During the summers in Newburgh, once a week my grandfather would take me on his frozen-food and ice cream delivery route. I was his unsalaried “assistant” and I would have been happy to work for free with Pop every weekday and twice on Sundays.
I was nine or ten and these trips were a special treat for me, a blessed escape from the boredom of home sweet home. Pop and I would be up at four in the morning packing his truck, and before five we’d be on our way. Yahoo! Who could tell what ice cream–delivery adventures were just beyond the Newburgh city limits?
You might think that driving a delivery truck six days a week isn’t the most awe-inspiring job in the world.
Not so.
Every morning, my grandfather would head over the Storm King Mountain toward West Point, and he’d be singing at the top of his voice, his absolutely terrible voice, his singing-in-the-shower-when-nobody’s-home voice.
This big, clunky, slightly tippy delivery truck of his would be bouncing all over the road, and he’d sing “Oh! Susanna” or “(Put Another Nickel In) Music, Music, Music” or “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.” Awful songs that were just perfect for his awful voice.
And he told me this. “Jim,” he said, “when you grow up, I don’t care if you become a truck driver like me, or a famous surgeon, or the president” (stranger things have happened, Pop). “Just remember that when you go over the mountain to work in the morning, you’ve got to be singing.”
And I do.
I hope the same for you.
There’s a sign on the desk in my office. It says YOU RETIRE FROM WORK, YOU DON’T RETIRE FROM PLAY.
I think that’s enough stories for now.
It’s getting late, almost eleven, and I’m still in my office, writing. I guess you’re still reading. The roar of the Atlantic and the wind from the northeast is particularly loud tonight. Kind of soothing, though. Jack called from New York earlier, as he does most days. That’s pretty cool. We’re lucky to have him.
Soon I’ll head off to bed, where Sue and I will hold hands until we fall asleep.