You’d be down the block with friends, pouring kerosene on the fireant hills. Suddenly the roar of dad’s powertools would cease to echo off the longleaf pines and all the neighbors would visibly relax. This meant it was dinnertime, so you’d best pocket those matches and get your butt home.
Years later when dad asked me to help him lay the mahogany deck, we oftentimes wouldn't even bother to stop for dinner… it was that much fun.
Thanks, Dad!
