The musings, humor, fairytales, love letters and poetry of a GenX Momma brain.
I've been encouraged through other Wattpad authors to continue writing, so this is the start of that request. Evidently I have quite a few stories to tell
I hope you enjo...
My dad was the type of man that worked outside every day. He was usually by himself, but he was a social creature and loved having company.
Evidently, I was good company, because he took me everywhere with him. He worked with cows, horses, dogs, tools, and big trucks. It was generally a wonderland for a kid to explore, especially when the adult in the equation was okay with the nonsense only a little kid can cause.
I remember those days with a tugging filament of love, loss, and fondness.
My dad was a lot of things that weren't always wonderful, but most of the time he was an honest hard worker and a good father.
So, if I wasn't in school, dad took me with him during his workday. He had me steering the big feed trucks at four years old. Granted, it was in granny gear and in the middle of a field. All I had to do was stand on the seat and hang on to the wheel. But, at the time I thought I had been handed the reins of the world and I was terrified.
He had me driving the draft team at five, with long lines hooked to their bridles. I'd brace myself on the feed sled, while he forked flakes of hay off the back. He'd tell me to yell Gee or Haw to get the team to turn left or right. Fritz and Lois, the big Belgians would flick their ears at my shrill voice and dutifully turn. We would do that twice daily during the cold Montana winters.
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Sometimes, I'd get so cold he'd stuff me in the twine barrel they kept on the sled for all the bailing twine, and plunk the dog on top of me. The dog was fine with it because he was cold, too and we both kept warm that way.
I also rode horses, helped feed the smaller animals, went with the adults on the big calf branding days, and generally added small bits of chatter and color to an otherwise boring workday for my dad.
He loved having me with him and never really was frustrated by my constant chatter, interruption, and the inevitable mess that followed me.
Oh sometimes he'd be gruff and yell, and most of the time he was horrible to my mom. But even during his worst drunken rages, he was soft with me. As an adult now, a few years after his death, I miss those sweet funny conversations we had when I was a child.
Truly, I was a chatterbox. I was a pink princess girly girl who loved talking and telling stories, (Obviously that tendency hasn't abated). While sometimes he'd ignore me, there were other times he would actively engage my imagination, and we would toss softballs of humor and stories from one to the other.
I still relish the memory of my dad's version of Hansel & Gretel. Let's just say there was a dragon involved, fresh alfalfa hay, a roll of butcher paper, and toasted salami sandwiches. The dragon got the munchies.
This particular event happened in 1981. I was seven years old, and we had recently moved from the Bearpaws of Montana to the Oregon coast. Dad was having me help him build a fence. A great big fence.
