Our Contractor

Here is our contractor. I call him Dad.

I didn't realize when I was a little girl what a commodity that was. I just knew each winter we had to haul scraps of leftover lumber from the work truck to our huge pile. And then nightly to haul it from the pile to the back door, for the fireplace in the family room, when all my priviledged friends basked in rooms heated by a furnace.

I knew that my Dad carried a lunch and a giant water thermos to work everyday, long before we were awake, and would return home after dark. Sometimes in snow, so cold--with biting wind that would cut through multiple clothing layers, and other times heat so dry and hot I don't know how he could bear it.

I remember taking drives in the evenings to check on a job site he was worried about. Sometimes he took us kids, and let us "help" him, handing him tools, and generally getting in his way the whole day.

I remember my parents struggling financially at times, but us kids never went without things we needed or wanted. We just knew when money was tight, cause Mom would make meals that used a lot of rice.

My Dad could do anything. Fix anything. I thought that was just what Dad's did.

He taught me to take pride in my work, to appreciate what I have. To dig in and do things right the first time. I didn't appreciate everything he taught me until I realized that not everyone was like that, like him--honest and hard-working.

It makes me smile to see his truck parked in front of my house. To see him, working at my own house. That my kids look forward to hopping on the roof to "help" him now. That my Shayne wants to be "a house builder like Grandpa Randy." Nothing would make me happier.

Thanks Dad. For everything. I will always be in debt to you. Love you--