Chief Block Hauler and Mortar Mixer

On Friday night as I cleared the supper dishes from the table, Daddy said, “When you’re finished in the kitchen, I need to talk to you.” I wondered if I was in trouble. I stacked the last dish on the counter and followed him into the den. He faced me and said with a business-like tone of voice that he had a job to offer me. He wanted to hire me as his helper for a weekend project. He would pay me $25 at the end of the job if I did good work. Would I accept the position?

I was nine. And a girl.

My little nine-year-old girl heart swelled with importance. A job! My first job! TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS! A fortune.

The weekend project was to build a concrete masonry block office inside a large metal building. I don’t know how Daddy learned to do this type of work. His regular job was electrical maintenance at a large chemical plant. But my dad can do anything.

Mama packed us a lunch early Saturday morning and we drove to the work site.

“What am I going to do, Daddy?” I asked eagerly.

“You’re going to be the Block Hauler and the Mortar Mixer,” he replied. “I’ll show you exactly what to do.” As we got out of his pick up truck, he handed me a new pair of gray leather gloves with blue and red striped canvas cuffs. “Here,” he said, “You’ll need these.” The adult sized gloves swallowed my little hands, but I put them on proudly.

“Look, Daddy,” I waved my hands at him and smiled. “I’m a real worker.” I hadn’t yet spied the stacks of 16” concrete blocks.

“Yes, you are!” He smiled back at me confidently. “And it’s time for us to get after it.”

“I’m going to start in this corner,” he said. “You bring the blocks to this spot, so when I need one, there will always be at least one block right behind me.”

Throughout the next two days, I lugged each twenty-pound block, one at a time, to a spot near him as he spread mortar and lay the blocks along a run to meet the leveling string. I watched the walls get higher and higher. About every two hours, Daddy poured another heavy bag of cement into a mixing trough while I hauled buckets of water to add to the dry concrete. He taught me to use a long garden hoe to mix it until it was “about like pudding.”

It was August in South Texas with no air conditioning. I was only a little girl. I could have been playing jacks with my next-door neighbor, Debbie. I wanted to tell my dad, “I can’t! It’s too hard!” Even my fingertips ached.

I wanted to quit.

A Culture of Quitters

At a young age we become experts at justifying our reasons for quitting. But we must be honest:  sometimes it’s just hard to keep going. Sometimes it’s not fun. There is a part of us that wants, all the time, ease and amusement.

In a recent Time Magazine essay, Andres Martinez lamented the pervasive lack of discipline in our nation. “Americans, in short, have forgotten how to do the hard stuff,” he said. (Volume 175, No. 11, March 2010, p. 42)

Malcolm Gladwell, author of Outliers, examines persistence as an indicator of success in reaching a goal, stating that we must persevere through about ten thousand hours of concentrated work in a field before we can master it. He referenced a study measuring cultural persistence in mathematics. He found that Japanese children continued working on solving math problems about 40 percent longer than American children. In our culture, quitting is an attractive and popular option.

Persistence Has a Reward

By Sunday evening the office was completed, and we drove home. Before I went to bed that night, Daddy gave me $30. “You did a very good job;  you earned it,” he said, as he placed the bills in my palm.

I had earned it. The demand of being Block Hauler and Mortar Mixer pushed me to my physical limit, but my dad's confidence and trust in my capability to stick with it made me keep going that weekend. Though a nine-year-old doesn’t have a highly developed consciousness of “defining moments,” I was hyper-aware that my father was proud of me for each block I carried, proud that I did not quit even when the work was very hard.

It was an experience that shaped my approach to work, problem solving, goal-reaching, and even endurance of pain.

Daddy remembers that weekend with feelings of guilt, he says, because he made me work so hard. But I don’t know. I’m wondering if he should resurrect the position and create a Concrete Block Boot Camp for Kids. 

Not only would we see some solid walls, but solid character, too.

Good News/Bad News

THE GOOD NEWS:  I can see.

