It seems like we just moved in yesterday to the house on 42 West Jane Street where I, along with my wife have currently been living for the last 38 years. The middle house on the three lot alleyway is surrounded by beautiful bursting and blooming purple lilacs, along with just about every flower known to man. Next to the tin roofed garage is the yard with a picnic table accompanied by an oak tree. Standing at about 25 feet tall; I remember the day I planted it. On the opposite side of the garage is a massive pine tree. Rising above any other tree in the neighborhood, this ole boy looks over the town at about 100 feet tall; it’s more than perfect for the children to climb on. I remember when Joey used to climb that tree as a young boy.
“Hey Barb, when is Joey coming over?” I ask.
“He left 20 minutes ago, so it won’t be long,” she says.
“Awesome.” I respond.
Stalling for anything on a beautiful day like this is exactly what I expected from retirement.
Momentarily, as I sit down, I hear some bass. Take that back, I hear a lot of bass.
“Yes, that’s him,” I say to myself.
Booming down the driveway, I wonder if he will need adjustments and fluid changes to that Volvo of his.  His hearing will also need adjustments as he gets older I think to myself and chuckle.
As he pulls into the driveway, leaving a twirl trail of dust and gravel, I grab my long lasting mechanic jacket. For almost 30 years of wear and tear on this jean style jacket, it seems as if it has held up mighty fine. I slip it on over my shoulders and a waft of gas scent streams by my nose. My favorite smell.  I creek open the screen door and lumber my way out down the steps toward the garage.
As I get close to rounding the corner near the garage, I hear the throttle disengage from the engine block and pistons, and the exhaust putter out its last fumes. Joey hops out of the car and we greet each other.
After a quick and manly hug; I tell him,  “Start that beast of yours up and back out for a moment while I get our ramps out.”
He hops on in and turns the key, unleashing gas into the engine. He slowly pulls forward after he rolls down his windows for the fact of being able to hear my commands toward pulling up on the ramps. After a couple tries of what we call, two foot “gas and brake” driving, the pearl white Volvo is up on the ramps and plopped in park with two by fours holding the rear wheels extra steady. I tell Joey to grab the blanket to set under the car, along with the 6 quart jug of oil,  as I grab the wrench and oil pan.
As Joey comes over with the blanket and oil I remind him when he spreads it out on the floor to make sure it is far enough up so our heads don’t touch the ground.
I say “ Joey, do it right the first time now or else you will just have to do it again, I don’t need this jacket any dirtier than it already permanently is.”
He chuckles and spreads the blanket out even more.
“ If it’s not done right you can guarantee that I'm not going to do it but; you're more youthful.”
We slide up under the car and begin the basic oil change.
“There are two ways of getting some oil out, either of which you do not, I repeat do not want to happen at any time other than at an oil change. Hey young buck, are you paying attention?” I bark at Joey.
“Yes, of course, I was just looking at all of the other stuff under my car. Its crazy, there is just so much!” He says.
“Yes bud, I realize that but lets try and focus on the task at hand here now.” I say.
“One way is by taking your squeeze clamp and or your hand and removing the oil filter by turning it left. Remember the old saying, lefty loosey, righty tighty, that saying works with just about every car out there. The other way to let that chunky junky oil of yours out is to take out your the oil pan screw with the tool in your hand. You sneak that bad boy up under the pan and give it all you got, but be careful with the oil, you don’t want to bathe in this grimy stuff.”
He gives me the nodding okay sign and slides his way toward the oil filter. After a few tugs he assures me the oil is about to come out and we position the oil pan accordingly. Sure enough it pours some out and we catch it all in the pan. We screw on the new filter and begin the process of taking the screw out next.
“How much more is going to come out?” Joey asks.
“A whole lot more, just get ready and when it comes towards the end of the rings on the screw, get ready to pull it out quick.”
“Alright, Ill give it a try.” He responds.
The inflexible iron doesn't even budge and he yanks with all of his might.
“Come on Joey, you got this.” I say encouragingly.
The rusty metal doesn't give an inch, as he tries again.
“Here Joey.” I say. “I'll have to give it a tug.”
“Grandpa are you sure? I can give it another try.” Joey says assuringly.
“No, no we don’t have time, now scooch over and I will give it a whirl.
I flashback into my head and visualize the hundreds of times I had done this before thinking how I can surely do it again.
As I give it a good yank, my sweaty hand slips and before I knew it a metal shard from the frame catches hold of my jacket and shreds down through not only my jacket, but layers of skin, almost down to the bone, leaving a six inch rip in the sleeve and blood dribbling down my arm.
Joey shrieks, “Grandpa, your arm!”
I roll out from under the car. Blood is now covering the jacket.
I moan to Joey, “Grab that rag, let’s get inside.”
We hustle inside, Joey leading the way.
“Grandma, Grandma, Grandpa cut his arm up pretty bad, we better grab some more rags and the medical kit.” Yelps Joey.
As I'm sitting in the kitchen, watching Joey and Barb scramble, I realize that my wound is actually worse than I thought it was. At the moment I had a good amount of testosterone flowing through me, therefore my arm didn't hurt so bad, yet I knew it was going to be a tender place in the upcoming days.
I stand up and walk over to the sink to clean my arm up. As I'm washing out the blood stains I figure that my jacket is going to need some serious cleaning and repairing. The whole cuff and most of the forearm area were garbage and plentifully worn down from years of being under cars, rubbed in grime and grit and getting thrown in the wash simply for a desperation cleaning. It has been truly an amazing jacket, taking about 50 times more wear and tear than a cheaply made mechanic jacket of today’s standards.
Barb hands me some cleansing soap and I squeeze some out hoping for a numbing agent. Instead I get a strong burning sensation as bubbles form on my skin.
I look at Joey and flash him a grimacing smile.
He laughs and says, “why are you smiling” with a confused look.
I reply back in a truthful tone, “ I thought I could do it but times just taking a toll on me Joey. There’s nothing much I can do.”
“It’s alright Grandpa, you will heal up soon enough.” Says Joey.
I can’t help but smile, knowing that age never retreats. The future was going to be much different knowing that I will have to back down from some aspects in life.
Now that my jacket is taken off and my arm is cleaned and bandaged up, I ask about the possible repairs.
“Is there a patch or something we can put on to fix the mangled shreds of this old jacket?” I ask.
Barb responds. “That is the only option that we have other than getting a replacement jacket honey, and you and me both know that nothing would compare or even last for that matter, with this jacket.”
I shrug as I know that’s the only option, wishing deep down that I would have given Joey another chance. Then we wouldn’t be in this problematic and time consuming mess in the first place.
I was just like the jacket, old and needing repair.
I lean towards Barb and she gives me a hug.
She whispers in my ear. “Are you okay honey?”
I respond. “Don’t worry about me, I’m just scratched up. What I’m more worried about is my jacket. Now that thing needs more fixing than I do!”
She laughs and hits me with a blushing smile as she goes to the back room to grab the sewing kit.
I lean back towards Joey and grimace knowing my wonderful wife will do what she can, yet with each repair things are never and will never be the same.