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An only-child, I’m also the last known survivor of my father’s mostly mechanical descendants. There’s a story.

In childhood I grew aware of dad’s other offspring, especially a weighty (at least 100 pounds of cast iron involved) Bendix washer dad kept running for 45 years. (With mother bemoaning beyond the machine’s silver anniversary.)

Mechanically, Ben could have kept going, but the electrical relays, contacts, gears, springs, etc. of the control were beyond fixing. Mom’s new washer was OK, junk as dad saw it. Though of supposed quality it lasted a mere decade,

A city child in a large extended family, I accepted what was. An invitation to drop in on this relative or friend meant Uncle Steve-Steve, m’ dad, would be asked to look at something in the basement or garage, where he’d then stay for most of the visit.

I grew to avoid those basement-garage trips because holding a light or having to “fetch” was of considerably less appeal than the prospect of cake in the kitchen or kids to play with.

By the time I hit 10 most kids steered clear due to my practice of bloodying noses and knocking others off their feet. Told not to be bullied and fight back, I perhaps went a little far. Put me further ahead in the cake line, though. That was good.

I’m describing what some will see as a peculiar situation. Too young to be mechanically useful in garage or basement. Too assertive to put up with kid antics. That left cake, didn’t it, and watching TV.

Our hosts preferred me in a calm state. As for me, if I did bloody a nose or send someone crashing I accepted the swat I knew I’d be getting. There was no excuse for making Billy bleed or Janice yowl. On the other side, Billy and Janice learned to steer clear.

In that sense I was a lot like dad who once fixed onto a repair project stayed fully focused come what may. If a reluctant machine couldn’t be fixed then-there it would be taken home to face the music in our basement or garage.

Our garage, there’s an image. Brick, two-plus cars in size, never while we owned it held a single car. No room with the lathes, milling machine, punch and drill presses, etc.

The smell of electric motors and lubricating oil was more childhood to me than a baseball diamond.

Grampa Drabik did his best to keep me out of the shop. Can’t imagine why other than the large number of dangerous things I might get into. Not might. Did is more accurate.

Another image, one perhaps descriptive of childhood is our house with a tiny back yard, with the rest of the lot covered in garage.

Before kindergarten mom one day plunked me in a washtub, an impromptu backyard mini-pool. Assuming I was mollified, mom went inside. The fun of nearly touching the back porch with one outstretched hand and back wall of the garage with the other was soon reached.

What next? Freedom. Undo the gate latch, speed down the gangway, and turn left along the avenue toward the corner store selling candy.

I was on a mission, one lacking money and clothes, but a mission no less. Before reaching the store, I was apprehended, and not happy about it. Mother, however, was adamant that naked boys and busy streets should not mix. Ever after when offered the washtub I’d be sharply told “Stay in the yard!”

A single transgression (maybe it was more) was all it took to hold recrimination over my head. In any case, by age 10 I knew money was required at the store. No sense going there without. The washtub was no longer a fit, either. Standing or sitting in a tin-lined puddle wasn’t much, really. The washtub pool lost its fun and appeal in almost direct response to prohibitions on backyard nudity. I had to wear trunks, and mostly did, if anyone was watching.

The main pleasure became doing multiple trips dragging water indoors. Fun! Mother complained “My floor!” Using my innocent look I mostly got away with it. Mostly.

Child of a talented mechanic, I got little (10%?) of dad’s gift, though I was very familiar with many (too numerous to name here) of his mechanical offspring.

The undying Bendix had a long string of Electrolux toddlers. Dad never met a worn Electrolux he wouldn’t attempt to rescue. Brought back to cat-scaring life, an Electrolux stood available for every room.

So known was dad for saving delipidated vacuums people left their dying orphans at our door. Hoovers got the boot. No time for those sorry machines. Dad was 100% an Electrolux man.

The neighborhood’s friendly, door-to-door (there were such) South Side Electrolux salesman knew our house to bring tragic, sometimes hopeless, lack-of-vacuum cases. Triage conducted in the basement led to transplants from earlier deceased and renewed life to a worthy Lux body.

As stated, I didn’t have dad’s gift, a failing that saddened him, though not so he ever gave up hope. My mechanical role (which seemed to suit me) was destruction. Take this apart for its nuts and bolts, strip that down to scrap. But building, no.

Age eight I put together a bird cage that by rights should have had the SPCA down on me. Dad and grampa dealt in ten-thousandths. I got beyond 20 only in the tub. So, aside from the most modest and minor ways, I can look after but not rebuild my aging mechanical siblings.

The runner-tank Electrolux models long gone, a final older model has started the death wheeze a hospice nurse knows as “the end is near.”

Now connect. The five-year old larking toward the candy store didn’t see a future. The 10-year old with arms between porch and garage didn’t predict 1,000 nights under canvas or lifelong reverence for Clemens.

The 20-year old English major had no mind of archaeology grants or minor roles as DNR smoke-chaser.

Inclinations, abilities and experiences aren’t our creations. We only develop or avoid them. Fussing over how life should be is likely the surest way to miss it as it happens.