Last Sunday was Father’s Day.
So, a short story about by dad.
Clair Horn, who lived from 1930-2008, was the hardest working person I have ever, and probably will ever, known.
My father was usually out of bed by 5 a.m. and in bed by 10:30 p.m.
My mother often characterized him as a workaholic, but I believe Dad simply possessed an incredible work ethic. To this day, he remains the hardest, most responsible, conscientious worker I have ever known
As a child and young adult growing up on a farm near Valparaiso, NE,
Dad wouldn’t tolerate carelessness around machinery. If I got a vehicle stuck or brushed a tractor or wagon against a fence, his temper usually flared.
Dad could fix or build almost anything. If he couldn’t fix something at first attempt, Dad would try three or four other avenues until his mission was accomplished.
Dad took care of everything he owned. Tools never lay around on the ground or even on a workbench. When it came to tools, there was a place for everything, and everything had better be in its place.
To his credit, he found ways to relax.
Dad built a huge model train set, which was housed in the basements of most of the houses he inhabited.
He also seemed to enjoy attending several of the school activities my brothers and I were involved in.
The last four years of his life were consumed with building miniature wooden churches, castles, outhouses, and dozens of other items Dad constructed with a scroll saw, clamps, and glue.
I find it ironic that one of the first jobs my father landed as a teenager was working at a wood-planning mill, and over 60 years later, Dad’s favorite hobby was building small monuments from wood.
Dad was also the first boss I had that got as much out of me for as little pay as possible.
During the summer of 1968, at age nine, I talked Dad into paying me to mow the grass and weeds that grew around the farmstead. We negotiated a price, and he agreed to pay me 25 cents an hour. When I presented Dad a bill for $3.25 for thirteen hours work one weekend, it took him by surprise. Two weeks later, I mowed for ten hours and earned $2.50. After that, Dad initiated a monthly allowance for my brothers and me. Since my brother Blaine was the oldest, he would get $1.00; I would receive 75 cents; my younger brother Darin would earn 50 cents; and my baby brother Gary’s pay was 25 cents a month.
For this salary, we were expected to feed and water the chickens, ducks, and geese; gather eggs; remove manure from our 4-H club calves’ barn; mow the lawn; weed the garden; clean the back porch and perform the most dreadful chore of all — washing and drying the dishes.
I protested the cut in salary, but Dad gave me the “pride in your work being more important than money” speech, and I was stuck.
My father could have managed a small-town radio station.
Work ethic and pride in work was usually shoved down my throat by the several station managers I answered to between 1981 and 2014.
The funny part of the story is this: When I would tell my father how many hours a week I worked in radio and what I got paid, his general response was: “They’re screwing you.”
Dad, where was that attitude in 1968?