listening to repeating

1963 VW 1500 Notchback

When I was a kid, my father, Henry, spent a lot of time working on cars, almost always Volkswagens.  From when I was born until I turned 18, my family moved only once, from one Virginia house to another not far from it.  Both houses had a garage, and both garages my father built, from floor to ceiling (including, in the space between, an impressive classification system for tires, tools, nuts, and bolts).

Growing up, I was repeatedly fascinated by my dad’s competences in constructing and deconstructing and reconstructing things.  Especially cars.   People would bring him what most others considered junk.  In a week or two, the junk became not only a car.  It became a gem with good gas mileage and—odds are—a Deadhead sticker in the rear window.

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A photo of my father with his sister and father, circa 1949, somewhere in southwestern Virginia, most likely in Wythe County.  Apparently, my father needed some support to stay put on that rock.  Either that, or he wasn’t for staying put.

Click on the image for a larger version.

Here, for the family archives, are two photos of my father: one with me, and one with my sister, around ’79 and ’76, respectively.  And yes: 1979 precedes the year I became afraid of dogs. (Click on the images for larger versions.)

The best deconstructionist I know.