Mechanic Dad Quotes

Once Dad took us to an amusement park in Oregon. Before I ever manifested. I plummeted twenty stories on a drop ride. Totally helpless to gravity. Unable to fly, to save myself ... I feel that same helpless terror now. Because nothing I say will divert Mom off her present course. Nothing will make her realize what she's doing to me. I'm falling. And this time nothing will save me. No mechanical device will work its wonder and jerk me back at the last minute. But she does realize, a small voice whispers through me. That's why she's doing it. That's why she brought you here. She wants me to hit ground.

Stiles: [Discussing who could be controlling the Kanima] Hey. What if it's Matt? I mean, this whole thing comes back to the video, right? Scott McCall: Danny said that Matt was the one who found the two hours of footage missing. Stiles: Exactly! He's trying to throw suspicion off himself. Scott McCall: So he makes Jackson kill Isaac's dad, one of Argent's hunters, and the mechanic working on your jeep? Stiles: Yes! Scott McCall: Why? Stiles: Because... He's evil. Scott McCall: You just don't like him. Stiles: The guy - Bugs me. I don't know what it is. Just look at his face.

His eyes trace the droplets branching down my chest. They stop at my waistband. “Brandon. Cutie.” “Yeah.” “You’re still wearing your boxers.” “I am.” “Is there something you need to tell me?” “No.” “Are you actually a Ken doll?” “Nope.” “Is your dad a secret superhero and you have a bionic penis and you make up this big religious-paranoia back story because it shoots laser beams and has the strength of a bulldozer?” “Yes.” “I knew it.

Maybe my dad was right: Maybe I was too sensitive. You people wasn't always a secret way of saying something bigoted. But I had heard it from a mechanic. I had heard it from a University of Pennsylvania alumnus. I had heard it from my father. In those instances, there lurked a subtle judgement about non-white races, yet I couldn't quite articulate it.

The hatred of money is generally a subconscious attempt to alleviate the pain of being broke or poor.

Fascinating the way even the most mechanically inept males feel obliged to involve themselves with any malfunctioning machine in their immediate vicinity. And usually, at least in Dad’s case, making things worse.

Still, Emma and I somehow struck up the type of friendship that lasts through primary school and high-school cliques, and our fathers are both doctors, although my dad is a GP and Dr Frank is a gynecologist (or, as Emma's two older brothers prefer to call him, a 'box mechanic'). In many ways, I think Emma and I balance each other out - at least, I hope we do. She forces me to be less cynical and bitter. And I'm on hand to remind her that, as long as she has two eyebrows rather than one, she has nothing to worry about. I text her back: 'Call me when you can plait them.' - Cat

And what about this. When we’re thrust into it, we anxious folk can often deal with the present really rather well. It’s worth remembering this. As real, present-moment disasters occur, we invariably cope, and often better than others. The day after no sleep, I get on with things. At funerals, or when I’ve fallen off my bike, or the time I had to attend to my grandmother when she stopped breathing, or whenever a major work disaster plays out leaving my team in a panic, I’m a picture of calm. Dad used to call me “the tower of strength” in such moments. I also don’t tend to have a lot of bog-standard fear (as opposed to anxiety). In fact, I relish real, present-moment fear and actively seek it out.

A problem with school is that you often become what you study. So if you study cooking, you become a chef. If you study the law, you become an attorney, and a study of auto mechanics makes you a mechanic. The mistake in becoming what you study is that too many people forget to mind their own business. They spend their lives minding someone else’s business and making that person rich.

Rosemary Klein, Winchester, England: Always keep your knees together, ladies; they are best friends. Sister Rosemary Carroll, R.I.P. Katy Kidd Wright, a friend who described herself as a “non-RC heathen raising RC kids going to Catholic schools” confirmed that ashes on foreheads was still in vogue. “The modern curriculum even has a robotics lesson in Grade 2 where my eldest learned to mechanize Mary and Joseph's walk to Bethlehem.” In my school days, we wrote JMJ on the top of scribbler pages for a Holy Family Jesus, Mary, and Joseph blessing. Other times, we wrote BVM for the Blessed Virgin Mary. It was an alphabet acronym heaven. Whenever Dad felt no one was listening to him, he spoke to the Blessed Virgin Mary statue on the living room mantle. They talked a lot.

