Simple Lessons
by Oralya Garza Ueberroth

My father owned two pairs of shoes. The first pair, the one I most commonly remember him wearing, were stiff, steel-toed, and often covered in a mix of mud and concrete. They were hard, and rugged, and well worn because each day they left the house at four or five a.m. They headed to some unfinished highway to either saw through the layers of a road in disrepair, or to shovel and smooth a sidewalk in one of our Michigan cities. He worked for weeks at a time in the Upper Peninsula, digging large drains, occasionally coming across a large chunk of copper from the rich earth. He worked in central Michigan removing bricks hidden beneath layers of asphalt, and then he shoveled new cement into place, and patiently made it smooth with a trowel. When he finished, he and his co-workers would flip a coin to see who would be the lucky person to put the "final stamp" on the work. He was a cement finisher — and it was a matter of pride, achievement, accomplishment for all of those hard working men, to place that "final stamp" on fine work that never even bore their names — it bore the company name — and you can still see some of those "final stamps" today.

The second pair of shoes my father owned were leather moccasins lined on the inside with remarkably soft sheepskin. When he came home, usually long after dark, with only enough energy to make it into "his" chair, my job became to loosen the stiff, dirty laces, and remove those boots. The boots were banished for a few hours each night to a small little rug by the door while my father eased his feet into those comfortable moccasins that somehow said, "You're finished for today. This time belongs to you."

What I learned was that hard work is noble, and empowering, and sometimes — often times — anonymous. The value of the work is not diminished simply because your name is not on it. I learned that you go to work everyday, even when the days are rainy and gray, or you're not "feeling" up to it. I learned that the moments of "coming home" — those moments of softness, comfort, and relaxation; moments when the time truly "belongs to me" — are better and more rewarding when I have earned them through meeting my obligations, doing my best in every attempt, and following through.

The "hard" moments make the "soft" ones more savory, the way a glass of cool water tastes better after a long hike on a very hot day. They have more value — more meaning.

I learned that one moment is connected to another, the way that one scene connects another in a play. We need to be conscious that we are continually writing new moments of "hardness" or "softness." We have to be very strategic about our plots to prevent the hard moments from being all there is.

I learned all of this by watching one inspiring, yet simple, man who only owned two pairs of shoes. A man whose name you do not know, who never made the news, who didn't graduate from high school and barely knew his father. A man who, for the most part, led a hardworking, hard playing, anonymous sort of life. He was generous with his laughter, and loyal to his friends.

He said to me one thing that I will never forget, though the passing years seem to erase many of the memories I try greedily to clench like a child's fisted penny. He said, "People are not disposable. Just because you don't get what you want, need, or expect from them, you don't throw them away. You learn what you can ask for." And I have tried, not always successfully, to apply that wisdom — knowing that we are all "feeling" our way through the hard and the soft moments — never really outgrowing the 6-year-old value of that penny, simply assigning the value to bigger things.

Above all, I have learned that the level of contentment or joy I experience is not reliant upon the recognition I receive, the impact I make, or how big a fish I am in any pond in which I happen to swim. Those things only add to what is already there. Feeling valued is an inside job. I have influence, and control, and power over myself; I can choose whether or not my experiences will weaken me or make me stronger. I am content, excited, and even relieved that I have the opportunity to live a simple life with simple lessons, anonymously.

Oralya Garza Ueberroth is the mother of two remarkable children, writes poetry, music, fantasy, fiction, articles, memoirs, complaints, and strategic shopping lists. Read more of her work at www.authorsden.com.