My father is a bit of an accidental hero. I say accidental because, given the choice, my father would choose to be a hero to no man. Still, he is a hero to the likes of me.
My father can bend a two inch by two inch straight length of square steel tubing into a neat U-shape; he can chop down the largest of all oaks with just a few dozen swings of a carefully aimed double-bit axe; he can mow an entire acre of hay by-hand with a scythe before the morning’s dew evaporates; he can wipe a man clean from his place in a barroom with a single backhand, never spilling a droplet of froth from the top of his mug; he can woo a train car full of giddy school girls enroute for college simply by twisting the corners of his mustache while winking from afar; within the woods, he can bring a large black bear to fits of shame by no other means that eyeing the beast down and whistling “Swanee River;” he and his gal can clear a dance hall when my father takes-the-lead and swings the poor girl until all the remaining ladies become green with envy; he can read but a few mere pages of Shakespeare before he is able to recite “Much Ado About Nothing” without nary an error; he can fix absolutely anything that falls to disrepair; he can win any gentlemanly dispute simply by coercing his opponent to see the ills of his ways without ever knowing; he can relocate a mountain; and, he is nine feet, seven inches in height.
Of course all of the aforementioned is sheer fable, but what is any man unless he considers his own father within the same affection and regard.
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