A Daughter's Push To Me to Keep Pushing Ahead
* * *
(As a prelude, I offer a heartfelt "thank you" for the messages, the comments and the notes on my post from Sunday about the four boys from Western Dubuque. On top of this, the news of two more fatalities today of young people near Mount Vernon hurts even more.)
I'm off on Mondays but, all summer, I have strived to "make something of my Mondays". They are "my Saturdays", after all. So far, this has been accomplished with vigor, gusto and any of my other favorite words of the Queen's English that I rarely use. Two Mondays ago, I drove 1,000 miles for a family get-together. Last Monday, another 600 miles to complete said family get-together.
It was 9:07 a.m. this morning. I didn't want to tackle the project that I said I would.
Constructing a deck.
I can read a TelePrompTer with, uh, vigor and gusto. I can write a story for television news. Even here, I can write with some level of proficiency.
I'm a talker, a writer. Not a builder.
Yet I promised my family that I would complete this, preferably sooner than August 4th.
The task was simple but quite deliberate. Measuring, cutting and screwing 23 boards - each 14-feet long - for a 12x14 back deck. The month before, I took out the old, rotted boards, sliced them up and drove them to the landfill.
Today should have been the easy part.
The checklist in my head. Gather the extension cord, the radio, a gigantic cup of water and enlist each of our children to help, in whatever ways.
Our daughter stood by me, helping with these 37-pound boards (37 pounds!) so I could break out the power saw and slice off an inch from these boards, which were about 14'1".
Enter the neighbor that everyone should have. "Oz" is a snowbird but could probably build a rocket ship out of his tools and materials in the garage that could carry a chimpanzee into Earth's orbit. He brought more saws, cords and his patient advice.
For ninety minutes, Oz showed how the cut the boards, space them out and left me to mess it all up on my own.
Only I didn't.
Make that "we" didn't.
Our daughter is only 9 but I was flummoxed at her insistence on being a part of this project. Initially, I figured she would just take the dog out when I asked and bring me water.
Nope. She wanted to be, truly, involved in the project.
We had 23 boards to knock out. My goal for the day was to put ten in place. Do the rest on Tuesday. Perhaps the day after.
I explained to her the importance of consistent spacing on the boards, especially with the curve in the boards.
"They're like your braces and this clamp will hold the boards together in the right space," I explained.
She totally got it right away.
Instead of merely handing me a tape measure, this little girl wanted to be a grown-up today. She wanted to work the power drill, wanted to figure out how to put the clamps in place, handing me the 2" deck screws to put each board in place. (To offer some scope here, each board had to be screwed in at eight different points.)
By noon, I needed to take twenty minutes to re-charge. Only seven boards were in place. A long day ahead. "Why do I do these ambitious excursions on my days off?", I wondered.
When I walked back out to the deck, she was there, ready for the afternoon session.
Seven boards in place became nine, became twelve. At about 2 p.m., I was spent. Legs sore from walking under the deck and stepping high between the boards (imagine a professional wrestler entering the ring over the top rope -- I did the physical equivalent of this about 150 times today).
"I think we're probably good for today," I said, with two parts exhaustion and one part defeat.
"What time is it?" my daughter asked.
"Probably about 2:15."
"So you would have two hours left," she said. "We can do it."
She even brought me the cup of ice cold water to try and revive my energy.
Then it hit me. For anyone over 40, you'll get this: My daughter was Punky Brewster and I was her cranky foster parent, Henry. You remember him... Punky would want to go roller skating and Henry would grumble, "Bah, no Punky, eat your oatmeal and go to bed so I can watch 'Murder, She Wrote'. I only took you in for the tax write-off." (Okay, he didn't say that last sentence. One tangent that may make you smile: I found out today that actor who played Punky's father is still with us at age 97. Mildly surprised.)
She said "we can do it."
And we did. She would struggle and battle with her little limbs (adorned in day-glo colored socks, of course) to lift these 14-foot boards and bring them over to me so I wouldn't have to push up and bend, my joins creaking like an old rocking chair on a wooden floor. We talked all throughout the day, about school, about carpentry (she probably understands more than I do), of the importance of finishing the job.
