Transformational Change Institute

One thing I learned from my father was "be yourself". He never said it. He did it. And there is no better example of this than his love for Studebakers. The quirky Studebaker was made from 1902 to 1967, and my dad's first Studebaker was the 1962 powder blue Lark that my mother drove. He fell so in love with it that eventually there were Studebakers everywhere. At one point, there were 15 or more of them in various states of disrepair parked all over our suburban yard. As a style-concious teenager, I was horrified. Today, I am ecstatic that I had someone to model following my desires without caring what other people think. To my father, rebuilding those flathead six engines long into the night was “the work”. I still remember the sweet smell of brake fluid and the ozone and whir of the electric drill as my father polished the pits out of wheel cylinders.

Not many of the cars got to where they ran, and none of them was ever the show car that he dreamed of. Never the less, repairing these birds was the driving energy of his life. He’d get frustrated at times, and it was difficult for my mother to live in a world of car parts, machines and grease, but he never veered from his passion. And he was never ashamed of it. When he died we were never sure whether or not we had located and liquidated his full empire of rusted Studebaker bodies. He had them in fields and garages all over Richmond county.

I also learned constancy and loyalty from my father. He worked at the same radiology office until he retired. He was loyal to my mother, even though the trials of of their relationship might have driven a lesser man to leave, and he was loyal to the Studebaker long after they had ceased manufacture of the odd vehicle.

I got more than a little benefit from it, too. In high school, I drove a blue 1950 studebaker champion. With it’s grill that looked more like an airplane than a car, and with a tiny whirling propeller that my practical jokester dad assured me was “factory stock”, it was truly the most original car anyone drove at Westside High. Forget about the moldy carpets, and the disintegrating door panels, it had ultraviolet dash lights and the starter was a button underneath the clutch pedal.

I would have never had this car, or my reputation as an iconoclast without my father. From his example, I learned to be myself, whatever that happens to be in the moment. I don’t have to apologize for anything, and for that, I’m grateful.