Viper
10-01-2008, 03:27 PM
"Dad's having two cords of wood delivered tomorrow, at 8am" my Mom said over the phone. The end of her sentence had a ping, a verbal cue which left the moment for me to reply, "Tell him I'll be there at 8am."
I wanted to ride today, but knew better as my Dad needed help. He's sixty-eight years old, retired, disabled US Marine Corps Veteran and in my opinion, he shouldn't have to lift his hand, but he loves to work every day. He does chores every day, building a garden, a new driveway, a new bathroom or some other task that most of us wouldn't know how to do, choose to do, or we'd pay someone else to do.
Dad needs the activity, the daily dose of hard work. Up early, oatmeal, denim jeans, work boots, chores; it's the Marine Corp without the bugle in the background. It's deep in his genes, work, afterall, he's the son of two Irish immigrants who came to America during the Great Depression.
According to Dad, his folks, well aware of what America was going through during the late 1930's, but still felt they were coming to a free circus as his Mom left County Mayo and his Dad left County Galway with nothing, but the hope of getting to the New Land. As for the Old Land, if you ever make to Ireland, head to the west coast, visit these two counties, Mayo and Galway and you'll have a true understanding of what these Irish folks are made of; Ireland is still Ireland in those counties and the people are some of the most resilient.
When I was in Dublin back in 2001, I met Irish folks and they'd ask me my name. I told them my first name and each time they said, "What?" Thinking the noise in the pub was too loud, I'd repeat my first name a fifth and sixth time...until I realized, it was my last name they wanted. I gave my last name and instantly the local would shake my hand and say, "That's a good name lad, now go to the west coast, get yourself home." My last name is of clan which took great pride in killing the English and although the fight is over, the Irish can still make a great fighter.
It's widely known that after the Irish had their own Great Depression in 1845, their Potato Famine, which killed one million and coined the phrase one million dead and one million fled...they fled to America. They came into America through three main ports, Boston, New York and New Orleans. When American had it's Civil War in 1861, Irish-Americans from the North fought the Irish from the South. That's a battle I'd rather not see, it must've been hell. I was perhaps the most successful wrestler in my school, for quite a while and the toughest matches I ever had were against some Irish kids, they were bloody and near violent.
My Dad has endured nine operations in his life, remnants of the Marine Corps. He was a teacher and owned a shop where he repaired cars for the town. He could fix anything and I learned a great deal from him. While he could afford to pay others to cut his lawn, wash his car, fix the chimney, repair the sink, he did it all by himself. The driveway we stand on is made of nearly ten thousand red bricks, we placed them there and I imagine the driveway will last another fifty years or so.
Men, firewood, shovels, wheel barrows and lemonade. Men being men. During the rise of women's equality, during their movement, I believe many men forgot how to be men. The nineties became a time of PC, everything became politically correct. My Dad is from a different generation of men who saved America, who used their hands and who appreciated the little things they could barely afford. My Dad tells me, "Growing up, we'd have a boiled egg for dinner. Yes and to make it very filling and tasty, we'd fill it with salt." Imagine that, I do, cause I hear about it all the time. "If my folks had money, we'd have liver, the organ people don't eat, eating liver was a real treat" he reminds me. Dad tells the same stories throughout the year, I enjoy them every time, especially the events of his childhood. He doesn't have much to say about his Father and I wonder about that, I keep meaning to ask my Dad why, but I suspect I already know.
Dad and I didn't speak for about half my childhood, it was for no other reason except this: we are identical, too much alike. You come to a point where you realize that it's not so bad being just like Dad, like him and he comes to a point where he's proud of you, even if you didn't become Commandant of the US Marine Corps and you begin speaking again, after years of silence.
"We've got to fix this country, before it's too late" he said while I stacked wood. "You see that tool in the barn? It's stamped 'W.P.A.', that shovel is from the 1930's, the Works Progress Act. Yup. Picked it up at a garage sale, the person selling it had no idea what W.P.A. meant. It was part of the New Deal, Roosevelt's plan to get men working again. While some executives jumped out of buildings during the Great Depression, others stood on the streets selling pencils and others grabbed tools to go build something, to work" he ended.