The last three boards went in around 4 p.m. Ever go on a road trip where you drive 600 miles in a day? Those last twenty miles are like a dream, right? The culmination of a journey.
Cue the "Top Gun" instrumental when Maverick lands back on the deck after shooting down the unnamed-Communist Migs as he makes amends with Iceman.
An hour after the deck was complete, we drove off for dinner. I wanted to treat her. Her answer was predictable. Hy-Vee Chinese. Okay, I think. Let's go.
We're in the car, stuck in traffic. I had to confess.
"You know, I underestimated you today," I said. "I really thought all you would want to do would be to get me water and check in on me every so often. I didn't think you'd want to be as involved as you were today. I'm very proud of you and all that we did. I'm sorry I underestimated you."
"Okay," she said with a smile, letting it all fall off her back like a child does.
We sat there as I watched her devour multiple plates of Crab Rangoon and Sesame Chicken. She told me this was a great day as we ate. I was even too tired to really make any conversation, a rarity for me. My muscles and bones were mush from all the deck work.
"Dad, why don't they make grape ice cream?" she asked, perhaps the deepest question of all. Then she wanted to go swimming. Yes. Swimming after being outside with me all day.
Of course, I took her swimming. Both kids, actually. I couldn't even pull myself into the water from exhaustion yet I watched the kids playing, from a distance, and found it so... heartwarming.
Have you seen the Extra Gum "origami" commercial? Look it up and watch it. This day was one of those days, a day where the two of us spent seven hours working through a project that, when it started I was dreading and, eventually, powered through. We saw it through. We finished it.
She believed I could do it when I did not.
She's still at that age where she thinks Dad has some super hero qualities. I'd better enjoy these fleeting days, right?
Ten years from now, our daughter will be on the edge of 20. I hope that she comes home at some point, in that summer of 2024, and we will sit out on that deck, laughing about whatever is important and her world.
I hope one of us asks:
"Remember when we built this?"
I hope she is the one who asks it.
* * *
(As a prelude, I offer a heartfelt "thank you" for the messages, the comments and the notes on my post from Sunday about the four boys from Western Dubuque. On top of this, the news of two more fatalities today of young people near Mount Vernon hurts even more.)
I'm off on Mondays but, all summer, I have strived to "make something of my Mondays". They are "my Saturdays", after all. So far, this has been accomplished with vigor, gusto and any of my other favorite words of the Queen's English that I rarely use. Two Mondays ago, I drove 1,000 miles for a family get-together. Last Monday, another 600 miles to complete said family get-together.
It was 9:07 a.m. this morning. I didn't want to tackle the project that I said I would.
Constructing a deck.
I can read a TelePrompTer with, uh, vigor and gusto. I can write a story for television news. Even here, I can write with some level of proficiency.
I'm a talker, a writer. Not a builder.
Yet I promised my family that I would complete this, preferably sooner than August 4th.
The task was simple but quite deliberate. Measuring, cutting and screwing 23 boards - each 14-feet long - for a 12x14 back deck. The month before, I took out the old, rotted boards, sliced them up and drove them to the landfill.
Today should have been the easy part.
The checklist in my head. Gather the extension cord, the radio, a gigantic cup of water and enlist each of our children to help, in whatever ways.
Our daughter stood by me, helping with these 37-pound boards (37 pounds!) so I could break out the power saw and slice off an inch from these boards, which were about 14'1".
Enter the neighbor that everyone should have. "Oz" is a snowbird but could probably build a rocket ship out of his tools and materials in the garage that could carry a chimpanzee into Earth's orbit. He brought more saws, cords and his patient advice.
For ninety minutes, Oz showed how the cut the boards, space them out and left me to mess it all up on my own.
Only I didn't.
Make that "we" didn't.
Our daughter is only 9 but I was flummoxed at her insistence on being a part of this project. Initially, I figured she would just take the dog out when I asked and bring me water.
Nope. She wanted to be, truly, involved in the project.
