Climb to the highest point of the barn’s upper hay mow, swing out on the old rope left over from olden days in which a pulley system was used to move loose hay around. Swing as steady and strong as possible and then let go and drop down into the shelled corn gravity wagon on the barn floor below.
See who can lift and carry the heaviest buckets. Spread fingers wide enough to carry two buckets in each hand, just to feel like Superman. Slip, slide and fall on icy cement. Milk cows, standing on concrete for about five hours a day, and then do the cut-and-rush work of sorting hogs, loading the fat hogs onto a livestock truck. Pick up rocks, throwing them on a flat wagon.
Climb the silo. Climb trees. Jump to the ground from the highest point just to prove there’s no scaredy-cat sissy in your bones. Pop wheelies and crash a Schwinn banana-seat bicycle with dramatic flair.
Bale hay, throwing and shoving and pulling and twisting every which way to move a bale that weighs as much as you do. Wrestle a calf that outweighs you by a lot. Run through muck, boots being yanked from your feet as you propel your body through the swamp, searching for signs of wildlife.
Run some more on mud-laden, heavy boots because you think scary, unknown wildlife might have just found you.
Recently I watched my 5-year-old granddaughter swing from a tree limb and then hurl herself from it, landing perfectly. A college-age girl said, “Oh, just watching that makes my knees hurt!” I had been thinking the same thing.
At some point, I am learning, it all sort of catches up. All these years later, I sympathize with all of the people I have known who reached their breaking point along the way. I am ready to wave the white flag of surrender. I might have some sissy bones in me after all.
