This I Believe

I will labor on, following the example of my daddy. This I know. I believe in the power of work, though this has not always been the case. When I was young, I wondered why my daddy would work long hours building houses, then come home and work longer hours still on the farm. Now I know that it was not merely a matter of money since I have long come to know that money does not motivate this man as it does not motivate me.

Back then, of course, I was not always so enlightened. How resentful I felt at having to spend every Fourth of July wearing blisters on my hands from a short-handled hoe in the tobacco patch while the subtle whiff of smoke from some neighbor’s grill tempted me! And what about those Thanksgivings spent alone in the cold barn tying up perfect little hands of the leaf so I could earn extra money for Christmas? But memory is a tricky business. In truth, I probably only spent one or two July Fourths hoeing and the one time I worked alone on Thanksgiving day it was in the warm and cozy garage of my uncle. When it was time for the traditional feast, I promptly quit my task and walked a few hundred feet to my aunt’s and uncle’s where I joined the rest of the family. Exaggeration, however, makes for a better story.

Exaggeration aside, it is true that I spent most of my young summers working outdoors with my daddy in the fields, either in the tobacco or in the hay fields. Often, I was relegated to driving the tractor as the older ones loaded the wagon. Occasionally, I would heft the bails myself.

We did not take summer vacations like most other families, though maybe once a summer we might take a short weekend day trip to a local attraction. I did not feel cheated. I did not really question the way we lived, except for the occasional normal resentment about my having to work so much, unlike others my age who seemed to be lollygagging around.

Now my daddy, who is eighty years old, has as his nightly chore the major ordeal of getting my mother into bed. Parkinson’s Disease has decreased her mobility; dementia has made her combative and abusive. I help him with this onerous task when I can, but it is not often enough, I admit. On these nights when I do help, after the struggle when there is calm and peace, he and I often step outdoors under the starlit sky. I nearly always ask, “Daddy, how many more times can you do this?” He gives his characteristic grin. “Why, a whole bunch more, I reckon.”

Every night when I pull away in the darkness, I know my daddy’s strength and renew my resolve to follow his example. In work, there is strength and hope and the future. There is indeed pleasure in work that defies understanding. My daddy has taught me this.