Empoword

Part One: Description, Narration, and Reflection 119 Model Texts by Student Authors Slowing Dow n 49 I remember a time when I was still oblivious to it. My brother, sister, and I would pile out of the car and race through the parking lot to the store, or up the driveway to the house, never so much as a glance backward. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but at some point I started to take notice, fall back, slow my pace, wait for him. My dad wasn’t always that slow. He didn’t always have to concentrate so hard to just put one foot in front of the other. Memory has a way of playing tricks on you, but I swear that I can remember him being tall, capable, and strong once. When I was real little he could put me on his shoulders and march me around: I have pictures to prove it. I also have fuzzy memories of family camping trips—him taking us to places like Yosemite, Death Valley, and the California coast. What I remember clearly, though, was him driving to and from work every day in that old flatbed truck with the arc welder strapped to the back, going to fix boilers, whatever those were. My dad owned his own business; I was always proud of that. I’d tell my friends that he was the boss. Of course, he was the sole employee, aside from my mom who did the books. I didn’t tell them that part. But he did eventually hire a guy named David. My mom said it was to “be his hands.” At the time I wasn’t sure what that meant but I knew that his hands certainly looked different than other people’s, all knotty. And he’d started to use that foam thing that he’d slip over his fork or toothbrush so he could grip it better. I supposed that maybe a new set of hands wasn’t a bad idea. When I was about 8, he and my mom made a couple of trips to San Francisco to see a special doctor. They said that he’d need several surgeries before they were through, but that they’d start on his knees. I pictured my dad as a robot, all of his joints fused together with nuts and bolts. I wondered if I’d have to oil him, like the tin man. It made me laugh to think about it: bionic dad. That wouldn’t be so bad; maybe I could take him to show and tell. To be honest, I was sometimes a little embarrassed by the way he looked when he came to pick me up at school or my friend’s house. He wore braces in his boots to help him walk, he always moved so slow, and his hands had all those knots that made them curl up like old grapevines. And then there was that dirty