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RETIREMENT’S COMIC RELIEF: Old Chevy affirms love of family

Dennis Sommers stands next to the restored 1955 Chevy last year.

I don’t recall my father ever saying he loved me. It’s not that he didn’t care about Mom, my sister and me. It’s just that the topic of love was something our parents were uncomfortable talking about. Dad did as his father had done before him: work hard to take care of his family. Mom worked too, part time. They made sure we were safe, fed, went to school and in church every week. Life never seemed much different than that of the other kids on our block.

As a teenager, then college student, I began to sense hollowness inside, but had trouble unraveling what the feeling was about. Something was missing in the relationship with my parents – dad in particular. I eventually recognized that people who care about people usually tell them so and that I never heard from Dad that he cared about me. I was particularly upset once when my sister revealed Dad had taken my semester grade card to his office to make photocopies, apparently boasting of my efforts to coworkers at the office as well as his sisters. Why would he brag with others while never sharing his approval with his son?

A chasm between us grew larger in years after graduation from college, marriage and arrival of children. The words I longed for were still missing. Dad withholding affirmation led me to believe I was not deserving of it, or worthwhile as a person. I was a failure. I had often failed to fetch the correct wrench he wanted from the tool box, or nail shingles on the roof straight enough, to sand the bottom of the boat as smooth as it needed to be or other failures that all youngsters experience as they learn. Perhaps my grades, my marriage, my kids were also not good enough for Dad. It was no wonder I was driven to become a dentist, trying hard to perfect little things. Surely there was someone my best efforts could please.

Our parents bought a 1955 two-door Chevy Del Rae sedan in December 1954. A photo shows my sister and I standing by its front fender the day the car joined our family. What a ride! It took us to grandparents’ homes, on vacations and school. Mom sometimes took us to the drive-in movie in it too. Dad’s father must have also liked the car. Although we never knew why, Dad traded the ’55 Del Rae to Grandpa for his ’49 Chevy. Over 65 years later now, the memory of riding to the grocery with Grandpa remains clear, as he raced the ’55’s engine in second gear, seldom nudging the speedometer past 15 mph. When Grandpa died in 1963, Dad sold the ’49 and the ’55 came back to our house since Grandma didn’t drive. Dad drove it to work mostly.

Receiving a driver’s license in 1966 brought permission to drive our station wagon with automatic transmission. Although great to have wheels (on loan from parents) a station wagon wasn’t likely to draw attention while cruising Main Street on Saturday night. My senior year, Dad decided I could stay at home for the week to attend school while he and Mom went fishing in the Ozarks. It was made clear the ’55 with its stick shift was off limits. But, shortly after the boat disappeared down the street, I sprawled under the dash of the Chevy, located the speedometer cable and disconnected it. A friend soon arrived and we took off for an evening of impressing the girls – or so we hoped. Even a six-cylinder can squeal tires sometimes.

Dennis Sommers and his sister stand next to the family’s new Chevy in December 1954.

Shortly before Dad and Mom returned from the fishing trip, the speedometer was reconnected, the gas tank returned to the mark and the car maneuvered back to the precise position it was when they left. We had ruled the world during four days and the ending was far better than it was for Ferris Bueller. Many years later I felt safe telling Dad the story of what I had done. For once, we laughed together.

The blessing to drive the ’55 finally arrived after high school. It was a reliable college ride, though not a head-turner. I parked it in the remote lot and walked the extra distance to class to avoid any door dings until buying a newer model car to drive to graduate school. Dad asked about selling the ’55, but I shared my desire to hang on to it. It was stored in Grandma’s garage until her death, then relocated it to a family friend’s warehouse. Dad continued to check periodically if it was worth keeping. I repeated the desire to restore and drive it again someday.

When Dad retired in 1986 he built a single stall garage behind the one he and his father built 40 years earlier. The old Chevy was hauled to the house and pushed into the new structure. For the next ten years, Dad worked on restoration of the special family treasure. Although able to repair or rebuild most every part that needed attention, he occasionally bought an entirely new part. Any new element was only considered if repair of the old part was impossible. As kids, repairmen never came to our house. Dad fixed everything himself. The car never went to a shop for repairs. Dad took care of it in the garage, even if rebuilding the entire engine was necessary (with me watching). Later as an adult, each visit to Kansas included a trip out to the garage to check progress on the old Chevy, see what problems had been solved and what was next to do.

Visiting my parents late during the restoration process, Dad took me out to the garage as he always did. He was stewing over paint colors and wanted my opinion. Three different shades of yellow had been sprayed on separate squares of scrap metal. It was clear to us both that the shade of one was off and didn’t deserve consideration. “I think this one is closest to the original color,” Dad said pointing to one of the other two. “We should use this one.”

Surveying them, I did not agree. Long before fading from years of the sun’s oxidation and lack of wax, I felt the color intensity was more brilliant. “Dad, I think this one, the brighter yellow, is how I remember the car when it was new,” I said

Dennis Sommers’ father is shown next to the Chevy in 1997.

“Then that’s the color we’ll use,” he replied.

Dad was always quite an opinionated man. Growing up (and as an adult) I knew never to question his authority. He invariably determined what was right, seldom seeking other thoughts on a subject. I grew weary as he expounded on one topic or another, never seeking my thoughts on anything (except perhaps his teeth). Dad was always in charge of the world around him. I was puzzled why he accepted my color choice.

When he finished the ten-year car restoration in 1996, Dad arranged to ship the ’55 Chevy to North Dakota. The following year my parents visited Minot together for the last time, providing opportunity to give them a ride in the old Chevy. But, Dad never drove the car after its restoration. When I pulled over that day to trade places with him Dad said, “I don’t need to drive it.”

After Dad’s death in 1997, I thought much more about our relationship. The statements of “that’s the color we’ll use” and “I don’t need to drive it” were clues revealing his motivation for ten years spent restoring that old car. It was Dad’s way to tell me that he loved me. Although he could never say those words, he could invest the final ten years of his life to demonstrate how much he loved me. It was the same love he learned from his father: take care of your family.

Before his death, Dad saw the video recording of his grandson and I chauffeuring the Minot State Homecoming King and Queen in a parade past Oak Park. He knew they had been given their choice to ride in any of the old cars at the park the morning of the parade. They chose to ride in the ’55 Chevy. He was as proud as I was.

The car is in storage now. It comes out if the sun is shining, the street is dry and the forecast is perfect. Every nut and bolt in the engine compartment shines like new. The car looks better now than it could possibly have been the day it first rolled onto our driveway in Wichita, Kansas, and my sister and I stood so proudly beside it for a photo.

I understand now that Dad loved me, that I am good enough for God and for myself. Love is affirmed each time I turn the ignition on our old family treasure for a drive. I no longer need the words from Dad. It was in everything he did for his parents, my sister, my mother and me during the first 47 years of my life. I just did not understand it. With much help, I’ve learned how to tell our children and grandchildren that I love them. Although perhaps that is enough, I hope that someday they will also feel love through things that Rita and I are able to do for them.

In First Corinthians Paul told his followers, “In whatever you do, in whatever you say, do so for the glory of God.” Perhaps Paul missed telling the whole story. He would have done well to have carried his thoughts further to remind us that in whatever those around us do or say, we should recognize the glory and love God has for us, as well as the love that those who cannot say the words have in their hearts.

Sommers is a retired Minot orthodontist, violinist with the Minot Symphony and author of the book, “Retirement? You Can’t HANDLE the Truth!”

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