My Papa Would Be Proud

I've had my share of quality "Army Wife" moments here lately. Not "Army Wife" like the TV show... I don't know too many girls like those chics...

And not those BIG events either... like broken down cars and flat tires and over-flowing toilets... there's still plenty of time for those.

No, I mean moments when I realize that God intended there to be man in the house. To kill bugs and open jars. And wrestle with 10 year-old boys. And change washer washers.

When we moved (changed houses), my parents were here to help, thankfully. As my dad was re-connecting the washer and dryer, he mentioned that the little rubber ring thingys looked worn and may need to be replaced. Well, he was right.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I noticed a steady stream every time I ran the washer.

So, I took it upon myself to change those little thingys.

I turned off the water.



I loosened the hoses. (Thanks, Daddy, for not screwing them on too tight.)

I took out the old ones.


(Don't call me Wonder Woman just yet. I had to DIG those bad boys out with an old bent nail. I know you are impressed.)

I put in the new ones.



I re-connected the hoses.

I turned the water back on.

Bravo for me.

And here's where the gratitude comes in. Those handy dandy pliers? They belonged to my grandfather.



See his name etched into them?



He was a car mechanic by trade, and his tools obviously meant something to him. Either that, or he wanted to be able to prove it when some other dude stole them.

He was also a fireman. And an Army cavalryman.

And a great Papa.

He passed away when I was in high school, and I - somehow - ended up with these pliers. (I think my mom gave them to me in my trusty little "going-away-to-college toolkit.")

From him I also inherited my stubborn streak. Or at least that's who my mom blames.

I also inherited my love of the mountains and the beach.

And my love of Chick-Fil-A.

Thanks, Papa. I couldn't have done it without your pliers.