The way we get to live forever is through memories stored in the hearts and souls of those whose lives we touch.

That's our soul print. It's our comfort, our emotional nourishment at the end of the day and the end of a life. How wonderful that they are called up at will and savored randomly. It seems to me we should spend our lives in a conscious state of creating these meaningful moments that live on. Memories matter. (Leeza Gibbons)

Our roofs are being repaired. That's a pretty straight-forward thing. Other than the inconvenience, of course. Such as waking up Saturday morning at 7 am to the sounds of pounding on the roof over our beds was not expected. Or having to park several blocks away because our road is blocked by the trucks holding the tiles.

I'm not really complaining. One of the things I haven't liked about living here (in my current townhouse) is that there is a good chance the clay roof tiles will fly off in a gust of wind (a frequent occurrence during hurricane season in Florida) and land through the windshield of my car. (The other thing I don't like about this place is the bugs, but that's a rant for another day.) Having the roofers around means that the tiles are going to stay up on the roof where they belong.

What I really wanted to talk about is how the sight, and the sounds, and especially the smell of the tar has brought back memories of my childhood. I love the smell of warm tar. My grandfather was a roofer. He was always bigger than life; a wonderfully gruff man in flannel shirts and heavy shoes who totally ruled the family (unless, of course, gramma was around). I remember playing in the warehouse, climbing the stacks of tar and searching for the elusive big-eared rabbit. That was grampop's threat to keep us out of the warehouse: a giant big-eared rabbit that would paddle us if caught...

Each memory brings another, and then another. Even though gramma and grampop are both gone now, I still picture them in my mind. And I still have stories to share with my children, until they finally beg for mercy, pleading that they've already heard this all before. I like to think that the kids will someday tell their children the same stories, or a version of them, and that gramma and grampop will live on.