My Dad's Love for Restorations

Happy Monday!
Today I’m sharing a piece of my heart—and the soundtrack of my childhood. My dad, restored antique cars with the same devotion we bring to crafting: patient, precise, and full of joy. From Sunday “rides” to the Mustang he surprised me with at sixteen, this story celebrates the kindness, humility, and generosity that powered his life’s work.

I grew up believing that every engine has a heartbeat—because my father, Charles Griffin, taught me to listen for it.

Dad’s romance with automobiles began when he was sixteen and rescued a weary Studebaker from a neighbor’s junk-lined driveway. Night after night he disappeared into his parents’ garage, emerging only when the scent of grease had settled into his hands and the once-forgotten car gleamed like new chrome at sunrise. That first restoration lit a fuse that would burn bright for the rest of his life.

By the time I arrived on the scene, Dad’s “office” was an entire compound: a modest showroom, a cavernous body shop, and a paint booth where candy-colored dreams came to life. Most mornings I’d find him sandblasting parts with a smile you couldn’t buy, or rolling beneath an engine, whistling as if the rattling steel could carry a tune. Friends, neighbors—even total strangers—dropped by for advice, and Dad greeted every one of them with the same easy humility. Teaching came naturally to him; he could translate the most intimidating mechanical puzzle into plain language and a laugh.

He also possessed a party trick worthy of county-fair legend. Show him a single glimmer of headlight peeling around a corner and he’d name the car, the model year, and often the factory paint codes—as effortlessly as recalling an old friend’s face. Design details lived in his memory like photographs, filed under “American Icons.”

Sunday afternoons were ours. Dad would pick “the ride” from his rotating fleet—maybe a butter-yellow Buick Roadmaster, maybe the Packard that once rolled across the screen in The Color Purple—and we’d set off down the two-lane roads that seam our Georgia hometown. We honked and waved at every porch sitter and lunchtime churchgoer, laughing when they waved back. In those moments, asphalt pulsed beneath our wheels, and I felt as though the whole town was stitched together by Dad’s generosity and a shared nostalgia for roaring engines.

On my sixteenth birthday, the garage doors lifted to reveal a sky-blue 1965 Mustang Convertible—top down, white interior glowing. Dad had spent months chasing NOS trim pieces, painting and re-painting until the finish caught the light just right. “She’s yours,” he said, wiping a smudge from the fender as if christening a ship. That Mustang still lives with me; every mile is a postcard from my father’s heart.

Dad’s restorations chauffeured parade princesses down Main Street and lent their elegance to film sets, but his greatest masterpiece was the community he built—hands dirty, spirit spotless, always ready to help. He showed us that beauty isn’t just in a flawless paint job; it’s in the kindness that propels you to share it.

When I slide behind the wheel of my Mustang, the engine settles into its steady growl, and I can almost hear Dad beside me, humming along. The road opens, the memories flood back, and I’m reminded that love, like a well-tuned motor, is meant to be taken for a drive—again and again, with the top down and the whole world waving back.

https://www.hagerty.com/marketplace/collections/the-griffin-collection

I would love it you've made a card with our Christmas Truck or Antique Car Easel dies, for you to post them this week in honor of my Dad.

Love,

Anna