By Sarah (Living Between the Lines)
If there was one thing that my Granddaddy really believed in, it was hard work. If you don’t believe me, just ask my Dad. My Dad spent his entire honeymoon (in mid-August 1972) helping his new father-in-law dig the footings for the little one-bedroom/one-bathroom house that my Grandparents lived in down at the coast.
When we seven grandkids came along, Granddaddy tried his hardest to pass that work ethic down to us. Each trip to Grandmama and Granddaddy’s included some kind of project—cutting grass, raking leaves, planting flowers, painting my great-grandmother’s house, installing outdoor lights between the garage and the house….
We kids learned quickly to never make the mistake of saying that we were bored. Granddaddy had a large pile of bricks that we used to climb and play on. One day when one of us remarked that we were bored, Granddaddy made us move the entire pile of bricks to the opposite side of the yard, two bricks at a time. When we’d gotten the entire pile moved, he looked at it and said, “No, I think I liked it better where it was. Move it back.” So huffing and puffing, we carried them all back, two at a time.
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