A writer and an artist draw their inspirations from many places. Be it some event they saw on their drive in to work, or something said or done by them or to them. It is the fuel of creativity. Sometimes, it is not positive events that give energy to the creative mind, but even this wood must the carver work with, or he'll always be stuck with that piece of wood until he does something with it.
This last Thursday, I lost my father. Him being 54, in the prime of life, working during his retirement days as an officer at ASU. He drank like a fish, but never seemed to have a hangover the next day. He was a hard worker, but cut loose with the best of them. He was worldly, he was tough. He was both a sinner and saint. He taught me the first dirty joke that got me in trouble in school. He was a lover of the Old West, and modeled himself as such. I will always believe that he was born in the wrong century for his genius and wisdom to have been truly appreciated.
It was way too soon for him to go, but who am I to question the decisions of the Divine?
He will be missed, but I have chosen to remain philisophical and calm, as he would like me to be. He walks a different road from me now, but one day our two roads will cross, and we'll continue on together to whatever lays beyond that next hill. But until that days comes, I have his lessons to live by, and his jokes to tell.
--And when he gets to heaven, to St. Peter he will tell, "Another soldier reporting for duty, sir. I've done my time in Hell."
18 hours ago