Millions of peaches. Peaches for free.

I met a man last week who said “the best job I ever had” was on a GM repair line where he spent the day doing crossword puzzles and sudoku. Then he went home and patted himself on the back for another day well done.

It reminded me of the best job I've ever had when I was a kid. It lasted all summer and, near the last part of August, I got paid in peaches. As many as I could eat.

Back then, the arrival of Colorado peaches meant the summer season of food harvesting was nearly done. We spent our summers swimming and bike riding like everyone else, but after the work was finished.

We had corn to shuck. And green beans to snap. Apples to peel. And tomatoes to slice. Blueberries to pick. And weeds to rip out by the hair.

And when we were done with that? The food had to be preserved for winter because food doesn’t preserve itself.

That corn was cut off the cob and frozen. The green beans were canned. The tomatoes went into homemade salsa which would burn your eyes for days, even when you were sure you kept your hands away from your face.

But when it was all done, we ate like kings. And slept like the dead.

I know work is now considered a bad word. Getting something for nothing is considered the ultimate achievement. But, without the labor, I don't think that Colorado peach we waited all summer for would have ever been as sweet.

Do. Then know. It's not a chicken or egg thing.

© Kmitu | Dreamstime Stock Photos

You learn how to wash dried egg yoke off a plate by washing dried egg yoke off a plate.

So I'm no Plato. But Plato was no Socrates. Wrap your mind around that one.

It's difficult to grasp, this concept of "doing," until there's a dirty dish in your hand. Then, as if having an out of body experience because you're too bored to be in your body, you realize you've devised a well run system of washing dishes without a single executed strategy. Or survey. Or flow chart.

You wash dishes like a gangsta. And there isn't a single milk ring at the bottom of a glass to tell you otherwise.

If given the option, most of us would skip the stuck on grease and go straight to the streamlined system. Who wouldn't opt to start with greatness instead of evolve there? Who doesn't want to arrive at Park Place without passing Go?

That isn't always the option, however. In fact, it rarely is. Maybe even never. All greatness takes work, takes doing that thing, practicing that thing, revising, reconfiguring, restructuring that thing, all while doing whatever that thing is some more. Winston Churchill once said, "Difficulties mastered are opportunities won." I wonder how many times he rewrote that? I wonder how many times I'll rewrite this? At present, we're hitting around nine.

In the world of marketing, the term "expert in your field" is tossed around like bangs in need of a trim. Every marketer wants to make you an expert and every you wants to be one.

But are you sure?

Years ago, while attending a national dance competition (as a spectator only), a fellow dancer from my class leaned over during a professional couple's spotlight performance and irritably remarked, "Why can't I do that? I want to dance like him!"

I asked him, "Are you sure? Because he's been dancing since grade school. Dancing is his job. He practices everyday with his partner. You can dance like him eventually, but you'll have to live like him to do it."  

He opted for no.

Knowledge may come by studying. But expertise comes by doing. Like my dish washing skills.

Every morning, I face down that drying egg yoke. And every day, I know exactly how to handle it. It took a few years, a few discoveries, like the miracle of presoak. There were dark days when I switched from over easy to scrambled. But I came back. I fried again. I faced the gall of that grip on my china, and I picked up my scrub brush.

I did the dishes. And now I know how.

Dear God, thank you for all the hard times.

Originally posted at LightQuestMedia.com/blog

William Bradford had a job no one would want.  It paid little, as in nothing, and required much. The work environment was hazardous.  The people disorganized.  The supplies low.  Overtime came with the position but perks did not.

Who was William Bradford?  He was a pilgrim.  When you think of Thanksgiving, the buckled shoes, the big hat, you’re thinking specifically about William Bradford.  He cut the turkey, so to speak.
But a meal is not his story.

White or dark meat

 

Bradford led a life of danger, sacrifice, and experiment.  His journey hard.  His life a story not for the faint of heart but strong in spirit.  And it’s never been more relevant than at this very moment in your life.
Here’s why.
On August 1, 1620, the Mayflower set sail with Bradford on board.  And that’s where our story begins, too.  It was the beginning of a great experiment.  There were 102 souls on board, 40 of which were Pilgrims, led by Bradford, fleeing for a place to worship God without threat of imprisonment or death.
They were seeking freedom.  What they found was a wilderness.

Turkey with all the trimmings

 

Only half of the Pilgrims survived the first winter.  Bradford’s wife not among them.  They not only had to stay alive, they had to create a new civilization.  The elements weren’t in their favor.
The famous Thanksgiving meal did eventually happen.  And there may have even been a turkey. Probably fish.  Historians say no pie, since they didn’t have butter or an oven.  But pumpkin probably made a showing, the guts of it hallowed out and filled again with milk, honey and spices before roasting the gourdes to make custard.
It was a meal of thanks to God.  A meal of bounty shared with their new neighbors.  And it was a moment to reflect on the work God had done so far and all the work left to do.

Pass the Potatoes

Celebrating Thanksgiving is a tradition for most.  We know the story of the pilgrims and the Indians, the meal and a prayer.  We nod at the idea of two cultures eating harmoniously.  Then we turn on the football game or take a nap.
The most shocking aspect of the historic meal, however, isn’t the meal.  It isn’t even the English pilgrims and native Indians sitting down to feast.  Maybe the most shocking part of the whole story is the fact anyone gave thanks at all.  Anyone, including, or even especially, William Bradford.

