Here are two stories that stuck with me — the kind you don’t forget — and I have a feeling they’ll give you a smile.”

There was an unforgettable character my dad considered family named of Bill Kretzer — a man who in part was responsible for a lot of my “life skills.” Kretzer worked for my dad and could keep an entire manufacturing plant running with nothing but a wrench and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He could smoke a whole cigarette without dropping a single ash until it reached the filter. The man was a magician.

He handled everything from major industrial repairs to the occasional “side project” for my dad — like building our backyard swimming pool, which I’m convinced was held together by equal parts concrete and prayer.

When I entered the family business, I worked side by side with him. That’s where I got my crashcourse education in construction, electrical work, plumbing, roofing, and air conditioning units the size of small elephants. By the time he was done with me, I could practically rebuild a house from the ground up — and on more than one occasion, I did.

But you always had to watch out for Kretzer’s “level.” Both the tool and the man were sometimes a little off. In those moments, he believed any job — no matter how complicated — could be fixed with “a little duct tape and glue.” Pipe burst? Duct tape. Beam sagging? Duct tape. Air conditioner exploded? More duct tape. According to him, NASA only beat him to the moon because they bought their tape in bulk.

Still, for all his quirks, he taught me more than any classroom ever could. And whenever something breaks in my life, I still hear him saying, “Don’t worry, Bill — we can fix that. Get the tape.”

One day after returning home from work, Dad thought some liquor was missing from the bar in our basement — a sixstool masterpiece upholstered in tufted red leather. He suggested one of his construction crew must of helped themselves to some of his liquor Kretzer’s It was told Kretzer never said a word.

Days later, during one of Dad’s legendary poker nights — the kind where the boys from New York, WilkesBarre, and Philly rolled in like a traveling circus of loud opinions and louder pin-striped suits — a knock came to the front door where a a mysterious brown wrapped paper box appeared on our porch. No markings. No return address. Just sitting there like it knew it was suspicious.

Dad brought it inside where the cad game was in full swing. A couple of the guys swore they heard ticking coming from the inside. Italian paranoia spread faster than a rumor at a church picnic.

After a brief but dramatic debate, complete with whispered theories, crossed themselves prayers, and one guy insisting he’d “seen this in a movie once”—they decided the safest course of action was to run the package down to the pool and sink it. Because nothing says “problem solved” like drowning a potential bomb.

Ten minutes later, in strolls Kretzer — ten=gallon hat, cigar mashed into the corner of his mouth, boots big enough to qualify for their own ZIP code. He sits down, pulls out his sixguns lays them on the table, like he’s anteing them in and says; “Alright boys, let’s play some poker.”

He noticed everyone looked like they had just seen the ghost of Jimmy Hoffa and said what’s wrong fellas?

Dad explains the whole saga – the mystery box, the ticking, the heroic poolside disposal operation. Kretzer takes a long drag on his stogie and says, “Dammit, Ernie… that was a box of miniature liquors. You accused my men of stealing your booze, so I was replacing the damn thing.”

And just like that, Kretzer’s was the one who exploded.

Another character from that poker crowd was Ernie Scantton a man who stayed with us whenever he came to town. Apparently, he had a deep unspoken fear of hotels. One morning, he wandered into the bathroom my brother and I shared. Now, this was a man who moved through life with the confidence of someone who never read a label. grabbed the first tube he saw and brushed his teeth with it like he was polishing chrome. A moment later, he came barreling out foaming at the mouth like a rabid Saint Bernard, yelling, “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS STUFF?”

My mom, hearing the commotion rushed over only to find he had brushed his teeth with our Brylcreem. Yep. The classic “a little dab’ll do ya” hair slicker. Enough to style the entire cast of Grease. My mom, God bless her, completely lost it. First time in my life I ever saw her laugh so hard I swear she had to pee her panties that morning. She had to hold onto the counter just to stay upright. Precious!