And I was just a 9-year old boy when, in a hot and dusty summer day, he first let me drive a car.
I owe this man so much, than I simply cannot find the right words to express it.
He was born in April 1921, and he got his driving and mechanic license in February 1940. It was maybe his luck, as it helped him to service World War II as a driver and mechanic.
He then earned his living by driving and fixing cars, for the rest of his life. The cars eventually killed him, because he passed away due to health problems caused by the side effects of the one and only serious car crash he ever experienced.
One damn' evening of October 1994, after 54 years and 8 months spent by the cars, he drove his car into the garage, without knowing that it was the last time he ever touched the steering wheel.
Passed away a couple of months later, on Jan. 5, 1995.
I posted hereafter four pictures of my father, with some of the cars he equally enjoyed and troubled with.
