Learning to Love
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Wisdom of Dads

Trissa came up to me a few minutes before math class. “Hey, Richie, you know about cars,�?she said. “Mine’s making a funny noise. Could you take a look at it?�?BR>
“Sure,�?I said, and then another girl named Arielle spoke up.


“Can I come watch?�?she asked. “I want to learn how to fix cars, too.�?BR>
A year ago I didn’t even know what a distributor cap was. But nowadays my friends come to me with their car problems. They think I’m some kind of expert, but my new dad, Roger—he’s the real expert. He taught me everything I know about engines and transmissions. But Roger also taught me more important stuff—about life and love, and what it truly means to become a man.

My real dad left when I was just a baby, and for fifteen years it was just my mom and me. When the other guys played football with their dads, I could only watch. And it was a little embarrassing going on fishing trips when my mom was the only woman there. But I convinced myself it didn’t really matter. After all, how could I miss having a dad when I’d never had a dad to lose?

I was happy when we moved from Brooklyn to Nyack, New York, where my mom works for Sears. There was a lot more room to ride bikes and play ball, and at school there were coaches who taught me how to swing a bat and catch a pass—you know, the sort of things your dad’s supposed to teach you.

I made a lot of new friends in Nyack, and my mom even started dating. Some of the guys were okay; others I thought were total jerks. But the night Mom and I met Roger at a New Year’s Eve party, I didn’t know what to think.

Roger was six feet, three inches tall and 250 pounds, with long hair and a beard. He was loud and a little hard of hearing, and his forearms were as big around as my thighs.

“Nice to meet you,�?Roger boomed when somebody introduced us. When he shook my hand, it disappeared inside his huge paw, callused and scarred from years of construction work and working in the boiler room of a Navy ship during the Vietnam War.

I thought Roger was one scary dude, but on the drive home when we talked about him, Mom got sort of dreamy. “He’s actually very gentle,�?she said, and told me how sensitive Roger had seemed when he talked about his two sons who had drowned seventeen years before in a canoeing accident.

I still thought Roger was a little freaky, but a few nights later when he called I tried not to make a face as I handed Mom the phone. They talked for hours, and a few nights after that Roger took Mom to dinner. I didn’t know whether to feel happy for her or worried she’d maybe flipped her lid.

Then one night Roger was sitting in our living room waiting for Mom to get ready while I was talking to my grandparents on the phone. I told my grandma I loved her when I finished talking to her, but to my grandfather I just said goodbye.

Hanging up, I was surprised when Roger cleared his throat to speak—and even more surprised by what he said. “I know why you didn’t tell your grandfather you love him,�?he began. “It’s because he’s a guy, and you were embarrassed to tell him how you feel.�?BR>
Roger talked some about his sons who had drowned. “Not a day passes when I don’t wish I’d said ‘I love you�?to them even more than I did. ‘I love you�?isn’t just something you say to women,�?he said. Now I was really confused because here was this giant tough guy with tears rolling down his cheeks.

I still remember the first time Mom and I visited Roger’s house. The place overflowed with old newspapers and magazines, and everywhere you turned there were broken toasters and televisions Roger had always meant to fix. Then we went out to the garage—and wow!

Ever since I was little I’ve loved taking things apart to see how they work. Radios, my Ghostbusters game—I could take them apart fine, but there were always parts left over when I tried to put them back together. And the only tools I ever had were the screwdrivers and pliers from the kitchen drawer.

But Roger’s garage was one big workshop full of tools I’d never even seen before.

For the next hour, Roger showed me reciprocating saws, ratchets and about a thousand other tools. “Maybe one day we can work on a project together,�?he said, and I forced myself not to smile because what if he never did? What if Roger was just pretending to like me to impress my mom?

I guess you could say Roger swept my mom off her feet, because it wasn’t long before we were packing our things to move into his house. Roger and I spent days hauling junk to the dump in his pickup. We also refinished the floors.

A few weeks later, Roger taught me how to work a stick shift driving back and forth in the driveway. Then we went to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get my learner’s permit.

Another day Roger brought home an old Ford Escort that barely ran. “We’ll fix her up together, and then you’ll have something to drive,�?he said. This time I didn’t even try to hide my smile.

When we discovered the Escort’s transmission was shot, Roger bought a used transmission from the junkyard, and we jacked up the car and swapped it out with the old one. It was hard work, especially for a tall, skinny kid like me. But one night Mom gripped my forearm and smiled. “You’re putting on muscle,�?she said.

“I know,�?I said proudly, and I owed it all to Roger.

Even after we got it running, Roger and I spent hours tinkering with my car, and we did a lot of talking while we worked. Roger told me about when he was my age and he and his dog Silus used to sit beside the tracks for hours watching the trains roll by, and how he’d worked at a gas station for free just so he could learn to fix cars.

Roger also talked about some of the many kids he’d taken into his home over the years—abused kids, kids strung out on drugs, even a few who had spent time in jail. Roger helped these guys through some pretty tough times, and many of them have grown up to become successful businessmen, policemen and firemen. They still come by with their wives and families to thank him.

These days our house is full of tiny parts from a piano Roger and I are rebuilding because we both want to know what makes it work. We also love going for long drives through the country, stopping at farms to check out the animals while we talk about life. Sometimes we talk about girls and sex and stuff like that, but after hearing stories about the kids Roger helped, he didn’t have to warn me about abusing drugs and alcohol. I don’t want to screw up my life or wind up in prison. I want to grow up to be hard-working, honest and caring—just like Roger.

Besides my mom, Roger is the only person I know who will always be there for me, no matter what. Thanks to Roger I’ve grown tougher on the outside, but inside I know it’s okay to care about people and tell them so.