There is one man who is, by all definitions, a hero. Growing up I didn’t have much, as I have stated in previous assignments. The best thing I got from my brothers was examples of what not to be (nothing against you all and I love you so dearly). They would sometimes invite me to come with them on an illegal trip to egg a house or other things and I went. So my hero’s weren’t my brothers. My mother loved, but as a mom with 5 children, she was tired. Sometimes she would just mutter, “ I hate my life I hate my life.” I never wanted to be the reason my mom hated her life, so I was always good. So I couldn’t find a hero there. I played Halo when I was young, but The Chief doesn’t say very much. There was, however, my dad.

                My father is easily summed up, and it’s amazing how many good words can be used. I have met many people, but none so many that everyone saw as good. Some people are liked by a majority of people, but even they still have their enemies. I have never, except for the loving complaints of my mother his wife, heard a bad word uttered against him. He was oh so generous. He once spent a month’s worth of rent money to pay for me to play football. He gave to any man that ever asked of him, and he gave even when he didn’t have that much to give. He was strong. His arms were a dark brown, and pulsed with life whenever they worked. He had a truck from the 1960’s, the ones made out of all steel. He was so strong he picked up the back of that truck all by himself, and that’s how strong my dad was. When you saw my dad, you could tell that even his soul was smiling. He had more friends than my teenaged brothers, and he made them laugh even louder. He would have cookouts for our family, and the cousins would come from all around. He would cook up ribs so good that you would have thought he had a secret recipe given to him from God himself. My father outworked all his helpers, even when he out aged them. He worked his life as a manual laborer, but till this day I haven’t seen any job that carries as much pride as his. I can still see my dad straining away at lifting some couch or wheelbarrow while his workers sat and caught their breath.

 My father loved. For my brother and I, he would do anything. Every morning, when he dropped us off at school, he would smack a big smooch on each of our cheeks. We would giggle, and he would always say “ now don’t you go and wipe that off!” I loved my father. One day, a car was stalled in the middle of a busy street. My father pulled his big old white truck up right behind him and gave that car a nudge. He helped to push the man’s car over to the side of the road, and after that he gave the man a jump. He was a hero because he worked every day to take care of a house of five boys up till he died at the age of 69 when I was 11. He was a hero because he always cared, and he always loved. He was a hero because he came home while my mom worked graveyards and cooked dinner, and cleaned the house, and raised us as kids. My dad was a hero.