By that I mean physical labor.
My wife likes a certain consignment sale and when one works the consignment sale, one gets a discount at said consignment sale...so you know who works the consignment sale.
Doing physical labor.
I delight you with this domestic banality to inform you that I really respect my father.
I packed up various clothing racks and what-not and loaded all the what-not onto a truck.
For a mere 4 hours.
My Dad did physical labor for 40+ YEARS.
The heaviest what-not I loaded yesterday was maybe a colossal 40lbs.
My father could load 250lbs of carpet off a van and into a house and up a flight of stairs by himself.
All day long.
A tough son-of-a-bitch was my old man.
I know this because I worked with my father right after high school and during undergrad.
From my first day of work with him I thought something was wrong with him; he ran around like a Tasmanian devil with a hook knife as if there was some sort of carpet emergency.
What my father knew was that time is money.
So he worked hard and quickly. Finish one job so you can get to the next.
Even if the next job was on a saturday or a sunday or a holiday.
Work.
But here's the thing. With 6 kids and all of them involved in sports, I can't remember my father missing a game or an event.
As I lament labor on a sunday afternoon I have to laugh at myself and how soft I am. My father would start a job at 8 in the morning, break to attend a game, go back and finish the job, then be willing to play catch as long as you wanted.
I whine about organizing for cryin' out loud.
So raise your hook knives and clink your straight edges, this one's for you Dad.
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