Why?
Why? It's the most broad-based question one can ask. Despite being a single-word query, it applies to practically everything that's questionable. "Why" is one of my favorite utterances, and it's not because I don't grasp what it is I'm asking about. It's because I can't grasp why something's being done in a particular manner. Turning the tables, it's also one of the most common things asked by readers when submitting letters and e-mails. Of course, I'm usually quick on the trigger to respond with whatever it is that I believe to be the absolute reason "why," whether or not that actually is the real reason why. Nevertheless, that's not what I'm leading into. Read on.
Recently, while juggling the mental circus in my head, I started to wonder why it is that we do what we do. No, I'm not referring to our day-to-day employment routines, rather why we are into old cars and trucks. I can speculate, which I'm obviously good at, but with my particular reasoning, it doesn't justify the curiosity. See, I have no "formal" alter-auto upbringing. My parents-heck, pretty much all relatives on each side-owned cars or trucks for the pure sake of transportation. In my Uncle Bill's case, it was also for employment, as he was and is the official town snow plower, but even that doesn't qualify as an adequate influence. (However, as my Mom recently pointed out, he did have a hopped-up Model A coupe-turned-roadster as a kid, so he's off my list!)
No, I didn't have the luxury of sitting on a toolbox sipping a cold Orange Crush while Dad wrenched on a project in the garage. The closest I ever got was sitting on his Honda Dream (which he used to ride to work) while he was in watching football or golf. That was short lived, though, as he didn't appreciate it much when I tipped it over during a "make believe" hard turn one evening, as I'd neglected to inform him right away, leaving the bike to empty its fluid contents on the garage floor. However, despite the fact that my addiction was not inherent, the attraction did start to bloom well before I was able to legally drive, let alone appreciate the workings of the internal combustion engine. For whatever reasons, and this is the honest-ta-gawd truth, I started sketching '56 F-100 panel trucks in the 2nd Grade! No lie. But they weren't just ordinary panels, though, they were hot rodded trucks, complete with elaborate flame jobs-OK, elaborate for a 7-year-old! My parents couldn't figure out why, as none of the neighbors or even any of their friends had such "weird" vehicles. I guess they were just happy to see I had a creative outlet other than cussing out fellow students and sometimes getting beat up in the process. I wish I still had some of those early drawings, but at least I have a vivid recollection of doing them-more so of the teachers scolding me for not paying attention instead!