When I was a girl, my dad always tried to teach me about cars.  He pointed to what this thing was and he explained how it worked.   And I remember none of what he tried to teach me.  I remember looking at his tan, scarred hands, that grime under the nails that would never come out.  I can close my eyes and smell the mix of diesel fuel and cigarette smoke. That was the smell of my dad after a long honest day's work in the shop.  The literal blue collar with his name stitched across his chest.

It's ironic that my husband and I are both bloggers given that we met back in 1995 on this new little thing called AOL.

Hiking through the McDowell Mountains. We never thought we would say that and JD in the same sentence. Previously, we shared the story of JD's initial hikes through her new surroundings in Arizona, and how her reluctance turned to a love to trek up rocky terrain and explore.