I may be a Narrowback (an American born Celt who never worked as hard as his immigrant ancestors) but I’ve always tried to work like my pureblood Donkey (fresh off the boat immigrant Celt used to working hard) grandfather, Spaghetti, especially when it came to humping heavy shit that I probably should not be humping. Especially at my age.
But I grew up watching my 80 year old grandfather scamper up long ladders carrying large heavy buckets of tar in one hand so he can recoat a neighbor’s roof, or shifting heavy stoves, fridges and other large furniture up and down multi-level stairs of the McCaffrey Compound like they were made of styrofoam. And he tossed his naturally aggressive grandchildren around like we were stuffed animals. God forbid he executed on his recurring threat to belt you “between the lug and the horn.” But his strength and toughness were natural gifts. Forged during his hard youth on a family farm in Northern Ireland, then fired early last century over an immigrant’s life of menial labor in boatyards and construction sites, anything to make a buck, because if you didn’t, or couldn’t, you starved. His large hands never lost their thick calluses. You cannot generate that kind of strength in a gym.
But I am a second generation away from such day-to-day challenges, grit and determination. I’ve never had to go without a meal because of a bad day. The muscles of my youth were forged first with regular and nutritious meals, pop warner athletics, and dead weights in homemade gyms. For a while, I humped lot’s of heavy cases of cans, jars and bottles from trucks to shelves for a tough but honest Donkey named Pete Neary, who regularly whispered nose-to-nose with spittle flying from his lips that he would happily do a year’s time in jail just to hit me once. Later on, on many construction sites, I saw my muscles mature from their teenage form to adult size working for a wonderful Donkey named O’Hara, who became one of my many surrogate fathers. He’d say with a laugh, every time I was given another menial task, “Did you see that?! He’s growing muscles just looking at the work.” But I knew this generational softer body could not handle a laborer’s life for the long haul. I left that life for my hardier siblings and cousins.
However, I’ve tried to emulate a Spaghetti-lite doing my chores here on Casa Claire. I think of my grandfather every time I have to shift bales of hay or wheelbarrows full of mule shit, or if I have to dig a hole in the concrete earth of Northern Colorado, or haul heavy wooden posts to build a fence. Each year it gets a little harder. I move a little slower. It takes a little longer. A little less done at any one time.
Thank God for Aleve.
But Spaghetti’s Donkey blood coursing through me also makes me stubborn. Every time I’m faced with a physical challenge, I can hear his Northern Irish brogue in my ear whispering around the ubiquitous pipe always clenched in his teeth, “Ach, sure you can do this.”
I remember hearing that voice just before I fell through the old deck (you can find that blog with a careful word search).
I often wonder if that will be the last voice I ever hear. If it is, I hope it carries the same message.
Yesterday, Spaghetti whispered that I could handle driving thirty miles away to solo hump a secure and heavy Gun Cabinet up twenty stairs with two turns along the way from a seller’s basement and out to my Toyota (yep, the one from TCS).
It’s a place to consolidate and safely store long and hand guns, away from curious children and malevolent bad guys.
Given that this was a “Nextdoor” find, I couldn’t wait for Luke’s – away on an errand – assistance – you have to commit to purchasing and get the buyer the money or risk losing an often unique item at a fire sale price. This item had just hit the market, so I tossed my hand truck in the back of my SUV and off I went before some other savvy buyer – NoCo is 2d Amendment territory – beat me to it.
A loud and heavy bump kept time on that long basement stairway as I dragged that hand truck backwards, one step at a time, up the steep incline like Fitzcarraldo –
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fitzcarraldo –
and each bump triggered that familiar familial brogue in my head – “easy lad, you got this.”
I felt a bit of Narrowback pride as I safely secured it in the back of the Toyota.
Thank God for Aleve.
But Luke’s going to have to hump it from our garage to his new home whenever he actually moves. And that’s okay. He’a physical beast. A freak of nature. Great Mitochondrial DNA.
“Ach, sure you can do this.”
Well now this sore old narrow back needs to get moving.
Time to use my brain a little.
But first I have kitties to cuddle and rounds to make.
You fine, five readers take solace from the fact that this is Tuesday that awaits you. And put your back into it so you can get all the heavy lifting done early in a work week that you will surely want to curtail by Friday morning at the latest.
And, no matter what else we get up to, let us make today a great one.
One Response