My father is a super-hero. This I believe
Now, I’m quite sure that all children think their parents are super, but I’m serious when I say that my father is a legitimate super-hero.
What makes a super-hero a super-hero? Amazing feats! –
Let’s look at the facts. Over the years I have seen my father do amazing things that can only be explained by the fact that he is a super-hero.
August 19th, 1975: I’m helping my father take down some old shelving and there is a rusted screw that I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to unscrew with a Sears Phillip’s head screwdriver. I have failed miserably for 20 minutes to loosen this bolt and have scraped my knuckles across the screw a few times as the screwdriver slips off the stripped, rusted and permanently affixed screw. My father looks at me and reaches over and without stopping what he is doing or using his super heat vision, simply uses is bare hand to unscrew the bolt.
August 1, 1978: I am 12 years-old, and my father is pitching to me as I take batting practice before a little league baseball game. The man throws a pitch that moves up, then down, then left and then right, and finally backwards and then forward again. He calls it a knuckle ball. I call it a super-hero who can control the sciences of gravity and inertia as we know it.
September 9th, 1980: I am 14 years old and scared to death. My father has gone outside and started a bonfire on the edge of the woods that is high enough to singe the underbelly of any plane that would happen to pass by. He says that he is just burning brush and trash. I say he is changing global climate with the heat that this fire is putting out.
Then the kicker.
He leaves the bonfire ablaze and goes in to take a nap. Yes, while I am in a panic looking at the inferno the super-hero is sleeping all the while controlling the forces of nature, wind, fire and weather.
June 30th, 1982: I am 16 years-old and I have had my driver’s license for two days when the car I am driving breaks down on a highway near our house. I do the only thing I know to do which is spend ten minutes trying to find out how to open the hood of the car, and stare dumbly at the engine hoping there is a sign that says, “ I am broken…push this button to fix.”
A few people stop to see if I need a ride, but there is no way that I am leaving this car. Finally, a man wearing a NASCAR hat stops by. Surely he can fix it, but alas he stares at the engine with the same look as me before finally saying that it might be the alternator or timing belt or some other part that makes no sense to me.
Finally, after I notice the vultures starting to circle overhead waiting for my demise, my father arrives after obviously seeing a super-hero signal in the sky or maybe by using his super-hero sixth sense to know that there was trouble. He calmly walks over to the car with a roll of duct tape in one hand and a moon pie in the other and reaches under the hood and VROOM! The car starts and it had never sounded better.
June 28th, 1966 to present: As I write this my super-hero father is the head of a household of 5 (five) grown kids and he took care of my mother who had polio her whole adult life. He has never missed a ball game…never missed a recital…never missed a doctor’s appointment…never had us wanting for anything. Taking care of us all everyday of our lives – a true super-hero.
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