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Flashback Friday



There have been unfounded and salacious whispers that I am lazy.  That, somehow "work" and "Mike" don't go together like biscuits and gravy.  All fake news.  Yes, it is true that I retired early.  Yes, it is true that a cold beer or Bloody Mary is far more appealing to me than sitting down and writing an eight page court report reviewing some juvenile's questionable behavior for the past 30 days.  Yes, it is true that a full day in the hot sun baling hay was not something I cherished.  Yes, it is true that shelling corn and having rats run up my pant legs was not the thrill-a-minute one might falsely assume.

 So you can imagine my glee to uncover ancient proof that I am capable of working, when forced.  I can surmise with reasonable accuracy that this picture, dated June of 1966, was an example of summertime forced labor.  Marj apparently was lining up projects to keep the twins occupied and busy since we probably had already worn out our welcome since being out of school for summer   vacation.  

 Our expressions are not all that different from chain gangs throughout the South.  Come to think of it cleaning the garage was similar work.  Too old to play all day and too young to find work, these two 13 year old kids are at an age when adulthood is encroaching and will eventually envelop, but not yet.  And so it is garage cleaning day.  Baling hay jobs would come along soon but not on this fine day.

 The garage itself was an interesting place.  Small by today's standards and barely large enough for the wheels they had back then, it was still one of the familiar hideouts when you wanted a place to hide, think, or just look at the storm passing by.  It was a mysterious place, with nooks and crannies above that one could only explore with a ladder.  There was an enlarged picture hanging over the door going inside of the folk's first dog, Sandy, which I don't remember.  There were boxes and storage areas that also included one of Marj's Christmas creations - three, life-size carolers that graced the front of our home for many seasons, complete with spotlight.  Eventually they would grace our home in G-Burg, and remain in my possession, still, in Northlandia, a bit faded and aged, but no less beautiful.    

 It would be too easy for me to point out that the only one actually working is me.  It would be too easy to point out that the one not named Mike has found a cushy object on which to plant their ass.  It would also be too easy for me to tell you that while I did most of the work we got equal credit.  Oh well.  The tables would turn - today my ass is planted and he's working like a dog.  Smart planning or different work ethic?  Hmmm.  Things to ponder as I walk to the couch for my mid-morning nap. 

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