In my first memory of my dad, he’s a heroic figure. I don’t know how old I was when the memory was formed, but not very. My mom worked outside the home when I was little, and there was no kindergarten in Arkansas at that time. This meant that up until first grade I spent much of my time with Dad. On this one particular morning, we’d driven down into the field to check on the cows after a night of heavy rain.
The cattle were in a field on the other side of our creek, and the place where we normally crossed the stream was running too high to drive the truck through. Dad parked and we walked along the creek to where it widened out and the rushing water slowed. It still looked like a muddy, swollen river to me, but Dad picked me up and put me on his shoulders and waded across.
I remember being a little scared and a little excited both as I sat up there high and looked out over the world. With a daddy like that, what might one accomplish?