Some people grow up with a basketball in their hands or a guitar slung over their shoulder. Me? I grew up with a screwdriver in my pocket and a small hammer in my hand, chasing after my Grandpa Harvey like a shadow in a flannel shirt.
Grandpa Harvey didn’t believe in throwing anything away—not when it could be fixed, patched, or repurposed. He didn’t always need help, but he never turned me away. I'd follow him from the garage to the barn, eyeing his every move, hoping he’d let me tap something, turn something, or open something. Sometimes, he’d hand me an old hinge or a broken lawnmower blade and say, “Go see what you can figure out.”
That was all the invitation I needed. I didn’t know it then, but I wasn’t just learning how things worked—I was learning to love the act of working with my hands, of solving problems with persistence and patience.
By the time I hit middle school, I was already addicted to the smell of sawdust and motor oil. I couldn’t wait for shop class—first the wood shop, then the power mechanics workshop. There was something about the clatter of tools and the buzz of a motor coming back to life that made me feel like I belonged. In those moments, I wasn’t just learning—I was building myself.
In high school, I landed a job at a local gas station, back when gas stations still had service bays and oil-stained concrete floors. I got to check oil, rotate tires, and eventually change out belts and hoses. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real work—the kind that leaves your knuckles bruised and your shirt dirty, but your heart full. Every car that rolled in had a story, and I started to understand that I wasn’t just fixing engines—I was preserving mobility, freedom, and dignity.
Now, years later, I’m a long way from that little boy with the hammer, but some things haven’t changed. I still love to tinker.
Only now, the objects of my tinkering are classic cars—old metal beauties that once ruled the roads and now sit proudly in my garage. I collect them, restore them, and sometimes just sit with them, listening to the tick of cooling engines. Some are pristine. Others still wear their patina like war medals. Each one is a new puzzle, a new opportunity to tinker, not just for function, but for legacy.
I’ve found there’s something sacred in bringing a machine back to life, especially one with history in its frame and soul in its exhaust note. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe it’s a deep respect for craftsmanship. Or maybe it’s just that some of us were born to pick things apart and put them back together—better than we found them.
Tinkering has taken me places—into workshops, under hoods, beside mentors, and now among fellow collectors. It’s more than a hobby. It’s a rhythm, a mindset, a calling.
So yes, I admit it.
I love to tinker.
And I always will.
