----Index----

PROSE - 2006

Grades 7 - 9

First Place - Annie Fishman

Hans Foreign Auto - Ian Aizman

Among ten acres of radiators, spark plugs, and wrecked cars, a humble farm house was nestled on a former plum orchard in Osseo, Minnesota. It was around 1964 that my Papa Lenny bought The Place, as it came to be called, in Osseo, and relocated his business. Life in Osseo was quietly busy. There were very few new buildings, and no hustle and bustle. It was just a quiet, open area with short, small buildings here and there, long roads, and a few quarries. Previously, Hans Auto Parts was an operation located on Seven Corners in Minneapolis, near the University of Minnesota. In fact, it was on University Avenue that Hans was founded in 1954.

My father, Craig Aizman, was only three years old at the time of the relocation in 1964, but he grew up in the world and business of everything automobile with his father, Lenny. My Dad bought his first car when he was thirteen – a turquoise ‘67 Camaro – as he recalls, from a local auctioneer and friend of the family business. Eventually, he became a part owner of Hans Auto Parts, working alongside Papa Lenny. I admired this, and always looked forward to joining them one day.

As I grew up, I unknowingly experienced much of the same immersion as my Dad. Before I even spoke much, I could identify cars and their parts. I had a model ‘56 Corvette parked on my changing table, which, in a sense, was my first car. It was turquoise, too. My Dad taught me every part of that model car by the time I was three. We played a sort of game; the names of parts would roll off my Dad’s tongue like a tire down a hill, and no sooner did he finish the word than I pointed at that part on the model. I couldn’t always pronounce the names of the parts correctly, though, until I was a bit older.

Dad would leave the house for work at seven-thirty in the morning, and was back through the front door at six, in time for supper. When he walked in at the end of the day, he would smell like work – like the soil and oil of Hans Auto Parts. I always liked that smell, because it reminded me of being out at The Place with Dad. He told me the smell was grease. He didn’t like the scent himself, but it was comforting to me, in a way. It meant security. Besides my house, Hans was my favorite place on earth.

In the wintertime, Dad wore a red union suit under his jeans, since the temperature in the yard regularly dipped below ten degrees Fahrenheit. The garment was buttoned up the middle into one piece, and above his jeans the top half of the suit was shown. When he came into our warm home in the winter, Dad’s glasses would be foggy.

Once in a while, I would get to visit Hans Auto Parts with Mom. It took about a half hour to get to Osseo from our home in St. Louis Park. I was always so excited to get there that time seemed to stand still as we drove. As we neared Hans, maybe a few miles or so away, I could tell my mom exactly how to get there from where we were. After the freeway, there were a few turns to make. The final one led onto a long, familiar road. I knew my Dad was waiting in the little farmhouse office, three blocks down at the end. We would park on the quiet road alongside the gate, and when the car stopped, I rushed out and ran past the familiar rows of stacked tires, while the smell of Hans Auto Parts greeted me. I knocked on the thick office door, and Dad came to welcome us.

Inside, the office was a mess. Order sheets plastered every inch of wall space, and some hung from the ceiling. Old machines were everywhere, and an unimaginable assortment of antiques overwhelmed the eye. It was like a giant tossed salad of parts, papers, and oddities. Despite its disarray, this place was truly home away from home. Papa Lenny would come out from the back room where his office was and give me a hug and a “squeaky kiss” on my nose.

The office was a busy place. Periodically, the beige telephones would ring and blink, and Dad would grab the receiver and say, “Hello, Hans...” Sometimes, after a few calls, he would let me answer the phone. Sitting on Dad’s lap, I would patiently wait for one to blink and ring, and then compose myself. I would take the call, and answer like Dad – in the most professional tone I could manage – “Hello, Hans...”

Dad always had something to do or finish before we could go out and walk around the yard; sometimes it was an order to fill, a phone call to take, or a berserk customer to tame. If the customer was a favorite, though, Papa Lenny would fry up some salami and offer a him Michelob.

Despite these inevitable circumstances, Dad and I always got to walk through the yard together. Dad would desert his job for awhile, and we would step into the vine-tangled wrecking yard through the back door. That door was always squeaky – like Papa Lenny’s nose-kisses.

