I was 15 and it was summer. We still lived on the outskirts of
town. Day Road was a quiet road with very little traffic.
I was 15 and it was summer. We still lived on the outskirts of town. Day Road was a quiet road with very little traffic. I heard an engine slowing down and I knew it was going to turn into our driveway. No one would slow down for any other reason on this stretch of the road. I jumped from my chair as I heard the gravel popping and crackling under the tires of a heavy truck as the sound of the engine got louder.
The heat of the day splashed across my face and arms as I dashed outside and there it was, a big tow truck, and on its flat bed were the totaled remains of a rusty and dented ’65 Mustang.
My Dad had “projects” everywhere. Each and every wreck was parked in every nook and cranny down the driveway and behind our house. Dad was always fixing cars and sometimes I helped him. This was how he earned a living and complaining about the Mustang graveyard we lived in was unacceptable. It was embarrassing though.
When this new addition to his collection had been off-loaded and “parked” in its optimal resting place and the tow truck had rumbled away, my Dad started getting really excited. He walked around it with a big grin and fire in his eyes. He did this thing like he always did when he had a good story to tell. He clapped his hands together once and then rubbed his palms together and said, “Lydia, I’m going knock out the dent in this quarter panel and sand off the rust. I’m going to take the hood off that car over there and switch it with this one. I’m going to take the bumper off that one out in front and change the wheels and tail lights with another one …. and when I’m done I’m going to paint it cherry red.”
And you know what? I could totally see his vision. I really could. He spent weeks working on that car and I helped. Together out in the heat, under the shade of an overgrown tree we transformed that salvaged vehicle into a gorgeous 1965 Mustang with cherry red paint.
I’m not sure how many more cars my Dad and I rebuilt before I began to realize the real lesson. I didn’t know it yet but I had been infected by my Dad’s vision. I call it “Mustang goggles.”
Mustang goggle vision is the ability to see beyond the rust and dents to the potential that lies underneath those imperfections, to see the beauty within. My Dad had this gift not only with cars but with other things, too. This was a man who would take a load of trash to the dump and always bring something back with him. He’d see an industrial shelving unit with a broken shelf through his Mustang goggles and he would say, “Look at this, all I have to do is drill a new hole where this bolt sheered off and then I can set a new shelf. This will be perfect in the garage for my paint cans. I can’t believe someone threw this away!”
I really loved that quality in my Dad because everything was a discovered treasure and a potential adventure. His visions weren’t just restricted to restoring objects. He wore his Mustang goggles when he saw people, too.
He saw hope and determination in homeless people. He saw kindness and generosity in people who had a physical appearance that most folks might cross the street to avoid. He saw his children with prosperous and happy futures even when we acted badly, lied about doing our homework or got caught breaking curfew. I can’t pinpoint the moment that Mustang goggles affected me, but I know that I have them now and I wear them regularly.
The lesson is that there’s potential in everyone, in every thing and in every situation, if you can focus on the end result and work hard. My Mustang goggles are invisible, so when you see me, you won’t notice them. I wear them as often as I can remember to and I recommend that you get a pair of you don’t already have some. Try them on when something looks hopeless. Mustang goggles are free, and you have nothing to lose but a short-term (I want it now) perspective and some elbow grease.
