Factory Air

This story is dedicated to my father since it's about him.

For most of my life, I didn't know anyone who knew more about cars than my father. He used to own a front end alignment business in Flemington, NJ, and worked on every one that was brought to his shop. In his later years, we could be sitting around watching old B&W movies on TCM and he'd recognize the cars. “Oh, there's a 1941 Buick!”

One of his favorite lines about those old cars was that, “Back then, you could order a car in any color you want as long as it's black.”

In 1986, he bought a new Topaz from a local Mercury dealer. Of course, this being Florida and all, it had to come with air conditioning. Being that he knew a lot about cars, he took a look under the hood and noticed something that didn't look quite right. “Is that factory air?”

The sales rep responded, “Of course it is.”

“Are you certain this is factory air?”

“I absolutely guarantee it. It's factory air.

OK, he thought, so he bought it.

Years later - and out of warranty, of course – his factory air stopped working. Yes, they do get overworked in the Florida climate. He couldn't fix it himself so he took it to one of his mechanic friends.

“This isn't factory air conditioning. It's after market.”

“You're kidding! The dealer swore it was factory air.”

“Trust me, it's not anything Ford ever made. I can't fix it.”

That totally infuriated my father. He had a terrible temper to begin with, but when someone did it over cars; something he was quite knowledgeable about? Forget it! He tore out of there and headed straight to the dealer to give them more than just a piece of his mind.

Parked at the service department, he jumped out and approached one of the reps. “I need you to take a look under the hood and tell me what kind of air conditioner it is. My mechanic can't fix it!” When in a fit of rage, my father was known to use language he didn't learn in church. “When I bought this car, the salesman swore it was factory air. He lied to me!”

“No sir, he was telling you the truth,” the man replied.

“NO HE WASN'T!!!” And from there, I'm sure it escalated. “You're nothing but a bunch of liars!”

“Sir, please come with me.” He led him to the parts department. Along the wall and stacked high were boxes and boxes that said it all. Printed in large, black, bold letters, was the brand name of the after market air conditioners that are installed by the dealer...

FACTORY AIR. Yes, the brand name was Factory Air.

“We'll be more than happy to repair it for you.”

“No way!” and my father stormed out. Only the dealer carried parts.

While there's nothing wrong with the brand, my father felt he was taken advantage of. Lied to. And he was. Because of his very stubborn German blood, he refused to let the dealer touch the car, so he drove it for years without air.

Personally, I had to agree with him. I think it was a very shady way to do business in the hot Florida sun.

Dirty dishes and other poop

An old girlfriend of mine got her degree in child psychology. One thing she always told me was that children's minds are not completely developed. You should never treat a child like an adult peer because their brains aren't quite up to it. Oh, they may try to act adult-like, but deep down inside, they're not even close. They're like apples and oranges that may look mature but aren't until fully nourished and ready to fall from the tree. I found this to be true. For example, once they reach a certain age, children think their parents are pretty stupid and have no idea what's going on in the world. Of course, their world is only as big as their circle of friends, school, the local hangout and whatever else is going on in the realm of TV and music in the social center of their brains. They might like to think their parents are smart because it only means they are smarter. Somewhere around 13, they turn 30. They're way smarter now and remain so for a number of years to come.

My younger brother recently told me of an experience he had with his 16-year-old daughter. The basement in his home is finished and she has her own virtual apartment down there. Every night, she takes her dinner down to her little "world" and watches TV or whatever. My poor brother and his wife have to eat all alone. Later at night, he checks the house to make sure everything is OK, that the doors are locked and all is well. In her bedroom, he saw the dinner plate and glass sitting on her nightstand. The next morning, he went down to make sure she was getting ready for school and noticed the dishes were gone. Great! She put them in the sink where they belong. How responsible! He went about his business preparing for work. In the meantime, she left for school. When he went into the kitchen, the plate and glass were not in the sink. Hmm. He went downstairs and looked all over. No dishes anywhere. Then he got down on his knees and looked under her bed.

"HAH! Here they are, that little stinker." He left them and placed a note on top of the plate that said CAUGHT YOU! It was his subtle way of saying there's no need to start a collection here. It reminds me of a time past...

Years ago, my old girlfriend, her daughter, Hannah, and I lived in a 2 bedroom, 1 bath apartment. We always ate at the dining room table and afterward took turns doing the dishes. Normally, we didn't dirty enough in one night to run the dishwasher. One evening, when it was Hannah's turn, we thought she was washing them as we went about our business. Later on, I went to take the garbage out. As I lifted the plastic bag from the container, it felt pretty heavy for just household trash and I could hear the clanging and clinking of dishes and silverware as they banged into each other. Stupid parents. They'll never know. I called her into the kitchen and told her she would have to pick through all that yucky rubbish to remove each and every plate, glass, knife, fork and spoon.