We had 23 boards to knock out. My goal for the day was to put ten in place. Do the rest on Tuesday. Perhaps the day after.
I explained to her the importance of consistent spacing on the boards, especially with the curve in the boards.
"They're like your braces and this clamp will hold the boards together in the right space," I explained.
She totally got it right away.
Instead of merely handing me a tape measure, this little girl wanted to be a grown-up today. She wanted to work the power drill, wanted to figure out how to put the clamps in place, handing me the 2" deck screws to put each board in place. (To offer some scope here, each board had to be screwed in at eight different points.)
By noon, I needed to take twenty minutes to re-charge. Only seven boards were in place. A long day ahead. "Why do I do these ambitious excursions on my days off?", I wondered.
When I walked back out to the deck, she was there, ready for the afternoon session.
Seven boards in place became nine, became twelve. At about 2 p.m., I was spent. Legs sore from walking under the deck and stepping high between the boards (imagine a professional wrestler entering the ring over the top rope -- I did the physical equivalent of this about 150 times today).
"I think we're probably good for today," I said, with two parts exhaustion and one part defeat.
"What time is it?" my daughter asked.
"Probably about 2:15."
"So you would have two hours left," she said. "We can do it."
She even brought me the cup of ice cold water to try and revive my energy.
Then it hit me. For anyone over 40, you'll get this: My daughter was Punky Brewster and I was her cranky foster parent, Henry. You remember him... Punky would want to go roller skating and Henry would grumble, "Bah, no Punky, eat your oatmeal and go to bed so I can watch 'Murder, She Wrote'. I only took you in for the tax write-off." (Okay, he didn't say that last sentence. One tangent that may make you smile: I found out today that actor who played Punky's father is still with us at age 97. Mildly surprised.)
She said "we can do it."
And we did. She would struggle and battle with her little limbs (adorned in day-glo colored socks, of course) to lift these 14-foot boards and bring them over to me so I wouldn't have to push up and bend, my joins creaking like an old rocking chair on a wooden floor. We talked all throughout the day, about school, about carpentry (she probably understands more than I do), of the importance of finishing the job.
The last three boards went in around 4 p.m. Ever go on a road trip where you drive 600 miles in a day? Those last twenty miles are like a dream, right? The culmination of a journey.
Cue the "Top Gun" instrumental when Maverick lands back on the deck after shooting down the unnamed-Communist Migs as he makes amends with Iceman.
An hour after the deck was complete, we drove off for dinner. I wanted to treat her. Her answer was predictable. Hy-Vee Chinese. Okay, I think. Let's go.
We're in the car, stuck in traffic. I had to confess.
"You know, I underestimated you today," I said. "I really thought all you would want to do would be to get me water and check in on me every so often. I didn't think you'd want to be as involved as you were today. I'm very proud of you and all that we did. I'm sorry I underestimated you."
"Okay," she said with a smile, letting it all fall off her back like a child does.
We sat there as I watched her devour multiple plates of Crab Rangoon and Sesame Chicken. She told me this was a great day as we ate. I was even too tired to really make any conversation, a rarity for me. My muscles and bones were mush from all the deck work.
"Dad, why don't they make grape ice cream?" she asked, perhaps the deepest question of all. Then she wanted to go swimming. Yes. Swimming after being outside with me all day.
Of course, I took her swimming. Both kids, actually. I couldn't even pull myself into the water from exhaustion yet I watched the kids playing, from a distance, and found it so... heartwarming.
Have you seen the Extra Gum "origami" commercial? Look it up and watch it. This day was one of those days, a day where the two of us spent seven hours working through a project that, when it started I was dreading and, eventually, powered through. We saw it through. We finished it.
She believed I could do it when I did not.
She's still at that age where she thinks Dad has some super hero qualities. I'd better enjoy these fleeting days, right?
Ten years from now, our daughter will be on the edge of 20. I hope that she comes home at some point, in that summer of 2024, and we will sit out on that deck, laughing about whatever is important and her world.
I hope one of us asks:
"Remember when we built this?"
I hope she is the one who asks it.
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