Wrinkly Bits
A Blog by Gail Cushman
Burning Daylight
My dad used to say this phrase to my brothers and me every Saturday, as he double-timed it up the stairs and ripped the pillows from under our heads. It was Saturday, his synonym for a workday. Of course, it would be a workday. My dad had never heard of a rest day, except Sunday morning, when he would shuffle us off to church, and after lunch, we would continue with whatever we had left undone the day before. I would change out of my Sunday best and into my work clothes, ready for whatever he had in mind.
My older brother was smarter than I was and applied for and got a job at the local Western Auto store at age fourteen and would head off to work. I, not so smart and only eleven years old, not yet of working age, was left to join into whatever jobs Dad had thought of for that morning. My younger brother, who was about eight, either volunteered to do errands, like post office or grocery, or claimed to have Cub Scout activities that couldn’t wait. He would leave on his bike and a few hours later, return, usually with some form of sugar smeared on his face and hoping all the Dad-Jobs were finished.
My dad called this instilling a work ethic, and since I didn’t know anything different, I didn’t complain and learned a lot about fixing, building, moving, and tearing down things. I could use a screwdriver, hammer, wrench, and pliers with the best of them, and miter saws were in my Saturday vocabulary. He didn’t let me use the bandsaw, but that was okay by me, because I learned quickly that I liked knitting which required a cherished bond with all of my fingers. He enjoyed moving things around, like piles of bricks or reorganizing lawn tools, and I enjoyed it so much that even today, I don’t seem to mind moving household items from one cupboard to another, hoping to find the best spot. Wisely, I taught my grandchildren about the joy of moving things, and they have moved my wood pile several times. It’s the work ethic, you understand.
I came to accept the Saturday morning Dad-Jobs, but finally got over them. And then I met Cowboy Bob, who seems to be ingrained with the same work habits as my dad, except he doesn’t limit his workday to Saturday mornings, rather every day of the week he can be found with a list of “to-dos.” Today, for example, since most of my boxes from my move are unpacked, he is helping a friend sand a very large boat. This will be day three or four on the sanding job, and when he returns home, he will say, “What a great day! Look what we got done.” I’ll look around see nothing more than the contents of a few cupboards shifted from when he left, and I’ll have to humbly admit to doing nothing, except drinking coffee and writing a blog, which hardly holds a candle to his boat-sanding gig.
I think having a solid work ethic is a good thing, and I wonder if the stories I hear about some of today’s youth spending Saturdays with a black electronic device in their hands, never learning the pleasures of taking something apart, building, fixing, and yes, moving things, are true. Thanks to my dad, my own work ethic remains intact, and even today, I feel good about the work I do. Even moving things.
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