"Nuh-uh!"

"Oh, yes you will, young lady. Right now. Did you think your mother and I would not notice that we're running out of dishes and we'd have no idea where they went because a certain someone around here doesn't like to wash them?" I asked. "Oh, by the way, now you'll have to scrub them even harder because they're loaded with all that stinky, smelly, germy stuff ." I gave her a sickening look. She wanted to puke. "Keep looking!" Watching her rummage through that garbage bag with germs worse than cooties was punishment enough and guess what? It was, because she never did that again.

When Hannah was younger, she sometimes forgot to push that very important handle on the toilet, which was never a good thing. Then, one day her "friend" dropped by for the first of many monthly visits and things started to slowly change. She began to pay more attention to her appearance. "Booger" and "poop" weren't funny words any more. Thunderous belches and other loud discharges followed by hysterical laughter were no longer emanating from what used to be quite the tomboy. From then on, they became something only dads and boys disgustingly do. How embarrassing! Girls politely burp. Occasionally, they poot. Big difference, I guess.

Fortunately, my brother's daughter has her own bathroom. I asked him if the counter is cluttered with all kinds of cosmetics; facial creams, makeup, sprays, gels and whatever. Yup, he said. Typical teenage girl stuff. Thank God she doesn't have to share it with anyone else. Maybe, that's why young ladies always look so fresh and clean - it's all that sugar and spice and everything nice they keep scattered around the bathroom. Snips and snails and puppy dog tails, and maybe a dish or two, are kept under the bed, until one day...

Time goes by rather quickly as they grow older. Before you know it, you realize there are a lot more memories and one less plate to wash. She's got her own set now. She's turned out to be quite the peach and her mind is no longer child-like. You take one last look under the bed and there's nothing there.

Old Joke

A good friend of mine e-mailed me this. I changed the school, year and the denture part and sent it on to my aunt in New Jersey. She's got a really good sense of humor. I think you'll enjoy it.

Have you ever been guilty of looking at others your own age and thinking, surely I can't look that old?

Well, you'll love this one!

I was sitting in the waiting room for my first appointment with my new dentist. My dentures needed some adjusting. I noticed his DDS diploma, which bore his full name. Suddenly, I remembered a tall, handsome, dark-haired boy with the same name who had been in my high school class 46 years ago. Could he be the same guy that I had a secret crush on, way back then?

Upon seeing him, however, I quickly discarded any such thought. This balding, gray-haired man with the deeply lined face was way too old to have been my classmate. Hmm... or could he???

After he examined my dentures, I asked him if he had attended Hunterdon Central High School. "Yes. Yes, I did. I'm a Red Devil," he gleamed with pride.

"When did you graduate?" I asked.

He answered, "In 1960. Why do you ask?"

"You were in my class!" I exclaimed. He looked at me closely.

Then, that ugly, old son-of-a-b*tch asked, "What did you teach?"

Gimme A Brake

My father has always been one very good auto mechanic. He used to help fix seemingly unfixable problems on stock cars that would run the modified NASCAR circuit. Of course, he's been retired for years now. Back in the seventies, he owned a front-end alignment shop in Flemington, New Jersey. It didn't take him long to gain the reputation of being the best around. People from all over would bring their cars to him. There was another guy in town that had been there a lot longer and did the same thing, but there was plenty of business to go around. As a matter of fact, the two liked each other. One day, the other guy suffered a terrible accident at work and went to the biggest and best alignment shop in the sky. That really bothered my father.

I remember when I was 17, let's see, that would be in 1969, I bought a 1965 Mustang. With air conditioning and an 8-Track cassette. AM-FM, too. I was the man! FM had come into vogue around then, but most cars from 1965 only had AM. It gave me enough confidence to go get me a genuine girlfriend, a real knockout, to boot. Unfortunately, Mustangs were not known for having big back seats. The following summer, I needed new front shocks. I had never worked on a car up to that point and never planned to, not with a father who knew pretty much everything about them. Besides, cars were still a new thing to me, after riding bikes most of my life. He used to let me "help" him when I was a kid, to make me feel good, but I never really did anything because I really didn't help all that much.

One day, I called him and asked if he could put new shocks in for me. Sure, go over to Carver's Auto Parts, get what you need and come by Saturday morning. OK, great! I was getting tired of getting seasick every time I went over a bump in the road. So was my girlfriend. That Saturday morning, I stopped by, parts in hand. He told me, "See those tools over there? They are all you're going to need to replace those bad shocks."

