by Danna Shirley
I was a
tomboy as a child and one of my favorite memories is of my father. He had three
little girls but never let any of us feel that he was disappointed in not
having a son. I called him daddy in those days but now he is just Pa to the whole family. I was the
youngest and believed I was his favorite but I’ve since learned as an adult
that all of us sisters thought we were his favorite; he was just that impartial
with his affection and attention. We all adored him and still do but now there
are two more generations who call him Pa;
the grandchildren David, Rhonda, Robbin, Jordan, Kristen, Russell, and Aaron;
and the great-grandchildren Sarah, Rachel, Ryan, Mackenzie, Emma, and Bella.
My parents
were born and raised in the south (Mom in AR and Pa in OK) but after the war
they moved to California where I was born. It must have been a real gamble for
them to trek across the country to a strange location. Mom said they surely looked
like the characters in the Grapes of
Wrath with luggage piled high and tied on top of their 1935 Ford J.
Their first
residence was in a housing area in Richmond (43 East Seaver Court) but when
word came that Harbor Gate was going to be torn down; my parents decided they would
build a house themselves. Pa found a vacant lot in Pinole and an architectural
college student from the University of CA, Berkeley drafted a floor plan. He
got the house framed and finished to the point where we could move in (I was
five) and then continued to work on it nights and weekends by either completing
first projects, redoing old projects, or adding on new projects, as mother’s
creative juices dictated.
Saturdays
were especially fun for me. Pa would come into the kitchen where I was watching
cartoons and pull on his striped bib overalls with all its many pockets filled
with nails and loops filled with tools. He would hold out his leg, first one
and then the other, for me to pull down his inside pants leg that had ridden up
when he donned his overalls. Then I would go back to watching cartoons until
his next entrance into the kitchen sometime later. That’s when a trip to Three
Brothers Hardware was necessary. He would quietly stand behind me for a moment
or so. I was engrossed in Porky Pig or Daffy Duck and didn’t pay much attention
. . . until he would jiggle the keys
in his pocket. My ears perked up like a puppy hearing his master at the front door.
Cartoons faded and Pa grinned as I popped up and yelled to Mom, “I’m goin’ with
Daddy!”
In those
days kids could ride in the back of the truck. Pa had a steel lumber rack on
his and would let me stand up holding onto the frame as we drove down Highway
40. (Dangerous today, of course!) After our first trip to the hardware I was
Pa’s shadow the rest of the day, getting him whatever he asked for—“Hand me
that square,” he would say, as he lay flat on his back measuring something; or
“Go get me that Phillips long handle.” I eventually knew the name of every tool.
As I grew older, I would help with bigger needs, such as holding a huge piece
of lumber while he ran it through the table saw, which he still owns to this
day (2011). He always took care of his tools and has a sign hanging in his
garage that reads . . .
“I’d rather loan my dog than my tools!
My dog can find his way home!”
I remember once
when Pa was working on the roof. I was older by this time and didn’t jump up
quite so quickly when he jiggled his keys. However, this particular project
required several trips up and down the ladder so I was definitely called upon
to be his helper that day. It was forced
servitude . . . but with a smile. J Eventually Pa finished
the house—the first time, the remodels, and the add-ons. Life was good and
memories even better
Pa retired
at fifty-eight to pursue his hobby of restoring Model A’s and in due time he outgrew
the one-car garage in Pinole and needed a bigger workshop. They found a house
in Rodeo, the next town over, with two
two-car garages. Mom always said she had to take the house that went along with
Pa’s hobby. I was married by then and living across the country but hearing
about them selling the house that Pa built, that WE built, was like reading an obituary
in the newspaper.
When my
sister, Nan, and her husband decided to buy the house, I thought, “Now, that’s better, keep it in the family.” Fifteen years later when they were ready to
sell, I was in a better frame of mind to accept this eventuality.
For years afterward, when I would go back for a visit, I
would drive by the old home place. At almost sixty years old she still looks
pretty good. I did a great job on her, building her strong and sturdy . . . well,
Pa and I did anyway! Nan and Paula would probably argue that point. J
By early 2010 Pa had been steadily
going downhill fighting prostate cancer and congestive heart failure. He
reached his 89th birthday on February 26th before passing
away on March 1st. He was such a great man; a man of honor and
integrity. Glowing words were expressed by the many who attended his
“Celebration of Life.”
Each of his
daughters received one of his Model A’s and my mother graciously bequeathed
them to us immediately. I received the 1929 Sedan and passed it along to my
daughter, Kristen. Nan received the 1929 Roadster and passed it along to her
daughter, Rhonda. Paula received the 1929 Pickup and it still sits in Pa’s
garage today.
The following article written by Bob Rigor appeared in the Moto-Meter, the official publication of
the Diablo A’s Chapter of the Model A Ford Club of America:
Genius is not a title or
affectation that can be drawn from books or schooling. Yet, its potential lies
within us all. When a person’s life is well-spent nurturing what is God-given,
with honesty and generosity, their genius is revealed. Just such a person was
Howard Goines. Yet, Howard’s genius was equally remarkable for what he did not
do.
We knew him for many remarkable
examples of natural knack for engineering, his thorough understanding of
mechanical devices, and his creative abilities with metal and paint. But we
also knew him through his genius for love of family, kindness to neighbors and
friends, his dignified humility and selfless generosity. Those of us who were blessed
with an opportunity to know him in even the smallest ways were struck by his
lack of arrogance and self-efficacy.
Howard’s legacy is the fleet of
restored Model A’s he leaves behind and the many improved restoration
techniques he developed that have become a standard of excellence for
automotive restoration.
Howard will be greatly missed by
all of us, but his selfless genius will continue to inspire us and our club as
we seek to involve the next generation of Model A enthusiasts. Thanks, Howard!
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