As the morning rose and the moon slid away, we were the early birds of the household. Coffee for him was needed and so I would tag along. Nothing more then a “So how did you sleep” or a “what are you going to do today” was spoken in the truck.

How he spoke to me was never really the same. I would get the stressed out tone, the worrying tone, or even when I was in luck, the happy tone. Sometimes the tone was rough and others it was quiet and soft. When he was upset with me, I got the rough, angry tone. That one, when I was younger scared me enough that I wouldn’t misbehave as much as possible.

My father’s voice. A French accent to everything he says, except when he talks to someone that is English, and then it changes to the accent of people from downstate. He will sing stupid songs he hears, but can never get the full lyrics. He adds in words in French I have never herd in my life. He will carry a conversation with me in total French, me, taking in everything he says, all the words of wisdom and common sense.



When I help him around the farm, he talks to me in that happy tone, knowing that what I did teaches me the great value of hard work. Whatever he tells me to do, I do it right away so not to displease him. I always do as I’m told when I’m told, because I look up to him and best of all I respect him.

My father’s voice hollers to me at any time of the day. It will be “what are you doing?” or “It’s time to eat!” Nothing can compare my father’s voice to someone elses. Its one of those that I’ll never forget, like a memory from your childhood that never leaves.