NHRA - National Hot Rod Association

Before I begin today's column, please allow me to say …

She bit hard and hiked the front end and was hookin' and bookin' for the other end, but kicked 'em loose, smoked the hoops, and got crossed up. I pedaled it and she stayed glued and hiked the front end. Just before the eyes she nosed over and put a hole out. Before I could step off, she put a leg out, windowed the block, and huffed the blower. I dropped the laundry, hit the bottles, grabbed a handful of brake, and threw 'er sideways.

Whew, thanks. I feel better. That was very cleansing.

I needed to do that because the other day I actually said -– and I'm not making this up –- "The binky is under the Boppy." I know. Shoot me now.

You see, I went from one grandchild to three in a matter of days (well, minus the nine-month "build time," of course) last month, and suddenly Casa Burgess, which seemed soon destined to become an empty nest, now looks like a Babies Backwards-R Us exploded. For those of you past the pup-rearing stages, or guys whose parenting syllabus includes pacing the waiting room, handing out cigars, and teaching the little slugger how to throw a curveball, a "binky" is what we used to call a pacifier, and a "Boppy" is a pillow-like device that fits around the mother's waist -- it looks like an overgrown version of those neck pillows that people carry onto airplanes -- to support the newborn while she breastfeeds it, which goes a long way toward explaining why new moms don’t have the biceps of moms of old.

I'm not really sure who felt the need to rechristen what was a very serviceable and accurate term like "pacifier" with "binky" (probably one of those baby-talkers; you know the ones: "How is little Trevor-wevor today? Aren't you a big boy? Yes you are!"), but you know it wasn't one of us. We've got our own made-up words, but they're certainly not cutesy. Could you imagine saying, "Man, she smoked the boopsies and banged the woo-woo." I thought not.

Hey, don't get me wrong; I like babies; heck, I helped create a couple and, breaking the "stray cat rule," even encouraged them to hang around by feeding them.

Anyway, for those of you still with me who didn't bail rolling your eyes because I'm not yet talking drag racing, I bring this up not to brag about babies but to talk about legacies, and I bring that up after spending the last week reading and writing about what Wally Parks left behind.

Because of his tireless work and devotion, Wally's legacy will live forever, on every quarter-mile and in the guts of every hot rod, in every issue of DRAGSTER, and in the hearts of those who knew him. Wally Parks didn't invent hot rodding or drag racing, but he certainly was the amazing father who did more than toss a giggling toddler so high into the air that it almost grazed the ceiling and yet softly cradled it like a touchdown catch that he never once missed even though the mom had to close her eyes every time and silently (mostly) cursed him … sorry, I digress. That wasn't me. Really.

And I began to wonder, as I'm sure that many of you have, what's going to be my legacy? Hey, Don Garlits has the rear-engine dragster and John Force has his Next Generation -– what am I going to leave behind on this planet?

Some might say it's a bit premature (at 47, I'm exactly half Wally's age), but to be honest, it’s been on my mind since I was old enough to grasp the concept (and the responsibility) of ensuring that the male branch of my family tree continues to grow, and a sentiment that only became stronger that magical day the obstetrician told me my firstborn was going to be a boy (I startled the doc and everyone in his waiting room with a hearty fist-pumping "YES!").

Like a car build that begins with a single bolt, that barely recognizable blip on the ultrasound screen is now a towering 6-foot-1 amazing human being. Chris is everything a dad could want in a son -- respectful, caring, responsible –- and I hope I had a little something to do with that; credit probably should more go to his mom. He never got into drag racing or writing, but we share a lot. I practiced with him endlessly and coached his hockey teams from peewee through high school, and we even still play together when my team needs an awesome goalie. I taught him the value of teamwork and of leadership not only through words but in actions and positive attitude and was proud to see him lead what became his teams to multiple championships.

But most of all, I'm proud of the man he's become. Sure I taught him how to change his oil, how to drive a nail, and even how to drive a car (I think he still gets the last two confused because all he does is hammer the gas), but he's still the son who bumps fists with me every time we pass in the house and occasionally even gifts me with a hug. He'll never be your future ND editor, but that hardly matters.

The other day he asked if he could get a tattoo. I don't have one and never cared to, but it's all the rage these days with the kids. He's 18 and an adult, but he still asked. I was mostly against the idea initially, but when he said that he wanted the tattoo simply to read "Burgess," I got all misty. How could I not back that plan? He's proud of the name I gave him -- the name my dad passed on to me and that his dad passed on to him. He's earned the right to wear it wherever he wants and to carry forth the torch passed to him.

Of course, my daughter Mandy also wanted a tattoo, a water lily, which was just as meaningful to her because in some cultures it signifies a change in life direction, which she surely has made in the last year, and for which I'm so deeply proud and eternally grateful. (And at least she wasn't asking anymore to get a 9/16 bolt [fine thread, I presume] or whatever through that little valley between the lower lip and the chin). She's a great kid, too, and if anyone inherited my creative-writing genes, it's her, so maybe the Burgess byline continues with her. Their big sister, Kim, never asked for a tattoo; she just snuck out and got one about 10 years ago and spent two weeks trying to convince us it was a temporary one. She's resourceful, that one; if there's a John Force in our family, she's it. She's got the gift of gab and champagne dreams despite a beer budget. I've always told my kids that it's every parent's goal to give their kids a better life than they've had (other than losing my natural father at age 9, I can't begin to complain about my life), and when all of your kids complain that the others are spoiled, I figure I must be doing something right.

I hope I leave a legacy in the drag racing world, too, a world nearly as dear to me as my personal one. My name and stories have been printed in each of the last 1,219 issues of National DRAGSTER, so that's pretty cool, and people may remember that I guided ND through its biggest growth and wrote some pretty clever cover blurbs along the way. I'm very proud to be appreciated by our readers and know that I connected with them. I know that my team and I have the respect of the racers we cover, who know we've got their back and their best interest in mind. I've forged wonderful friendships with many of the racers and owners, built on trust and a kindred spirit. As a writer, that's pretty much the best you can hope for.

Plus, well, I'm ahead of both Garlits and Force in the son-making stats, 1-0. Go me!