The Joy Of Manual Labor

I started working when I was 8 years old. Growing up in Texas, 'working' meant serving as slave labor for my grandfather; you name the menial task and I probably did it. Of course there was mowing grass, raking leaves, edging lawns, pruning roses, and picking vegetables. But there was also shingling roofs, pouring cement, tilling the earth, turning the compost pile, cutting down trees, and weeding beds of okra, which is such a revolting task I challenge anyone who hasn't done it to try it and tell me that's not the worst job ever.
   I moved to Pasadena in February, 2002. Since that time I have not done one lick of manual labor. Not even a tiny bit. Sure, I've cleaned my apartment, done the dishes, and killed spiders, but none of that counts. There's no lifting involved, no bending, no real cursing, not the creative kind of epithets that seem more appropriate outdoors. I missed working outside, but it's kind of like missing the taste of some familiar food you can't get in a foreign country; after so long you don't even remember what the thing was really like in the first place.
   Well, this morning I reminded myself. I just finished four hours of manual labor around my mother's house. I wasn't certain I would remember what to do, but when I got that hoe in my hand things just fell into place. It was like old times, walking the yard, raking leaves, getting my hands really dirty and letting them stay that way for hours. And I'm a little sore too, across my back and down my legs, but it's a good sore, the kind of ache that lets you know you've accomplished something.
   Maybe when I get back to Pasadena I'll become a gardener or something. At least then I'll have something to show for all my work.