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 one of the most anxiety-ridden and proudest moments as a parent: your children...

It's July and it's hot.  It's 107F degrees and although it still beats the...

Note from Editor-in-Chief: As we share our stories, we have been fortunate to meet others along and they have shared their stories with us as well.  We are excited to reprint an article from Mike Satterfield of The Gentleman Racer, with his permission, about his cross-country road trip by motorcycle from Ohio to California.   (Zanne)

"You will never be completely at home again because part of your heart will...

My previous winters in Chicago always left me wishing I could be somewhere warm...