LEARNING HARD WORK - Final segment (Scoll down for earlier segments)


    

      I was impressed with my ability to escape hard work, and then make a diploma magically appear. So I set my sights on college. 

     While in college, one of my instructors caught me by surprise.  "Mr. Maberry," he said, “Why don’t you become a teacher; you would be great!” 

     “Is this a get-rich-quick scheme?” I asked.

     “Definitely not,” he insisted.  “In fact, you’ll probably have to get a second job.”

     “I’d prefer a get-rich-quick scheme.”

     “Have you thought about running for Congress?”

      After lengthy consideration, I decided to follow Gramps’ advice to avoid “easy money.”  I abandoned my plans for Congress and became an educator, far, far away from the “easy money.”     

     Once in the classroom, I found myself ensnared in a life of hard work; a shadow of my former self.  I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. 

     After toiling for years in education, and narrowly escaping with my life, I joined E.A. (Educator’s Anonymous); a support group for recovering educators. 

     I had almost recovered from those years of hard work, when Lester approached me about writing this book.  “Is this another get-rich-quick scheme?” I asked.

     “No, no,” said Lester.  “You probably won’t even make a dime.”

     “That’s more than I’m making now.  I think I’ll try the book.” 

     The book has finally been written, and there was no escape from hard work.  Gramps would be proud!  And Lester is pleased that I finally took HIS advice…and wrote the book.

New chapter coming...check back soon

 

 

       

LEARNING HARD WORK - Segment 3 (Scroll down for earlier segments)


    

     During the winter, I lost some of my sheer joy of throwing newspapers.  That was probably because it’s hard to throw newspapers when your hands are numb.  I checked my long-term contract to see if it included winter delivery.  It did.  Then I checked to see if it included an “escape clause.”  It didn’t.  I decided I would ask to be traded to the Caribbean. 

     My agent said my contract included a “no trade” clause, with an amendment that said even I couldn’t ask for a trade.  The winter was getting longer.  I considered firing my agent, but I didn’t like the prospect of being homeless.  As the winter cold wore on, I collected my toes and fingers and saved them in a box until they could be re-attached in the spring.   

     After that first winter, I thought about free agency, but my agent advised me against it.  She said I could try it, but I would have to apply as a foster child. 

     I kept waiting for numerous job offers to come pouring in, but there hadn’t even been a leak.  I was beginning to think I might have to look for other work or, preferably, an avenue of escape.

     Finally, my long-term contract as a paperboy expired.   I now had more time to try and corral my wandering mind, as it darted in and out of the classroom.  It was also looking for an avenue of escape---we always seemed to be on the same page.

     One day I found myself graduating from high school.  I have no idea how I found myself there.  Even my teachers were surprised.  ”Wow, I can’t believe you’re here,” they said. 

    “I agree,” I answered.  “It’s one of the great mysteries of my time.”      

     Gramps said my graduating from high school was one of the greatest escape acts he had ever witnessed; almost as good as my escape from hard work.  

LEARNING HARD WORK - Segment 2 (Scroll down for opening segment and earlier chapters)

     With all my friends involved in hard work, and other questionable activities, I focused on developing my mind.  After all, my teachers said it was one of the most undeveloped regions of the world.  I understood why; there was little there to develop.       

     I was particularly interested in the field of statistical analysis.  Each day I would scour the sports pages, as well as the weather page, gathering critical information that was basically useless trivia.  But for those who loved useless trivia, it was very useful.

    I was always trying to share my storehouse of knowledge with Lester, but fearing a withering attack of sports scores and weather facts, he would just run home, board up the house, and call for police protection.  He had no interest in who won an important ballgame, or how many degrees the temperature rose during a two-minute period in Spearfish, South Dakota, in 1943---(On January 22, 1943, the temperature went from four below zero to forty-five above zero in two minutes; a world record.)

     With my knowledge in useless information, I was certain I would land a job with a major sports team, or the national weather service.                  

     While I was waiting for my dream offer, a scout for the local news service called and offered me a not-so-lucrative, long-term contract as a paperboy.  Being concerned about my image as a lazy slacker, I was skeptical.  What would people think, seeing me out in public, working?  But Mom encouraged me to take the job.  She said it would be far better than spending the rest of my life as an orphan. 

 

      My new venture gave me an opportunity to develop my throwing arm for baseball by riding around town on my bike, throwing newspapers onto people’s porches.  Only once did a paper take a bad bounce and end up in a customer’s living room.  The next day I took a bad bounce and ended up in their living room…with money for the broken window.   

 

 

To be continued...check back soon.

 

 

    

LEARNING HARD WORK - Opening segment (Scroll down for previous chapters)

     As a young boy, I was fascinated with magic tricks.  I was hoping to learn enough to make algebra disappear or, at least, turn my teacher, Mr. Rottenweiler, into a beautiful princess.  If I could have accomplished the latter, I may have attempted calculus and physics.  As it turned out, the only thing I made disappear was a nice coat I had gotten for Christmas.   It turned out to be one of my more expensive acts.        

     I also developed a keen appreciation for the Arts.   I was especially fond of the Art of Escape.  Watching someone set themselves free, after being bound in chains, was very impressive; much like watching someone escape from algebra.    

     Gramps wasn’t impressed.  “My stars, anybody can do that,” he said.  “I think you’re a far better escape artist; the way you can escape hard work.  How do you do it?”

     “It’s a secret, Gramps.  If I shared it with everyone, there would be no one left to do hard work.”

     “Goooood Gracious, I don’t know about that boy,” Gramps muttered to himself, as he walked away.

     Gramps had taught his children the value of hard work and he tried to impress it upon me, although I wasn’t all that impressed.      

     Having learned hard work as a child growing up in Alabama, Mom loved sharing her experiences with me.  “When I was your age I was picking cotton all day in the hot sun, while watching for poisonous snakes,” she’d ramble on.  She wanted me to experience that same joy.  But I was perfectly content pulling the covers over my head, and going back to sleep.   Besides, there was no cotton or poisonous snakes where we lived.  That was fine with me, because I didn’t think I could pick cotton and watch for poisonous snakes at the same time.           

      Still determined to have me learn the joy of hard work, mom waited for a hot summer day, and then informed me we would be picking peas at a local pea farm.  After a day of picking peas in the hot sun, she informed me we wouldn’t be coming back.  She never did say why, but I know it wasn’t the bending over in the hot sun all day and being paid the same wages as a volunteer.  She probably missed the poisonous snakes.

     After my brief run-in with hard work, we parted ways amiably. 

     Concerned that I might fall prey to “easy money,” Gramps warned me about get-rich-quick schemes.  I reassured him that I wasn’t going to Alabama to pick cotton.  Poisonous snakes that enjoy leg of cotton picker weren’t worth the money.        

     A short time later, hard work called.  I was offered a job bucking hay, which meant picking up hay bales twice my size and throwing them onto the bed of a speeding truck. I almost took the job, but in a dream the night before, I was warned it was a get-rich-quick scheme and that I should flee to South America.  With no money and no car, I would have to flee on foot.  The closest I could get to South America was the south side of our house, where I had my secret underground bunker.

     With no money, the location was perfect, because I was on a major supply route…the bunker to the refrigerator.  But I wasn’t sure how long I would be able to hide, since the bunker was a well-known secret.  Besides, I was certain it was under surveillance by Farley, our local sheriff. 

     Hopefully, I would be able to hang on until I was offered something more legitimate.