Want to play rock, paper, scissors?” I wonder where this is going. “Sure.” “On three,” she prompts. We bob our fists together. “One, two…” But before three she blurts, “Why do you love your dad more than your mom?” “What?” “Three,” she calls. I throw down scissors, which she beats with rock. “I knew you’d do scissors,” she says. I’m stunned. “Ask an invasive question and your opponent will go for scissors,” she says. “It’s a defense mechanism.” I look down at my hand, betrayed. “It’s in the phrasing,” she says. “It doesn’t matter how true the statement is. If there’s a fraught relationship with either parent, it makes people want to cut you. Hence the offensive. Or scissors.” “Wait. My turn.” I hold out my fist again and we go. “On three,” I say. On two I ask her: “Go out with me.

As we pulled up at the big school gates, I saw tears rolling down my dad’s face. I felt confused as to what part of nature or love thought this was a good idea. My instinct certainly didn’t; but what did I know? I was only eight. So I embarked on this mission called boarding school. And how do you prepare for that one? In truth, I found it really hard; there were some great moments like building dens in the snow in winter, or getting chosen for the tennis team, or earning a naval button, but on the whole it was a survival exercise in learning to cope. Coping with fear was the big one. The fear of being left and the fear of being bullied--both of which were very real. What I learned was that I couldn’t manage either of those things very well on my own. It wasn’t anything to do with the school itself, in fact the headmaster and teachers were almost invariably kind, well-meaning and good people, but that sadly didn’t make surviving it much easier. I was learning very young that if I were to survive this place then I had to find some coping mechanisms. My way was to behave badly, and learn to scrap, as a way to avoid bullies wanting to target me. It was also a way to avoid thinking about home. But not thinking about home is hard when all you want is to be at home. I missed my mum and dad terribly, and on the occasional night where I felt this worst, I remember trying to muffle my tears in my pillow while the rest of the dormitory slept. In fact I was not alone in doing this. Almost everyone cried, but we all learned to hide it, and those who didn’t were the ones who got bullied. As a kid, you can only cry so much before you run out of tears and learn to get tough. I meet lots of folks nowadays who say how great boarding school is as a way of toughening kids up. That feels a bit back-to-front to me. I was much tougher before school. I had learned to love the outdoors and to understand the wild, and how to push myself. When I hit school, suddenly all I felt was fear. Fear forces you to look tough on the outside but makes you weak on the inside. This was the opposite of all I had ever known as a kid growing up. I had been shown by my dad that it was good to be fun, cozy, homely--but then as tough as boots when needed. At prep school I was unlearning this lesson and adopting new ways to survive. And age eight, I didn’t always pick them so well.

So I started circling ads for old cars I could afford. I begged my dad to take me out looking at these cars on Saturdays and Sundays. At first I had no luck getting him interested in doing this. It was fall (1961) when he got tired of my haranguing, and one Saturday we set out to look at some of these advertised vehicles. It was a crisp and breezy autumn Saturday with brilliant yellow, orange, and red leaves blowing from the trees in swirls. The first car we looked at was a 1940 Ford Coupe. I thought at the time, and still do, that it was one of the classiest cars in existence. When we pulled up to the house of the owner, we found both garage doors open with the car inside, the hood open, and several greasy teenaged 'mechanics' bent over the engine compartment. The floor of the garage was strewn with various mechanical parts, and the concrete was stained with oil and grease spots. The front end of the car had been lowered, and the back end had been raised. It had a big V-8 engine block which was painted red. The body needed a little work, but a couple of the fenders had gray primer on them and looked like they were ready for paint. The owner was asking $200 for it. It seemed like the perfect car for me, but when I looked at my dad’s face, it appeared he had more than a little skepticism. He started asking the boys picky questions like: 'Does it run?' and 'Do the brakes work?' I had $200 and I was ready to buy, but after hearing the answers to these questions and few more, my dad said, 'I think we need to go home and think about this.

