He eased the old
pickup into the driveway, the tires scrunching to a halt on the gravel.
Switching off the ignition he just sat for a moment, his body still feeling the
vibration of the rutted road that led from the lumberyard in town seven miles
up the hill to his farm.
He rolled up the
window, pulled the door handle and swung his legs out to the driveway. The
summer breeze felt almost cold against his back where he had sweated through
his shirt. He shoved the door shut and leaned against the truck. Removing his
battered straw hat, he mopped his brow with his sleeve. His thinning hair, damp from the day's work, was molded to his head, and his gold-rimmed glasses were flecked with sawdust and dried sweat.
Working at the
sawmill hadn’t been his first choice. A lot about the last few years hadn’t
turned out the way he had hoped.
Our culture has changed dramatically since I was a boy. One
place I notice change is in parenting. Our culture challenges fathers in ways it never challenged me when I was a young dad.
Young men today hear strident voices telling them they are responsible for all of
society’s ills. Toxic masculinity, inherent male chauvinism, clueless gender
roles, are a few of the grenades lobbed their way. I know the young dads today are up to the challenge. But as I remember my own father, I can't help but think that the current generation might learn a bit from him. So I’ve decided to do
a few blog posts about him. This first one I posted in slightly different form some years
ago.
