We could be heroes

<>Okay, I know I just finished bitching big time about my dad. But as I was mowing their yard on Sunday, I was thinking (I often do that when I am engaged in a physical task that requires minimal attention). I was thinking about how when the first hurricane was approaching, seemingly hell bent on destroying our area, dad was Johnny-on-the-spot, Mr. Plywood plan. He was a hero to me. If Charley had gone on to make land fall here, my house would have been ready to handle the winds. Granted, it would have ended up four feet under water, but that is a minor detail. In serious times, for friends in need, my dad is a great guy. That doesn’t mean he sucks the rest of the time, just that he likes to take his ease. As I was mulling all this over, I was suddenly struck by this vision of an ancient hall, filled with men, burly men, garbed in kilts and leathers, sporting beards that make ZZ Top look like prepubescent boys, armed to the teeth and then some. The men were by and large passed out either from sleep or with drink. It was a heroes hall, a place where the men who do great deeds reside. They are at rest, having completed their latest feat, waiting until the next challenge arises. All the rest is unimportant, for there are women to tend to things like cooking, cleaning, child rearing, harvesting, and so on. The blood of those heroes flows in my fathers veins. It flows in mine, too.