I come from a long line of working class people. It is in my blood. Both of my grandfathers worked with their hands, My dad's dad worked the same farm as far back as I can remember. When it was harvest time he would let me "drive" the combine through the field, by this I mean that I sat on his lap and held the steering wheel, never having any real control, but when you are only 4 or 5, it feels like you are running the world.
He was a happy man from what I could gather in the short time that I knew him. He was strong and always had a smile or a funny story to tell. His hands where thick and meaty, they where so calloused he could pick up a pot of boiling water ( I am not sure if this is actually true but I have heard my dad tell stories enough times that the image got stuck in my mind.) By the time I came along, they no longer lived on the farm, but he owned the land, and that made his life much more comfortable till the end. He was also a tough old bastard, it took 3 heart attacks before he threw in the towel,
He was on the way to the casino with his wife, my grandma, when the third on hit him. Miles away from home, and going into cardiac arrest, he calmly turned the car around and drove all the way back to the hospital, walked in told them what was happening, all as calmly as a Hindu cow, He was from a small rural community, but they had a helicopter, he was life flighted to a larger hospital. He coded a couple of times on the way, but made it. Unfortunately his heart could not take the damage and he passed a little over a week later. I will miss the man, and I can't wait to meet him again, just to see if he approved of the life I have led. ( I am sure there will be parts that he wont...) At that young age though, he instilled something in me, a love for the out doors and the need to work with my hands, he taught me that outside of my mind, they are my greatest tools and for that I will be forever grateful.
My mom's father was the same way, just a little rougher around the edges. He came from a large dutch family that worked a farm as well. He grew up working, cause that is what the Dutch did, had kids so they didn't have to hire laborers. And why not...? You don't have to pay them, there are no interviews, you get to train them however you see fit, and making them is kinda fun.
He was coming of age as World War II was in full swing. He saw it as his duty to fight for his country and enlisted. When we dropped the bombs, he was sent over to pick up the pieces. I can not imagine what he saw, he never talked about it, and I never asked, I did see the scars he carried and have more respect for that man, then I have for most. One of my biggest regrets in life is not being able to tell him, again because I was to young when he passed to understand the things that he had done.
Crusty is the wrong way to describe him, and at the same time it is almost perfect. I mean no disrespect by it. He came back from the war and started a family, spawning 6 kids all together. He crisscrossed the country with the family in tow, constantly looking for work. He was a hired hand and was most comfortable breaking horses, and working on livestock farms.
By the time I met him, he was retired and living with my grandma in a small trailer. Let me paint a picture. When we visited we would walk in through the garage. The door opened into a small, but comfortable dining room, just big enough for a table and some chairs. To the right was a living room, with his recliner a couch and a couple of chairs. If you went left, you would pass the kitchen and farther back there were bedrooms and a bathroom.
He would either be at the table, chain smoking or in his recliner, also chain smoking, I never saw him sit anywhere else. He was a larger man, his hair was always combed over, there wasn't much left but he made sure ever hair was in place, even if there were only six of them. He always wore Dickies, and I am talking, button shirt tucked into pants, with boots. I don't think that I ever saw him in anything else. They were always tan, no other color, He must have had twelve pairs of pants, and twelve matching shirts, all the same.
He had a deep raspy voice from smoking for so many years, He started when he was twelve, and he was in his sixties by the time I met him. He laughed a lot, but for some reason I was scared of him at first. He had thick black glasses, the kind you get from the military, and he had no teeth. When he got back from the war they pulled every last one out of his mouth. They thought in their infinite wisdom, that radiation stayed in the teeth, so anyone that went to Hiroshima or Nagasaki got a free trip to the dentist as soon as they got home. He hated dentures so he never wore them. His gums where so calloused that he could bite into an apple... with no teeth. He could also lick his own eyeball, Do you know what that can do to a four year old, it leaves deep physiological scars, believe that...
I was scared of him until I was five and I pushed my brother onto a bumble bee outside of his trailer. The bee stung him and we both ran inside crying. I felt guilty, and Marcus was wailing in pain. My grandpa got up quietly and went outside. I thought it was because he didn't want to be around a couple of crying little boys, I was wrong.
He came back inside a couple of minutes later and sat down, he had something in his hands. He got out a piece of paper and taped something to it. I was curious so I inched closer so i could see. On the sticky note there was a bee... He had gone out and caught a bee... with his bare hands... He looked at my brother as my mom tried to dig the stinger out, and with a smile asked if he wanted revenge. Through the tears Marcus nodded yes.
The old man smiled and took out a cigarette, slowly lighting it and taking a drag. The cherry had a red glow as he lowered it to the piece of paper, burning of one bee's wings off, it sizzled and smoke rose to the ceiling. The tears lessened. He took another drag, the toothless smile growing, as he lowered it again and burned off the other wing, the sizzle was accompanied by a smell this time, the smell of vengeance. Sobs subsided into silence, as he continued. He tortured that poor bee, burning off each of its legs until there was nothing left but a black and yellow body. We were not crying anymore. He took on last long drag with a smile and snuffed the cigarette out along with the bee. His revenge had been served, and his grandson avenged. Again, crusty is the wrong word, but there was a hardness about him. Life had not been easy for him, jading him, but underneath that gruff surface was a kind and caring man.
It is important to know what kind of stock you come from, it is for me anyways. It tells me something about myself. What I am capable of. I am sure I have made decisions that neither one of these men would understand, and probably done some things that would make them ashamed. All that aside, I would like to think that I have done some things that would make them proud. The both passed their work ethic down. I watched both my parents work hard my entire life, and that had to come from somewhere. It is the one trait that I am the most grateful for, and one I hope I will be able to pass to my son.
I look around these days and see a lack of ambition, one could even call it a disease of laziness. My generation was told that we had to go to college to get a good job. That if we worked in the blue collar trades we were not going to make it. This is a lie. I have nothing against college, but I have never met two people who were exactly the same. College is just not for some people. It amasses mountains of debt, and shapes young minds the way it sees fit, under the guise of free thinking. I prefer to have dirt under my finger nails, and being so worn out by the end of the day that I can hardly move. It keeps my mind sharp, and my body fit, it is the ultimate win win scenario.
I learn at least one new thing a day for free, and I am proud to be a skilled laborer. There is a reason they call it skilled. It has taken me ten years to get the experience I needed to make a decent living doing what I do, and I wouldn't trade it for the world. At the end of the day I can see the progress I have made. I get to build things and make them pretty, and there is certainly no shame in that. Neither one of my grand fathers made it past the 8th grade, and they seemed to be happy with the lives they worked so hard to create. Where there days that they hated their jobs? I am sure, but that is true with any kind of work. It's not going to be perfect everyday, Most days though, I get to be outside, earning the respect of the tools that I use everyday. I get to get better everyday, and eventually I will earn the title of craftsman, and I think that would make my grand fathers pretty proud. At the end of the day, I couldn't ask for anything more.
-Micah
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