Hanging on my wall as decor is a collection of old, sentimental tools that once belonged to my dad and grandfather. Some of my favorite items are my grandfather's old Magno-Level and his old Ka-Bar Rigging Knife he used as a sailor in WW2.
My favorite tool is an old wood saw that belonged to my dad. It has weathered time like an old cowboy's face who can't hide the years of hard work. The wooden handle's finish is nearly rubbed away. An empty hole and faded ring mark where a screw came loose and lost in the snow one night. A thin patina of rust blankets blade which still hangs as straight as an arrow today. Its teeth have chewed through many cords of wood in all types of weather.
As I let my mind wander, memories gush like an open floodgate. 30 years ago this saw and I worked together to keep the family warm on the cold, eastern plains of Colorado. Our family's means were meager when my dad was injured. Our chainsaw beyond repair and our circular saw broken, I was relegated to the handsaw for a season. The warm dining room was the favored place to hang out in the winter as the hungry wood-burning stove was stoked by my hand-cut firewood.
This old saw taught me many lessons. Winter comes on its own schedule and some more severe than others. Oak is harder to cut than pine, but it also gives more heat. Cutting wood is more about technique than brute force, but brute force is sometimes necessary. A skinny 120lb teenager can cut enough firewood to keep a family of six warm. The most important lesson this saw taught me was that I'm capable of more than I realized. These lessons shaped me to become who I am today.
I don't believe that I would have pushed through and overcome some of life's later challenges had I not had the character pressed into me through hard work as a kid. Although I didn't always have new clothes or the latest trends, I had three square meals and I knew the meaning of hard work. With limited resources, I could fix anything that broke down or needed repair. I became very confident, competent and independent.
Today as I raise a family, I'm faced with a concern. Have I given my kids a saw of their own? Have I equipped them to know the meaning of hard work? If we give our kids a better life than what we had, are we doing them a disservice? If we provide a comfortable lifestyle for our kids, what's their character catalyst? How do we as parents address the conundrum between giving our kids a better life than we had while still providing character-building experiences?
That piece lived on my LinkedIn page for years — written when the question of character was still open, when the harvest was still ahead of me. Now the season has turned. My kids are grown, and what they've become reaches past anything I thought to ask for. No father shapes a child alone — it takes more hands than that, more voices, more hard winters. But I showed up. Through the long years and the difficult stretches, I was present. Looking back, I believe that mattered more than almost anything else I did.
I can see myself in each of them — not a mirror image, but something deeper, like the same grain running through different cuts of wood. I watch them move through their lives — their work, their loves, their chosen callings — with a pride that doesn't need to say anything out loud. Like me, they're comfortable with calluses and the weight of honest effort, at home in a workshop or elbow-deep in something that needs fixing. But they've each grown into abilities and passions that run well beyond anything I could have drawn up. They've outworked the blueprint, every one of them. For a man who once measured himself against a handsaw and a stack of oak, that is everything.
Now life has handed me something I didn't see coming — a grandson. A boy who will one day need his own saw, his own stack of wood, his own cold morning where he proves something to himself. This time, I approach it differently. The first-time father's edge and urgency have settled into something more like bedrock — a steadiness built from years of scar tissue and small victories, from knowing which problems can wait and which ones can't. I know what I want to build him.
That old saw taught me who I could be. Now I get to help build what he'll become.