You can tell a lot about a man by what is hanging on his refrigerator. Pictures of his family, his boy he loved so dear. Reels of film shot of the moments that were an infancy, a childhood, a lifetime. Newspaper clippings of accomplishments, blown up and highlighted to show his pride in feats that are now meandering about in the past.

Snapshots taken, after hours behind the wheel with little boys who look up to and love big trucks and those who drive them. Still a smile he musters for posterity, with that twinkle in his eyes, that slightly graying moustache that used to intrigue the little ones so, when they were new to this life, this family.

Photos of the harrier members--the four-legged ones whom he loved with all his heart no matter how large or lazy or dripping with slobber, some even down-right insane. There was always a special place for those pups in his life, a special connection between man and beast.

Letters of gratitude, yellowed and crinkled around the edges, possessed enough meaning to be held dear and given a hallowed spot just where the eyes meet the paint of that old, beat up Frigidaire. Notes of thanks for a job well done give life to the easily spoken words of appreciation and gratitude.

Recipes. Yes, recipes, clinging to life underneath an old magnetic pack of Camels. Mrs. Gov. Henry Bellmon’s super-easy and delicious pe-can pie, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the orange, Jello, upside-down cake that seemed to disappear from the store once he finally mastered its baking. Long Tuesday nights of cutting and pasting made sweeter and so much easier to swallow by the concoctions he’d crafted from these carefully clipped creations.

You can tell a lot about a man by what is hanging on his refrigerator. But it doesn’t tell you everything. Some things you learn by watching him with your boys. Teaching them to make paper airplanes, or play cards or tell jokes. Always having a peppermint in one pocket and a quarter in the other. And making sure they never forget two of the greatest Yankees of all time.

I’ll miss the smiles he so easily wore when he watched the boys play ball. The way it was so effortless for him to say, “I love ya” and mean it more than those three little words could convey. The way I could always pick up the phone and tell him to turn it to channel so and so, cause Jeter’s up and the bases are loaded.

You can tell a lot about a man by what is hanging on his refrigerator. You can tell even more from what he holds dear to his heart.

I love ya, Uncle Max.

And that's All in a day's work.