“Well,
you’re alive, aren’t you?”
This could shut me up faster than anything else my father could say. For a while there,
when I was a young teen, he was using that line more than I care to admit. Each
time I started complaining about how hard school was, or how much I hated my
chores, he’d get that look on his
face. I knew I’d slid down the slippery slope into pessimism, and he wasn’t
going to let me stay there.
“Well,
you are, aren’t you?” There would be a pause for effect, “Then you have nothing
to complain about.” End of conversation.
I
looked up to my dad, literally and figuratively. He was a massive man, weighing
in at over three hundred and fifty beefy pounds. He worked late into the nights creating
with precision the most beautiful cabinetry and woodwork I thought possible. You
would find me there, in his cabinet shop, with him patiently teaching me how to
work, and work hard. I can't tell you how many times I stacked wood wrong, and had to start again. Or how many hours I spent sweeping all the sawdust up off the shop floor. He would show me over and over again how to do these simple tasks the right way. I wanted to be just like him.
Life
wasn’t easy for my dad. His life had its fair share of troubles. There were family troubles, death of loved ones, failed businesses, friends
that cheated him, and the recession that hit while I was little, causing our
family to lose most of everything we had. There were also health problems that included
all the bone to his knees being shattered in both legs, and finally an accident
that destroyed his back. That time he didn’t recover. For the rest of his life
it seems he was confined to the couch. He could have complained. Everyone would have
understood. But I never saw him do it. Life, no matter how rough, was better
than the alternative.
So,
once I was grown, and experiencing my own heartaches, my own troubles, I would
hear his voice in my ear, “Well, you’re alive aren’t you?”
I
remember clearly, standing on the shifting sand, hands shielding my eyes so I
could watch my five kids digging for geoduck. My mind wasn’t on them though. My
husband had recently lost his job, again,
and we were living off of miracles and charity. I had also found out that he was
involved in yet another affair. This
time, with someone I knew and had considered a friend. I was reeling. To add
even greater injury, I discovered my husband had taken my tools,
the ones I had inherited from my dad. He then sold them without my knowledge, so
he could take this latest girlfriend to a resort for Valentine’s Day. My heart
was so broken it felt numb.
Life
was not easy. In fact, it was really, really rough.
Standing
there on the beach, leaning on my shovel, watching my kids and feeling so
removed from everything, I heard Dad like he was standing there with me. “Well,
you’re alive aren’t you?” Followed by that pause, of course, and “Well, then,
there is nothing to complain about.”
I
had to make a decision. I felt the sun warm on my skin and the salty air in my
nose. It was delicious. I took in a huge breath and let it fill my lungs with
life. I closed my eyes and felt the breeze play in my hair, and cool the small
beads of sweat at my hairline. I let the air out. It was so good to be alive.
Life, no matter how rough, was so much better than the alternative.
Bracing
my foot against a rock right next to me, I grinned as I once again connected to
my kids and the activity at hand. Grabbing my shovel with both hands I dug deep
into the sand to find those illusive geoduck. The kids started giggling and
running around as a geoduck spit a small stream of water directly at them.
Shovels now abandoned, they were caught up in the excitement of the moment. I
could not help but laugh and join in with them.
Our
geoduck hunt did not bring the desired results. Dinner was macaroni and cheese amid
more laughter at our day’s adventures. Life
wasn’t exactly bringing the desired results either, but it was good.
After all, I was
alive wasn’t I?
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