Cars Are In Our Blood

Three generations of automotive enthusiasts

My dad worked with his hands, like many of his generation — that’s just what you did. He grew up on the north shore of Long Island, NY digging for clams and worms to make money, building boats from scratch, and when he got older he worked on cars. When we moved from NY to Arizona, his hobby became more about cars than boats for obvious reasons. Arizona was a car collector’s dreamland with its dry climate. Two years prior to our move, Barrett-Jackson established their auction right there in Scottsdale, where we lived.

I remember driving to the auctions, seeing the cars lined up for sale on the side of Scottsdale Road outside the auction grounds. The auction was held under a single open-air tent back then. It’s a very different event now. My dad enjoyed the auction, but his main purpose for going was to find the deals on the cars being sold on the side roads.

He bought, restored, and sold many cars that way. My mom, my brother, and I all helped him with restoration. It was tedious, sometimes frustrating, and often knuckle-breaking work. But we persevered and learned a lot — mainly patience. I admired my dad for his persistence and determination.

I knew I didn’t have that in me; I just am not wired that way. I did have my share of project cars as I got older. Mostly a comedy of errors, like the Triumph Spitfire that the muffler fell off of that I left it in a dirt lot. Only to go back and pick it up and put it back on weeks later when I sold the car.

My son inherited the car gene. He’s much better at it than I am — he’s more patient, thorough, and intuitive. Maybe it skips a generation. The one thing we’ve all had in common and in our blood is car shows. For some reason we just can’t stay away. In reality, if I look at it logically, they may be some of the most boring events I’ve ever been to. Who wants to walk around all day in the direct sun and heat and look at shiny metal objects? Lots of people, I guess. It is a multi-billion-dollar industry every year.

Cars come and go, engines wear down, paint fades — but the ritual remains. Three generations, still wandering the rows, still drawn to the shine. Maybe we don’t go for the cars. Maybe we go to remember. In the end, maybe it’s never been about the cars. It’s about us.