My father was a mechanic for an interstate bus transit company. Occasionally, when a breakdown happened, he would be sent out to a breakdown with a fresh bus and a box of tools. The driver and passengers would take the new bus and go on their way, and the mechanic would have to fix the bus out in the field in order to drive himself home.
This was decades ago, with no cell phones or people to call for help. Us kids loved it because sometimes in the summer, he would bring the bus home for lunch, and we felt he was the coolest dad on the street, driving that big shiny bus!
One time there was a breakdown in winter, so out goes my dad. Everything seems to be going well: The driver and passengers are on their way, and he is on his back, in the snow, under a bus on a desolate back road. He hears the unmistakable sound of a plow coming around the bend and gets covered in a huge pile of snow.
He is buried, his tools are scattered everywhere, but he is not hurt. He digs himself out, but it takes an hour to find his tools in the snow. He gets the bus running and makes his way home.
He was a great dad and an awesome mechanic! Oh, and he taught me my love of WESTERN plows!