Today I thought I'd talk about my boys. Martin, whose seven, and Degan, whose four and a half. There are some general statements that fit both boys. Such as; they're all boy, way to smart for their own good, and they'll be the reason for my gray hairs.
Other than these few statements they are as different as day and night.
We shall start with Martin. There are very few outward signs I had anything to do with him. I'm fond of saying he looks like my father and Honeybear had a kid. While I have the dark complexion of Indian blood, my father has a dark Irish complexion that Martin inherited. Everything about them is brown with a red tint. Now coloring aside he has features of his Daddy and his Pappaw. But will be taller than either one, I have no doubt.
Martin does have one quality that is definetly inherited from me-his artistic ability. He goes through a drawing pad about every two months. They are filled cover to cover with some of the most colorful and imaginative stories and landscapes. The only thing he has as much enthusiasm for is the outdoors.
Anything to do with hunting, camping, fishing, or tracking. He goes on forages to the creek with his sidekick and loyal companion Diesel. I never worry since I can see the field from the porch and Diesel is an ardent opossum, rabbit, and mole killer.
The most amazing things come out of his mouth to. I think my favorite is "I can hear ice cream being scooped from three miles away". The most embarrassing would have to be when he walked up to a rather large woman and asked when the baby was coming out her tummy. Even with me telling him to hush and trying to apologize he would not be deterred, adamantly continueing that everytime my belly got big a baby was added. He was four. And somehow that scene has yet to ease itself from my memory.
Now there's Degan. Oh my little Degan-the very image of a cherub, the heart of a devil. I swear he's like the grinch. When he starts thinking of rascally things to do two of his blond curls curve upwards into horns. He is a minature version of Honeybear in every way. As of yet no specific hobby has presented for him. He does everything with no particular favorite-unless you count destruction.
He is particularly proud of his scar, a cresent that lays on its back. It runs across the bridge of his nose, an untimely accident caused by mopping. When asked who gave it to him his standard reply is "I won it" (shades of John Wayne movies he loves) And his favorite saying is "I'm a man" in as deep a voice as he can muster. He truly believes he resembles Pops, his granddad. He proudly proclaims to be a hillbilly.
These are my boys, they make life fun. Any requests for stories can easily be filled by these twos experiences I'm sure.