The end of May and the Sunday before Memorial Day, Race Day. Today the Indianapolis 500 Mile Race happens, just like it has for my entire life.

My Dad would have had the yard work finished on Saturday and everything set up for “The Greatest Spectacle In Racing.” Usually on Race Day I would sleep in (the race used to start earlier). I would wake to the sound of the radio coming from the patio, with a mixture of muffled family voices. I remember Dad through the years as he aged, in two different homes, on the patio, in the gazebo he built for my wedding, and at my grandparents. He would be sitting there listening as Jim Nabors would sing “Back Home Again In Indiana.” Dad’s head would be slightly tilted back, eyes closed, as Jim’s deep voice soared on those radio waves, almost as though he felt every word.

At the same time, the grill would be sizzling as the hamburgers dropped sprinkles of juice onto the hot coals and as if not to be outdone the hot dogs would answer with their own softer crackle. Then there were the smells of the food cooking, the fresh cut grass, suntan lotion, and the slight smell of Dad’s beer wafting on the warm breeze.

The National Anthem would be sung and then you would hear the announcer’s voice boom over the radio, “Gentlemen, Start Your Engines!”. The roar of race cars would explode in tandem. Dad sitting there a little straighter, with a slight smile, intently listening and thoroughly enjoying every detail. The Voice Of The Speedway, Tom Carnegie, would call the race, beginning with the waving of the green flag to signal the start.

It’s amazing remembering my Dad then. So many details I observed but missed in the moment. How he listened so closely as the race took place. He knew the names of the drivers and the numbers of their cars. He was always in earshot of the radio and hung on every word as the race changed instantly. At times Dad would be relaxed, then his body would tense as the race cars would jockey for positions or his brow would furl listening about a collision, sitting on the edge of his seat to hear if the drivers were okay. He would sit there listening, staring off, concentrating, watching the race unfold in his mind as the words coming from the radio painted the picture for him. Physically Dad was with us but he saw every turn in the race, in his head, just as if he were actually there.

Most years, the race would last about three hours. Dad would always be there at the end, when the checkered flag was waved as the winner crossed the finish line. Grinning, no matter who won.