I originally posted this to the lotus-cars list. I was hesitent, thinking
I maight be setting myself up for a flame as inappropriate. The response
surprised me. Several emotional private emails (don't worry guys, I won't
blow your hard-boiled covers!) and requests to reproduce it in
newsletters. Permission has been obtained now with the conditions shown.
===
My younger daughter, Elizabeth, goes to the Minnesota Arts High School.
The original idea for it probably came to "Governor Goofy" Rudy Perpich in
a dream after watching "Fame". She is majoring in Literature. One night
she was doing a poetry reading in a local coffee house, and my older
daughter, Amanda, heard her read a poem called "Garage". I don't know how
long ago she wrote it. Amanda convinced her to make it a Christmas
present. Elizabeth got one of her Visual Arts friends at the school to
draw up a Europa with legs sticking out from under it, and a bunch of
scattered tools and drop lights. They laid the pictures out with a
printout of the poem and Amanda colored them. Then they got it framed.
I thought I'd share it with you as an outsider's view of the sports car
illness that affects so many of us.
Garage by Elizabeth Ethier
My dad in his old
oil clothes, his
yellow margarine tubs of
greasy car parts, his
hands with black
settled into the creases and
under his fingernails. He is
half under a car, his
legs stick out on the creeper, I
used to sit on it and
scoot around all by myself and
bump into people's legs. He
sits on an orange milk crate and
had me pump the brakes. Sitting in the
car up on the ramps I feel just a
little bit
higher than everyone else. Later he will
come inside, down the basement to
use the Lava soap on the dryer next to the
washtubs. I've
always liked the smell of
gasoline. I can hear "Go tell your father
dinner is ready", out the back door in
bare feet on the sidewalk all broken that
hurts, the way the door scrapes against the
floor, telling his legs that
dinner is ready. The
smell vanishes as I
whip the door shut. My
father wears an
old grey jumpsuit in the garage with
wrenches he'll need later
rattling in the pockets, his
thick safety glasses and the
oldies on the radio. I used to
think he could fix anything but he can't, he
still yells, he still drops things and
can't always put them together again, he
still laughs too loud when he
watches TV but when he's
in the garage he
knows everything he
knows where it's at, he
taught me how to
change oil and bleed brakes and he
works for the city. Sometimes I
feel sorry for him but
other times I don't, he's
still Dad. Mom owns the house but he's
King of the Garage.
(c) 1994 by Elizabeth Ethier
all rights reserved
The poem "Garage" may be used in club newsletters and other not-for-profit
publications at no charge. The following conditions will apply
1. The poem is used in its entirety, with the same line breaks it had on
the original posting, and the copyright notice intact.
2. Credit must be given in the publication to "Elizabeth Ethier"
3. A complete copy of the publication containing the poem is to be sent
to her at:
Beth Ethier
Delta Dorm
Minnesota Center for Arts Education
6135 Olson Memorial Highway 55
Golden Valley, MN 55422
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