Missing My Dad

My father, a”h, passed away a little more than seven years ago. At sixty-seven, he was far too young. I must admit that, even though I have his picture up on my screensaver, there are long stretches of time that go by and I don’t think all that much about him. After all, it would be difficult to function if we were to constantly recall the losses in our lives. There are, of course, the times when I find myself quoting my Dad or using one of his lines or jokes, especially when talking to my own kids. Less often, but still there, are the times, usually late at night, when everyone else is asleep, that I think about him, alone in the dark, for a full hour or so. Then, there are the mundane occurrences that jog a vivid memory.

One Thursday, a few weeks back, I spent the entire morning in court and then went directly to a meeting. By the time I was finished it was after 2:30 and I still needed to stop by my Mother’s for a few minutes and also to run some local errands. Since I had been a bit under the weather and by the time I finished everything it was close to 4 , I decided not to go in to the office (I work for myself).

I really needed a car wash and I found myself not far from a local one so I decided to take care of that as well. As I pulled up, I remembered how my Dad used to bring my brothers and me to the same car wash 25-30 years ago. The place has changed, substantially. Modernized. An oil change place has been added and everything is sparkling clean and computerized. I’m fine with change. And modernization. But the one change I didn’t like is that you now have to exit the car before it goes through the wash.

When my Dad would take us to the car wash, you got to stay in the car as it went through the wash and, boy, was it a wonder: Soapy foam slowly creeping down the car, huge water machine guns spraying their high power, steamy mist, large brushes and floppy, orange linguini-like cloths gently slapping the car, flashing lights as you went through the hot wax and that oversized blower with the small wheel in the middle rolling up the front windshield at the end. We loved it so much that I’m positive that there were times when my Dad took us for a car wash even when we didn’t need one. ‘Cuz that’s just what Dads do.

Now, banished from my own car and relegated to longingly watching it slosh through the car wash from a picture window, I could almost see my Dad smiling behind the wheel while my brothers and I frollick in the backseat, enjoying our momentary, watery escape from the world outside.

I don’t know if there are any more “ride through” car washes. I haven’t seen one in years. I think I was able to bring my own kids through one only once and I’m not sure who enjoyed it more, me or them. I assume that insurance evaluators and risk managers have pretty much put the kabash on them.

Anyway, I miss my Dad.