That’s Why They Call It Work

My dad. Just like I remember him.

Chapter 11

My dad believed in a number of things.

He believed in holding his five sons accountable for living up to some pretty high standards.

He believed he could never miss one of his children’s athletic or school events. Never.

He believed the number “5” truly was his lucky number. Why else would God give him five sons? If he had to place a bet, you knew he would somehow work that number into the wager.

He believed in charity. Especially behind-the-scenes charity. I found this out when I learned, by accident, he had been paying the high school tuition for one of my brother’s best friends for years. But the school principal had to promise to keep my dad’s identity as the benefactor a secret.

He believed in good grades.

He believed in playing hard.

He believed in respect and a host of other principles that established the framework for a loving, supportive family.

My dad’s beliefs were simply a part of his DNA. They were not to be challenged or questioned.

The only thing I remember challenging my dad about was his belief I shouldn’t have a serious summer job until I was a college student.

And that led to the only showdown I ever had with Dad.

I was finishing my senior year in high school and I wanted a summer job. I wanted to make some money for college. I begged him to let me apply for a position at a clothing store at our local mall. Or maybe wait tables at a restaurant. The options for summer work in my hometown were pretty limited, but I knew I could find something.

Anything.

But my dad dug in his heels. He simply didn’t want me to have a summer job. His position made no sense to me. He had worked odd jobs throughout his youth. He was a newspaper boy. He delivered ice for ice coolers back in the “olden” days. He seemed to have an endless string of entertaining stories about the jobs he had held throughout his youth.

But he was not about to let me work.

“You’ll be working the rest of your life,” he told me. “Enjoy your summer.”

I tried every possible angle with my dad to convince him otherwise.

But he held firm.

“How much could you possibly make this summer, Jim?” he asked me.

I ran some quick numbers in my head and told him I could probably make $1,000 during the summer if I was lucky.

“And you know you have to pay taxes on that, right?”

“Uh, sure. I know that,” I replied unconvincingly.

The next thing I knew, my dad was pulling out his checkbook and writing me a $1,000 check.

“Trust me on this,” he said. “Enjoy your summer. Do this for me. You’re going to be working the rest of your life. Have fun. You’ll never regret it.”

“Dad, you don’t need to . . .” I started to protest.

He wouldn’t let me finish my sentence.

“Just take it. Next summer you can work. And you can work every summer after that. But this summer, give yourself this gift. Make that your job.”

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I graduated from college in June at the age of twenty-one. I moved to Chicago the week after graduation with what I thought was a job with a highly reputable architectural firm. However, the day I showed up for my first day of work—as scheduled—I learned my position had already been eliminated. Bummer.

But it was summertime. And I was in downtown Chicago. Life wasn’t all that bad.

So, while I didn’t have a job, I did have a very fun summer.

Much to my dad’s relief, however, I secured a real job in September. And I never stopped working after that.

Consequently, by the time I had surgery, I had been working for twenty-two years, eight months, and fourteen days.

My dad was right. In the blink of an eye, I truly had been working the rest of my life.

During those last few days before surgery, I began to realize something as I was splitting up my work responsibilities and giving things away. I realized work truly had become my life. It defined me.

For years, I loved my career. And I loved the people I worked with. I was lucky. I was in the right place at the right time. I was fortunate to have others who constantly opened doors for me. I was paid more than I was worth. What more could I want?

But I really knew my heart wasn’t in it any more.

I’d often tease that, in my next life, I wanted to be the guy at the beachside hut selling T-shirts and renting bikes to tourists. And I wanted to be a writer. People would always laugh, as would I. But the truth was I meant it. I wanted something different.

However, I learned how to suppress the inner voice speaking to me because there was always the lure of a paycheck around the corner.

There were so many things going through my head as my surgery rapidly approached. My career. My family. My priorities. My life.

What would I be remembered for?

Perhaps the gift Karen described to me was going to involve wrestling all of these issues down one at a time until they made sense. Maybe I’d come out on the other side with clear direction and purpose. My head was spinning.

It had been twenty-seven years since I was a high school graduate begging my dad to let me get that summer job.

Now, here I was, a forty-four-year-old man working through the reality of having my first entire summer off in years. I could still hear my dad’s voice telling his seventeen-year-old son to enjoy his summer.

“Give yourself this gift. Make that your job.”

My dad’s words stirred something in me. Only this time around, they weren’t an order.

They were words of wisdom.