DANG, you people work hard! Having grown up a-little-bit-city, a-little-bit-country (and a-little-bit-rock-n-roll), I thought I knew a thing or two about working hard. It appears, however, that my Crook County compadres are part Energizer Bunny or something, because the amount of blood, sweat and tears being shed on behalf of our communities has me thinking that I don’t know bupkis about hard work.
To re-cap the last few weeks in my corner of the county; there was this little thing called The County Fair where some 4-H and FFA kids pretty much knocked-one-out-of-the-park. Some donated their livestock auction proceeds to their school or to friends in need. Then there were about 52 car washes up and down the Prine-Vegas strip. Some football players delivered a few (thousand) sticks of firewood. And countless cans and bottles have been sorted, hauled and recycled. This is all in addition to the hay-hauling, horse-breaking, lawn-mowing and cattle-driving most of these tykes do from sun-up ‘til coach blows the whistle for daily-doubles to start. Just writing about it makes me thirsty for some electrolytes!
To be perfectly honest, the whole business of this slogging economy puts me in a quandary most days. I went to high school in the 80’s; when hair was big, my Daddy’s business was growing gang-busters and the Folks made sure I had everything they never got. Well, my hair is still big, my parents are comfortably retired and I long to bring, buy and take my kids everywhere! I want to give them cable TV, a new car for their 16th birthday and a fully-funded college education, complete with spending allowance. But the only way to accomplish all that is to also pass on to them a home that’s mortgaged to the hilt when I die. Some gift that would be, huh?
If left to my own devices I’d spoil my children into sweet oblivion because I’m a Mother and it’s what I do. I could also protect them right into becoming 30-year-olds who live in my basement, but that’s another topic for another time. Instead, it is entirely possible that the state of my checking account just might save me from myself and teach me to be grateful for the things that money CAN’T buy.
‘Tis the season when Moms like me are worried that their kid will get nothing more than a swirly in the locker room from the varsity players. Instead, the coaches, parents, and upperclassmen are mentoring him with a heavy dose of the knowledge that the helping hand he needs is at the end of his own arm. They send him home dirty, sweaty and unafraid to work hard again the next day. The side effects of this work-before-play regiment are camaraderie, teamwork and a trickle-down to the younger siblings back at home (the work-ethic that is, not the swirly).
Ask almost any parent and they’ll tell you they wish they could cut a check for the whole enchilada. Ask any of the hard-working kids and they’ll tell you about the impromptu motivational speaker they just delivered that last load of firewood to. You know the guy no one would think to invite to speak in an auditorium, but who can describe the winning season of ’84 play-by-play, then, tell your kid how much he believes his Alma Mater can do it again! No amount of money can buy that kind of mojo my friends. Because the only place that success ever comes before work is in the dictionary.
