The Hot Rod Garage
My buddy Hammer sent me a video a few days back that elicited a tsunami of memories and emotions. To most, the video wouldn’t look like much. Hammer was back in Norway, Michigan, standing in the two-car garage of the house his parents have lived in for the past 40 years or so. He pressed the button for the automatic garage door opener and slowly panned around the space as the door raised and light flooded in. What was so striking was that the Hot Rod Garage, site of countless memories from the first 38 years of my life, was empty. Gone were the bookshelves full of car and biker magazines and yearbooks from the Norway High School Class of 1970, the high-top table and stools, the legendary Farah Fawcett poster on the wall, the Harley Davidson t-shirts hanging from the rafters, the yellow refrigerator that kept Miller Lite colder than any beer cave in human history, the work bench where Uncle Dudley painted and pinstriped anything his creative imagination could conjure, the old 4” x 6” picture of a long ago motorcycle trip to Devil’s Tower, the small sound system that played any kind of music a person could want as long as it was classic rock, the mementoes of Norway High School football teams from the late-90s and early 2000s. It was all just gone.
For many years, the Hot Rod Garage was a central part of my life, a hub for activity and socialization. Aside from the draw of the fun and action, Mumsy and Uncle Dudley, my de facto parents, always made me feel safe and welcome no matter what kind of stresses and challenges they were facing in their own lives. They were raising two boys of their own and working full-time jobs, but they still made time and always found a way to make me feel part of the family.
Situated at the top of the hill coming from Main Street and a few short blocks from the school meant there was always traffic at the Hot Rod Garage. People driving by were constantly stopping to have a beer, tell stories, or just shoot the shit before getting on with the rest of their day. Neighbors would walk over to see what was going on and share some laughs. Various members of the Hamlin family and their friends were always out there wrenching on cool classic cars and motorcycles. Once I turned 16 and got my driver’s license, regardless of my destination, I always drove by the Hot Rod Garage because I never knew who might be there, hanging out and having fun. The random gathering of friends on any given day or night, sitting around drinking and telling stories until the wee hours of the morning, stopping off for one more beer and a bratwurst after a night of revelry at the Knight Owl and Mr. Mom’s, vacuuming out my old Blazer once a year whether it needed it or not, hanging out and trying to calm my nerves before hopping into Hammer’s Firebird on our way to the school to play Iron Mountain in the fall of 2001, Harley Hat Meetings, early Saturday mornings where Uncle Dudley pontificated on the joys of getting up at dawn before the assholes of the world are awake, and on and on.
I think seeing the barren Hot Rod Garage hit me so hard because it was such a sharp reminder of time marching on. Like so many memories of the idyllic small town where I grew up, the Hot Rod Garage will always occupy a special place in my heart and will always be something I try to hold onto dearly. That garage, and the people, conversations, and activity therein, helped raise and shape me into the person I am today.