By Patrick Reynolds

The noise of an electric car lift rang in my ear. I was raising my first job of the day off the ground.

In 1993 I was making a living as an auto mechanic in a Connecticut car dealership. New England was fortunate that spring had arrived and a sunny fresh air morning allowed us to keep the shop bay doors open. Friday brought that weekend attitude to begin the work day, but that was about to be shattered.

Friend, service writer, and all around nice guy Paul Mino strolled over for a common chat. You didn’t notice him from his small, thin frame but for his often sunny disposition. Paul didn’t wear his usual smile on this approach, though.

He said “Hey! Did you hear about that race car driver that died?”

“No. Who?” I responded.

“He was a good one, too,” said Mino as he struggled to recall. “Had a funny name. Kal… Kar… something-icki?”

“Alan Kulwicki?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s the guy. There was a plane crash last night. I heard it on the news this morning,” said Mino.

I stopped pressing the button on the car lift and halted the upward progress. I stood there stunned and silent. Read On!