Real Men

I thought of him as a man’s man. He was good at sports, could argue politics and no engine or construction task was safe when he put his mind and hands to the job. He was an example and model cast in marble on a high pillar. He made me proud.

In his fifties a strange thing happened. He bought a book and began growing roses.

In my youthful stupidity I was puzzled. Men don’t do that! Was it early onset dementia? Roses are grown by short rotund grandmothers wearing aprons with their grey hair pulled back in a bun. He was my father but I was a little embarrassed. (Yes, young rednecks are capable of embarrassment.) I dealt with the embarrassment like a real man would. I pretended it never happened and we never talked about it.

I’m much older now and little wiser. I know that real men can read whatever and do whatever they choose. I'm a little sad also. I wish we had talked about it and I could have learned from him.

My first issue of a new subscription to Birds & Blooms should arrive soon.