My First Drill

I came across this paper I wrote about 5 years ago.  I don't know if I ever posted it - I don't believe so.  I wish I was better at journallng, but would like my children and grandchildren to know a little about me and my life, so I'm inserting it here, to be recorded as part of my journal.  One of these days I'll catch up on posts as well.  It has been a busy year for me working full-time as a long-term 4th grade teacher; which looks like it will continue through the end of the school year.Trevor is doing well on his mission and his language seems to be coming right along after 4 months.  Spencer is getting closer and closer to graduation in June and Ken and I are closer to becoming empty nesters - not sure if I'm happy or sad about that  (a little of both).  Mostly it will just be a new adventure and adjustment in our life that we will weather together.

MY FIRST DRILL

I grew up in a country home.  Even though my dad was considered a blue-collar worker, we lived in a farming community.  My dad was the Agricultural teacher at the high school.  He taught young men how to fix cars, how to build houses, how to grow vegetables, and how to raise and slaughter animals for food.  After work we would feed the horse and pigs in our backyard.  Sometimes we went to the fields my dad tended.  My siblings and I experienced lots of different things in our small, religious farming community of 300 people.  It seemed to me my dad could do anything.  He was a gruff but loving man.  He was a big man, but he was fast.  My brothers learned real quick that big did not mean slow.  My dad taught us to race. The annual 4^th of July races were one of the highlights of the year.  We practiced and trained for those races.  We were proud to be recipients of the 1^st place "quarter" year after year.  We enjoyed a carefree childhood of roaming the streets, swimming in “The Falls”, playing hide-n-seek with the neighborhood kids, and of course learning how to work.

            When I was eight years old life drastically changed.  My dad decided it was time to get his Doctorate of Education.  He packed up our family and moved us across country from Nevada to Ohio.  Life was different in the city.  We had to get use to lots of new things.  The closest church was 30 minutes away.  My siblings and I were the only members of our religion in our school.  We were exposed to a different world.  It was difficult being away from friends and family, but we persevered.  My dad was still a country boy.  One day he brought home a bunch of chickens to be killed, plucked and cleaned.  It was quite a sight all those chickens running around with their heads cut off and my little brothers chasing after them.  We made new friends and life went on.  Soon two years was up and my dad graduated.  It was time to move back west.  Hooray - aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents – time to go home. 

We went back to our little country town, but that only lasted a few weeks.  My dad found a job in the city.  We bought a house and moved.  When we registered for school we learned I would be bussed across town.  Our city was beginning a new integration program.  The black kids would be bussed across to the mostly white side of town for 1^st through 5^th grade and the white kids would be bussed to special 6^th grade centers on the west side of town.  Gone were the carefree days of my younger years.  Although I had friends of all colors I now knew about racism, a new concept for me.

            Life continued to change in the city; more people, more opportunities.  High school brought challenges and a few successes.  My dad was still my hero.  I remember for one youth activity he cooked a whole pig with eyeballs and all.  It seemed all the kids liked my dad.  My friends and I would wait on the outskirts of gatherings so that when it was time to divide into cars we could be the first to my dad’s car.

            I remember one day when I was in high school and was a little rebellious, my dad pulled me aside and with tears in his eyes he told me he was worried that my mom would have a nervous breakdown and asked me to be more kind and patient with her.  My parents never fought.  They were not very affectionate in front of us, but we knew they loved each other a great deal.

            I learned many things from my dad about love, service and hard work.  My dad was hardly ever sick.  He hardly ever sat and watched television.  He was a do-er.  Occasionally my mom would tell me you’re just like your dad.  I thought this was a great compliment.

            My first few months away at college were difficult.  I was dealing with a lot of personal stuff, finding out college was harder than I expected, and a little homesickness as well.  One week the end of October my mom called to say my dad was sick and they took him to the hospital.  Over the next few days he continued to get worse and they put him in intensive care.  The doctors could not figure out what was wrong.  Miraculously he started to improve and they thought he would be home by the end of the week.  I knew someone going home that weekend so I decided to go home to help out with my younger brothers while my mom was at the hospital.  I saw my dad on Saturday and he looked good.  Sunday morning before church I stopped by to see him.  He didn’t look well and he was having a difficult time.  As I left he called out to me, “I love you, Vera”.  This was very unusual for him to say.  It meant a lot to me.  I went home and took my younger brothers to church, then went home and made dinner.  As we sat down to eat I heard my brother come in and I turned around, saw his face, and I knew.  MY DAD WAS GONE!

            Life was different without my dad.  There were many difficult days the first few years.  We all learned to go on and we drew closer together as a family.

            Soon I married a great man, but he was a city boy – not the country boy I was use to.  I tried to instill in him a desire to be a fix-it man like my dad, but it just didn’t work.  One day I said to a friend I wish my husband would let me buy him tools, but he just doesn’t want them.  A few months later on my birthday I opened a beautiful gift to find – my drill!  I realized that I was the one who wanted tools, why couldn’t I learn to use them, so I did.  I now have several kinds of saws, a router, many other tools, and of course my first drill.  I don’t think my friend realized that the gift she was giving me would mean so much, but I love tools.  It let me know that I can do whatever I want to do and in some small ways it helps me to know that I’m still daddy’s girl.