Tracy Gilmer

I'm no stranger to an automobile repair shop. I frequented the garage where my dad worked from a very early age. The aroma of metal, rubber, grease, gasoline, and antifreeze, were just a day in the life of my summer vacation and the occasional day of hooky from school. And, it didn't matter how old I got, I still felt like something special when Daddy said, "Hop in that car and give it some gas!" Among the 5,243,871 questions I'm sure I asked as an inquisitive youth (I know because my daughter is just like me), I learned very little about being a mechanic, but I learned a lot about life.  Remember those questions I that assailed my dad's ears? Well, one that I distinctly remember stays with me to this day. My dad had a huge toolbox and a ton of tools (and I don't just mean that it seemed that way as a kid). I remember being in awe as I opened and closed all kinds of drawers and cabinets and flaps, all the shiny silver tools: sockets, wrenches, hammers, scr