My Dad Was a Mechanic
By Mary Kane
My dad was a mechanic and he never accumulated much money. After the plant where he worked had layoffs, Mom entered the labor force, but Dad provided for us in so many other ways. He had a passion for cooking, and there was always a kettle of beans soaking or a big pot of stew simmering. He was very inventive; one of his specialties was something he called “slumgullion,” a kind of miners’ stew made with ground beef, leftover chicken, potatoes, garlic, chili powder, tomatoes—just about everything but the kitchen sink. He probably never cooked it exactly the same way twice, but it always tasted good, and it smelled heavenly. He made the best navy bean soup, simmered with a ham hock, and he always had a pan of hot cornbread to go with it.
His real talent was baking—cream pies, vanilla cupcakes with seven-minute frosting—ah! What I remember most though was his cinnamon rolls. He made them from yeast dough that he’d set to rise in the afternoon. At night, he’d punch the dough, flatten it and make it into a log, slice it to make rolls and put them in a pan in the refrigerator to rise overnight. He put a lot of care into those rolls. Then it would be our job to bake them next morning.
When I was a freshman in high school, Dad set a pan of rolls to rise one night, then he went to bed. He died suddenly in his sleep—never woke up. It was a shock, very hard for all of us—Mom, my sister and me—and in the years that followed, we had some pretty rocky times. But I’ll always remember that Dad’s very last task was a labor of love, something he did to sustain us.
He didn’t leave much money, but he left us with a treasure beyond price. He left us a legacy—a kindness quietly given, a memory fragrant and sweet that rises in my mind, that warms my heart, that feeds my spirit even now.