Step 4: Engage your child to problem-solve with you. Offer “leading” ideas, but allow your child to experience the aha moment of brainstorming a coping mechanism. Resist the urge to explain the fear away or solve the problem on your own. Phrases like “I wonder” and “I’m thinking about” help engage your child in problem-solving. It might sound like this: “Hmm . . . I’m wondering if we can go to the basement and start going down the stairs one at a time . . . let me know when the scary feeling starts and when it feels like it’s getting bigger.” As you inquire about the fear in this way, you infuse your parental presence into the moment, and as your child feels less alone in her fear, it won’t hold such a strong grip. Next, maybe say, “I wonder what you could say to yourself as you go down one of the stairs . . .” Or maybe you suggest a solution like, “I’m thinking about practicing going down one stair now, then in a few days maybe another stair, and the next day a few more . . . hmm . . .” Step 5: Create a mantra. For kids who struggle with anxiety, mantras can be very helpful in the moment. Whether spoken out loud or recited internally, a mantra focuses their attention on the calming words rather than the source of distress. Examples of mantras include, “It’s okay to be nervous. I can get through this,” “I can feel scared and brave at the same time,” and “I’m safe, my parents are near.” Work with your child to develop a mantra that feels good to them and encourage them to repeat it during scary moments. Step 6: Share a “slowly coping with a fear” story. Yours might sound like: “This reminds me of when I was about your age, and I was scared of dogs. I still remember how bad those moments felt in my body.” Do not offer a quick fix like, “But then I realized that I was safe and it was okay.” Instead offer a story of slow coping, something like: “I remember talking to my dad about it, and realizing it was okay to feel scared. I remember that my dad and I would read a lot about dogs, then I’d start to walk closer to dogs with him. And then one day, my dad helped me touch a dog. Little by little, dogs felt less scary. It was such hard work to be brave when I was feeling scared!

I finally realized who really ran the show at home; my mom. I just didn't realize how toxic it was until I saw him crumble under her will and joined forces with her when I was violated. I had no idea at the time what this kind of dysfunction was, but I knew it was wrong and unfair treatment. My dad was a decent hard-working man who found himself caught in a web of an extremely controlling wife he loved but who emasculated him. He found her difficult to live with, and so the best way he could try to keep peace in the marriage was to play the role of “go along to get along”. That grew into a whole different branch of coping mechanism; enabling.  Mom was the boss and he accepted it by withdrawing and avoiding the big elephant in the family. His little girl, his only girl, his “little shadow” no longer was his priority; pleasing mom at all cost was the main vein that fed his insufficiency to step into his authority as the head of the home. As time passed, I witnessed repeatedly, that his needs were not a priority and he accepted my mom's behavior no matter how it infected us or the atmosphere of the home. He did all this just to keep her pleased and so he didn't have to hear the constant bickering, even though it was a temporary fix.

One of the optional subjects that we could study at Eton was motor mechanics, roughly translated as “find an old banger, pimp it up, remove the exhaust, and rag it around the fields until it dies.” Perfect. I found an exhausted-looking, old brown Ford Cortina station wagon that I bought for thirty pounds, and, with some friends, we geared it up big-time. As we were only sixteen we weren’t allowed to take it on the road, but I reckoned with my seventeenth birthday looming that it would be perfect as my first, road-legal car. The only problem was that I needed to have it pass inspection, and to do that I had to get it to a garage. This involved having an adult drive with me. I persuaded Mr. Quibell that there was no better way that he could possibly spend a Saturday afternoon than drive me to a repair garage (in his beloved Slough). I had managed to take a lucky diving catch for the house cricket team the day before, so was in Mr. Quibell’s good books--and he relented. As soon as we got to the outskirts of Slough, though, the engine started to smoke--big-time. Soon, Mr. Quibell had to have the windshield wipers on full power, acting as a fan just to clear the smoke that was pouring out of the hood. By the time we made it to the garage the engine was red-hot and it came as no surprise that my car failed its inspection--on more counts than any car the garage had seen for a long time, they told me. It was back to the drawing board, but it was a great example of what a good father figure Mr. Quibell was to all those in his charge--especially to those boys who really tried, in whatever field it was. And I have always been, above all, a trier. I haven’t always succeeded, and I haven’t always had the most talent, but I have always given of myself with great enthusiasm--and that counts for a lot. In fact my dad had always told me that if I could be the most enthusiastic person I knew then I would do well. I never forgot that. And he was right. I mean, who doesn’t like to work with enthusiastic folk?

Again, he asked for the mechanic and showed him the flat, ready to begin his spiel. But to his surprise, the tire now looked normal. No longer destroyed, it looked solid, whole, and ready to use again. God fixed the tire while Dad walked across the street. All the mechanic had to do was put it back on the rim.

When he was young, he had thick black hair and he roared around on a Norton Commando, giving girls rides to school on the back of his bike. That’s how he met my mom. He was a senior, she was a sophomore. She got pregnant two months later. They never married, but they lived together for a couple of years in my grandmother’s basement. My dad was crazy about my mom. She really was gorgeous, and smart. He told her to keep going to school while he worked days as a mechanic and took care of me at night.

