Go Play on the Freeway

One of my favorite places to be after I get home from school is Dad’s shop. I seriously love the smell of grease and gas. Every time I step through the barn door I suck in air until my lungs are overfull. I find something greasy and pick it up rubbing the grease all over my hands. Usually a wrench or part off a tractor being worked over.

The shop used to be a hay barn, so it's huge. Dad's got his parts and tools spread out all over the outer walls while the tractor or car or truck or what-not he's working on sits in the middle. The tools all have their assigned places, but once he gets workin' on something, tools don't always make it back to where they belong.

That's where I come in.

I help dad out by cleaning up his mess, but usually put tools in the wrong place. “That’s a crescent wrench Andee, it goes with the other wrenches,” he says impatiently. I put it with the screwdrivers. It's so hard to keep straight what tool is what. They all look pretty much the same to me. He jokingly tells me to, “Go play on the freeway,” which is his way of saying “I love you, but you’re bothering me.”