Chicken Feathers

Today is Father's Day. I miss my dad every single day, but it helps to remember all the good things. Today I thought about something I had not thought of in quite some time. When I was about four years old, we were getting ready to move from our apartment to the farm my parents had bought. The farm had a large barn with a tack room, which I thought was called a "tacker room" for some reason.

One evening I was with him when he painted the tack room doors. I really wanted to help so I went to find something I could use as a paint brush. There were a bunch of chicken feathers in the barn and I thought one would make a good brush. I grabbed the biggest one I could find and proceeded to dip it into the can of brown paint. Daddy was a bit worried about me helping because my mom might get upset if I came home covered in paint. I told him not to worry that if he held me up to the sink so I could wash my hands mom would never know! He let me help and we spent a pleasant evening with dad painting the doors while I "helped" by painting the bottom with my chicken feather. Of course I was not very careful and soon I was covered with splatters of brown paint.

When I was older we would laugh about this story. Mom said dad was worried about using turpentine to clean off my hands since I was so delicate. He did his best to clean me off with a rag and then we set off for home to face mom's wrath. Fortunately she found it more funny than foolish. She thought it was funny how I told daddy if he helped me wash up mom would never know.  I will always remember that. We did not spend a lot of time together one on one like that, but when we did it was very special. Even if it was doing something as mundane as painting some doors, dad with a broad even stroke, and me dabbing paint on with my chicken feather.  After he died, I went to the tack room and rubbed my hand over the flaking brown paint we had put on all those years ago and it made me smile.

Happy Father's Day, daddy. I love you.

Watch out for Falling Rocks

This has been rattling around in my head for awhile so I thought I would write a blog post about it. My dad died 10 years ago and there is not a day that goes by that I don't think about him. Recently I have been thinking about a story he used to tell me. Whenever we were driving somewhere and he saw the sign "Watch  for Falling Rock," he would tell me to look quick to see if I could see "him." The "him" was an old Indian named Falling Rock.

According to my father he was an Indian who was very upset by the mistreatment of the land by other people. He was a small, old man who lived in a hollow log and refused to participate in society. Instead he wandered around the mountains he loved so much. Whenever Falling Rock encountered a roadway where people had littered or polluted the surrounding area it would make the old man very angry. He got his revenge by pushing rocks down the slopes and into the road or possible at an offending car that had just thrown trash out the window. He might have been old, but he was strong and quick so it was very rare that someone actually caught a glimpse. Whenever he was spotted a sign went up to warn people to take care and be on their best behavior or else Falling Rock might send a boulder into the road.

Of course I would eagerly peer out the window to see if I could find him. Sometimes my dad would say he saw him and that I just needed to look harder. It was a great story to tell to a kid to keep them entertained in the truck. Not only that it taught me to be respectful of the land. I don't know if he made it up or heard it somewhere else, but I will always associate it with daddy. As an adult it helps me to understand him even more. My dad loved the outdoors and spent as much time as he could out either working in it or enjoying it. He wanted his children to appreciate the land. He was a farmer and he used the land as a tool, but he also cared for it and respected it. I doubt he would ever consider himself a "green person," but he certainly was an advocate and a conservationist long before our current trend of eco-awareness. I owe much of my awareness and awe of nature to him.

Every time I see a Falling Rock sign I think about my dad and have a little chuckle. Of course I cannot resist looking up the hill to see if a tiny wizened man is waiting to push rocks down on anyone who dares to disrespect the land.