Coprolite Newsletter, February 2004

I’ve never been what I would call a tough person. I was timid in sports as a boy. As a parent, I was squeamish about bandaging cuts and pulling out slivers. So here I sit dabbing ointment on the exposed meat and bone of my father’s toe, amputated two weeks ago because of diabetes. I’m still not tough.

My grandparents, now THEY were tough. I used to visit the 80-acre farm where they managed to support ten kids.

Grandpa, a wiry 120 pounds soaking wet, could outwork any three ordinary men. Grandma helped with the farm chores, cooked on a wood stove, and hauled water from the pump.

Grandma’s washing machine was a wooden tub with an agitator she worked by pulling a lever back and forth by hand. Then she wrung the clothes through a series of washtubs before hanging them on the line. She did all this with chronic back pain. The back of her housedress had a big hole worn from constantly rubbing the sore spot. That’s toughness.

My parents were pretty tough too. My dad talks about the old days while I wrap gauze around his foot. “Your mother was one of the great ones,” he says. “When I was ready to give up during the Depression, she’d tell me ‘We’ll make it! We’ll make it!’ When I was out of work, she’d bundle you up and take you on the streetcar to go and do housework. I always told her she had more courage than a Prussian sergeant.”

My Dad delivered fuel oil back then, when he could find work. During World War II, teaching first aid for the Red Cross got him interested in science. That led to a menial job washing test tubes in the University of Minnesota Physiology Department. Over the years, he worked his way up to chief administrator and assistant to the department head. He contributed to the pioneering heart research done at the University in those days. It was an incredible achievement for a former truck driver with a high school education.

At times it seems as if each generation of my family is a little softer than the one before. I’m not as tough as my parents and grandparents. Our kids had it easier than my wife and I did, and our grandkids have it the cushiest of all. Is the human race evolving toughness out?

What makes someone tough enough to overcome hardships, make sacrifices, or fight for their country? Do you have to grow a thick skin and become hardened to life?

No. My daily toe bandaging routine teaches me how ordinary wusses can grow tougher.

They simply love someone enough to do whatever’s necessary.

––Wayne Adams
wayne@coprolites.com
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