Atticus Finch

Heroes. The word conjures all sorts of ideas in peoples' heads, from Spider Man and Batman to firefighters and family pets. My hero has always been my grandfather. This may be partly due to the fact that he died just before I ate whatever it is that adolescents eat that make them go crazy, cynical, and good-for-nothing for about 10 years. Either way, my grandfather was and still is the Platonic Ideal . I knew there was a bullet-proof cape under those pinstriped farmer's overalls, and that his Red Man chewing tobacco had magical properties. He could read the minds of strangers and kin alike, still raging Texas thunderstorms, calm the most horrible of my grandmother's tirades, get any tractor unstuck from mud with his bare hands, and could harvest more hay in one afternoon than all the other neighbors put together. In short, my grandfather had only enough flaws to keep him balanced securely between man and Titan. This is the way it's always been, and this is the way it is to this day. So how is a fictional character created by a cantankerous Southern recluse stepping into the same light as grandpa? Simple. Atticus Finch and my grandpa are juxtapositions and cross references of one another. Shades and compliments. Sunrises and sunsets meeting in a blazing midday light and heat. There's more...