On the eve of tomorrow's 5:00 a.m. departure to deliver my beloved Scout to its new owner in Cleveland— almost 10 years since I gave in to my dad's "feverish, sentimental, problematic fascination with old cars," as I called it in a magazine story—I drove my five-year-old daughter to school in it, for one last ride.

(Don't tell my wife.)

"We're gonna miss this stinky old truck aren't we?" I said, referring to the noxious mixture of gas, oil, grease, antifreeze and exhaust that I smell on my clothes even now, back at my writing desk.

"It's stinky. But it kind of smells yummy," she said, and then fell silent for 30 seconds before adding thoughtfully, "It kind of smells like candy, or honey."

Roger Ebert has a happy reminiscence of his happy days
in Chicago newspapering, and he includes this video of Mike Royko at
the Billy Goat tavern in 1982, talking about softball. See the young
woman staring at this scene? She looks like I feel every time I’m
around a Chicago old timer who can tell a yarn.

More on this in an upcoming HuffPo piece and perhaps a video, but suffice to say:

In a span of no more than 15 minutes yesterday afternoon I was knocked down repeatedly, cheered, yelled at, pitied and patted on the back.

I'm going to miss those girls.