What did you do on Saturday?

What did you do on Saturday?  As a parent, I know I have spent many Saturdays doing chores, running errands, and working with our daughters at different activities and practices.  Last Saturday, I spent the entire day with my father as we attended the Historical Construction Equipment Association's national show in Bowling Green, OH.  Historical Construction Equipment Association....?  Yes, construction equipment.


Bill Ascher, my father, is a retired mechanic.  Specifically, he was a heavy equipment mechanic.  He fixed, serviced and repaired bulldozers, graders, cranes, scrapers, backhoes, big trucks, and just about anything else you would see on a large construction site.  He learned his craft from his father--my grandfather--who was an auto and farm tractor mechanic.  As you can imagine, however, everything on heavy equipment is bigger.  The bolts are bigger.  The wheels are bigger.  The weights are bigger.  And in many instances, the repairs are bigger.

My father, and I'm not just being biased, was very, very good at his job.  He was respected and trusted to do the job right and without mishaps.  He was requested by site foremen to be the mechanic sent  to the job.  Bill Ascher was the one the company trusted to complete the job quickly and effectively so the job could get finished on time.

Machine tipped over...call Bill.
Oil leak...call Bill.
Hose break...call Bill.
Overhaul an engine...call Bill.

Whether he was working in the shop or in the  field, Bill Ascher was the "go to" guy for more than 30 years for the same company.  For some of that time, he was able to include me.

Dad often had to work on Saturdays.  Think about it, if  the operators weren't working, that's when you serviced the machine.  Or, if the operators were able to keep the machine going for most of  the week, large  repairs would be completed on Saturdays.  And Saturdays were when Bill taught David what real work meant.

Starting at about age 5 and through even my  high school years , Dad and I spent almost every Saturday morning working.  We would get up early and begin the drive to the job site.  The company he worked  for built water treatment plants and landfills.  They often did piping jobs and other "wet" work in large and small towns all across southern Wisconsin.   On our way to the site, Dad always managed to find a diner or cafe' with the best pancakes.  After our breakfast, we made  our way to the site.  He  would unlock the gate and pull his service truck up as close to the machine as  possible.

Occasionally Dad would already know what needed to be done to the machine.  Other times, he would need to diagnose the problem.  Always, however, his service truck was a treasure of magical tools, machines, and other devices and concoctions that he used to repair the machine.  My job for him was to deliver the tools he needed and to hold a flashlight.  Like a surgeon, Dad would call out for a specific wrench or a rag or a special type of grease.  His  descriptions taught me the differences between a torque wrench, an air compressor, a torch, and so many other tools that Dad owned.  Even more, he wanted me to use them too.  While it was probably quicker for him to just do the job himself, his patience to let me help taught me more than he will ever know.

My father taught me about not overtightening bolts or how to never cross-thread a bolt.  He lectured me  about not getting too excited with any problem and  to always look for the simplest fix first before taking everything apart.  He drew  pictures so he  remembered how to put things back together.  "Anybody can take  a machine apart.  It takes  someone  with brains to put one back together!"  Dad  swung sledge hammers and pulled wrenches.  He read manuals and asked questions.  Sometimes life requires brute force and other times it takes finesse.  Knowing when to use which is wisdom.

Some  of the jobs  would be quick.  Others would  take a better part of the day, but  the day was never finished until Dad said:

"Let's see how this machine works!"

And with a twinkle and gleam in his eye, my father would have me turn the key on the excavator and bring the giant machine to life.  Slowly and with a watchful eye, we would dig a hole or spread some dirt.  That rumble and roar, the smell of burning diesel fuel, and the rhythm a machine that size creates deep in your heart symbolized more than just a successful job.  Looking back, it meant to me that everything was going to be OK because Dad said so--because Dad showed me so.  For that sense of hope, accomplishment, teamwork, patience, and perseverance, I am forever grateful.


So, Dad and I spent the entire day looking at crawlers, dozers, graders, and reliving just a few stories from our past.  My hope is that my own daughters have fond memories of Saturdays with my wife and me and that in our own way, they learn the valuable lessons Dad taught me.

My father sacrificed his body so my sister and I could go to college.  He has new knees, sewn-up shoulders, and arthritis in his hands and feet that would  keep a regular person debilitated.  Bill Ascher is no regular person, however. He's my father, and I'm proud to be his son.

I love you, Dad.