My dad is on the big oil rig in the sky now. Harris G Clarke, Jr. 11/14/33 to 7/4/09
Growing up, my dad was all Beech-Nut chewing tobacco and cuss words. He was tomato vines, red-clay top-soil and a hoe. He was sunburn and picking squash. My dad was the man who promised me that if you had curly hair that he would buy you an Icee from the Pack-A-Sack. I was the only one of his four sons with curly hair. My dad was shooting squirrels with a BB gun and dressing them for dinner. My dad was Pabst Blue Ribbon and fried fish. My dad was the smell of an oil rig and tall pine trees. My dad was cutting firewood on Sundays. He was a Baby Ruth and a Coca-Cola bought at a country store. My dad was the breath-taking fire from blowing a gas well at night. My dad was Dee Clarke.
