clinging to my tongue;
198o’s, one my of favorite flavors.
AMX moving in stereo,
My dad has been rebuilding cars since he was kid living in Fostoria, Michigan. Fostoria, a rural place that’s fun to get to by way of curving, and deep sloping roads; I called the curving roads S roads when I was a child. My dad always drove his AMX fast, so the ride out to my grandparents’ was a great amusement, especially when it was just the two of us, and I was short enough to stand up in the front seat beside him, saying, “Get on it, Dad!” as he banged gears. Yeah, so my dad let me stand up in the passenger seat while he was driving. How else was I supposed to see over the dash?
The AMC AMX is a two-seater muscle car. Once my sister outgrew her car seat, she and I would sit on mats behind Mom and Dad, and ride without seat belts. Family outings, YAAASSS! I remember how my butt would buzz and burn from riding so close to ground; I could feel every vibration–the juddering of the engine–even my face and teeth buzzed. It was fucking fantastic!
I never cared where my dad was going for the day, when he asked, “Kindra, you wanna go for a ride?” I would stop what I was doing (playing in dirt and making mud for my Bigfoot monster truck to haul) and run to the house for my shoes and kiss from my mom.
It was more than riding in the car with my dad that I loved. He would always let me hang out with him in the garage. I watched everything he did when he was wrenching, and I asked questions–my mouth was always running full force. Dad made me feel like I was important to the project; I was like his scrub nurse. And I would sift through the pebbles in our driveway, looking for nuts, and washers to present to him. “Could you use this, Dad?”
He keeps every loose piece of shit I ever found in a lidded jar.