George Willard Lansberry

Father:
My father was almost six feet tall, large-boned, stocky, and walked with a proud shoulder thrown back stride that lent him an imposing demeanor. His solid, not quite jutting jaw gave him a perpetual scowl, making him look perpetually angry. Which wasn't true at all, he wasn't perpetually angry, just damn near. His bright blue eyes were small, intense, and expressive, communicating his every thought transparently. A specific that, when he was angry, enhanced his scowling appearance and made him seem even more intimidating. Dad compared favorably to a Sherman tank; physically powerful with an ability to inspire fear.

Hard at work, hard at play, he threw himself into whatever he did. He was a dependable man, demanding, a man of his word. If my father said he'd do a thing, then it was as good as done, and if you told him you were going to do something, you better damn well do it if you wanted his respect.

If a co-worker begged a ride to work Dad would tell the man the time he'd drive by his house. If the guy wasn't outside, ready and waiting, Dad wouldn't even slow down. Later, at work, when the guy would complain Dad had promised him a ride, Dad would shrug and grunt, ``I was there. You weren't. I'll drive by again in the morning. If you're outside, I'll pick you up.'' My father wasn't unfriendly, but he was terse, to the point, and unyielding. There are times I wish I owned such impenetrable armor.

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