As I found the last parking spot in the lot behind the school and jumped out of my pickup, I heard the obnoxious blast of the morning bell, reminding me and the handful of students still speed walking to the door that school was now in session. I’d done the best I could to get there on time – the usual stuff like feeding early and speeding through a school zone – and I was about as close to on time as I ever am, so I counted it as a win.
I trotted down the long school hallway and found my way to the office, where a smiling and empathetic secretary directed me to my assigned room. The occasion was career day for seventh and eighth graders at Declo Junior High, and I was just one of a couple dozen community members who were there to help share a little about career opportunities within each of our personal realms of expertise. As president of the county Farm Bureau board, I’d rounded up and coerced a couple fellow board members into giving 10-minute presentations to several groups of students about their respective farming, ranching and feedlot operations.
Despite what you might expect, the kids, for the most part, held their rowdiness in check, displaying an impressive level of attentiveness and interest in what we had to say. It, of course, helped that a good share of them were farm and ranch kids who, despite their weak attempts at adolescent indifference, couldn’t help but be excited to talk about all things ag related. It’s just how some country kids are naturally wired.
I was mostly there in just a supporting role, so I meandered around and listened for a spell to some of the other presenters. I was duly impressed by the willingness of so many good folks who volunteered their mornings to the project. Nobody was really trying to recruit or aggressively persuade the kids in one direction or the other. The vibe was mostly one of community and cooperation.
Although it was a mostly innocuous comment from a well-meaning presenter, who no doubt uttered it with only the best of intentions, I heard only one objectionable comment the entire day: “Find something you really love to do, and you’ll never have to work a day in your life.”
Now, old-school chalkboards are mostly nonexistent in classrooms these days, but a chill ran up my spine as if I were running my own fingernails across a dull green, 10-foot chalkboard when I heard the phrase. It’s no secret to those who know me that I am not a big fan of that sentiment. One could even go so far as to say I loathe the very notion that it presents. I suppressed my natural instinct to burst through the door and race to the front of the room to wrest the laser pointer from the meek and well-intentioned volunteer.
Part of me felt it was my divine duty to intervene and rescue these naive youngsters from such heresy. The other, more reasonable and rational part of me gained control of my senses and restrained me from making an embarrassing public spectacle of myself. And I suppose it is possible that, despite my confidence in my opinions, it may actually be possible to attain a state of mind where disbelief is forever suspended, and a person can actually go through life without knowing the drudgeries of work. In the end, I figured it was a process that each kid would have to experience individually. Any noble and flamboyant intervention on my part would probably do little more than make me look arrogantly insane.
Still, I believe I’ll always stick to my guns on the matter. Maybe the anxiety-induced adrenaline rush I experienced in that classroom was a consequence of an exhausting week of doing what I loved. Just that very day, in order to (almost) make it to the school on time, my day had begun in the dark predawn hours of a cold Idaho spring morning by kicking a couple of ton bales off an old flatbed truck to a herd of hungry cows.
I’d spent the prior day pretending to be a farmer, servicing pivots in preparation for irrigation season. And, of course, in the process, I discovered that a drive motor for the gearbox of one of the pivot towers had given up the ghost, necessitating some mechanic work. Pretending to be a mechanic makes me want to pretend I’m a farmer. I’m honestly not very good at either job, so it was lucky for me I was doing something I loved. Earlier in the week, my day was spent hunting for and sorting bulls and repairing fences that were mangled by the bulls’ playful-turned-serious fighting. In the process of messing with the idiot bulls, I lamed a horse, which reminded me that I had a pen full of shoeless horses, each in need of a set of irons. I was not yet in horseshoeing shape, but since I’m too cheap and/or broke to hire a shoer, I was soon going to get that way.
You know, I’m not really sure exactly what I would have told the eager young future professionals had I not restrained myself and had, instead, jumped to the front of the classroom and made a scene. I am fairly certain that they’ll be disappointed if they expect to avoid the realities and weariness of work in a pilgrimage to find something they love. If avoiding work is a requirement to truly doing what you love, I submit that quest will always be in vain.
I hope those kids will learn to work hard and learn to love the fruits of hard work rather than expect to avoid or even love their work. There’s nothing wrong with experiencing aching muscles, tired bones and a weary mind. Those are the things that help you appreciate the goodness and joy that can be the most valuable compensation of good, honest work. I think a more appropriate admonition to anyone, and to young folks in particular, is to work hard at whatever you do. If you do that, you just may wind up loving what you do.
