He was my old man, but I never referred to him that way out loud.
All my years under his roof I never disrespected him.
He was, still is, my hero.
My old man wore old, broken-down boots, busting sod as the son of a share cropper in North East Arkansas. He was taken out of school in 6th grade, to follow a mule with a plow. But he was the wisest, most intelligent man I ever knew.
Six days a week, sunrise till long past sunset, my old man
pulled on his worn, brown leather boots, ice and snow or scorching sun
my old man hung on the sides of houses, fitting, jamming, installing.
Before i came along, my old man pulled on combat boots for the 2nd Armored Division, pounding from North Africa to Sicily, Normandy, France, Belgium and Germany. It was miraculous he survived, but my old man always did.
I have no idea how many pairs of boots he wore out, but the new ones
always looked exactly like the old ones.
I never thought my old man would die, but he did. His body simply gave out. I guess you are allotted a set number of boots, and time's up.
When he died we spoke to the mortician. "Don't put his shoes on him," we asked. "We believe he deserves to take them off awhile."
I think my old man would've liked that.
He was, still is, my hero.
My old man wore old, broken-down boots, busting sod as the son of a share cropper in North East Arkansas. He was taken out of school in 6th grade, to follow a mule with a plow. But he was the wisest, most intelligent man I ever knew.
Six days a week, sunrise till long past sunset, my old man
pulled on his worn, brown leather boots, ice and snow or scorching sun
my old man hung on the sides of houses, fitting, jamming, installing.
Before i came along, my old man pulled on combat boots for the 2nd Armored Division, pounding from North Africa to Sicily, Normandy, France, Belgium and Germany. It was miraculous he survived, but my old man always did.
I have no idea how many pairs of boots he wore out, but the new ones
always looked exactly like the old ones.
I never thought my old man would die, but he did. His body simply gave out. I guess you are allotted a set number of boots, and time's up.
When he died we spoke to the mortician. "Don't put his shoes on him," we asked. "We believe he deserves to take them off awhile."
I think my old man would've liked that.
photo prompt #1---21 lines for a new poem for A Father's Shoes Contest, by James Woods6 (in tribute to (Cpl.) HL Woods, my dad, my old man.)
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