Discussing with my wife, Dixie, how I might best introduce my blog that covers two seemingly unrelated stories spanning 35 years and nearly 2000 miles, she said, "Your stories are essentially about people using the tools at hand to accomplish apparently impossible results. Your Dad's shovel has been the point of beginning for so many of the stories that you've told me about your life. Why not introduce your blog with a picture of it?" I knew right away she was right.
Dad's shovel was also a perfect link to the blog story I wrote one year ago titled "A Son's Tribute to his Father." In that story, I included a picture of Dad on his horse, lariat unfurled overhead, as a Colorado ranch hand, circa 1915-18, probably about the time Dad acquired "the shovel."
Dad's shovel sits unused in our 3rd-floor apartment, a decorative reminder of days past. It commands a special place in our living room. It is old, probably a century or more, its hasp broken and re-welded, and it's worn at least two inches off its once-pointed blade. Most importantly, its steel surface shone, polished by years of hard work and constant care. Dad's tools were always cleaned and stored in a designated place, ready for use, from hand tools to complex farm machinery. He considered that to be his "responsibility." Others were welcome to use the tools, but woe to any user who replaced them dirty or incorrectly.
Dad's shovel is my constant reminder of the conversation we had some 80 years ago (I was 6) in 1942. Dad came home for a day or two from his carpentry job constructing barracks on Midwest military bases. He brought a present for me in a large flat box, and I was beside myself with anticipation as I opened it. It was a magnificent "Farm and Ranch Wagon," complete with removable sideboards, dual rear tires, and ball-bearing axles. It was my first "tool," my first farm implement.
As we assembled the wagon, he talked with me about "responsibility," a conversation I still cherish. We talked about how I would use my wagon. Of course, I wanted to enjoy it to the fullest, but it was much more. Our house was perched on the brow of the hill, overlooking the farmstead. Our sole source of household cooking and drinking water was the well, powered by hand or, if there was a breeze, by the windmill. The well was 300 yards downhill from the house, near the barn and stock corral. Since my mother and I were the only family members at home, it became my responsibility to get the water. It was great fun coasting down the hill to the well. I drew the water, loaded the covered cans onto the wagon, and pulled it back up the hill to the house. It was hard work pulling the wagon back up the hill with the water.
We talked about "responsibility" for the care and storage of my wagon. We picked out a spot under Dad's workbench in the garage next to our Model A Ford. It was to be carefully parked in its designated spot every night and after every use, especially if we expected rain or snow. I had to wipe it dry if it got wet and clean it if it got muddy before parking it for the night. There were no exceptions.
Finally, our conversation extended beyond my new wagon to my "responsibility" in its broadest sense. My Dad taught me how I must accept responsibility no matter how difficult it was or seemed to be. He told me, with eyes glistening, that my mother would sometimes burst into tears, and I needed not to ask why but to hug her tight and say it would be all right. (My soldier brother was far away somewhere in the islands of the South Pacific, and she was frightened for his safety. He came home in 1946 and lived to the age of 94.) Lastly, Dad told me my job was to pay close attention to what was happening around me and listen to what people said. My job was to learn.
I would start the 2nd grade in the fall at a different school. My father said it would be hard to go to another school, and it would be a longer walk, a half-mile uphill along country roads, sometimes muddy, sometimes choked with snow. I would go to the same 1-room schoolhouse my father attended some 40 years before. It had a potbelly stove, a water well and pump, and two outdoor outhouses. But it was my job to learn and not complain. He was right. The slog up the muddy road to school was tough. But my grade card (Mother saved all 12 years as mothers do) indicated I rarely missed a day. The habit of walking is still with me, and today I walk a couple of miles or more each day on paved, tree-lined sidewalks throughout our downtown for my health and enjoyment.
We were just plain folks using creativity and makeshift tools to accomplish seemingly impossible tasks, no different than millions of people worldwide from different cultures doing the same every day. Out of the ordinary can come extraordinary things. A sense of responsibility, an ethic of hard work, a willingness to learn, and a belief that we can find an answer are tools I picked up early in life. And I put them in my toolbox and used them to forge my life.
Each of us has a personal toolbox filled with the tools to live a happy and productive life. They include our ethics, beliefs, connections to the world around us, skills, intellect, etc. Perhaps my story may inspire you to pull out your tools, dry them if they are wet, clean them if they are muddy, sharpen them if they are dull, and use them to great effect.
So, I ask you, what's in your toolbox? I'll show you mine. Maybe we can borrow each other's tools and teach each other how to use them. Just remember woe to any user who replaces them dirty or incorrectly.
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Join us next week for Chapter 2 of this month's series - A Toolbox for Life - Kid Power
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