An Extra Side of Gravy

 

Bradford had never had an easy life.  As a young child, he was orphaned.  His developmental years were spent being tossed from relative to relative.  Before he was old enough to vote, at least in this country, he was exiled from his own country.
In the Netherlands, he barely survived as a textile worker.  Even there, Separatists weren’t free from harassment, many of them attacked with rocks and their tracts destroyed.  By 30, he would be on a boat with his wife, forced to leave his four-year-old son behind, and set sail in hopes of living free to worship God.  His wife wouldn’t survive the year.  He would barely survive himself.
Yet, on that historic Thanksgiving day, Bradford would sit with his community and give a heartfelt thanks to God for all He had done.  He would thank God for his blessings.  Let’s repeat that: He would thank God.

Who Wants Pie?

 

Bradford is described by some historians as having incredible stamina and vision.  He was versatile, detail driven, and gifted in managing people.  These are the personality traits credited for the Mayflower Compact.  For helping him shift the failing collectivist form of governance into the free market commerce system.  For leading to the successful colony and the Great Puritan Migration.  For serving him well as he served the colony for 36 years as governor.
He wasn’t born with these attributes.  He developed them.
Most likely, his constantly shifting childhood taught him how to adapt to unstable environments.  Maybe always being the outsider in the house honed his people skills.  Being alone so early in life may have been what drew him so fervently to a more relational, more intimate fellowship with Jesus Christ.  And maybe all his struggles, all that he had survived already, taught him that the hard times are the necessary part of the journey.
They teach what is unknown.  They burn away what is idle.  They sharpen the soft spots.  They make us capable of sailing across the ocean, if that’s what life requires, to populate a nation not yet formed.
Struggles give us tools.  And then they give us the skills, the perseverance, and the wisdom to use those tools.
So this Thanksgiving, as you give thanks for all the visible blessings in your life, consider saying thanks for the more hidden treasures – the ones that only look like struggles.

What about Watermelon man?

John says we're soft.

He didn't mention anyone by name. It seemed like a general statement, i.e. everyone. This he told me under the direct summer sun while shining each watermelon in the back of his truck.

He might have a point. At this moment, I'm sitting in my 76-degree home and eating apple sauce, which is the equivalent of apples post-chew. Before I even sat down to write this, I changed from a dress to shorts, so I could get cooler. Then I poured a glass of cold water, so I could be more refreshed. And turned on my ceiling fan, so I could labor under a perpetual breeze.

Too soft? Yeah, okay. You've got me there.

I've driven past John nearly every day for weeks. Through the excessive heat warnings, the temperature map plastered on Drudge, the dire predictions of death's imminence if you step outside, there's John. Sitting off SH 97. Waiting to grab customers leaving Sand Springs and heading toward Sapulpa. And hoping they might fancy a fresh watermelon.

In the, aghast, triple digit temperatures.

When I asked him how he handled the heat, he simply said, in this very country boy voice, "I'm use to it. I didn't have an air-conditioner until 2009."

And there you have it. John's tough.

He is, by the way. Quite so. I don't know if he's a man of integrity or honor, of intelligence or information, he could be all of those things. Or none of them. I only spoke to him for a quarter of an hour, and that included getting interrupted by customers and losing my pen twice.

He is, however, a worker. When I asked him why he does it, he simply said, "You've got to do something."

That you do.

John use to lay cement. He still does to fill in the payroll gaps. It's work few people want because, and we come back to this, they're soft. And he isn't. Not a point he makes for vainglory sake. Just a reason why he can always find work.

He sells watermelon in the summer, hay in the winter and spring and fall, and works a few cows in between time. That all came after a short duration of hauling. It didn't, however, pay the bills and so he had to move on.

No nest egg. No unemployment benefits. He just moved on to whatever work was before him.

"Are you making money selling these?" I asked this after one of John's customers asked me if I like watermelons and I accidentally answered honestly. No, not really. I should have used more creativity to get out of that one.

Yes. He's making money. He's sold 1,025 watermelons in five weeks. Or, another way to look at it, he and his business partner have sold 38,700 pounds of watery fruit. To put that in other terms, John has sold the weight equivalent of 500 books, four SUVs, and two killer whales.

That's a lot of fruit.

He drives 350 miles one way to Texas to pick them up, and then all the way back to sit in the brutal heat. Within weeks, or even one, John says there won't be any more watermelon. So he's got only days to turn his last load around.

"If you'd wear a green-stripped t-shirt, we could sell these in an hour," he told me.

Aww, shucks. Thanks. But today I wore red.

John is one of those rare breads in American culture. He works without complaint and does whatever needs to be done. And doesn't believe life is unfair, he's been short-changed, and someone owes him recompense.

Though, if you wanted to buy him a cold beer, he'd drink it.

"I have to do something."

He didn't take my compliments easily. I admire that kind of tenacity, that kind of work ethic, that kind of pioneer spirit. When I told him I saw that in him, he just did more hemming and hawing and a little grin here or there.

"So, what do you do with your down time out here?"

"I just sit," he said, back to polishing those money makers. "I figure out when I'm going to go bankrupt and how long before I'm living out here in my truck." Then he laughs. "Nah, I'm just kidding. I'm going to be just fine."