I am a believer in Dr. Darold Treffert’s theory of genetic memory because somewhere way back in the Neandrathal branch of the Roznik family a gene mutated…for good.

This dent in the DNA chain could be among several, knowing my family, but for conversation’s sake let’s isolate and identify it as the one that allows for the “fortitude and patience it takes to see a project through.”

Growing up, I don’t recall people investing much time in do-it-yourself projects, so there wasn’t a lot of role-modeling going on.

Things were built to last forever. The turquoise tile in the bathroom was there to stay. Same with the thick, checkered linoleum kitchen floor, the plaster walls, and the heavy oak doors. All indestructible.

Neighbors living on Bobolink Drive resided in houses where nothing much changed in 30 years. Maybe a sandbox was added, a little aluminum shed, a horseshoe pit.

Gravel driveways sufficed, porches were concrete, and a room was considered “remodeled” if it got a fresh coat of lead paint.

Back in the early 70s a crazy twist of luck landed me a 1969 Camero SS convertible with a 350 engine. I am not a car person, but it was pretty, white with orange stripes, checkered upholstery, and a spoiler.

Car stereos were the latest rage, replacing the a.m. car radios that came standard in the muscle cars. My greaser friends, the gear heads, were pulling out the 8-tracks and installing cassette players with speakers set into the ledge between the back seat and the rear window (is there a name for that?).

Sheesh. If guys can do it, piece of cake. I purchased a Pioneer a.m./f.m./cassette car stereo system, put the hood down on a gorgeous summer day, and tried to find one of my dad’s screwdrivers. His work bench was like a foreign land.

I probably had on the paisley halter top made out of a kerchief, some Sun-in sprayed in my hair, sandals made by the hippie guy who ran the Leather Shop down on Brady Street.

Piece.
Of.
Cake.
What a relief when, endless hours and lots of tears (crybaby) later my dad came to the rescue, and I admitted to myself that the male species had talents that I couldn’t touch.

I still see it clearly, I come walking out of the house and see my dad with a crowbar and sledgehammer, pounding, pounding, two huge, jagged holes into that back window ledge.

“No one will notice. We’ll just put duct tape around the speakers to hold them in,” he said.