My father grew up with few material possessions. As a result, he appreciates things far more than anyone I know. Throughout my life, I watched him meticulously clean and repair just about everything we owned, be it a radio, a coat or a blender. His attention to detail extended particularly to cars. No matter what vehicle we owned, it was always kept in pristine condition, inside and out.

In 1978, my father decided to sell our Chrysler LeBaron. I was 13 years old and a trusted adviser on all things American. It was up to me to write the ad, then call it in to the PennySaver.

We had moved to California in 1972 from Abadan, Iran. My father, a mechanical engineer, loved a thousand things in America, including the really big cars, or land yachts, a term we learned from a used-car salesman. He and I visited car dealerships in Southern California the way tourists visited ancient sites in Iran, oohing and aahing at man’s ability to create wonder. Our regular pilgrimages had a purpose. As much as my father loved whatever car he owned, he also loved dreaming about the next, bigger one.

We also had a weekly routine involving our own vehicle. This being pre-drought days, my dad parked our land yacht on the driveway. On cue, I would unravel the garden hose, fetch two pails, the large, soft, yellow sponges that did not scratch, rags for drying, window cleaner, and dishwasher detergent. We washed the car until it sparkled. I took great pride in my ability to shine the rims to perfection and clean the windows spotless. It may sound weird to kids today, but seeing how happy my father was at the sight of our gleaming car made me look forward to this weekly chore.