“Where will you put that thing? There’s no room on my workbench!”

Dad was angry. This wasn’t the first time I appropriated his “sanctuary,” the only place in our house where he had any privacy or work space.

“It’s leaking gasoline!” he barked. “You’ll set the house on fire.”

My hands ached from holding the heavy, cast-iron intake manifold at waist level. It was for a 1956 Plymouth V8 engine. Bolted on top was my “pride and joy,” a four-barrel carburetor that promised to deliver 20 horsepower. In theory, it would transform my ride into a hotrod.

In practice, it resulted in hours of frustration and taught me a few things about life.

Reminiscing about automotive lessons learned the hard way, on Hemmings.