored, classic ’65 Mustang Dad brought home when I was 14, giving us plenty of time to “tinker on it,” as he liked to say.
That whole “she slid into the seat next to him …” thing, you could say the beginnings of Shari’s and my story was written in my DNA.
To be continued …
DARIN MICHAEL SHAW 