No one has ever accused my father of being a soft man. No, he is not a soft man at all. Nor has he ever been soft, gentle or cuddly. Yet, the men who have worked with or for him have great admiration, respect and loyalty towards him. We're talking about linemen, saw mill men, construction workers and laborers from Honduras and Peru. These are all hard men themselves. One reason, he has never asked anyone to do anything he wouldn't do himself.
Probably has something to do with his dad. His family moved to a small town in New Mexico when he was in 8th grade. The first day of school his dad told him to find the biggest, strongest son of a bitch in the school and "whip his ass then you won't have any problems with anyone else! You have to earn their respect." This was not a novel idea to my father. He was forced to be a fighter since the minute he was born inside a two-room tent in West Texas. His mother always depended upon him. She used to pin cash money inside his shirt for him to take to the bank on his way to school and he was only 7 years old. Between helping his mom (his dad was on the road as a long haul trucker in the oil fields) and looking after his kid brother, my father wasn't allowed much of a childhood. He doesn't laugh much to this day and he is pushing 80.
Growing up under the grave scrutiny of his eyes was not always easy. Hell, it was never easy! I always felt I was being sized up when those eyes turned in my direction. Didn't matter if I was playing football or pounding post holes, I was always being tested. He was an early riser, still is, whereas I really enjoyed the comfort of a good bed. When I finally would get up and go downstairs, I would be greeted with a warm good morning from my mother while my father would turn his eyes on me with the clear message "It's about time you got up. There's work to be done." Then I would really piss him off by sitting down to a big bowl of Wheaties and a piece of toast. You see, after a while, I learned how to react to those eyes. I made a game of it. Of course, he never knew the rules of the game, hell, I didn't either, I made them up as I went along. When I did finally get dressed and pull on my Tony Lama's, he was already outside. Sometimes it was fence building, sometimes pulling stumps or whatever. Ask anyone who has property, there is always something that needs to be done. We would work the rest of the afternoon until our neighbor, Tom, would come over with a cold pitcher of beer and three frosty mugs and tell us we were working too hard and needed to take a break. I really liked Tom. My father would put on a show of being annoyed, but the beer was cold and he never said no.
Probably has something to do with his dad. His family moved to a small town in New Mexico when he was in 8th grade. The first day of school his dad told him to find the biggest, strongest son of a bitch in the school and "whip his ass then you won't have any problems with anyone else! You have to earn their respect." This was not a novel idea to my father. He was forced to be a fighter since the minute he was born inside a two-room tent in West Texas. His mother always depended upon him. She used to pin cash money inside his shirt for him to take to the bank on his way to school and he was only 7 years old. Between helping his mom (his dad was on the road as a long haul trucker in the oil fields) and looking after his kid brother, my father wasn't allowed much of a childhood. He doesn't laugh much to this day and he is pushing 80.
Growing up under the grave scrutiny of his eyes was not always easy. Hell, it was never easy! I always felt I was being sized up when those eyes turned in my direction. Didn't matter if I was playing football or pounding post holes, I was always being tested. He was an early riser, still is, whereas I really enjoyed the comfort of a good bed. When I finally would get up and go downstairs, I would be greeted with a warm good morning from my mother while my father would turn his eyes on me with the clear message "It's about time you got up. There's work to be done." Then I would really piss him off by sitting down to a big bowl of Wheaties and a piece of toast. You see, after a while, I learned how to react to those eyes. I made a game of it. Of course, he never knew the rules of the game, hell, I didn't either, I made them up as I went along. When I did finally get dressed and pull on my Tony Lama's, he was already outside. Sometimes it was fence building, sometimes pulling stumps or whatever. Ask anyone who has property, there is always something that needs to be done. We would work the rest of the afternoon until our neighbor, Tom, would come over with a cold pitcher of beer and three frosty mugs and tell us we were working too hard and needed to take a break. I really liked Tom. My father would put on a show of being annoyed, but the beer was cold and he never said no.
Now I am a grown man with grown kids. My wife and I live in our backwoods cabin on our own piece of property and there are always chores in waiting. I recently looked out the window in the morning while having a steaming hot cup of coffee and saw a pile of fire wood that resembles Mt. Index beyond. The wood has been there for awhile, a long while, ok, a very long while. Over there is the old power lawn mower that went belly up last year and over there is the leaf catcher that goes with it. The stone path leading down to the creek is slowly being overtaken by moss and the driveway needs some work. I can't help but feel my father's piercing eyes, wondering what the hell am I waiting for. The chores ain't going to do themselves. And he lives in Alaska these days. Well, the chores really do need to get done, but then, they can wait till tomorrow, can't they?
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