He’s back from college and hasn’t driven a car in a long time—certainly not a standard.  So a little practice was in order.  Driving here, driving there.  Going to get something to eat, going to the hardware store.
So we’re in the car, and he’s at the wheel. Â And it’s a new car. Â (Yes, I got a new car, but that’s a separate story.) Â He’s changing lanes, checking the mirrors, speeding up, slowing down, upshifting, downshifting.
“Man dad,” he says. Â “This car is so quiet. Â It runs so smoothly. Â I can barely hear the engine!”
He changes gears and looks down at the tachometer.
“Wow! Â Look at the RPMs. Â Below 2000!”
He shifts again and repeats his exclamation.
“Wow!”
Now, Ben knows that I don’t fall in love with my cars.  A typical car of mine will get—what—20 washings in its entire lifetime, fewer vacuumings. I don’t grow attached to them, and he knows it.  So these exclamations can’t be indirect compliments aimed at me; they must be authentic amaze. I smile as he talks about the RPMs and about how other cars run higher and louder and don’t have a sixth gear. (Yes, it’s a six-speed.)
Then it strikes him.
“Oh dad,” he says. Â “We’re having a typical father/son talk. Â We’re talking about RPMs and gear shifting and how the engine’s running just like fathers and sons should.”
Kind of scary, that.