When I was young I was jealous of my friends with dads that had neat and orderly garages. Every tool had its place. Sometimes there were hooks and sharpie outlines drawn around each tool so that it was clear to everyone where each one belonged. Their lawnmowers started on the first pull, their driveways were paved and their cars were waxed. I longed for order like that. To take care of things. Our lawnmower sat out all winter and had to be revived every spring. Our driveway had puddles so deep that my brothers and I named them after the Great Lakes and I’m not sure anybody ever put soap to that old Bronco II. It wasn’t until I got older, much older, that I realized that my Dad was also teaching me to care for things, just in a different way. He made me take my pigs out for walks around the property for exercise. Exercising a pig! Can you believe it? I had to shovel the manure and put down fresh straw for them every week. I had to give them baths and clean their ears out with q-tips. I hated doing that stuff, but I loved caring for those pigs. He taught me to care for other animals too and for the river that ran through our backyard and the animals in it. I had to care for my cleats and my glove and my jacket too, because there wouldn’t be another one if they were lost. He taught me that education is something that nobody can ever take away from you. That if my worst problems are money problems, then I’m doing pretty well. That you can hike the same trail 10 times in a row and every time will be different. The light will be different, the wind will be different and I’ll be different. I’ll take all this over tools hanging from peg boards every day of the week.