When I reached that point in life where the things happening in this world sort of fell out of interest, and sitting on the back porch, when the weather was just a touch too cold, or watching the lawn move into its slow growth/no growth period, with the grass just a bit too long, and I can feed the dogs scraps from supper, which included a few bits of meat that would of been fine reheated and served again, I paused and realize, I was becoming just like my father.
There are times that I look like, a lot like, my Dad. It's fairly easy to do and it is never intentional that I do it, but walking in to the house, following a day of working the yard for instance, when I glance and see this white haired man in the full length mirror, grass and blood stains all over, a shirt that would never see a tie, because it had held its place in the closet for years and seemed that it would cover the most. My pocketed shorts of cotton, with holes in the front and the back, the stripes of oil I had spilled bringing the mower up to snuff. My socks, oh those pitiful socks, black, and nylon, and not perfectly sewn any longer, but stretchy, from the bottom of my feet up to the green stains on my knees. Looking down, I would see my foundation, a pair of leather, black, slip on shoes, with tufts of grass sticking up and held in place by the leavings of my dogs in the yard. My hands are stiff and filthy.
My hair, if it can be called that anymore, against the half-tanned crown of my now bald head, sticking up and out on the right side, dissapearing from the view across the middle and laying flat and clean on the left. I have the added factor of a white, white beard, falling down like Santa Claus, but it all is shuffled in with my white eyebrows, the marks of years past upon my furrowed brow and that is when I see him. The Old Man. He would rather look than to speak, who would read the paper without talking, who would train his children to be good , and love their families. Who could give the most eloquent speeches, and follow with the most eloquent silence.
I can see my Father still.
Ralph Peck
Photo by Ralph Peck
Adair Oklahoma
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