My Daughter, the Mechanic

Mica the Mechanic
Mica the Mechanic

My youngest daughter, Mica, shocked me awhile back when she announced, “Don’t yell, but…I’m enrolling in Automotive Technology.”

Why would I yell? And who is that inside my head, yelling: “You’re doing WHAT?”

It’s not an easy course; the textbook weighs about 80 pounds and she has worked hard and is getting good grades. A few of her fellow students made some comments about how you can tell when a girl has been working on a car by the chips of pink nail polish left behind (and a few worse things), which made her so mad she went to the instructor red-eyed from anger.

“They said what?” he asked. She told him.

He hauled the guys into a room, slammed the door and they have not dared say a word to her since. Some things have improved in the past fifty years, at least.

Last night she came home and said, “Mom, come outside.” “Why? Is something wrong?” “I’ve got to show you something.” “It’s not a big spider, is it? I don’t want to see a big spider.” “No, get behind the wheel.”

I did. “Feel that? she asked. “Well, I’ll be deep-fried with a catfish, the air conditioner is working.”

She went on to explain what had been wrong and how they fixed it. It went in one ear and out the other, I was so stunned by cold air coming out the little vents. God, I admire mechanical people.

Are you a mechanical person? God, I admire you. You keep the world from falling apart.

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