December 4, 1919, Heartbreak, Arkansas

Today, December 4, would have been the 99th birthday of my father, Herschel Woods. He was a good man, but not as simple as most supposed. A man of few words does not mean he does not understand speech, nor speaker. My dad was a provider, a protector, a leader. Men looked to his wisdom when it was decision time. My dad was a warrior. But he kept his pain silent, a prisoner tightly guarded, until one afternoon he paroled his pain, and poured it out with me. I am proud to have come from him; to share his DNA. I am a poor copy of the original. I did not lose dad. I know where he is, and I will fall into his embrace again, some good day. But I miss him terribly. Every reminder of him makes me stand taller. Narrow my focus. Get it done no matter the hour. Then go home with the radio pounding, and the air howling in the racks and ladders. Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you.