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- #121
For the next 19 years, whatever he wanted built, whatever he wanted fixed, I built it, or I fixed it. The ground rules never really changed. So when I opened Mark's Off Road, my MO was pretty much established. I work alone, I give every job my best, and I don't worry about how long it takes.
When he died, I didn't think much about dismantling his factory and selling off all of his equipment. It was his business, not mine. I was happy somebody was willing to buy all the stuff.
But when the fire happened, I was overwhelmed by the new concept that for the first time in my adult life I wasn't going to fix it. And to have that happen to that very same place, the battleground that broke the cycle of condescension and rebellion, the forge that finally bonded us, well that broke me. I am sitting here tear-ing up because I am still in the throws of this new concept.
For the 18 years that he worked there, it was his man cave. I was the only other person that had all the keys to the place (he had 3 employees there) and when I was in the neighborhood, I'd often stop by and let myself in. My fondest memories were of walking far enough back to watch him working at some odd hour of the night, by himself, singing to himself at the top of his lungs. To this day there is a simple memorial to him that sits on the wall next to my shop computer to remind me: "When he remembered to sing, he was a happy man."
So this is really about losing another part of my father. At the same time I've come to learn over the last 17 years that in retelling these stories, I haven't really lost any of the good stuff.
Time will heal. Thanks for reading.
When he died, I didn't think much about dismantling his factory and selling off all of his equipment. It was his business, not mine. I was happy somebody was willing to buy all the stuff.
But when the fire happened, I was overwhelmed by the new concept that for the first time in my adult life I wasn't going to fix it. And to have that happen to that very same place, the battleground that broke the cycle of condescension and rebellion, the forge that finally bonded us, well that broke me. I am sitting here tear-ing up because I am still in the throws of this new concept.
For the 18 years that he worked there, it was his man cave. I was the only other person that had all the keys to the place (he had 3 employees there) and when I was in the neighborhood, I'd often stop by and let myself in. My fondest memories were of walking far enough back to watch him working at some odd hour of the night, by himself, singing to himself at the top of his lungs. To this day there is a simple memorial to him that sits on the wall next to my shop computer to remind me: "When he remembered to sing, he was a happy man."
So this is really about losing another part of my father. At the same time I've come to learn over the last 17 years that in retelling these stories, I haven't really lost any of the good stuff.
Time will heal. Thanks for reading.
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