It’s times like these when I wish my body could handle a bit of hard work. In this age of computers and technology, few of us know what it means to work hard, to use our bodies to labor, day in and day out, since machines do most of the intense physical labor for us. (I'm assuming that none of you reading is a construction worker.) (Or on a chain gang breaking up rocks in Siberia.) (Or run a daycare center.) As for me, the most intense labor I engage in is the peeling of that darn silver paper off of one Hershey Kiss after another. It’s sweaty work for a wimp like me but it’s not enough. When I do feel that the need to get something done outweighs the pain I’ll experience afterwards, I often find myself thinking of my neighbor, the one whose backyard bordered on mine when we lived in Littleton Colorado.
We lived in the Alamo district, the “old” area of town, amongst a group of garage-less, mostly brick houses, all built by the owners way back when. Each house was different than the next (though, like I said, lots of red brick) and there were few fences. Somewhere along the way, someone put up a three foot high chain link fence that separated our enormous backyard from the lane behind it. I don’t think Newt, my backyard neighbor, had any fence at all.
We often saw Newt out in the yard, digging in his garden. This was rather remarkable since Newt was 94 years old at the time. During his life he had married, taken care of, nursed and buried two wives (they were sisters—the second one never married until her sister left Newt to her in her will (just kidding)—this made a big impression on me), worked in a factory, made gorgeous furniture and dug in his garden—all with only one arm. It was almost hypnotic to watch him through our kitchen window as he turned over a spade filled with dirt, jammed the shovel back into the ground, kicked it down good and hard with one foot, then turned it up and out, over and over again, the empty sleeve of one shirt fluttering with the movement of his efforts.
Sometimes we could hear the whir of machinery as he turned the legs of wood furniture down in his basement. He did this when it was too cold to go outside and dig. He knew that if he were to survive another winter, he needed to work and work hard. And he did. Every room in his house had been transformed by a wall that was either moved, taken down or added in. Most of his furniture was of his own creation. His assortment of brass bells and candlesticks, which was acquired after he was no longer allowed to drive, was collected by riding his bike, one armed, from garage sale to garage sale.
One day we could see that Newt had a visitor. I thought maybe it was an old crony of his. The man was a bit stout and had shock of gray hair. We sauntered across the way to chat and learned that the man was Newt’s grandson. It was quite shocking to watch this grandson who looked almost as old as Newt. It was even more shocking to know that he was letting his grandfather do all the digging. He must have known Grandpa too well to offer to do it for him.
I haven’t laid eyes on Newt for eleven years but I still have a lot I can learn from him.
I am grateful for my body. Work hard. Be self-reliant.
Thanks, Newt.
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I am ever so grateful
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