"What do you mean?" I protested. "I thought you were going to put them in for me."

"No, you're going to have to learn how to work on a car and this is a good place to start." When he told me that, I began to dislike him for thinking I was ready to work on my own vehicle. I wasn't and I think he sensed if he had told me beforehand that I was going to do the work, the job would never have gotten done. "I'm going to be right here to give you any help or advice, so don't panic."

One thing about my father's tools, you could eat off them. They were always neatly arranged, too. AND YOU'D BETTER RETURN THEM THAT WAY! Oh, he didn't expect me to remember where they all went, but they'd better be clean. "No one wants to reach into a toolbox and grab a dirty, greasy wrench." He was right. He was right about something else, too. I learned how to work on my own cars over the years and I've probably saved tens of thousands of dollars because of it.

In the late seventies, my good friend Frank had a little Japanese import. I think it was a Subaru. Frank sold industrial coatings for Dupont back then and needed a small, fuel-efficient car that was very dependable. Because of all the miles he'd put on it, the rear brakes finally wore out. Front brakes wear out three times as quickly and those he maintained. After so many miles it was time to do the rears. I called my father and asked him if I could use his shop on Saturday to do the job for Frank. He normally didn't work weekends so it wasn't a problem. These were drum type brakes and the shoes were what needed replacing. Since Frank wasn't all that educated when it came to working on cars, I figured we'd both go to the parts store so I could make sure we got the right parts.

My father had a rack you'd drive up onto. "OK, Frank. Slowly drive up the ramp and I'll tell you when to stop." So far, so good. After removing the tires, I unbolted the wheel drums. After they've been on a car for some time and been subjected to the elements, they can be really tough to remove. They were. After finally getting them off, I started to disassemble the brakes. I compared the old parts with the new, to make sure everything matched up. Everything was going well. I installed all of the new parts. I checked and checked again to make sure everything was correct. Then, I tried to put the drums back on. No way. They wouldn't fit over the new brakes. I thought of everything. I looked again to make sure everything was correct. Yup. I compared old parts with the new. Everything was on right, but, those drums would not go back on. No way, no how. I even thought of sanding them down. I must have spent hours trying to figure the mess out. Of course, Frank didn't have a clue. I phoned my father and explained the dilemma. "Are you sure everything is right?" he asked me. I told him yes.

"Could you please come down and take a look? I mean, I've tried everything." Reluctantly, he said yes and Frank and I waited. When he pulled up and got out of his car, he immediately went over to the exposed brakes on the left side to do a little inspecting. Then, he walked up to us. Clearly, he could see the looks of frustration and anticipation in our eyes. Methodically, he opened the driver's door, reached in and disengaged the emergency brake.

"You think you two dodos can finish the job without any more help?" I felt really dumb. I told you Frank didn't know much about cars. Apparently, I didn't either, but I sure did learn a good lesson.

Ma & Pa

These are my parents. My sister took this picture at Brio Tuscan Grille in Winter Park, Florida, the day before Father's Day.

Meine Schöne Nichte aus Berlin

This is my 16 year old niece, Ariana, from Berlin, Germany. She has spent her entire life there, except for summer visits with her father and to Florida to visit us. She is a great person. Obviously, her mother raised her well. She is spending a year in America and is enrolled as a junior in high school. I spoke with her the other day. She speaks English almost as well as her native language and she's already gotten an A+ in English and Biology classes. Not bad for a foreigner accustomed to German schools, huh?

Next month is Homecoming. There is a dance, so she went out and bought a pretty dress to wear for the occasion. She hasn't been invited by a boy yet, but I think she will. She's already got her eye on one and I think he's looking right back. Oh, he's handsome, she said. My poor brother. Now, if she was my daughter, I'd go along on the date and make her sit in the back seat. That would be the way it would be until she was 30 years old. I would go along. She would sit in the back. She went to the movies the other night with a classmate. That's OK since it was another girl. Be home by 8:30 though. But Dad, it doesn't start 'til 8. So what. You vill obey! Good thing I'm just her uncle, and of course, I'm just kidding. OK, 9.

I asked her about football. Rugby and soccer are the sports of choice in Germany, but she's really getting into it. I can picture her as a cheerleader. My high school years were some of the best times of my life and I think this is great for her. All over Europe, including Germany, there is a skewed take on what makes America tick. This is a wonderful opportunity for her to learn our culture up close and personal with peers her own age and to determine first hand what this nation is all about. I think it works just as well the other way around. This gives other students the chance to learn more about a foreign land. So far, she's having a great time and adjusting well. I think kids are kids the world around. What better way to learn about your neighbors. Besides, the pizza is better here. Aufregen!