While we were in the barn, he showed me what has to be some type of IBM computer. I laughed as it resembled the first generation laptop. Dad picked that up at a garage sale years ago.
My heart didn't get the aerobic workout from the bike, but I managed a thorough sweat and must've completed a few thousand squats, lunges and arm curls. "A cord of wood is 4x4x8, or roughly 220 pieces" offered my Dad and we moved all of them with our hands. No gloves. No illegal immigrant workers to assist, just two Irishmen. During the stacking, the oil truck showed up and we chuckled, ninety gallons at $4.20 for the home. Yup, it's a lot easier to turn the thermostat up and burn the oil, but now more than ever, it's imperitive for men to get outside, cut their own lawns, fix their own cars, cut bills and do for themselves. Women can always join in, no doubt, but men need to rid themselves of the laziness, to be reminded of how their Dad's did it, how they provided and sweated, especially during tough times.
People fall down and when you do, it's the fear of failing that get's you up the fastest. Irish are stubborn, we hate losing, I am a sore loser and will never apologize for it. This economy is falling down, I don't care. It might knock me over, losing bonuses, commissions, income, maybe even employment. I don't care. I have two hands and the memory that I could not lose as a wrestler and why? I could not allow my defeat within the eyes of my Father. I hated him for years, but I wanted him to see achievement, success. America needs a New Deal, not a bailout, but a new roads, bridges, railways, ports, ships and a group of men and women who can look to the past and remind us of how to move forward.
Mom made liverwurst sandwiches for us, I laugh cause liver is still my Dad's favorite meal. Liver? Who eats that anymore? Dad does, he told me as a kid how good it was for you. I jumped in their pool and we talked about my car. I'm installing a new Bilstein HD suspension this weekend. I could afford to have someone else do it, but my hands and mind know how to do the job. I see mechanics today using latex gloves and I laugh, we're supposed to have filthy hands which feel like leather. We're supposed to remember where we came from, so we know where we're going.
Soundtrack: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BK_RGNs8s6w
I wanted to ride today, but knew better as my Dad needed help. He's sixty-eight years old, retired, disabled US Marine Corps Veteran and in my opinion, he shouldn't have to lift his hand, but he loves to work every day. He does chores every day, building a garden, a new driveway, a new bathroom or some other task that most of us wouldn't know how to do, choose to do, or we'd pay someone else to do.
Dad needs the activity, the daily dose of hard work. Up early, oatmeal, denim jeans, work boots, chores; it's the Marine Corp without the bugle in the background. It's deep in his genes, work, afterall, he's the son of two Irish immigrants who came to America during the Great Depression.
According to Dad, his folks, well aware of what America was going through during the late 1930's, but still felt they were coming to a free circus as his Mom left County Mayo and his Dad left County Galway with nothing, but the hope of getting to the New Land. As for the Old Land, if you ever make to Ireland, head to the west coast, visit these two counties, Mayo and Galway and you'll have a true understanding of what these Irish folks are made of; Ireland is still Ireland in those counties and the people are some of the most resilient.
When I was in Dublin back in 2001, I met Irish folks and they'd ask me my name. I told them my first name and each time they said, "What?" Thinking the noise in the pub was too loud, I'd repeat my first name a fifth and sixth time...until I realized, it was my last name they wanted. I gave my last name and instantly the local would shake my hand and say, "That's a good name lad, now go to the west coast, get yourself home." My last name is of clan which took great pride in killing the English and although the fight is over, the Irish can still make a great fighter.
It's widely known that after the Irish had their own Great Depression in 1845, their Potato Famine, which killed one million and coined the phrase one million dead and one million fled...they fled to America. They came into America through three main ports, Boston, New York and New Orleans. When American had it's Civil War in 1861, Irish-Americans from the North fought the Irish from the South. That's a battle I'd rather not see, it must've been hell. I was perhaps the most successful wrestler in my school, for quite a while and the toughest matches I ever had were against some Irish kids, they were bloody and near violent.
