When I was a kid growing up, I could have learned some of my best life lessons from my grandparents, each of whom modeled a trait or trademark to make the journey easier, richer, sweeter. As it turns out, I went two for four — not a bad batting average in baseball, but a little less impressive in real life.
From my Grandpa Nimmer, I learned the joy of hard work, as in manual labor: getting your hands dirty, working up a sweat, mopping your brow, taking a break and looking at what you did. The old boy worked as a brakeman on the railroad, survived the depression and provided for his family. He was thin as a rail, maybe about 135 pounds, 5'7", usually wearing overalls and carrying a corncob pipe in the breast pocket.
As far as I can remember, he never took
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