THE BAD NEWS:  I have to wear glasses in order to differentiate anything smaller than sky or ground.

THE GOOD NEWS:  Husband said I could pay for Lasik surgery if screening showed I was a candidate.

THE BAD NEWS:  Insurance covers nothing; it’s all out-of-pocket.

THE GOOD NEWS:  I am a candidate!

THE BAD NEWS:  Because I have both near- and far-sightedness, even after I have Lasik I will still have to wear reading glasses.

THE GOOD NEWS:  At age 55, I am old enough that once they do the surgery, my eyesight probably would not significantly change (like it does in your 40s) until I get old. I mean, older.

THE BAD NEWS:  I also have cataracts forming in both eyes.

THE GOOD NEWS:  I have cataracts! Insurance will pay for vision correction for cataracts!

MORE GOOD NEWS:  The Lasik surgery center has a set of multi-focal (bi-focal) lenses that were provided by the supplier. I would not have to pay for the lenses, only the procedure.

MORE GOOD NEWS:  This type of lens would free me up from glasses altogether, and also free me from the threat of cataracts ever impairing my vision.

THE BAD NEWS:  The supplier’s requirements are that the patient must have the surgery to implant these lenses in March and/or April.

THE GOOD NEWS:  It’s March, and not yet April!

THE BAD NEWS:  My cataracts are not large enough yet to merit coverage by insurance.

THE GOOD NEWS:  However, I could still do the replacement surgery without having to pay for the lenses if I do it in March and April. That’s a significant savings.

THE BAD NEWS:  But I’m going on a cruise with my dad in April.

WHAT?? YOU CALL THAT BAD NEWS?

THE GOOD NEWS:  I’m going on a cruise with my dad in April!

THE BAD NEWS:  They would only do one eye before I leave for the cruise.

THE GOOD NEWS:  They would do the other eye when I return at the end of April.

THE BAD NEWS:  I would have problems with depth perception so I’d be more prone to clumsiness. I  do not want to look clumsy on my first cruise. I don't want to BE clumsy -- I could fall overboard. I decide to opt out.

THE GOOD NEWS:  My cataracts might grow fast, then insurance benefits could help me get rid of these eyeglasses.

MORE GOOD NEWS:  For now, I can see great with my current eyeglasses.

AND MORE GOOD NEWS:  I’m going on a cruise with my dad in April. Me and my prescription sunglasses.

Six Months to Live

The executive director of a non-profit organization called me with a proposition:  would I consider helping them rework their training program? And then teach it?

My mind whirled. I would love to do this! It would allow me to do a lot of the things I enjoy: teaching adults; formulating the program; and sharing my personal experiences from the field. I could stay connected to the professionals in the Juvenile Justice system and make a wholesale difference in the lives of children . . . .

“Sure!” I replied. “I would consider it. Let’s talk.” In the pleasant office of the executive director, we discussed training expectations, time frames, and compensation.

At home, I pulled up my iCalendar and inserted an orange event entry for each of the possible training sessions spanning 2010.  I felt a sense of dread and claustrophobia just looking at all those orange evenings and Saturdays, and I hadn’t even accepted the position yet. I decided to decline.

But the following week the director called again; the Board had considered my reservations and decreased the time commitment by about a third, and they would still pay me the original amount. “With these concessions,” she asked, “will you reconsider your decision?”

My mental wrangling began afresh. In the days that followed, I would convince myself to do it by envisioning the many potential positive results and intrinsic rewards. Then I would talk myself out of it by looking at the calendar. Even though it was doable, the reduced training schedule was still intensive.

But it was intriguing and new, and I decided to accept for a one-year term. I figured even if I grew to dislike it, I could tough it out for a year. I went to bed and planned to call the director the following morning.

I tossed and turned during the night, for even though I had made the decision, I still felt unsettled. Then I remembered a question I’d heard years before:

If you had only six month to live, what would you do?