I’ve never shed a single tear for him, but I have shed tears for the little girl I was, who should’ve had a dad who loved and cared for her. Who protected her and showed her how a man treats a woman. Sometimes, that little girl doesn’t even feel like me. To survive what I did, I had to separate myself mentally from my past. I don’t know if that’s how it is for everyone, but that was my coping mechanism.

vulnerable and at-risk, even though he’d be doing her worse damage.  Right now, though, he’s losing face every time he blows a case.  And he’s batting, what?  Less than fifty-percent since you’ve been in office and have more than doubled his caseload?” “Right at,” Cramer agreed.  “That was in the paper last week.  Blames us and the various P.D.s for that, though.” “Of course.  Never mind that he’s never had a workload of serious crimes to prosecute like he’s got now.” Landon shook his head.  “You expected less?” “I have a name for people like that.” “I’m sure, Martin,” Landon said.  “Just keep it to yourself, please.  We don’t need that printed in the local scandal sheet, too.” Martin glanced around the room, then pointedly back at Landon.  “Who’s going to tell?” Landon purposely turned his head toward several locals standing at the front desk, all of them incapable of hearing them, but all of them also watching them through the open door.  “Think anybody reads lips?” Martin grimaced. “I just got word from a pal over at Dutfeld’s office that the prosecutor is going after Doug Long, for sure,” Red said, walking in, his attention on Martin as he handed Landon more papers to sign.  He closed the door.  “Has anyone been out to see him?” “Yeah,” Cramer answered.  “Me and Larson went out.  Doug is working as a mechanic for his dad.  Living there, too, because he’s got his

Copyright ©2015 Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (Electronic, mechanical, recording, photocopying or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. There once was a fox and he went for a stroll, a rotten, mean fox who fell down a hole. He looked to the sky which shimmered with light. And yelled at a shadow with all of his might. “I’m stuck down this hole, please can you help?” He said to the creature then started to yelp.

She seems dazed like she hasn't grasped it yet. Sam's staying with her…’ The volume of his voice faded in and out. ‘Those poor kids. Leah's just a year older than you, and Seth is only fourteen…’ He shook his head. He kept his arms tight around me as he started toward the door again. ‘Um, Dad?’ I figured I'd better warn him. ‘You'll never guess who's here.’ He looked at me blankly. His head swiveled around, and he spied the Mercedes across the street, the porch light reflecting off the glossy black paint. Before he could react, Olivia was in the doorway. ‘Hi, Mr. Anderson,’ she said in a subdued voice. ‘I'm sorry I came at such an inconvenient time.’ ‘Olivia?’ Peered at the slight figure in front of him as if he doubted what his eyes were telling him. ‘Olivia is that you?’ ‘It's me,’ she confirmed. ‘I was in the neighborhood.’ ‘Is Chiaz…?’ ‘No, I'm alone.’ Both Olivia and I knew he wasn't asking about Chiaz. His arm tightened around my shoulder. ‘She can stay here, can't she?’ I pleaded. ‘I already asked her.’ ‘Of course,’ Mr. Anderson said mechanically. ‘We'd love to have you, Olivia.’ ‘Thank you, Mr. Anderson. I know it's horrid timing.’ ‘No, it's fine. I'm going to be busy doing what I can for Harry's family; it will be nice for Karly to have some company.’ ‘There's dinner for you on the table, Dad,’ I told him. ‘Thanks, Bell.’ He gave me one more squeeze before he shuffled toward the kitchen. Olivia went back to the couch, and I followed her. This time, she was the one to pull me against her shoulder. ‘You look tired.’ ‘Yeah,’ I agreed and shrugged. ‘Near-death experiences do that to me… So, what does Chiaz think of you being here?

...I flapped my T-shirt to make a fan, then rolled up my sleeves until an inch of my shoulders was visible. When Dad saw me a few minutes later, he strode over and yanked the sleeves down. ‘This ain’t a whorehouse,’ he said. I watched him walk away and, mechanically, as if I weren’t making the decision, rerolled them...He’d told me what to do, and I hadn’t done it...I wanted to obey. I meant to. But the afternoon was so hot, the breeze on my arms so welcome. It was just a few inches...I didn’t feel much like an object of desire or temptation. I felt like a human forklift. How could an inch of skin matter?

What if Dad looked up Castaway Planet and found our vlog? He’d know Abel was here. He’d know I lied, and he’d flip in that scary-calm way I can’t handle at all. Bec’s dad used to roar like a chainsaw; mine makes tiny snips that bleed you so slowly you don’t notice until you’re weak.

Then again, he was never one to cry. None of us were. Dad raised us to be strong and stoic. I remember his words, 'If you can control your emotions, you can control anything.' He made it sound like it was some sort of superpower. But really it was just a terrible coping mechanism - one that left us unprepared when he disappeared.