Working at the car wash
MY strategy for washing cars is to buzz over to one of our local businesses, a car wash and gift shop. The friendly folks there whisk my car away while I peruse the interesting items inside the shop. I pay for the service and in return they provide me with my freshly washed automobile.
Hubby, though, is more old school. Over the years, he spent Saturday mornings on our driveway with his various vehicles soaping and scrubbing them until they sparkled.
Perhaps it’s genetics, because the other day my younger daughter texted me a request from our 5-year-old grandson:
“Charlie wants to wash the car,” the text said.
It seems Charlie had taken a broom to our daughter’s car, an act his mommy put a stop to pronto. Miffed at his mother’s objections to the broom, he grumped, “I’m never going to learn how to wash cars. I’m never going to be a car washer.”
Explaining to Charlie that Poppy (my hubby) is good at washing cars, her text went on:
“So he wants to wash a car with Poppy soon. If Dad needs a car to wash, he can wash mine.”
Now we’re unsure of the reason behind Charlie’s sudden quest for car cleanliness, but that afternoon he arrived ready to work. His mom and little brother wisely decided to wait in the house out of range of the hose’s powerful jet stream.
The sudden forceful burst of water through the hose’s nozzle was unexpected, and Charlie reeled at the powerful spray, looking as if he might flee. But a steadying hand from his Poppy kept him at his task.
Soon Charlie was so comfortable with the hand-sprayer, he was taking aim at birds flying overhead and exclaiming at the colored rainbows the water made.
“Charlie, we’re in a drought here,” I gently reminded him.
He hung in there, scrubbing his mom’s car and helping with a final rinse. At that point, he was done. As in “over it.” Poppy pointed out they weren’t finished, because the next step was wiping down and drying the vehicle. Charlie cooperated, albeit with a lagging amount of enthusiasm.
Something my dad used to say ran through my mind as they pulled out of our driveway, Charlie waving happily from the car’s sparkling clean back window.
“A clean car always seems to run better,” my dad often said. And darned if that sentiment didn’t seem to always hold true, even today.
So maybe Charlie, in the spirit of his Poppy and maternal great-grandfather, had somehow anticipated the exhilarating pleasure of driving inside a freshly washed car.