Nothing like impending death to help you focus on what’s important. The question gave me clarity: If I had only six months to live, I would not do the training. I called the director, thanked her and the Board for their consideration, and said, “No.”

A myriad of worthwhile opportunities can claim our time, energy, and resources. Furthermore, when we do everything “as unto the Lord,” we may fulfill a position successfully and even exceptionally. But we’ve heard the adage, “The ‘good’ is the enemy of the ‘best.’”

It is important to examine each endeavor to discover whether it is the best match for our unique and individual gifts, the best choice to bring the highest honor to God, the best way to bring the greatest satisfaction and blessing to others and ourselves.

In reality, we don’t know how long we may live.  The “six months” question is just a nudge to remind us to make the most of the time we’ve been given. It is a clarifier to help us define what is most valuable to us.

I am certain that the non-profit organization will find a trainer who will be dedicated and excited about their very worthwhile cause. But if I learn that I do indeed have only six months to live, I am happy about my choice.

Moments in Marriage: The Whole Package

The text message came from my sister, Karen, at 10:03 PM on a Saturday night. “Big ring. Lots of bling,” I read. And then, “I said yes.”

When my sister and her fiancé recounted the details of the proposal over supper the next night, Dana seemed as nervous and excited as a . . . as a . . . as a man in love who wants everything to go perfectly for the love of his life. He was worried about their seating placement in the restaurant. “Oh man, this isn’t going to work,” he thought, seeing a table of loud and obnoxious partying women seated next to them. He was relieved when the women finished their meal and left. “Oh great, I keep getting phone calls and she’s going to suspect something,” he fretted, as each of Karen’s kids called to “check in,” since they were in on the Dana’s plan. “So when is the best time in the conversation to ask her?” he wondered as the meal and evening progressed.

But it all went wonderfully, and Dana, our long time family friend, asked my sister to marry him. They are planning their wedding for the Fall.

It is fascinating to us all, each time it happens:  this meeting, befriending, attraction, and pairing of two individuals busy living their separate lives. Each couple you meet can chronicle the events of their beginnings, and their stories may include emotions, circumstances, situations, glances, words, touches, or gifts. And though I say, “may include,” I think we each actually expect our own story to include it all. No matter our age: whether we are seventeen or forty-seven or seventy, we want the whole package.

We don’t want merely a friend; we want a companion, and not merely a companion, but a lover, and not merely a lover, but a soul mate.  

The unexpected treasure is that when we find the person that gives us all we “want” -- friendship, companionship, romance, and an equal soul -- then we discover that actually our desire is for their highest good, their greatest happiness.

Such is true love.

And may it ever be yours, my dear and only sister.

Nursing Home for Dogs: A New Toy

Everyone needs a little something  to spice up their lives, right? No matter how old a dog you are?

I don't know where it came from, but a toy turtle showed up in our front yard after the snow melted.

Maybe a closer look, um, taste, is in order?

Buster Black might be interested, too.

Nah, Buster Brown isn't in the mood to share.

I will let you play with it after I've punctured the annoying squeaky box with my sharp teeth.

Old dogs like to have fun, too.

Digging Your Head Through

My dad leads the way on our evening walk down one of the dirt roads of the ranch. Close behind him are my granddaughters, three-year-old Kate and two-year-old Allie, then me. Daddy holds the machete, in case we run into the “Mud Monster,” the legendary beast that lives in an ancient and run-down deer blind. As we round a bend in the road and the weathered plywood blind comes into view, Daddy suddenly stops and leans down, placing a protective hand on Kate’s shoulder. Squinting toward the ramshackle, deteriorated structure that is about the size of an outhouse, he whispers, “Be very quiet! We don’t want to wake up the Mud Monster!”  Daddy draws out the words, so that you can almost hear the symphonic baritone and trombone play ominously -- dumm-da-DUM-dum -- as he says mysteriously, “Muuud Monnngster!” She looks up at him, her face full of questions and fear, then with wide eyes looks down the path.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, “Grandpa will take care of us.” (And those words are the subject of another blog entirely.)

