Drip. Drip. Drip.

The mowers were loaded into the bed of the truck along with the weed-eater, leaf blower and two gasoline cans (one with actual gasoline, the other with two-stroke combo). Teenage me was sitting in the driver seat of my Paps’ truck — the eighth-generation Ford F-150 I had more-or-less learned to drive in that was poop-brown, had a horn that was severely muted and a steering wheel with more play than a Boston terrier puppy. I was tired, not in the mood to work and a little grouchy. As I waited for Paps to climb into the passenger seat, I laid my head back onto the headrest and watched as a mysterious liquid – either antifreeze or coolant – dripped from under the passenger side console and onto my Paps’ old black flip flops that were nestled in the floorboard.

When we finished our mowing job that day, I watched him sit in a lawn chair in the driveway with a glass of ice water as he removed his grass-stained socks and shoes, gently shook out the fluid from his flip flops and slid them onto his feet. On warm days, it wasn’t uncommon to see Paps working around the house, walking to the mailbox, tinkering in the garage or making a trip to either Lowes or White’s Grocery with those tired old flip flops on – in fact, it was more common than not.

Installing a new drywall ceiling in the garage? Flip flops.

Checking the chlorine level in the swimming pool? Flip flops.

Washing the car? Flip flops.

Sawing up limbs from a fallen tree? Flip flops.

I remember helping him stack up a pile of limbs, leaves and some other burnable waste on the lot beside his house one summer morning. He had set it on fire but wasn’t happy with the rate in which it was burning so he dumped the coffee out of his mug, poured gasoline in its place and proceeded to empty the eight-or-so ounces of petrol onto the tiny flame. The minor explosion was magnificent and achieved Paps’ goal of agitating the fire but I’ll never forget noticing he was wearing those flip flops as he performed his stunt. I thought it’s going to be kinda hard to move fast if he needs to run away from this. Fortunately he didn’t need to.

Fast forward to May, 2023. We had gone to Home Depot to purchase some lumber to replace the rotten boards on our back deck. The boards needed to have a bit sawed off the ends and a good coat of sealer so I had them arranged on my sawhorses in the backyard as I completed my task. Meanwhile, I had a raging fire inside my Akorn and my Blackstone was smoking heavily – both because I was in the process of seasoning them. 

The fat needed to burn off of the grills and the sealer needed to dry on the wood so there wasn’t much left for me to do except breathe in that early-summer air that reminds me of Paps, so I did. I’m very proud of our home and I wish every single day that Paps could see it. I know he’d be proud of me.

Then I looked down and realized my feet were covered in sawdust and sealer splatter because I had been to the hardware store and played with both fire and power tools all in my rotten, black flip flops. My Paps has been gone for six years now but he does see our home and he is proud of me. He’s still right here with me.