On October 31, 2008, my father, Ralph Eldridge Hurst, passed away. He'd been sick for several years, and hadn't been himself for most of them. But his death still hit me harder than I expected. There is a hole in the world; it will never be the same.

I wish you could have known my Dad, the way he was. He could fix anything. I've watched him repair my flute, my jewellry, and build a bulldozer from two seemingly unusable bulldozers. He rebuilt my first car, a 1968 Ford Mustang, using parts from three different vehicles. He could do anything, it seemed.

We never called mechanics, electricians, plumbers or carpenters when my Dad was alive. My Dad was skilled in all these areas, and many more. He played the guitar and sang very nicely. He could draw the straightest lines I've ever seen. He loved animals and kids and driving too fast in a hot car with a big engine.

My Dad worked for many years as a welder; he was the guy people called ont he job when an extremely difficult, seemingly impossible, weld had to be made. We'd all be so nervous when he had to do a test weld; would it hold? It always did.

After he retired my Dad spend much of his time restoring vintage Ford tractors. He'd go out looking for projects, and then come home with an old rusted heap on the trailer. Frequently it wouldn't even run. By the time my Dad was finished, though, that tractor would look like it just rolled off the assembly line. Real works of art.

My Dad taught me to drive the tractors when I was a teenager. I loved it. While the Farmall we had was best for plowing, I liked driving his big old Ford Super Dexter Diesel tractor best. It was so powerful; turning over the earth was as easy as passing a hot knife through butter. And smelled incredibly good.

My Dad loved to travel. He gave me the gift of trips all over the United States and Canada. We visited all but four states in his lifetime. When we went to the Grand Canyon, he and I climbed down in for about 1/4 of a mile and just sat on the edge and looked over the vastness. Other people came and went; my Dad always gave them a helping hand as they passed us. The birds soared miles above the canyon floor, floating in the air just in front of our eyes. I felt I could fly.

My Dad dreamed of flying, but was reluctant to get on an airplane. If he could've been the pilot, he would have been okay with it. But giving up that much control to someone else? It wasn't going to happen. So he never flew on a plane.

I like to think he's flying now, somehow.