For now, I reassure Kate, wondering if she will have nightmares tonight. But I can’t resist the mischief, and I play along with Daddy. “You just have to be really quiet so he won’t see us.”

As we approach the Mud Monster’s home, I can see her shoulders shrink and tremble, yet she forges on quietly and carefully, glancing often at my dad to make sure he’s in control of the situation. She looks anxiously from behind his leg into the Mud Monster’s home:  but he’s not there. Daddy shrugs and says cheerfully, “Well, I guess he’s out somewhere in the brush, looking for his supper.” Kate is happily relieved, but still cautious about staying too long at his doorway. 

We move on down the dirt road, but now she is all excitement and talk, something about “scary adventures” and wondering if the Mud Monster is nice or mean, telling her sister Allie that she needs to be careful if she ever sees him.

Daddy and I see a well-traveled game trail that winds its way through the brush and trees. We veer off the road and onto what we call “the pig trail.”

At first I lead, trying to hold the lowest limbs of the brush back so Kate can get through. Allie is unable to step on or over the tough huisache and shrub sage, so I carry her on my hip, trying to shelter her from the head-high brush and thorns that block our way.

As it becomes denser, Daddy takes the lead and hacks through with the machete. Kate follows behind him, still talking.  Daddy teaches her to step on some of the twigs and follow the trail “elbow first” in order to shield her face. She is still talking non-stop, repeating what Daddy has told her, wondering where the pigs are since we’re on the pig trail, telling us that her baby sister Emma Jo could never get through this scary adventure, and occasionally asking Daddy, “Do you see the Mud Monster, Grandpa?”

She has become confident and adept at wending her way through the thicket. In one particularly dense patch, she lowers her head, sticks both elbows out in front of her and says, “Sometimes you just have to dig your head through, see, like this,” and presses past the snagging branches and scratchy shrubs, explaining to Allie that when she gets big she can do this.

I needed Kate’s advice as soon as I returned from my vacation. My schedule and obligations appeared as a dense thicket with obstacles and challenges in every direction. Fulfilling my responsibilities prevented me from blogging, reading, or paying attention to my dogs.

But that’s simply how life is.

Sometimes we just have to grow up, dig our heads through, and keep moving forward. Mud Monsters notwithstanding.

Romans 12:11 (Be) not slothful in business; be fervent in spirit.

A Health Tip I Can Use

I was browsing through the February issue of my dad’s subscription to “Good Housekeeping.” Since my mom died three years ago, Daddy has been interested in good housekeeping, I guess. He also subscribes to “Cook’s Illustrated,” and says he enjoys trying new recipes.  

But back to the February 2010 issue. A one-page article caught my eye. It listed health tips for reducing risk of heart disease. At the top of the page was the statement, “Drinking three eight-ounce glasses of cranberry juice per day reduces risk of heart disease by 40%.”

I read the other items on the page. None of them came even close to that level of effectiveness. Not even regular exercise.

Since footnotes weren’t included in the article, and I wasn’t certain I could trust the editor of Good Housekeeping, I ran an Internet search that led me to a health study that was probably the source used by the GH staff writer.

The study showed that after participants drank three glasses of cranberry juice per day for a month, they experienced physical improvements that corresponded to a forty percent risk reduction for heart disease.

I continued my Internet research. The cranberry juice should be 27-30% actual cranberry juice, such as is common in the cranberry juice cocktail in the juice aisle at the grocery story. Or you can purchase 100% cranberry juice (usually around $6 a quart in my local grocery stores), and dilute two ounces of it with six ounces of water or apple juice.

For a whopping 40% risk reduction, I’m totally in. Drinking three cups of cranberry juice is so much easier than abstaining from chips and onion dip. And I’ve already listed my Bowflex on Ebay.

Used in this post:  American Chemical Society (2003, March 26). Study Provides New Evidence That Cranberry Juice May Help Fight Heart Disease. ScienceDaily.