My Dad, The Chameleon

My mom calls my dad the chameleon because he can blend in anywhere. He is at ease with the salt of the earth and silver spoons. When the county was building the highway by our house, many construction workers parked their RVs in our yard. My dad often cracked open a beer with them at the end of a long workday. When an everyday millionaire invited my parents to steak dinner, my dad graciously choked down a $300 glass of wine. It didn’t matter who you were, my dad saw you and made you feel included.