Dad
When I think of my Dad, I think of the farm. The smell of his chew with a hint of whiskey, the sweet scent of hay, the farm markets, the shiny snaps on his Western shirts, an old twangy Hank Williams song. I have always seen a familiar innocence in his eyes. Bill had his eyes. When I miss Bill the most, I'd look into dads eyes and remember he's not that far away. My dad has always been loving, hardworking, and best described as salt of the earth. He always felt like home to me. He loved to have a good time and was often the life of any party. If you weren't sure where the party was, you could just listen, and you'd hear him hooping and hollering. I will remember the way he'd only put mustard on his corndogs. The way he loved to dance in the kitchen, how he'd slick back his hair. The subtle way he would rub my back with his finger tips. I will always cherish those dirt road drives down by the river counting deer. The times we went deer hunting, the only thing we...
