Moving a Mountain One Rock at a Time

I moved three ton of rock yesterday.........by hand.  Okay, it was only a ton-and-a-half, but I moved it twice.  While  unloading it, I thought of the movie Cool Hand Luke and how the warden made him dig a hole and then fill it up, only to dig it out again.  He never lost it.  He just kept saying, "Yes, Sir, Boss," or something to that effect.  I could be cool like that, after all I only had to do this once.  Then I realized that the pile I had made unloading the rock still had to be spread around my newly created fire-pit area.  Still, I didn't lose it.  This was work of my creating, and after the stress and strains of teaching, of my divorce, of my daughter's graduation, I welcomed the menial, manual labor. I welcomed the freedom to let my thoughts rush where they may while my body sank into a rhythm of clicking shovel, twisting torso, clacking rocks.  The thought of moving a ton-and-a-half of rock made me think of my 85-year-old father.  He was a block-layer in his youth, developing biceps that could break a string tied around them.  He used to unload 100-pound bags of cement off rail cars, onto a cart, then wheel a ton of them down a ramp to unload them again. Dad never lost it either, Luke would've been proud. 

Physical work builds physical strength, not just muscle.  Wimpy, weight machines aren't the same.  Physical work builds emotional strength too.  Nothing like taking your anger and frustration out on a helpless rock.  I admit there were times when I literally sat in the bed of the truck throwing the river rock onto the pile one at a time or stood at the end of the open tailgate tossing them over my shoulder.  I realized that even moving one rock at a time still gets the job done.  No, I didn't move the entire ton-and-a-half one rock at a time, but there were moments when the task seemed so daunting and physically impossible that I was reduced to one-at-a-time.  Then I thought of the tortoise and the hare.  My mind really does wander when my body is otherwise engaged.

When I was done unloading the rock, my younger daughter helped me carry the 25-pound landscaping stones w/ which we built the fire-pit.  I had already moved these 350 pounds of stone twice, once into my car at my dad's and then out of my car once I got home.  So I guess you can add another 700 pounds to that three ton.  In his younger days, Dad could've carried four of those stones at once w/o breaking a sweat.   So it was w/ a heavy heart that I lifted and loaded and carried these stones b/c Dad is no longer able.  He's become quite feeble since Mom died.  He tried to lift a stone, a 25-pound stone, and it was too much.  Another reason I was determined to move 3,700 pounds of rock, b/c he can't.  It's a damned, reality-check when you realize a parent can no longer move mountains, so what's a daughter to do but move it herself.  Still, a feeble-back is better than a feeble-mind, and I'm going to keep working both as hard as I can for as long as I can.

Once I was done w/ the rocks and stones (sounds so lightweight when I say it like that), I loaded the pickup w/ two rabbit hutches, a clothesline post, a wide assortment of chain fencing and a lot of scraps of wood.  I probably loaded another ton of junk then helped unload it again at the landfill. Not surprisingly, I collapsed on the couch.  Before going to bed, I told my daughters to keep their cell phones close-at-hand (as if they're ever anywhere else) so I could call them if I needed help getting out of bed in the morning.  No call was necessary, no child-labor laws were broken, and I think Luke would've been proud of me too.