I began writing because people inferred I talk too much. With writing, you can quit listening anytime, even when my words continue, and I’ll never know. My father and I are alike in many ways. We talk, with voice and paper. This week he is sharing a poignant memory from the early days of our family, and he uses twice as many words as I do, but it is worth every drop of ink to tell you, “God is good and He sends good EVERY TIME!”
CHARLIE AND ME
Old men can be totally boring if you get trapped by one of them when they open up their heads at that hole under their nose and start force-feeding you the drama of their past. You are probably going to get lots of “things ain’t like they used to be” with a mix of “shoulda done’s” and “mighta been’s. For the younger listener, it’s painful, I know, and getting caught in that trap should be avoided at all costs. When you go into a watering hole like Mickey D’s or a local donut shop and see a bunch of old gray beards and bald heads dressed in flannel and over-alls sitting around a table, avoid them if you can. Their stories are just warmed over memories that have appeal only to the one telling the story and the hard of hearing.
But I’m different. Everything I say is true. Some of it may be a little bit truer than others. And what I can’t remember, I can make up. After all, isn’t that the heart and soul of fiction? There is a great deal of difference in fiction and a lie. Fiction is fun, entertaining and even believable. You can always spot a liar, their pants are on fire. I promise you….my lower anatomy is covered in cool britches. No fire here.
With that in mind and you being convinced of my veracity, I need to tell you about some hard work I’ve gotten myself into in the dark, but glorious, sagas of my past. Just the other day, I was trying to remember and categorize the hardest jobs I had ever gotten myself into. My conclusion regarding this foray into my memory bank of physically and mentally demanding jobs occurred in about my 28th year, in a cold winter, working for a building contractor in Iowa. Don’t quit me now and I will be brief and encourage you to use your imagination to fill in some blanks.
Here is the story. I was working for a small-time construction contractor in southeast Iowa. We were tasked with building a new municipal water-works building for a rural community about 10 miles from home. It was a federally funded project with all the regulations and specifications that could be imagined by the bureaucracy. The job required a foundation whose walls would go deep enough to accommodate some very large conduits for water flow. Strange how I remember…. ..we had to go 54″ below grade for the footing, then form and pour the foundation walls to about 12″ above grade. One regulation demanded freshly poured concrete not be exposed to freezing temperatures for so many hours. This complicated the whole project requiring industrial grade plastic membrane coverings and kerosene heaters going continuously to keep the temperature at an acceptable level.
You have every right to question “What’s so hard about that?” Construction is hard work so get over it! But there were some extenuating circumstances I need to explain so that you will appropriately feel my pain of so many years ago. First, I was about the only able-bodied employee left. Lots of working by myself with time to pout. Second, that black Iowa gumbo was frozen turf when the dig was made. The applied heat turned the whole project into the muddiest, sticky mess you could imagine. The work of forming foundations, pouring concrete, keeping it warm around the clock, stripping the forms, etc., well some of you will get the picture. Sometimes the task looks so big and impossible. It’s like eating a cheap steak, the longer you chew, the bigger and tougher it gets.
Into this mess and frustration, Charlie makes his entrance. I was bending over, prying forms loose, battling the muck and mire. Just above me was a walk board placed between terra firma and the top of the newly poured foundation. As I rose up, the prettiest beagle you ever did see was standing on the board. His first move was to kiss (lick) me on the ear. How can you not respond with great joy to such a “hello?” Being a dog lover, especially of beagles, we quickly formed a bond. He hung around like he had found relatives with money. I shared my lunch and treats with him, which he seemed to appreciate very much. Best of all, when I would arrive on the job, here he would come from somewhere as if he had been waiting my return. He wasn’t my dog yet, but apparently I was his human. Having his company on my tough job changed my attitude and consequently, the whole picture.
The local small-town marshal would drop by occasionally to check on the progress and say hello. I inquired if he knew anything about the ownership of my new friend. His answer….”yes, he belongs to a family up the road who don’t take care of him. If you want him, I’ll check and see if they will let you have him.” He came back a little later in the day and Charlie was mine! Charlie seemed to take the news as happily as I did and when I invited him to jump in my pickup, he responded like it was something he had planned on in the first place.
When we got home, three little children (and their momma) welcomed him with loving arms. The name, Charlie, was pinned to him by consensus after a variety of suggestions. All agreed, he just looked like a Charlie. Being a hunter, I had owned several beagles and bird dogs from time to time but always kept them in a kennel. With Charlie, it was different. He not only finagled his way into our hearts, he took up residence in the house….on the furniture and about anywhere else he chose to occupy. His recovery from a rabbit chase was not in the doghouse, but in the people house.
One evening several years later, Charlie didn’t come in. Checking various places, he was not to be found. Hours turned into days. Fence lines were walked checking if he had gotten caught by his collar and couldn’t get free. Neighbors were questioned and searches made but no Charlie. While I had (still have) my suspicions about unscrupulous persons who will steal someone’s pet, our 4-5 year old daughter gave a philosophical conclusion that we decided to live with. At that tender age, she already had a gift for imaginative answers to life’s complications. Her conclusion – “I think Charlie must have run off to California and couldn’t smell his way home.” Fifty years later, that answer is as good as any.
Here’s hoping that in the tough situations of your life, a “Charlie” will appear and put a new look on everything when you need it most. Angels can appear in all kinds of ways. I always considered our Charlie as a gift from God when I needed a boost in the mundane labor of life.
Now, I’m going to use my imagination about the hereafter. I don’t think I’m committing a mortal sin or profaning the eternal plan. In my imagination, when I first straighten up in my immortal body after life’s hard work, I would be pleased to find that Charlie is there to lick me on the ear one more time and welcome me home.
Bryan Jones
