The Wonder Years

Of course, life with Mitch was in no way perfect.

As his best friend would later describe him, Mitch was a "crazy maker." He was also a bit of a slave driver. Definitely Type A.

My best example is probably the wood pile. Mitch never threw anything out--Depression Era mentality of sorts, I suppose. Over time, he collected scrap lumber--good, large pieces, to be sure--but collecting lumber means storing lumber, and, because the garage was already packed to the hilt with other things he had saved, that meant hiding the wood pile in some obtrusive place on the property.

Now, don't get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with saving scrap lumber. I have a pile of it myself--a small pile with only good large, pieces and a couple of small ones--and it lives in my garage. What was so disconcerting about Mitch's wood pile was that regularly he would decide it needed to be moved to some other unobtrusive location. Again, not a big deal, right? But when one has moved the wood pile from one location back to the first location and then to a third location, then back to the second location and then back to the first location, etc., it gets to be a bit much.

Chores with Mitch were serious business. And I'm not talking taking out the trash (which NoName and I also did each week). Chores with Mitch were weekend projects. Weekends were not for relaxing, they were for working. And work we did.

When people ask me where I grew up, I joke that I grew up on a work camp. Actually, in retrospect, chores with Mitch are quite funny. When we used to whine and complain, he would say, "Some day you'll thank me for this!" And he was right. I am a good worker to this day, skilled in sundry manual labor tasks, able to wield both hand and power tools comfortably, not afraid of hard work or long hours.

I am indeed a product of my environment.