How to be a parent with a shovel and raise smart kids
“I like that!”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes, yes! I like that one!” My twelve-year-old daughter sang along as she pointed to the assortment of shovels that hung on the pegboard wall of the retail chain’s hardware store. I paid for the shovel and we headed out to the parking lot.
The drive home was entertaining and lively, ending our perfect dad-daughter lunch date. We got home safe and sound. When we walked into our house, I asked her to put on some “walking clothes.” These were keywords. They meant that we were going to take a walk in the great bay that graced our porch view.
My work as a traveling ER nurse had taken me and my family to many places, but settling down by the San Francisco Bay was our favorite. Due to this traveling lifestyle, my wife and I thought about homeschooling our daughter and her younger brother. We had all spent many hours walking along the edge of the San Francisco Bay, but this walk was going to be different.
My daughter had hit a wall with her education. She lacked concentration and she had lost momentum. Always a good student, she now she could hardly get him to read without friction and conflict. The matter had reached a breaking point.
No threat, barter, or negotiation had changed a thing. Considering the harsh discipline of my youth, I was desperate to find a way to motivate her. Not in the rigid posture of shaking a clenched fist but with my knee bent offering an open hand of understanding.
Then I had an idea a month before our wonderful dad-daughter lunch date. While preparing a lesson plan on creative writing, I came across an old proverb. He said: “A pencil is lighter than a shovel.” I realized that my daughter did not understand this concept.
After all, it had been that way for me. I spent the entirety of my thirteenth summer working alongside my father as he built a church from scratch in a small North Carolina seaside town. I missed the job when the project was completed, but realized that kind of work didn’t appeal to me. The experience was one of the reasons I went to college. I had to teach my daughter the difference between a pencil and a shovel.
Jumping into my long strides, he carried our new shovel. We had been walking about 15 minutes when we came to a clearing. Then, we went off the beaten path and sat on a long fallen tree trunk.
While she remained seated, I got up and measured a 3 foot by 3 foot area on the floor. I then picked up a nearby tree branch off the ground and marked a length of 3 feet. Finally, I stuck the shovel into the center of the measured square floor and announced the lesson plan for that day.
I lovingly told her, “You will use this shovel and dig a hole that is 3 feet by 3 feet by 3 feet. Take as long as you like. When you are done, we will walk back home.”
I sat on the old tree as she went out and grabbed the wooden handle. Her face betrayed many questions, but it was time for her to dig. As she turned over the first shovelful of fresh grass, I took a paperback book out of my pocket and began reading to myself. Silent.
I’m sure the next hour and a half seemed longer to you than it did to me that July afternoon in California. From time to time, walkers passed by, looking at us curiously only to continue their walk. “Why is there a grown man sitting on a log reading a book while this young woman digs a deep hole?” their faces asked.
The answer came after I measured the excavation three feet deep. I took my daughter out of her new tool and asked her to sit on the log to rest. I started to fill in the hole again. Sweat glistened on her face and arms in the daylight. Her breathing was heavy. She had all of her attention.
Lovingly I said, “I don’t care how a person chooses to make a living for themselves and their family, as long as it’s legal and doesn’t harm innocent people. I believe in honest, hard work. However, you had better make sure.” of knowing what kind of hard work you want to do. Are you going to choose the pencil? Or are you going to choose the shovel?
My daughter was quiet and retrospective the rest of the day. She may not have been talking to me. It was a risk she had to take.
With the next morning came my apprehension. Which one would she choose? She greeted me at the breakfast table with the same beautiful smile that I look forward to every morning. We talked about the event the day before over a couple of bowls of cornflakes. She told me that she understood what she was trying to do and she promised to forgive me, as soon as she stopped hurting her back.
He began his studies and never looked back.
Four years later, he attends public school and is flourishing. She averages reading 2-3 books a month, has a GPA above 4.15, and is the student editor of her high school newspaper.
I keep his shovel close by and pull it out when I need to dig a hole or two. She just smiles and walks away from her. She maybe she will give it to him as a gift one day. Maybe the day she graduates from college.