When it's time

I believe it was George Carlin who observed that human beings are remarkably funny when it comes to pets. You get one, it lives for 15 years, it dies and you mourn. You get another one, it lives 15 years, it dies and you mourn again. And so on and so on, until you get so old you get a pet to take care of and comfort you. I don't know if he said that part of it.

For almost 14 years, I had Babette. Babette was a Tabby cat. She adopted me, not the other way around. One Friday morning, in the late 80s, this little kitten showed up at the back door of the advertising agency where I worked. I used to go back there to smoke, even though we were allowed to do that inside at the time. I didn't want to pollute the air for all of the workers who didn't. I opened the door and there sat this cute little blonde just meowing and meowing at the sight of me. Now, I've never needed, nor wanted a pet cat, certainly not a kitten, but she just stared up at me with a "thank you, thank you, you're here to help me, right?" look on her face. She was so innocent and defenseless. Hmm, I thought, she looks hungry. Maybe I'll run up the street to Winn-Dixie and get her some cat food. I did. Boy, did she gobble that up.

Like I said, it was a Friday. I left that afternoon without giving her much of a thought, although, I did leave her plenty of dry food and water. Not that I cared or anything. That Monday morning, I came to work and the first thing the receptionist, Helen, said was that my girlfriend was here. What do you mean? My girlfriend is at work. No, she said, the one you left at the back door. Oh no, I thought. She's still here? Yes, and she's probably been here all weekend, waiting for you to come back. Well, I had no more food, so back to Winn-Dixie I went.

Every time I went out the back door, she sat patiently waiting with anticipation and excitement. I told her, OK, you can come inside. I'll let you out at night. I figured it wouldn't take too long to find a home for you, with all of the friends and connections I had. Boy, was I wrong. Weeks went by until the boss said I can't just keep her here, I needed to do something. She was such a sweetie. She almost had me at hello. How was this going to work? I mean, I was relatively young and quite active. I had a girlfriend I spent a lot of time with. I don't see this working out at all. I took her home.

That Saturday morning, we went to the Orange County Animal Center, or whatever it was called, for shots and to get fixed. I didn't need any more of what I didn't want running around. A woman came in at the same time with her cat. Hers was in one of those animal containers. Mine wasn't. One thing I'll say about Babette is that I never had to restrain her. She never had problems with other cats or any other type animal. She was very comfortable. The vet tech took both cats behind a wall at the same time. The wall didn't extend up to the ceiling, so I could hear her and the vet discussing one of them...

"This one's pregnant."

"That's not my cat you're talking about, is it?"

"Yes, it is."

"That little slut!" The waiting room broke into laughter.

The vet tech came out to explain. "We're going to have to abort these kittens," like I was going to disagree with her. "For one thing, there's no telling how large the tomcat was. She might have a problem giving birth to kittens since she might not be large enough to accommodate their..."

"OK. Sure. No problem. Just do it."

"Besides, she's probably not old enough to have the proper instincts to be good a mother. She might abandon them."

"Yup, do what you have to do. How old is she?"

"Seven or eight months." Boy, I thought, they start young, don't they? That's statutory rape in my book. How do you arrest a cat, let alone find the purr-petrator?

Not only did they give her an abortion, they fixed her at the same time and gave her her shots. They wanted to keep her a couple of days for observation and told me I could come back Monday to pick her up. The whole deal cost me $25. Not bad when you go to the county. That's all she was worth to me back then.

I went after work and took her home. She was just this little ball of fur and she barely moved. I had a date that night, so I set her on my bed with a little wet food and water. The next morning I came home. She hadn't budged. A little ball of fur. The food and water was not touched. At that point, I realized she was still in some pain. I called my office and said I wouldn't be in that day. One thing about where I worked, they were very caring people and understood my situation. I stayed with little Babette the remainder of the day and night. I promised myself and her that I would never leave her again. And I never did.

She gave me many wonderful years and lots of memories. One time, a dog chased her around the side of the house where I was talking to a neighbor. About 15 feet away, she leaped into the air and made a beeline straight for my arms. Oh no. I'm in for some serious scratches here. I could see them coming, all pointy and sharp. As soon as she hit me and I wrapped my arms around her for protection, her claws were gone. She never hurt me. The dog wasn't very happy. She used to love to climb on roofs and could never figure out a way down. I'd always rescue her. My old friend, Wayne Trout, once made a brilliant observation. "Dave? Have you ever seen a skeleton of a cat in a tree?" He was right. I think it was a game she played, to reassure herself that I was there.

