Imagine a fifty-something man in a blue long-sleeve shirt, the cuffs unbuttoned, his knuckles thick and coarse. He’s on the side of the road, quibbling over a stack of used cinder blocks with a merchant.
This is my grandfather. And it’s 1980, roughly.
His brother, my great-uncle, shuffles the dirt with his boots beside the white 1953 Dodge van, the one with a hot 5.2 liter block engine in between the driver and passenger seat — an engine they fetched from the junkyard a few years ago and nursed back to life. A 24-pack of Stag warms on the engine case.
My grandfather was a magnificent man.