My Father's Friday Ritual (And Why I Had to Break It)
"Some traditions are sacred. Others are just waiting for a better way."
As a child growing up in Riyadh, my father observed an unwavering Friday morning ritual, much like the call to prayer. After eating breakfast with the family, he would put on the old thawb he reserved for chores, take a small toolbox, and head out into the driveway to "fiddle" with his car. A car for him was not just a part of daily life, it was another sign of his caring for his family. It was a source of pride. He would check the oil, add fluids, and, most importantly, check the tires. I would watch him kneel on the hot pavement with deep concentration checking the pressure and looking for wear. If he decided the tires were getting close to needing changing, our Friday was planned. We were off to the industrial area for a long, drawn-out trip to his "trusted" tire dealer. I could smell the vulcanized rubber, hear the hissing of the air tools, and sat for hours on a dusty old bench while he haggled, bargained, and finally supervised the installation of the tires. To him, this was what you do. It was an honorable way to approach your responsibilities, and a form of tradition we had inherited.
