There was grease under my fingernails when I woke this morning. Not that I did much mechanical work, but a weekend cleaning the garage meant handling a lot of tools. Even after two showers and countless hand washings, the smudge of grease is still in the edges.
It made me think of my father. For decades he worked in the wrecking yard and the grease would never completely disappear from his fingernails. Didn’t matter if it was Sunday morning at church, a fine dinner, or a weekend away in Tahoe — the evidence of the junkyard was embedded in his …