She loved people. People loved her, even the ones that didn't like cats for one excuse or another, like saying they're allergic to them. No one ever sneezed at Babette. One time, my mother was holding her. She asked me why she has one eye closed. Because, I explained, Babette always stares at me, especially in bed at night, with a loving and trusting gaze. When I start to doze with the TV on, my right eye tends to nod off.

I know it's weird to say this, but she never failed to comfort those in pain. My mother will attest to that. Twice, she let me know when she was in pain. She stuck her back into my face when she had a puncture of some kind. She stared straight into my face to let me know she had a sinus infection. Like I said, I never had to put Babette in a box to take her to the vet. Everyone who ever babysat while I went away had wonderful stories to tell me about her and her personality upon my return.

I lost her 3 years ago. She finally had to get into a box and I buried her in the back yard. She was a great friend, true to the end. What was once worth $25 became priceless. One of the things that got me through the pain was what George Carlin said years earlier. I had to put things in perspective and understand how right he was. I did.

I still think about her often. Because of her, I want no more pets.

My sister and her husband have had Baxter for 13 years. A handsome Yellow Lab, he just got too old. She told me how his quality of life had deteriorated to the point of losing his dignity. He could no longer walk. He was losing the potty war. This morning, Baxter had a wonderful breakfast of special treats. This morning, Baxter took his last trip to see the vet. He had a very happy life. They still have Bailey, his companion of 8 years, and Teddy, a Rat Terrier puppy to help them through this difficult time.

We all have incredible tales to tell of these special creatures who have been so much a part of our lives. Our tails would be wagging like our tongues if we had them.

It's tough to let go, but we have to, by George.

Big Brother's Always Watching

Ever since I was little, I was always the one who found hair in food. To this day, no matter where I eat, I'm the one. It pops out at me like a zit on the end of a nose. Oh yes, I've had them, too. For some strange reason, certain things just find themselves attracted to me. Hairrowing!

Last spring, the air conditioner stopped working in my car. I asked a friend, actually a good acquaintance who worked for an auto AC business, to take a look at it. I went to his house and he determined I needed a new evaporator. To make a long story short, we replaced it and it worked for a month or so. I went back and he replaced the o-rings sealing the high and low pressure lines to the compressor. It worked for about a month. I'd had enough of that, so I talked to my brother, Sam. He said, "Bring it over on Saturday and I'll take a look at it." Not only did he look at it, he fixed it by replacing all of the o-rings throughout the system. It's been working ever since. Mind you, the other guy said if it fails again, he'd have to replace the compressor. Also, Sam is not an AC guy. How come a trained professional couldn't figure out what my brother did?

Yesterday, Sam and his wife, Lindsay, had a delicious prime rib dinner for our father (and mother) in honor of Father's Day. When the folks left to go home, my father told Lindsay to tell me my right rear tire was very low. I went out to take a look and, sure enough, it was going flat. I looked around the tire and saw what I thought was a nail stuck in the tread. Going back inside, I told Sam. He said, "Hang on a minute or so and I'll take a look at it."

I told him, "I always carry one of those cans of fix-a-flat. I can just use that. Should I pull the nail out first?"

"I said, hang on a minute. I've got a tire repair kit in the garage." You know, one of those ones where you stick that needle thing into the tire with a strand of sticky stuff that looks like an unsalted pretzel stick hooked into it?

He took a look at the tire and found the nail and we walked back to his garage to gather up the necessary gear. He's got about everything out there. Welders, saws, tools out the yazoo. Tire repair kits? Air compressors? Which ones do we want to use? He got down on the ground and pulled out the offending nail. Hey, wait a minute. It's a screw! He fixed it and said, "Guess what? It's not the only one." A few inches away, another screw was embedded in the tire. Like I said, some things are attracted to me like hair on a plate. Nails and screws stuck in my tires. This wasn't the first time. He patched that one and filled my tire up with air. All better.

Today, at least here in Florida, garages and mechanics cannot repair your tires that way any longer. I think it has something to do with tire safety and liability, like it might blow out. As many times as I've had tires fixed that way, it's never happened to me. Now, they have to remove the tire and fix it from the inside. That would have cost me a chunk of change and I probably would have had to deal with a flat tire this morning.

"Sam, how can I thank you?"

"Don't worry about it. That's what brothers are for."

Brother Sam? You never cease to amaze me and guess what? I didn't find any hairs in my prime rib.