I write this in memory of my father and don’t worry, I’ve tagged it in humor. It’s my recollection of one of the last times I saw him before his unexpected death. Anyone who has a perfectionist for a father will get a chuckle out of this anecdote…

Recently, as I waited at a red light I looked at all the license plates on the cars surrounding me. Not necessarily to see if they were from somewhere far away but to inspect the screws securing the plates. Strange, I know.

I blame my late father. I can still see him on that sunny July afternoon: bent down lower than a man his age should be. The object of his inspection? The oversized screws holding my license plate. Much to his consternation not only were these screws obviously too big for the job, but they were unsightly. This is just the thing that could keep my father awake at night.

In an effort to avoid insomnia, my father had me wait while he scratched his head then proceeded rather slowly up his brand new driveway, which incidentally, had a set of problems of its own. Yes, there were flaws in my father’s ‘yellow brick road’, as it were. Not anything noticeable to the naked eye except my father’s. In any case, while I had just finished spending the afternoon with my mother, I was not permitted to leave their home without delay all because of a couple of screws.

So, I waited in the summer heat while my father searched his garage for the Goldilocks of screws. I could hear his cursing and the sound of metal clunking against plastic containers. I sighed deeply.

This could take a while but I wasn’t about to risk the consequences of cutting short his attempt at dawning his cape and saving my doomed license plate. That may have been as bad as sitting in a therapist’s office with him (yes we went there briefly). Let him have this a voice whispered in my ear.

So, there I stood shifting my weight one foot to the other. I looked up with a smile at my mother who stood on the top floor balcony looking down. We had said goodbye fifteen minutes ago and I was still here.

“What is he doing now?” my mother asked.

“Looking for screws?” I said as a question, suppressing the inevitable giggles that were bubbling up.

“Do you want a glass of wine? “ she asked.

My mother was no stranger to the slow and deliberate movements of the man she’d been married to for 60 years. She certainly sensed an unexpected opportunity to prolong our visit.

“No that’s okay, mom,” I said because that would only enable my father to make this task into an evening undertaking. For example, he might turn his garage upside down in search of those damn screws and coming up empty handed, head to the nearest hardware store. I wanted to avoid any such extenuating circumstances and that meant saying ‘no’ to wine.

Now I see my father begin his slow descent back down his yellow brick road, screws and screwdriver in hand (and his invisible cape of course). He finally reached the back of my car, squinted and broke a sweat. His long legs once again bent sharply at the knees as he leaned into his task.

Oh, Lordy this could be our undoing I thought. When my father bent to a task with sweat on his brow, anything could happen.

With shaking hands he removed the two offensive screws, then attempted to replace them with his more pleasing option. As he tried and tried again, the Goldilocks screws would not fit. I stood and watched with apprehension.

Not to mention, I now wished I’d brought a sun hat or beach umbrella.

To no avail, his plan was failing. This was not good because whether his plan involved tools or money, my father did not relish failing. Thus began the unfortunate task of putting the ugly screws back on. I stifled my growing hysteria as all kinds of childhood memories floated through my mind. Knowing that the giggles would be the wrong response to this minor debacle, I successfully suppressed them. Instead I reassured my father that I could fix it myself at home or I could get Randy to do it.

Wrong reply.

My father was not one to acquiesce his control to a son in law. No, sir. So we said goodbye with a curt nod, agreeing that there was no hope in saving my license plate from its unsightly existence. It’d be safe to say my father didn’t sleep more than two hours that night.

All these years later, I still have those screws securing my license plate. I likely won’t remove them now. They make me smile at the memory of my father doing what he always did best—finding a flaw. My father was a perfectionist to say the least. You couldn’t ever predict what would set him off or when. You just waited patiently while he attempted to fix you (or your car).


image source: Photo by Jon Sailer on Unsplash