Gregory Dale Smith

Well folks, Greg Smith here — though most of you called me Oscar or Mr. Smith. I was born on December 2, 1950, and crossed my final finish line on August 8, 2025, at 4:20 p.m. Wouldn’t you know — seventy-four laps around the sun, and I made them count: well lived and well laughed. Don’t you dare cry for me — I told you I didn’t want that. Save the tears for something truly tragic, like Kyle Busch retiring or a Canadian team winning the Stanley Cup.

Before Marilyn came along and put up with me for nearly 50 years, I served proudly in the U.S. Air Force. Then we raised two sons — Jeff and Erik — and I taught them the important stuff: how to play hockey and baseball, be a good teammate, lose with grace, and win with taste. They inherited my sense of humor, stubborn streak, and ability to outtalk anyone at the table. In 2022, I finally got the daughter I always wanted — my girl Cassidy, Jeff’s wife. Somehow, Jeff married someone just as witty as me. Go figure. Him and Erik always knew how to pick their people. I coached my boys and a whole crew of their friends, and apparently, we had the “cool house” growing up.

I had a good run: countless NASCAR races, a collection of hats and model cars big enough for a small museum, road trips to state fairs and national parks, lifelong friendship with Jeff and Kelly Shilling, golfing, a massive tool stash, and I even developed a soft spot for cacti. I loved classic rock, action movies, James Bond — and Erik’s dog Zelda, my breakfast buddy and food Houdini.

Now I’m in heaven with my brothers Jim and Hondo, my sister-in-law Shirley, and my parents. We’ve already got a pit crew going — Jim’s driving, I’m rebuilding. But I’ll miss like crazy: trading texts with my best friend and Scumbag, Jeff Shilling; my sister-in-law Pat; all my nieces and nephews; my sister Debby; Bruce asking about fishing (I hate fishing); Billy the mechanic — you are still the best; and my grand-dogs Link and Baby. Most of all, I’ll miss giving Marilyn hell, just to see that look on her face. She truly was the love of my life.

Here’s the deal — no flowers. Remember me laughing, grouching, and talking way too much about racing and hockey. Crank up some classic rock, slip your dog some bacon, and cheer extra loud for Kyle Busch in my honor.

If you want to swap stories, come by on September 7, 2025, at 1:00 p.m. at Cashner Funeral Home. My memorial is at 2:00 p.m., with a reception afterward. In lieu of flowers, consider donating to The Wounded Warriors Project.

Alright — I’ve taken the checkered flag. Time for a Diet Pepsi and a smoke. I’ll see you on the victory lap. Don’t screw it up.