His Stories are My Memories

To many a person, the stories their father tells them about their past are little more than that: a story. Some will ask for details. Others may ask for proof. Whether or not you believe the stories are up to your discretion.

My father has never told me a story I didn't want to believe. Although some seem rather inconspicuous, some rather extraordinary, and some inconceivable, I have always found some hint of truth in the stories he has told.

My favorites that he's told me happened around the time I was no more than a toddler. My father used to build and race cars. He used to collect parts and recreate, rebuild, and restructure Camaros- his favorite type of vehicle. He had one, in particular, a nice and sleek blue one, that he used to drive my baby brother and me in.

He once had found himself in a funny situation with that car that proved his mettle in car-building. Before anyone freaks out, Neither my brother nor I was with him. Well, that I know of at least.

The event happened in the evening time at a stoplight in Chattanooga. He was only joined by a friend of his who shared an interest in cars. They only sat at that light for a few seconds when another vehicle- A mustang- pulls up beside them, revving its engine and daring my dad to race the straight strip past the stoplight.

My dad smiles and pulls out his wallet and sets a one hundred dollar bill on the dash, staring at his friend. His friend shook his head.

"There's no way you can beat them." And he sets a copy of the bill on top of the one my dad set down. With a grin my dad faced forward, revving his engine to agree to the challenge.

The light goes green, and both drivers hit the gas. Let's just say, my dad went home a hundred dollars richer that evening. Not only did he know enough about racing, but he had built that car from the tires up.

I never remembered much about that car, as he got rid of it before I grew too old.

Now, most readers probably think: Pics or didn't happen, but I can assure you, although I have no pictures of that car, I believe the story is a hundred percent true, and here is my proof:

As the years have gone by, my father has grown accustomed to driving vehicles to my mother's liking: Durangos, Explorers, etc. But though he goes from sports car to your usual southern family car, his prospects as a late-night stoplight racer have carried over. He hates it when other vehicles try to show off, sports car, truck, jeep, it doesn't matter. He gets overly competitive, he gets close to playing with them too.

"Don't you dare test them in my vehicle." my mother would say, and you can see a look of disappointment cross his face every time. And although I love to chuckle and laugh at him when it happens, I still feel that he doesn't need to do it in my mom's car.

There once was one late evening that he was tested and I had the greatest amusement I have ever had in my entire life while being in the car with him. I was just getting off a late-night shift at work and we were coming up the mountain somewhere in Alabama. A white mustang comes pulling up beside dad and starts playing, revving their engine, speeding up and slowing down, etc. Dad gets it in his head that he can take them on in my mother's Durango.

"Don't do it, dad, he's not worth it," I tell him while chuckling,

No sooner do I get the words out than a black sports car comes pulling up where the mustang had just been, and they had started showing off too!

At this point im about to the point of laughter and my dad is starting to get more agitated, about to start playing too, but I stop him.

"Don't do it, dad, he's not worth it either."

He starts to settle down and like the mustang, the sports car flies off too.

Not too much longer, Another sports car- red in color- pulls up exactly where the other two are and I just burst out laughing. This car too starts to show off and at this point, my father gets beyond irritated and it takes a little coaxing, while I fight laughter, to keep him from playing.

Now, as you have probably guessed, I have little knowledge of cars. But I never took to memory the rambling of how to determine sports cars. I took to memory the amusing stories of my dad and his car-based track record.

Whether this is proof enough for the readers, doesn't matter. it's proof enough to me.

At the end of the day, I love listening to my dad tell stories. Be it about cars, or other things. They have a special place in my mind as he does in my heart. There are many other stories I could tell you that he's told me. I could reminisce some of the most amusing and hilarious stories, the most incredible tales, and even some heartbreaking tragedies.

my father has told me a time or two before that there is nothing in his past he seems proud enough to just tell. But be that as it may, his stories leave their marks on me. They in time, become more than just...short periods. His stories have become memories that I cherish. I cherish them almost as much as I adore him. And I know that he's probably going to see this article. And I also know that win or lose, shared or not, believed or debunked, his stories will continue to amuse me forever.

I love you, Dad.