My Dad has endured nine operations in his life, remnants of the Marine Corps. He was a teacher and owned a shop where he repaired cars for the town. He could fix anything and I learned a great deal from him. While he could afford to pay others to cut his lawn, wash his car, fix the chimney, repair the sink, he did it all by himself. The driveway we stand on is made of nearly ten thousand red bricks, we placed them there and I imagine the driveway will last another fifty years or so.
Men, firewood, shovels, wheel barrows and lemonade. Men being men. During the rise of women's equality, during their movement, I believe many men forgot how to be men. The nineties became a time of PC, everything became politically correct. My Dad is from a different generation of men who saved America, who used their hands and who appreciated the little things they could barely afford. My Dad tells me, "Growing up, we'd have a boiled egg for dinner. Yes and to make it very filling and tasty, we'd fill it with salt." Imagine that, I do, cause I hear about it all the time. "If my folks had money, we'd have liver, the organ people don't eat, eating liver was a real treat" he reminds me. Dad tells the same stories throughout the year, I enjoy them every time, especially the events of his childhood. He doesn't have much to say about his Father and I wonder about that, I keep meaning to ask my Dad why, but I suspect I already know.
Dad and I didn't speak for about half my childhood, it was for no other reason except this: we are identical, too much alike. You come to a point where you realize that it's not so bad being just like Dad, like him and he comes to a point where he's proud of you, even if you didn't become Commandant of the US Marine Corps and you begin speaking again, after years of silence.
"We've got to fix this country, before it's too late" he said while I stacked wood. "You see that tool in the barn? It's stamped 'W.P.A.', that shovel is from the 1930's, the Works Progress Act. Yup. Picked it up at a garage sale, the person selling it had no idea what W.P.A. meant. It was part of the New Deal, Roosevelt's plan to get men working again. While some executives jumped out of buildings during the Great Depression, others stood on the streets selling pencils and others grabbed tools to go build something, to work" he ended.
While we were in the barn, he showed me what has to be some type of IBM computer. I laughed as it resembled the first generation laptop. Dad picked that up at a garage sale years ago.
My heart didn't get the aerobic workout from the bike, but I managed a thorough sweat and must've completed a few thousand squats, lunges and arm curls. "A cord of wood is 4x4x8, or roughly 220 pieces" offered my Dad and we moved all of them with our hands. No gloves. No illegal immigrant workers to assist, just two Irishmen. During the stacking, the oil truck showed up and we chuckled, ninety gallons at $4.20 for the home. Yup, it's a lot easier to turn the thermostat up and burn the oil, but now more than ever, it's imperitive for men to get outside, cut their own lawns, fix their own cars, cut bills and do for themselves. Women can always join in, no doubt, but men need to rid themselves of the laziness, to be reminded of how their Dad's did it, how they provided and sweated, especially during tough times.
People fall down and when you do, it's the fear of failing that get's you up the fastest. Irish are stubborn, we hate losing, I am a sore loser and will never apologize for it. This economy is falling down, I don't care. It might knock me over, losing bonuses, commissions, income, maybe even employment. I don't care. I have two hands and the memory that I could not lose as a wrestler and why? I could not allow my defeat within the eyes of my Father. I hated him for years, but I wanted him to see achievement, success. America needs a New Deal, not a bailout, but a new roads, bridges, railways, ports, ships and a group of men and women who can look to the past and remind us of how to move forward.
Mom made liverwurst sandwiches for us, I laugh cause liver is still my Dad's favorite meal. Liver? Who eats that anymore? Dad does, he told me as a kid how good it was for you. I jumped in their pool and we talked about my car. I'm installing a new Bilstein HD suspension this weekend. I could afford to have someone else do it, but my hands and mind know how to do the job. I see mechanics today using latex gloves and I laugh, we're supposed to have filthy hands which feel like leather. We're supposed to remember where we came from, so we know where we're going.
Soundtrack: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BK_RGNs8s6w