It didn’t matter what time we got up, really, for Daddy was always up earlier. His bear frame and grizzly mustache would be found in his chair by the big window, watching the sunrise, and his even grizzlier voice would crawl deeply out of the den in a quiet, “Well, good mornin’ pumkin'”. Kissing his cheek, I took his hand and sat on the edge of his chair, watching the wall of dark pines in the east, just across the road. At first, there was blackness, then a milky, fire glow grew in the fringe of trees. This seat on the arm of his chair was mostly occupied when he was home, and his left hand occupied too. Holding his hand is a study. There are so many callouses, nicks and scrapes that his hands change stories almost every day.