We didn’t have much growing up, but Dad still gave me a childhood full of memories I wouldn’t trade for anything.
His name was Harold, and for most of my childhood, he worked maintenance at a packaging plant outside town. He left the house before sunrise several days a week and often came home with grease under his fingernails and pain across his lower back.
Money was always tight.
My sneakers usually lasted until the soles were nearly smooth, and most of my winter coats came from cousins who had outgrown them. Summer vacations meant staying home, visiting my aunt, or taking short drives somewhere we could return from before dark.