The Trucker, Again

Dad has been feeling pretty good lately, and getting all A’s on his cardio exams. He still has a fib, but probably has had it all his life without knowing it. He just operates that way. If an ache or ailment doesn’t get him down enough to put him in the bed, then he doesn’t let it get him down, period. That’s a little scary, when you think about it, cause he had a heart attack once, and didn’t even realize it until the doctors told him six months later…it’s just the stock he comes from…

Daddy usually calls tomatoes da-matoes, which is real Southern of him. I suppose (or, I reckon) it would be even more Southern of him to call them da-maters, because so many hill folk put an er in the place of the e or a vowel ending.

As I was mowing mom and dad’s lawn last Saturday, Daddy came out to move the cars out of the way so that I could get closer to the garage. As I made a swipe near the driveway, he was walking along towards the back porch. He kept on walking, raised his hand to wave, and smiled real big at me. His smile reached all the way to his eyes, and for just a second, I caught a glimpse of the black-haired young trucker who held his little redhead in his arms one day long ago when the Goodyear Blimp came and touched down at our small local airport. His eyes are still as blue as they were that day…

Holding tight to the mower’s steering wheel with one hand, I raised the other to furiously wave back at him while I grinned like a fool. The good Lord is looking down on us in many ways. For one, He’s keeping an eye on my daddy. For two, He didn’t let me hit a hole in the yard and fall off the mower while I driving one-handed while waving at my Daddy. Daddy would’ve never let me use the riding mower again if that’d happened, no matter how cute he thought his little redhead was.

Listening to: Charlie Parker