My Dad and I would wander through rows of old cars waiting to be picked apart for customers. I would gaze for a long time at the mangled vehicles and the various parts, which were scattered about, yet noticeably organized in some esoteric way. I was always held in wonderment by the shapes, textures, and smells surrounding me. Wrecked Volvos, Austin Healy’s and Volkswagens captivated me. I could have walked out in that yard with Dad until my ankles became swollen. I imagined that when I grew older, I could have worked in that yard until it made my hands ache.

Eventually, it was time to leave Hans Auto. There was usually work yet left in the day for Dad and Papa Lenny when we departed home; Dad still had phones to answer, employees to keep in line, and parts to pull – Papa had salami to fry and Michelob to offer.

As my childhood drew on, I noticed that Dad became continually more tired when he came home from work. One winter, when I was about ten years old, he seemed especially worn. Everything about him, for the most part, was unchanged; the union suit; the jeans; the heavy boots. He had gone for laser vision correction surgery earlier that year, so that winter was not privileged to see his foggy glasses like before. Eventually, he wore out the red union suits, and Mom bought him some new gray ones. But there was something else, too, that changed about him. It was the way he smelled. At first sniff, I detected the familiar grease, but my usual feeling of comfort was pushed aside by an alien odor. It was a strong, sour smell. I later realized that it was the odor of worry.

As that winter carried on, Dad grew more tired by the day. The smell of his worry persisted, and became choking. One day, he told me what was bothering him. He tried, in his usual nonchalant manner, to be as plain as possible and express no worry. But he smelled of it. Finally, he managed to tell me that Hans Auto Parts was to be condemned by the city of Osseo that winter, and office buildings would replace it.

I was in the kitchen when he told me, and I stood silent for some time. The weight of never being able to work at The Place with my family made my head pound. When I came to my senses, I tried to convince myself that it was a dream, but the situation refused.

It was reality.

That winter took on a new look. My Dad’s worried smell slowly diminished and gave way to determination. He was a determined man that year, more so than other years. He hadn’t a choice, because the city of Osseo swiped his business from his hands, and slapped callous labor in his face. They made him clean that yard the whole winter, washing and scraping all of the memories from it – not allowing even a piece of debris larger than a quarter to remain. The deadlines they gave him were fierce, and the penalty for not meeting those dates was fiercer yet. Even so, my Dad continued cleaning the property with fortitude. He did not stop toiling until that yard was clean. He worked all winter as he never worked before, and when the yard was nothing but a farm house and a silo buried in a blanket of solemn, quiet, Osseo snow, the City burnt the buildings to ashes. From that day on, working at The Place with Dad and Papa Lenny was only a dream; reality had changed courses.

Looking back on those visits to Hans, I realize that I never completely understood how hard my Dad and Papa Lenny labored to maintain Hans Auto Parts. I was naive to the lustrous gem before my eyes, created by years of wear and tear – a slice of reality that was slowly forged by time and experience into a grand, unique accomplishment. I was young and unaware of this perspective, and I feel that I took The Place for granted. However, as a child, I experienced Hans in a way I never could have had I been older. I took it all in as a naive youngster. There was no financial care involved, nor being unsure of the future. I only saw my Dad and his work. I saw him come home at six o’clock every day, and I saw him leave again the next morning.

After the dust settled, I could appreciate the Hans Auto Parts chapter in my family’s life, and the role it played while it was here. The closing of Hans has meant turning the page and starting fresh.

After the condemnation, Papa Lenny retired. He now enjoys the time he has to spend with his family in a different way. He keeps up an immense garden as well. My Dad, too, has since moved on in life, and has begun Core Distribution, a new business. He invented a ladder that extends and locks by the foot, aptly named the Xtend&climb. Extending a rung inevitably means climbing it. For me, this means letting go of the past, but always remembering it. I know that the chance to work at Hans Auto Parts with my Dad and Papa Lenny has expired, but I still recall answering, “Hello, Hans...” on the beige telephones in that disorderly office, Papa Lenny’s “squeaky kisses,” and those walks through the wrecking yard with Dad.