The two-car garage was down at the bottom of the hill, near the curve in our driveway toward the road. During my "ten-year bondage," I spent a lot of time in this garage.
I kept some tools from my junkyard days, and my oldest brother Bill, who was driving in the accident that blinded me, supplied me with many things to set up my “workshop.” He even gave me a freestanding mobile home furnace, which ran on kerosene, to keep it warm during the winter.
I set up all of my wrenches hanging on a pegboard and had a fully stocked toolbox. All the tools were in their proper place, with me knowing where each one was and that they were ready to use if I needed them.
I mounted my dad’s heavy vise securely on my worktable. I even had a motorized wire brush and grinding wheel adjacent to my bench. In the corner of my garage was my dad's old air compressor that he bought before I was born.
I also had my hydraulic floor jack for lifting cars. I had an engine hoist, but nowhere to mount it. Then, in talking with my other brother Kenny and showing him around my garage, he said, "Danny, I may have something for this engine hoist."
Kenny brought over a ten-foot piece of steel, three-by-three inches square, that he got from a farmer's piece of equipment. It was very heavy. We took it off his trailer and set it next to the garage.
In my junk box from the junkyard, I found a five-inch, heavy-duty steel ring that fit around the steel beam nicely. I asked my brother-in-law to take me to the lumberyard for an idea I had.
His name was Gary. I took his arm to seek out two four-by-four pieces of wood, eight feet long, and I bought them. He dropped me off with them at my garage. I used my heavy-duty electric drill to place holes through the wood to mount one against the garage inner wall with threaded rods, washers, and nuts, and also to the support beam going across the ceiling of the garage.
Then I took the other one and mounted it to the same beam with the same fasteners. Then I secured it to the floor with brackets and cement bolts in the middle of the garage.
On the back of the wood beams, I securely bolted a square steel tube, sticking up four inches above the tops of both four-by-fours.
This made a permanent resting spot for the piece of steel in my garage ceiling. I called my brother-in-law and asked him to come over again. When he got there, I asked him to help me lift it into place. His first response was, "That thing is too heavy to lift that far," and he was not willing to lift it with me. I said, "OK, I'll do it by myself then."
I now need to explain how important this was to me, as I wanted my workshop to be in perfect working order to do anything mechanically. I wanted my life back so badly, I would have done anything to get it back the way it was.
Now, back to the steel beam. Gary reluctantly carried it in with me and set it on the floor. I felt the four-by-four beam and the steel beam. I lifted one end, brought it over my shoulder, and climbed on a steel chair. As I was struggling to lift it up there with all my might, Gary finally came over and lifted it into place with me.
We had it in position on one side. As we lifted the other side, I slipped the five-inch ring on it, and then, together, we lifted it over the square tube onto the top of the beam into place. I then reached up to slide the ring to the middle of the beam, and then I proudly hooked the engine hoist into the steel ring.
Now my garage and workshop were complete, just in case I ever got my eyes back.
The sad part about this was that it was wishful thinking, hoping for some kind of miracle. Because my self-perception, as a blind man, was more than helpless and hopeless.
I spent a lot of time in the garage reminiscing, and I fixed the kids' bikes. We also had an old Jacobson lawn tractor that I kept working on, as something would break on it weekly, so I tinkered around with that a lot just to keep it running. In addition, with each change of season, I needed to change from the mower deck in the summer to putting the snow thrower on in the winter.
Owning a fully stocked garage and workshop has its pitfalls also. My brother Kenny, who provided the heavy steel beam, called me up and asked if he could use it to change the engine in his car. I was very reluctant, as Kenny's reputation for not finishing things was “well known” throughout the family.
He was a very troubled alcoholic, and his drinking ruled his life. Even though I had stopped drinking that year, we still had great love and respect for each other, as we were a close family growing up. I finally gave in to Kenny's request, so he brought the engine over and placed it in the grass next to my garage, and put the Plymouth Valiant, with no engine in it, in front of the first door of the garage. I had Kenny promise to have it done quickly, but there it sat for months.
Every phone call with Ken that I had, he would say, "I will get it done soon, Dan; don't worry about it." Ann would remind me of this eyesore, day after day, and wanted it done and out of our driveway.
The Turning Point
The old black phone, attached to the wall, was ringing, and I was once again home alone for the long day ahead. I had been sitting in the recliner with self-pity and loneliness, with no direction.
The ringing phone startled me. I quickly tried to answer it before they hung up. It was my Uncle Bill; he was my favorite uncle. We both shared our greetings, and then I said, "What's going on?"
He said, "Danny, do you think you could change the brakes on my car?"
My first immediate thoughts came to me: “Do you know who you are talking to—a lame, blind man?”
I refrained from saying that. The words that came out of my mouth surprised me. I said, "Why don't you pick up the brake pads, then come out here, and I will see what I can do."
I went down to the garage and slid the right door open. Uncle Bill arrived with the pads, and I directed him to drive into the garage.
He was a carpet layer and knew nothing about mechanics at all.
I unfolded a chair for him and asked him to sit down. I then went ahead to change the brake pads.
I did not know that this effort of service to someone outside myself was about to change my life forever.
I lifted one side with the floor jack, then I took the wheel and tire off, took the caliper off, compressed the piston, and put the new pads in, then put it all back together—calipers, wheel, and lug nuts. Then I did the other side.
After letting the jack down for the second side, I had him pump the brake pedal. Then I had him check the level of the brake fluid in the master cylinder.
"The fluid level is just fine," he said. I then asked him to try his new brakes.
I stood out in the driveway while he went up and down the road. When he came back, he pulled up next to me, stopped, and said, "Danny, they work great. How much do I owe you?"
I said, "You don't owe me anything, Uncle Bill." He said, "Thank you very much, Danny," and then he drove off.
Something happened to me at that point. I felt overwhelmed with gratitude, just for the opportunity to be able to do this for my uncle.
One of my regrets is that I never again had the opportunity to thank him for opening a door for me that helped start a new attitude and helped change my life for the better, as he died shortly after this event.
Going back toward my garage, I had to avoid hitting my brother's Valiant, which had no engine in it. The engine was on the grass on the other side of the driveway. After Uncle Bill's experience with the brakes, my mind wandered to the old junkyard days, and I began to think, “Why not?”
I placed a tow chain around the engine in the yard, and then I took another chain and placed it between the engine and the engine hoist to lift it into position. At the bottom of the hill, the car, with no hood, was on level ground. Therefore, feeling where the garage was with my cane, I pushed the car backward and forward, turning the steering wheel with each push to position the engine compartment of the car under the hanging engine.
After dropping the engine closely into place, I worked on it for three days by feeling to hook up the motor mounts, transmission, radiator, alternator, hoses and belts, and the distributor and wiring. I remembered the six-cylinder firing order from the junkyard, so I put the wires into place from distributor to spark plugs.
I was finished, I thought. I turned the key to start it, and it began popping very badly. I realized that I had placed the distributor in backward, as you could do with a 225 Slant-6 back in those days. I took the distributor cap off, then turned the distributor 180 degrees and put the cap back on.
I turned the key again, and it started up just fine. Ironically, while it was running, my brother Kenny pulled into my driveway. He came over to the running car and asked me, "Who put the engine in the car?"
I told him that I got it done. He was grateful, and he helped me put the hood back on. He went home to get my sister-in-law, and they drove it home.
I believe that God designed this event in my life to open a door that only He could open for me, because I do not know of any person who would encourage me to do such a thing as this.
So, thank you, Uncle Bill, for being a tool in my life, and I thank you for being a part of it. I wish I could have told you face to face.