My Hero

My husband does not think of himself as a hero.  He would never describe himself as amazing or unusual.  He shies away from words with strength of character or virtue.  But to me, he is all that and more.

We live in a dust bowl.  Outdoors on the ranch this summer can only be described as miserable - windy, dusty, and hot.  But while I cower in the house under the guise of feeding the children or doing the dishes, my husband is outside getting things done.  Without fanfare.  Without complaint.  Because it needs to get done.  It's that simple.

He spent the hottest parts of the day pounding fence posts and stretching wire for the goat pen.  He didn't complain or quit when the wind kicked up.  He just kept right on going.  That's how he is.  If something needs to get done, regardless of how miserable he is, he does it.

At this very moment, my usually pale-skinned, goatie-sporting, sunglass-wearing hubby is one color.  And it matches the earth exactly.  He is sitting in the cab of a bobcat tractor and is redefining the drifts of dirt that line our driveway.  His vision is known only to him.  Through plumes of dust that engulf the tiny tracked monster, he pushes and carves until it looks just right.

It cannot be comfortable to be swallowed up in a cloud of dust.  When dirt devils swing through our yard, I scrunch my eyes tight and hold my breath until they pass.  But J can't do that in his twister.  And he doesn't.  As far as I can tell, from my vantage point over the kitchen sink (I am actually doing the dishes), he just muscles through it like it were a spring breeze.  Nothing amazing or unusual.  Only to me, he is.