Does my father's love for cars remind you of anything?

Broken systems have been on my mind of late—transportation, public health, safety—which reminded me of my father and his system for cars. He had a penchant for cheap, used cars. His favorites were both cheap and used.

His heyday for crappy cars were the 1960s through the 1980s, a period when even new cars were fraught with problems.

Being trained as an engineer, I think he enjoyed the challenge of making crappy cars operational, or maybe he wanted to spend hours upon hours working on cars, an unrequited love for automotive mechanics. Maybe he just hated buying nice, new cars when a rusting heap of junk with no heater and only an AM radio would get him where he wanted to go.

I should be grateful because I must have gotten my willingness to write novels—investing a thousand hours to tell one story—from him. The checkout line at Target has 20 perfectly fine novels available for $9.99, but still I spend my evenings and weekends “writing.”

Here’s a highlight reel of on-the-road vehicle adventures we enjoyed as a family in Dad’s mystery machines:

Front wheel of an AMC Ambassabor leaving the vehicle
Tie-rod of a Plymouth Fury breaking
Headlight electrical system failure on a Ford LTD in the mountains of Pennsylvania at night
Total brake failure on a Ford Econoline on the highway

When you consider the many failed cold starts, the stuck transmissions, broken alternators and water pumps that he attempted to fix himself, along with all the routine maintenance, you may agree his transportation system was particularly broken.

He had a soft spot for troubled cars the way some people will adopt feral cats or marry prisoners on murderers’ row. At one point, he had seven cars and only two of them were operational.

In 1980, he bought a 1967 Chevy Malibu in Florida. For the first fifty miles on his journey back to Ohio, he thought he had the deal of the century. Then the oil can symbol lit up on the dash. It turned out the engine was burning oil almost as fast as it burned gasoline, and he had to stop every twenty minutes to add another quart of 10W-30.

My brothers and I started our adult lives with that inherited vehicle value system. At some point, we all realized there had to be another way. We didn’t have to keep searching for the cheapest junker to haul our asses around town.

I suppose everyone needs a hobby. My father’s transportation system was broken but it (miraculously) never caused anyone harm.

Two weeks ago, there was an airborne toxic event in Ohio when that Norfolk Southern train derailed. That’s a broken system causing real damage.

One week ago, there was a mass shooting on the nearby Michigan State University campus. That’s another broken system, as we have too many guns and not enough mental health support.

If those broken systems bother you, contact your legislative representative and tell them how you feel. Urge them to resist the special interest lobbyists and take action.

If you happened to live on the same street as us back in the 60s, 70s and 80s, I apologize for the engine oil, brake fluid and radiator fluid dumped in the street, and for the parade of junkers parked by the curb.

But I’ll never forget watching my brother start a 1969 AMC Rambler by spraying ether directly into the carburetor, and the flames that leapt out when it all backfired.

I mean, the car was a junker, but it’s not like we wanted to walk to school.