I kept nothing. Distance from my California home and shipping costs were one factor. Fear of winding up like this in another 25 years was another.Working alongside me was my 20-year-old son, Mike, named after his grandfather. He is in his second year of college, considering a double major in physics and math. He has my dad’s powerful shoulders, blue eyes, competence and the same stubbornness that confounds me at times. You wouldn’t think such a trait could be passed through three generations.
Mike took only a small collection of hand tools that we used to set up his apartment in the Bronx. One life ends; another starts on its own road to independence.
At the end of our work, after Mike and I tossed the last piece into the Dumpster, after we cleaned up, ate dinner, packed for the next morning’s trip home and got ready for bed, I said, “Good night, Mike. I love you a lot.”
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Good Night, Mike
In the Orange County Register, a deeply moving account by Ken Brusic about cleaning out his late father Mike's garage in New Jersey:
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