Jeff, over at FHB, has lost his Dad. I really feel for this guy. I've enjoyed reading about his Friday night exploits for a while now. Losing a Dad is pretty tough. I was 2 months pregnant with Pete when my Dad died. I remember a conversation we had about whether I would have a boy or girl. He, of course, wanted another grand daughter to spoil, and he got his wish. A couple of weeks later he was gone. At one point I realized I was standing in a corner in my mother's kitchen washing the wall, not sure how I had gotten there. That whole time is kinda hazy, I remember moments here and there, some good, some bad. My sister and her family happened to be there visiting. I had called her a few weeks prior and told her to come soon, he had had bad news from the doctor, he needed a heart transplant. To take it very, very easy. Two days later found him trying to pull start the lawn mover so he could cut the grass. That was my Dad, though. Or at least his version of taking it easy.

I have a few favorite memories of time with him.

Once, he had a garage, 3 or 4 bays, in our backyard. He painted trucks, fixed just about anything, including tractors. He had a big rig in there. You know that round thing-a-ma-bob on the back that the trailer hooks to? Daddy gave me this impossibly large flat-head screwdriver and let me scrape away at the grease there. There I sat on that summer's day, I guess I was 9, in heaven. Listening to the radio, hearing the sound of my father working, scraping a huge glob of shiny black goo off, inspecting it like a scab, dropping it, scraping another, and another, getting that stuff all over my hands. Then I got to clean up in Go-Jo. The white kind. Nothing else in the world like squishing Go-Jo through your fingers. You ever use that stuff?
Every time I walk into a garage or smell Go-Jo I get transported back to Adams-Bennett Road. There's a picture of it somewhere on the blog, stolen from Google Maps.

My heart goes out to Jeff, it's a rough time for him right now.