Sunday, May 27, 2007


Cutting apart the remains of a tree that fell over in an ice storm, spilled a small amount of chainsaw oil on my gloves ...

The smell of pipe smoke is permanently linked in my brain to my maternal grandfather.

For my paternal grandfather it's the smell of the oil they use to lubricate chainsaws, backhoes and other bits of heavy machinery that grind or dig or shove things around.

Both nice guys from the Pacific Northwest, about as different from each other as you could get. And here I am, the sum of them both.
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