I was 17 when my grandpa passed away, but I still remember the day. I had just gotten home from school when my mom sat me and my two sisters down — unusual, considering my mom worked night shifts back then and barely had any time to catch up with us after school. I knew something was wrong as she took a deep breath before spilling the news. My grandpa died at the age of 82. He didn’t suffer, thank goodness, and he had been active for his age.

He had always loved vintage cars and would often take me to car shows, which is where my love for everything with an engine came from. My grandpa was so influential in my life that I eventually became an engineer because of his hand in my upbringing. Even though Grandpa couldn’t afford to buy an entire assortment of vintage automobiles like many of his friends who also attended the car shows, he had one vehicle that he spent every weekend cleaning and tweaking minor details.

And every weekend, my mom would drop me off so I could help him out and bond with my grandpa. I always thought Mom just wanted us to be close, but it seems it was more convenient for her that way, Nonetheless, my weekends with Grandpa gave me some of my favorite memories. Whether it was the time I knocked over the oil can, or when Grandpa accidentally scratched the Chevy Bel Air’s red paint job, it was all a lot of fun and we never ran out of things to do. I especially liked helping Grandpa because he would fill the ashtray with candy — Grandpa never smoked and told me to stick to candy instead,