Who is Important to You?
Mike Rees, AKA The Chimney Guy, was in his shop, staring at his laptop, trying to come up with a good idea for the Newsletter. Perhaps something that wasn’t about chimneys since he had talked about chimneys so often before.
Along about the time he was thinking of watching one of his favorite movies (see previous Newsletter. Let the office staff know if you want a copy of Mike’s Favorite Movies.) Favorite Nephew, aged 12 ½ came waltzing into the shop.
“Hi Uncle Guy! How are you doing?”
The CG looked up with a smile on his face. “Oh, pretty good, actually. How about you?”
“Oh, not too bad, but I’m kind of wrestling with a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Well, a friend of mine’s mom was in a car accident, due to alcohol, and she is now in a coma in the hospital, been there for a couple weeks and my friend isn’t doing too well.”
“And how is this your problem?”
“It’s just that I’ve been trying to figure out how my mom helps me. And then for some reason I started wondering how I actually tried to help her. I think she helps me lots more than I help her. I’ve been chewing on that for a while now.”
The CG looked thoughtful and then pulled out a piece of paper from a file. He handed it to FN.
“Here. You can have this if you want it. It’s something my wife June wrote several years ago, before you were born. She’s a farm girl from Canada. Four brothers and two sisters in her family. Living on a farm in Canada then wasn’t easy. Really cold winters, some years with snow on the ground from September to March. It’s a poem she wrote for Mother’s Day, in 2005. It goes like this.”
To Our Mother
“I had someone come up to me and ask me recently,
How come you all get along so well, a happy family?
I didn’t pause a moment, have to think awhile,
But answered to him naturally, ‘our mother and her smile.’
How do you measure character?
How do you measure class?
A lady teaching virtues.
A dear and bonnie lass.
Even when I was a little kid you kind of let me be.
I’d stomp at the door if I couldn’t get out, wanted to be free.
So you’d bundle me up and explain it to me,
And out I’d go at the age of three.
Remember the year we brushed the north quarter?
(Removing trees and shrubs)
Out there getting a tan.
We grubbed and burned and cut our toes,
And learned to love the land.
Life on a farm was a hands-on way,
With haying, gardening, church and singing.
Eight lunches mom packed up each day,
To school we’d all be bringing.
We didn’t have much money, no ballet or basketball.
Learned fencing of the post hole kind, and painted many a wall.
Mom saw us through all the scrapes, and let us pick our friends.
Thought that would build our character, and it did so in the end.
Plenty of times we could’ve been grounded, but take away privileges you never.
There’s work to be done, survival at hand, you taught us that life is forever.
I try to pass this on, you see, I really do, I try.
You sow a seed, it germinates, you never know where or why.
Perhaps some street kid in LA will turn to his mom and say,
‘I don’t think I’ll do drugs or steal, I’ve found a better way.’”
FN wiped his eyes with a sleeve and turned to CG.
“Wow. That’s great. June wrote that?”
“Yup. She’s got lots of talents.”
“Did you two used to have a small private school?”
“Yup. Right here in LA. We are quite proud of some of our former students, what they are doing now.”
“I bet it was a great school. I wouldn’t mind going to a school like that.”
“Well, when you come here and spend half the day messing around with something you’re interested in, you ARE going to a school like that.
“And it’s free.”
FN looked up at CG in wonder, and then looked around the shop thoughtfully.
May All Your Dreams be Lofty.
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The Chimney Guy, Inc.
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