The rest

Back in the days of neighborhood sports, I was never good at any of them -- never learned to dribble a basketball, was seldom able to catch a football or a baseball. In fact, when the group of kids were picking teams, I was usually relegated to the very end of the impromptu draft where myself and two of someone's younger sisters were left as roster potentials with the final pick made as "and you can have the rest".

I was always fine with it and much preferred to mow or line the field we used as a baseball diamond or football field.

My dad never played "catch" with me. Instead we go to the town dump to gather things like old lawnmowers, engines, electric motors and telephones. At home, we'd tear into them -- to fix them or other times just to learn how they were made.

To this day, I don't care so much for following organized sports and on the rare times that I do, it often leaves me feeling unsettled. So when "the game" is on, I'd much rather rewire an outlet, rework an engine, mow grass, or cut down a dead tree.

* * *

It would be a night when I was awake at 4am and felt afraid until I heard you snoring in the next room. One of the things that irritate most folks, was always to me, a source of great comfort. Even though you were older than many, I knew you were still on this earth and you made the decisions that I only thought I wanted to make. You gladly took them from my hands and for this, I am grateful.

At your gray-painted workbench, you had a spicy smell which I thought a father should have -- sweat, sawdust, and soil. When I work on projects alone, I still crave what is now part of my heart and hands. We tore apart telephones, made wooden boxes and even wired a battery to a light and a bell just for fun