Our faith. Our family. Our mortgage. Or, little holes in our heels that keep us secured to various Star Wars action figure playsets. The figures I grew up playing with had them, and any official playset had pegs.
It helped the stiff-legged rebels and bounty hunters stand up straight.
My kids know this about me. It’s said about many dads, really. But, it’s more than just making fart noises (with your mouth) and misbehaving in church. It’s holding fast to some of the things that connect us to our actual childhoods. Much of this is intangible.
Some of it is tangible.
My new friend Bacon Thompson, who puts a split hove to the blog Pig Love, asked followers to share their favorite toys from childhood. My (I won’t call her old) friend Michele from Old Dog, New Tits (I said it) asked for a post with a number in the title.
My friend – let’s call him, Stewie –loved comic books.
I wasn’t a fan. All the Superman stuff seemed like kid play. As a kindergartner, I was all about Spiderman. By middle school, I’d moved on to bigger things: the NFL, Star Wars, and girls, if there wasn’t a football or any Star Wars figures around.
Anyway, Stewie loved comic books.
After school, Stewie treated me to a Slurpee at 7-11 while he shopped for comics. I picked the biggest cup available to mankind and filled ‘er up. But what should have been a stellar day of cold refreshing food coloring suddenly became an episode of Cops.
Stewie emerged from the comic book aisle, his red windbreaker tucked tightly in the front of his Rustler jeans, to conceal – I’m estimating here – about 752 comic books stashed against his chest.