I never understood the term elbow grease.
Dad used to use it all the time, but he never once explained where it came from.
The details of it never bothered him. It was “just something people said”, and
that was good enough for him. It wasn’t quite good enough for me, though. The
where of it kept nagging at me, buzzing around like one of those fat summer
flies, teasing, mocking, then darting just out of reach.
I had an
inquisitive mind. My dad used to say it was like a squirrel before wintertime, running
around collecting scraps from just about everywhere. He said that proudly, said
he’d never be as smart as me, said I’d do great things if I put that little
squirrel to work. Put in some of that elbow grease, he was so fond of saying.
I did well enough in school to go to
college, a decent one at that. Dad wasn’t doing too well by then – a life working, spraying the fields under the sun gets to you. But you could still
tell he was over the moon. School was a long way off and I had to move out, but
every time I called home he’d say the same old thing – don’t forget to put in
some of that elbow grease.
Dad passed away suddenly, during my fourth
year in college. I dug his grave myself, right there beside my ma’s. I dug and
dug till my back was sore and my arms were as numb and as raw as my heart. But I guess,
standing in that hole, I finally understood. Sweat, dirt, blood and tears
– those are the things that go into making that good ol’ elbow grease.
- Adrian
- Adrian
