I spent last Sunday doing one of the tasks that used to be fun when I was young and flexible, but has become a reminder of how old I am: cleaning out the car.

Sunday was a gorgeous day and I tied into the minivan, armed with the vacuum, Armor All and the carpet cleaner. Three hours later, I was finished with the van, and done in for the day. On Monday, I was moving like an old man.

It wasn't always that way.

I recall spending many Saturday and Sunday afternoons helping my brothers clean the family car, then help with their detailing when they got their own wheels. Back in those days in a small town there was little to do, so the time went quickly.

I still smell the pine tree air fresheners and feel the smooth surfaces after waxing the car or using Armor All on the tires or interior.

I learned from my brothers and their friends that the ladies liked guys with shiny, pine scented cars. One of my brother's friends wasn't content with simply applying Armor All to his vinyl seats, he took the next step and actually waxed the seats. This was in the late 1960s and seat belt use was not mandatory, so I imagine some passengers went flying when the vehicles came to a sudden stop.

Good thing the dashboard was polished, wouldn't want the lady getting a grimy forehead to add insult to injury.

Armed with all of this car cleaning knowledge, and after getting my drivers license, I mustered up the courage to ask my father, the Chief, if I could use the car to take a girl to dinner and a movie in the neighboring town. There would be nothing worse than going through the torture of asking a girl out only to have no wheels and be forced to make the "I'm such a loser my dad won't even let me have the car" phone call.

Not going to happen. If I was going down in flames, at least I would have permission to use the car.

Surprisingly, the Chief agreed to my request, with one string attached -- I had to clean the car. When I was driving, the family car was a burgundy 1966 Chevelle station wagon. Being a mechanic's car, it had some issues -- like no gas pedal. "Just put your foot on the tab the pedal would be attached to," the Chief said, adding "it's no big deal, but if you can't drive without it, I suppose I could fix it."

I knew better than to fall into THAT trap. The last thing a mechanic wants to do after working on cars all day long is to work on his own, without his tools. I decided the cure would be worse than the problem, besides I have big feet, so I would just fake it.

I commenced with the cleaning of the family car, starting with the driver's side. I removed enough sand and gravel to find the two bolts that the bottom of the pedal attached to and I was able to snap the pedal back into place.

The rest of the archaeological dig went well that afternoon, and I even buffed some of the oxidated paint off of the hood. The car was clean, inside and out and I even found and cleaned the floormats that should have been used to keep that glacier's worth of rock from dislodging the gas pedal.

After passing muster, I did the second most difficult thing -- I called the girl for a date. What is it about calling a girl that reduces teen boys to helpless, stuttering, stammering idiots? After three false starts dialing the number on our rotary dial party line phone, centrally located near the kitchen, I decided it was time to finish the dial and take my chances. Nothing could be worse than the self-inflicted torture I was going through.

She said yes and was polite enough not to make fun of the fact that I was driving a 10-year-old station wagon.

I later learned from the Chief that he hated the day his sons were able to buy their first car. Not because it meant extra hours working on them for free, he wanted his sons to be safe, but because it meant that he no longer had someone to wash, wax and clean his car.

There's another thing I now understand about my father.

As always, I welcome your comments. You can reach me by email at tstangl@lemarscomm.net, telephone 712-546-7031, x40 or toll free 1-800-728-0066 x40.

Thanks for reading, I'll keep in touch. Feel free to do the same.