By
Gerry Murak
Summer 1960. The hot and humid air hung on us like a wet t-shirt. But Dad wasn‘t going to let the summer heat stop us from completing our chores. We had a lot of gardening to do, and our goal was to get it all done that day.
As we worked, Dad thought it would help if we had
an additional shovel, so he sent me next door to borrow a shovel from
Mr. Kullen. I obliged, and that additional shovel helped us complete
the job by late afternoon. Just as I was about to head over to Mr. Kullen’s
to return the shovel, Dad sternly said, “Don‘t return the
shovel like that—clean it first!”
Dad wasn‘t someone you argued with. If he said do it, you did it. He stood over me in his dirty jeans and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was short and stocky, but very solid. His gut was harder than the rocks that would occasionally block the path of our shovels. I took the shovel to the edge of the yard and scraped off the clumps of dirt. Dad went back to his side of the yard and continued tidying the lawn equipment. Satisfied that the shovel was clean, I headed over to Mr. Kullen’s again.
“Gerald!” Dad yelled. He used my first name in full rather than simply calling me Gerry, so I knew what was coming next wasn‘t going to be good news. "Gerald! Where are you going with that shovel?" Before I could get a word out, the orders came down. "Get some coarse steel wool and clean the rest of the dirt off of that shovel!"
I knew there was no use talking back or consensus building, so I followed his orders. I went down into the cool basement workshop to get the steel wool. Before I could get back up the stairs, his voice filled the stairwell. "What’s taking so long?" he asked.
“Coming, Dad.” I hurried up the basement stairs, got outside, and polished the shovel. Satisfied once again that the shovel was clean, I started back over toward Mr. Kullen’s...again.
“Gerald! Where are you going with that shovel?”
By this time even a saint’s patience would be in question. I mumbled under my breath: “Now what?”
“Oil that shovel!” Dad demanded.
“But Dad, we don‘t do that to our own shovels. Besides, it already looks better than when we borrowed it.” Looking at Dad’s face, I knew my comments didn‘t go over well.
“Maybe someday we will want to borrow that shovel again. Now oil it!” Dad said.
So just as Dad had instructed, I oiled the shovel. It was at times like that when I had the feeling that I should have known what to do from the very beginning. I know Dad thought the extra effort should have been second nature to me.
I first told this story about my dad when I was giving an acceptance speech for an award my consulting firm received as a result of doing pro bono work for a food bank. I’ve always believed that unexpected situations cause one to reflect. The award was unexpected, and so was my lesson that day.
I started working in my dad’s business repairing vacuum cleaners when I was midway through grammar school. As I got older and worked other jobs, I always made time to help Dad in his business. Whether I worked as a burger flipper, a collision man, a shop teacher, a photographer, director of safety and training, packaging manager or production manager, I worked in Dad’s shop on nights and weekends. But it wasn‘t until that acceptance speech that I realized the lesson of that shovel in my life: “Leave things better than you found them.”
I worked in Dad’s shop for over 30 years, regardless of my day job. If I didn‘t have spare time to go, I made time, until the day he died. I was there so often that I knew every inch of space, every part, every tool, every two-by-four and every floor joist where we would hang various parts from large nails.
Several years after my dad passed, Mom decided to move into an apartment and to sell the house. We gave away and sold a lot of memories. Weeks later, when the house was empty, I took one final walk through the dream Dad worked so hard to build from very meager beginnings.
The hardest part was my last visit to the cool basement. Tucked into one corner was the 8' x 8' shop. It was barren now except for the nails protruding from the two-by-fours and floor joists. I stood in the center of all that emptiness and felt a fullness in my chest welling up. As I looked around, I reflected on all the things I learned in that basement.
The one lesson that stood out was the dignity of working with your hands and getting dirty. Back then I regretted working while my school friends would be out playing, but I don‘t regret it now because that is how I came to know my dad.
As I gazed up and stared at the floor joists above
me—where for days before I had pulled all of the parts off of
the nails—I found a pin stuck into one of the floor joists. I
never saw this pin before in all the hours I spent in the shop. I couldn‘t
make out what the pin said, so I reached up and pulled it down.
The pin had three simple words on it: “Ya Gotta
Wanna.” At that moment, it all made sense. Everything my dad had
ever taught me was summed up in those three words. There isn‘t
anything anyone can do to help you overcome the hardships and challenges
in your life. “Ya Gotta Wanna.”
Excerpted from Our Fathers Who Art In Heaven and What They Continue to Teach Us , by Gerry Murak.
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Author Bio: Gerry Murak is a turnaround
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