My dad was a foreman for a paper company. He had a company truck and wore a white hard hat with his thick white hair crushed under it. My uncle worked for the same company and, from the back, looked exactly like my father.
I would work a part-time job one day a week in the mill yard, operating a crane and slasher to supplement my income. After my dad’s death in ’84, I hated to see my uncle drive through the yard because it would bring tears to my eyes and interfere with my concentration. You can’t bury memories because there is always something that digs them up. However, that is OK because there are those we should never forget.
The memory of the righteous is a blessing, but the name of the wicked will rot.
Keep the good memories even if they make you cry.
Think about it.
Gary