Thanks, Dad

A long time ago, Dad loaned me a scraper.

I was doing some plastering or something. I think. I don't remember. But I needed some tools and Dad said I could use his.

I got the work done and kept the tools at my house, thinking after a while I'd get them returned to Dad.

I never did get them back. Dad died in August 2000, and I still had his tools at my house.

I kept them and used them. The others, one by one, wore out or fell apart and had to be discarded. But the scraper. I still have it. Just used it today, in fact, to help me pull up some loose tiles in the kitchen floor, then to mix and apply some thinset so I could replace the tiles.

Every time I use this scraper, I think of Dad. The scraper was worn and rusted when I got it from him, and I've kept it in that worn, rusty state. But it's still useful. Whenever I plaster, or work with tile, or paint, it's right there with me, doing all sorts of useful things.

I'm grateful to a Dad who helped me learn how to work, though I'm sure there were times he rolled his eyes at the results of my work or wanted to stop his ears at all the complaining I did about having to work.

Maybe one day I'll be like this scraper -- like Dad: A bit worn, rusty, and showing my age, but always there when useful work needs to be done and always doing it without complaint.

Thanks, Dad.