Even though my father passed away nearly 15 years ago, Father's Day still hits me with a flood of memories. Here it is, a week after the holiday, and I'm awash in remembrances of time spent with Dad. Many of these recollections involve cars and car trips…family vacations to California or Canada…drives to Crystal Cave to see stalactites and stalagmites…leisurely Sunday drives with no specific destination. When I was in grade school, Dad had a claims adjusting business. On Saturdays he often drove out-of-town to look at a claimant's wrecked automobile. Saint Cloud, New Ulm, Rochester—it made no difference—I begged to ride along. Dad wore a suit and tie. I was allowed to wear a dress. After all, this was a business trip.
     Long before child safety seats or even seat belts, I perched on the edge of the front seat as we sped along two lane roads. When we came upon a slower moving vehicle, I would goad Dad to pass the car. Faster, faster, I would say, pumping my arms to help Dad gain momentum. He made a big show of putting the pedal to the metal. Whew! Just in the nick of time, he always said, as we passed the other driver, Once we were in first place again, I fell back against the seat, laughing and clapping my hands, secure in the knowledge my father was the safest driver in the whole world. He was, after all, in the insurance business.
     Later, he was a personal injury attorney. Which is why Dad never wanted my siblings and me to sled down the tree-lined hill at the country club across the river from our house. He'd had a client—there was always a client to back up his injunctions—a young boy with brain damage because his toboggan hit a mighty oak. There was a snowmobiler decapitated when her scarf caught in the barbed wire of a farmer's fence. Dad warned us about the railroad tracks on the edge of the neighborhood park. Someone else had a client who'd lost a leg when he tripped trying to get out of the way of an oncoming train.
     Time and again, I moaned and pleaded. Why was I was the only girl who was not allowed to have any fun?
     Now that Dad is gone, it's easy to remember the fun. Like Sunday car rides to Lake City for bushel baskets of just-picked apples. Each of us kids got to choose a small container of our favorite. Mine was tart and crunchy. With every bite, juice dribbled down the side of my hand. On the way back home, we stopped to collect fall leaves which Mom would help us iron between squares of waxed paper.
     One Christmas, after Dad began his legal career, Santa Claus delivered two new Pontiacs to our driveway. Each one had a big red bow tied across the windshield. One car was a pink convertible. Dad put the top down on Christmas morning and drove that car up and down our snowy street. Every time he passed our house, he turned to wave at Mom, who stood at the front door. Bundled up in her winter coat and gloves, she hollered at him to come home this instant. He waved some more and wished her a Merry Christmas.
     Is it any wonder I found myself in the automobile business, selling cars for almost 30 years? Never understood how they worked. Could barely lift open the hood. But I knew cars could make people smile. In hindsight, I've Dad to thank for that.