Sum Of The Parts Seems Greater Than The Whole

Old boxes, cans and jars hold leftover treasures that connect with childhood memories to bring broader insights about our inner self.

Even though my dad has been gone for a few years I still think about him. Unexpected things bring him back: black coffee, cows, rhubarb, pencils, or loud music each serve as connections but there are so many other things too as dad’s perspective was often diverse and diligently self-taught.

Dad never bought a new vehicle: he acquired something he could rehabilitate for a couple years. Something he could keep running meant he was always working on his car. This was back in the days when cars didn’t have computer chips and their spark plug gap calibrations were public knowledge so anyone with a wrench, a screwdriver and a semblance of a mechanical aptitude could lift the hood and touch things. And somehow this meant I was his apprentice: my job was to hold the light so that dad could see into those dark crevasses where a Phillips screw head was hiding while he was trying to use a Robertson screwdriver.

Every once-in-while, after much unrewarded attention given to a vehicle, dad would survey the situation and decide it was time to overall an engine. This meant removing the engine from the vehicle, taking it completely apart and then putting it completely back together again. So while holding the light I learned about pistons, distributors, carburetors and things as dad disassembled, cleaned, replaced worn parts and then reassembled.

A weekend “overhaul” project often became a ten day event as invariably a much need part didn’t arrive on time, or something wasn’t re-assembled correctly and we needed to start over. But dad never seemed too concerned through all this: I held the light and dad just kept working with his goal in mind. Eventually the engine was returned to the all-together state and returned to the car amidst excited anticipation as we tried the ignition.

When dad took an engine apart he always placed parts into an expansive collection of cans and boxes: re-assembly was really the reverse process but required that we look into these same boxes and cans to find and retrieve each needed part. Looking back at this I think dad had all these parts memorized as he knew how everything fit together but his memory seemed less clear about which can or box held them. His laid-back approach to the process allowed everything to happen with informal precision. Dad must have overhauled at a couple dozen engines this way as I held the light.

And while each overhaul was a story within itself the end result was always the same: the car started on the third or fourth attempt which was my cue to change roles from being the holder of the shop light to being the holder of the timing light while dad fussed with adjustments to be sure the engine wasn’t running rough.

With the job complete, the success story soon evolves into a mystery. There are left over parts in each of the cans and boxes: screws, nuts, short wires, small gaskets, a simple collection of treasure the engine assembly didn’t seem to require. But the engine is running well. Do we need these parts?

When dad passed away I remember looking at rusty cans and scrunched boxes he kept on the floor along a wall in his garage. Each of these contained dusty leftover parts, a collection of relics from all the engine overhauls he’d done, that now seems a testimony to the homage he felt towards each car in his care.

Now, while looking through a jar on my own workbench, I notice it contains an assortment of things that includes screws, nuts, short wires, small gaskets, all simple treasures I’ve never been able to use. With this observation an image quickly returns: there I am holding the light while dad finishes up an engine.

Over on a shelf I see a few more jars just like the one on my workbench. This seems so much like standing in dad’s garage but these are all left over parts I’ve collected in my own way. I sense a curious feeling of comfort while poking through each jar as I begin to realize that dad is smiling right now.

By Jim Pescott