My father ran a small repair garage outside Lebanon, Missouri, not far from old Route 66.
It was never fancy. Two bays, a coffee pot that tasted burnt by noon, and a radio that stayed on whether anyone was listening or not. He fixed farm trucks, church vans, school cars, and once a tourist’s camper that broke down three hours from anywhere.
He used to say, “Most people just need somebody honest to look under the hood.”
He passed in 2021. The garage is gone now, sold and painted over, but I still think about all the people who made it home because Dad stayed late.