My Hero(Blog #1)

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My pajamas were soft. What surrounded my body was more than likely stretchy pants and a worn out, green T. shirt that smelled of diesel fuel and felt like Daddy. I always stole his shirts to sleep in. They were just better. The hems were always thread bare, the pockets worn through. I sat in a little wooden chair in our living room. The white pine hard wood was chilly beneath my feet. But I never would have admitted it. I liked going barefoot year round to much. The tap and hum of the 20 year old, Dove  wood heater was the only noise that drifted through the house. It was Saturday night and my hair was dripping wet from my evening bath. I winced and wrinkled my nose as I sat there, learning patience. Daddy was behind me sitting on the couch, with my curly, blonde hair in his lap that would sweep across the red, GA clay in our back yard if I leaned back in the swing set. The ends were soft and twisted and waved into baby curls that my daddy loved. That is why, on Saturday night, he and I were the only ones up. With a plastic, Dollar General comb in one hand, and my hair in the other, he patiently picked apart the birds nest that had been constructed out of my untamed hair at the base of my little neck. Those same hands and arms that were taking care of my tangled tresses, were the arms and hands that carried chainsaws and six foot logs. They were the arms and hands that were calloused from a life time made of days full of honest, dirty, long, and hard work. The muscles in those arms and hands came from carrying me and my six siblings, catching us when we fell, building our home in six months in the 1980’s. They came from building a company with nothing but a tractor and a chainsaw. They came from prayers being answered that he could continue to work in the woods with other honest men like him. It was the right, calloused hand with the comb and the left, wedding band clad hand that fingered through the knots. Every callous, every muscle, every tan line on his bicep that were there when I was a foot shorter and my hair was two feet longer, are still things that are a part of my Daddy. And he earned that appearance, the appearance of a man not afraid of dirt, weariness, or hard times, because he was patient with everything he has done and everyone he has dealt with. All the way from his employees in the woods who tell stories about very interesting activities in their pasts, to his fourth daughter waring his T. shirt while he combs her hair in the living room. By the time he would finish, my thick hair would be dry. He would give me a scruffy kiss goodnight and my little feet would make their way up the creaky, wooden staircase to find my room that Daddy built and crawl into my warm bed that Daddy designed for me.


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