I pulled into a grocery store. Round and round I went, looking for a parking spot. Many an empty spot, but for shopping carts, just left where they’re left. I see a man, too old for what he’s doing, gathering a train of carts and bringing them back into the store. Younger employees come out, to ask questions, and I put 2 ‘n 2 together, that this man is a manager, and he’s out here doing what young men should be doing, except America is running short on what we always had plenty of…
He’s paid his dues, worked his way up, got a mortgage and a family, maybe it’s too late to make a career move, so here he is…doing what has to be done, and the question hangs in the air…where’s his good help?
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Thank God I Was Born When I Was Born
Maybe every generation feels like that… the world you’re born into, it sets your gauges for Normal, and America is Normal, stays that way, until one day, Hey, where did Normal go, and look at what replaced it… something Less that becomes Way Less, and descends into Even Less Than That, and the older you get the more you feel like you’re a variation on Last Of The Mohicans, and when you’re gone, nobody will believe America was ever like this…
I am one eyewitness…and here is what I saw, and this, I emphasize, was common and standard. This was an actual America, not long ago…
…you were expected to start at the bottom, just like the boss had. You did not ask how much the job paid; you asked for a chance to prove your worth. If you showed up for work on time you were late. If you were on the clock and not working, you were stealing. You weren’t just working for your paycheck; you were working for pride, for self respect, for the reputation of your name and family.
There was a label, Hard Worker, and everybody wanted it. There were families out there, one generation piled on top of another, and they were the warriors of hard work. When the family name was said, there was a pause, and people would shake their head, remembering 140 pounders who could outwork a Clydesdale, men with hand callous like old dog feet, and a grip so strong that handlers whispered “vice” in the ear of glad handing politicians.
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There Wasn’t Applause Back Then
I was telling a 20 year old, if you just did the basics from when I’m a kid, show up, do your work, use some back, use some brain, give a little more than you’re paid for, you’ll be a Superstar employee! Back then, you’d just be one of the guys.
When I was a kid, I’d jump the moon just to get a nod of acknowledgement from the adult men, which is a good thing, because there wasn’t a lot of rah-rah going on. You’re alive, you work. You don’t get a trophy for that.
The game was to watch an old hand doing something and try to pick out the 1-2-3 of the task without ever being taught; you’d anticipate what he’d need when he got to step 3, and there it was, a wrench, the right size, in your hand, and maybe it’d get you a head nod, and there’d be one less grownup man making jokes about whether you could cut it or not.
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ISIS Got Me Thinking About Immigrants
Back last year, we Americans do as we do, and get all focused on something, like it’s the It of All Time, and then fizz, on to the next thing. Last year, for a few weeks, it was Immigrants.
Close the borders, close the harbors. We don’t want ISIS here. And no, we don’t. But we do want fresh people.
Those of us who were here for Hurricane Rita, roof damage everywhere, blue tarp roofs as far as eye could see, and here came the cavalry, the Mexicans.
Anybody not impressed? Remember the sound of nail guns and hammers? Remember watching some little five foot beaner, up and down the ladder carrying bundles of shingles that weighed half his body weight, up, down, up, down, all day long? Man up and confess, like I did, that you were looking at a Real Working Man. It was a measuring moment, and most us had to tip the cap, and say Respect, on behalf of Americans-gone-before, Respect.
We do want fresh people. No: we absolutely need fresh people! We do! It’s a damn shame, but it’s true. I’m not sure how we got here, but the drop off from my grandfather’s generation to the new crop is astonishing. It’s Fall of Rome kind of stuff.
America has quit growing the exact kind of citizens that grew America in the first place.
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You wanna know what stands out from my childhood? I got gifts, we went on vacations, but I barely remember the details of the good ‘n easy. What I remember – and treasure – are the tests. One of them was cutting grass.
Country people don’t measure land in “lots”. We count acres. Our home place, where I cut the grass was two acres. Thick St. Augustine. A little rain, grows higher, gets thicker, it’s a fight.
Riding lawnmowers were for people with more money than sense and people who’d gone soft. Us, we push. You yank on a cord, and then you push, keep pushing. I was about an 80 pounder when Dad decreed me qualified for the job. We went to the hardware store in Elton where they sold Lawn-Boys. I’ll never forget this…
…Dad is deciding between a 19” cut and a 21” cut. The difference is ten or fifteen bucks. You know, don’t you, which way he went?
I’d get off the school bus, eat a snack, gas up, yank that cord, and push, push, push. The whole time, stuck in my head, Those Two Inches, because Dad was a tightwad.
Two acres, 19 inches at a time. Start on Monday, finish Friday night, start again on Monday… too young to cuss, but might’ve, if I’d known the words.
And now…thank you Daddy! He was kind enough to let me play, but wise enough to make me work. I’ve got a college degree, but it comes in distant second to the value of doing menial labor in my childhood.
I brought it up to him, as children do, when he was in his 60’s. “Those two inches!” I told him. That’s when he told me about mowing his mother’s yard with a hoe: six inches at a time.
Don’t let your babies grow up and not know work. It’ll mark ‘em, it’ll make ‘em, and it’ll matter long after you’re gone.
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The manager of the grocery store had made two trains of shopping carts. He was pushing one of them back into the store. Nobody else was out there, to either applaud me or think me touched; I grabbed the other one and… pushed…
Daddy, Uncle Daniel, Paw Paw, just so you know, I was paying attention, and it ain’t all gone to nothing.
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This edition of Uncle P’s Bedtime Stories is brought to you by Eighty-one, where we think God made us to work, and He must have His good, fine reasons. Uncle P can be reached at 81creativity@gmail.com.
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