Everyone has something they associate with their fathers. Maybe he was a car guy, and every time you hear the roar of a vintage sports car, your heart revs a little, too. Maybe it was baseball, and now the taste of sunflower seeds takes you back to all those afternoons in the bleachers. Maybe it was simply long days and hard work, and now you see him in every pair of calloused hands and worn-out work boots, or sense him when the wind blows a faint scent of diesel.
As for us McMullen girls, it was racehorses.