Not the metallic-blue Silverado I owned later, but a faded, weathered blue that had survived years of Arizona sun.
The paint was peeling.
The seats were cracked.
And the engine made a noise my father described as "an old man complaining about his knees."
We worked on it every weekend.
Sometimes he taught me something useful.
Sometimes we argued.
Sometimes we listened to baseball on the radio and said almost nothing.
Those afternoons became some of the happiest memories of my childhood.
When I was seventeen, I told him I wanted to become an electrician.
He nodded.
"Good trade."
My mother looked surprised.
"Not engineering?"
I shrugged.
"Maybe later."
My father smiled.
"Learn how things work first. Then decide how far you want to take it."
I followed his advice.
After high school, I enrolled in a technical training program while working part-time for an electrical contractor.
I spent days pulling wire, installing conduit, climbing ladders, and learning building codes.
At night, I studied.
Some weekends, I returned to my father's garage.
He would ask what I learned.
I would explain something about electrical systems.
He would listen.
Then ask a question I couldn't answer.
It drove me crazy.
But it made me better.
By twenty-six, I had advanced into commercial electrical work.
By thirty, I was supervising projects.
By thirty-four, I had saved enough to start Reed Electrical Solutions.
My first office was a rented room above a tire shop.
I owned one work van.
Had two employees.
And handled billing on a laptop that overheated whenever I opened too many spreadsheets.
The first year nearly destroyed me.
Customers paid late.
Suppliers demanded deposits.
Employees needed wages regardless of when invoices cleared.
And I sometimes lay awake wondering whether leaving secure employment had been the stupidest decision of my life.
My father never told me to quit.
He also never told me everything would be fine.
Instead, he visited one evening carrying a notebook.
He sat across from me.
Then asked, "Show me the numbers."
I opened the accounts.
He reviewed them.
Asked questions.
And pointed out places where I had underestimated expenses.
For nearly three hours, we worked through the business.
When we finished, he closed the notebook.
"You're not failing."
I looked up.
"Feels like it."
He smiled.
"You're learning what your business costs."
I sighed.
"That's an expensive education."