As a teenager, I remember driving over a particular set of railroad tracks that crisscrossed the gateway to my home town. Someone decided a street repair was needed at that particular spot, and for months — if not years — cars were forced to drive through a huge sink hole. It’s specialty was the destruction of suspension systems and the irony of the situation emphasized by a sign that announced, “Your Tax Dollars at Work.”
On a recent Saturday morning, I was assigned to a wood stacking crew, a job I relished. After all, I’m from Pennsylvania and we do know a thing or two about wood(s)! I was the oldest member of the crew and determined not to be out-distanced. I crawled over piles of cut logs, slid through mud, and refused to take a break when suggested. It seemed quite admirable until I returned to the job site after snack, and reached down for some split wood. My lower back, once bendable, was padlocked in a vertical position. I quietly switched to a wheel barrow and continued to ignore good advice. Out of love for others? Wanting to do my share? Setting an example? Not really. My motivation was primarily pride. By not listening, I probably cut productivity by 5%, simply by getting in the way. But I enjoyed myself. I really did.