Water is for Wimps!

When I was a younger guy, like age 8 or 9 or 10, I thought being tough was cool. 

I was born into a family where my parents and my sisters, at least my oldest sister, were somewhat tough. They were my definition of tough.

My other sister was more girly, not to say my older tougher sister was not also girly as well (meaning not so tough), but she was girly and tough.

And "tough" comes in different sizes and shapes and flavors, obviously.

My dad was a blue collar worker, getting up 5 or sometimes 6 times a week to put on the work boots, usually before the sun rose, going to houses or apartments or stores or warehouses that did not have heating or air conditioning, depending on the season,  and spending hours upon hours drilling holes, pulling heavy wires through those holes, nailing in outlets and switch boxes throughout the walls, basements, ceilings, and attics, sometimes as carpenters pounded their hammers and ran their incredibly loud electric saws, and then sometimes my dad and his partners would run saws and other trickily pain-inducing tools that could gash, smash, mash, or even electrocute you. Beyond the stifling new and old chambers of sweat and occasional blood and bruises, there was the mud. Boots were necessary for protection from the rain and mud, and cold and snow, and simply unforgiving parts of new construction that would grind your toes and feet into gashed objects or smooshed victims underneath your hopefully comfortable socks.

And don't forget the dangers of heights.  Almost every foundation of every new house and construction sight poses some kind of danger of slipping and falling, when dark or light, dry or wet, hot or freezing cold; some foundations with their deep basements have high 2 x 4 planks and makeshift catwalks that lead across mud embankments straddling crevasses of deep entrenched pools of mud, cement bases, gouging metal pipes or cinder blocks and their deadly re-bars. Dad could slip and fall, and sometimes wooden planks gave way as easy as the balanced footing of an everyday electrician.

Dad wasn't into camping or hunting or fishing: he was into survival. There was always more sweat than mud, always more mud and dirt and grime than blood, always more blood than tears, and at the end of the weeks and months there was always checks paying the bills.

I call that tough for three straight years. After three decades, that's even tougher.

The fact that he spent 4 years in the military learning many aspects of the trade, and also spent over two years in an impoverished jungle of West Africa added to the persona, the lore.

Dad liked Clint Eastwood and Charles Bronson movies. Tough guys.

I think it took some of the edge off of a tough living, a tough work environment. Church probably helped, too.

Dad had plenty of soft sides. We all do. But I think a lot of people looked at him for his exterior, which was tough. Hard working, coarse hands, dirty work boots, that was my dad.


Mom had her own toughness. She had come up from a humble home in New England where her family was the charity case at school, she survived a tour of West Africa as a nurse, raised us kids decently, helped another dozen foster kids over the course of 5 years.

I saw her temper and fight a few times, sometimes when chasing down young snow ball throwers who had pegged our car. She could be scary when chasing some punks in her car! My mom could be tough and spunky, obviously with a tender heart but at times some rough edges. She, like many mothers, had a toughness that could be felt through actions and words.

Most nurses have to be tough, right?

My oldest sister was tough; by the time she got to high school she possessed some tough qualities of both of our parents, and a few of her own. She was four grades older than me, and despite me being rough and rumble at times with my other older sister two grades my superior, I learned at a young age to avoid any confrontations with the oldest. Like my dad, or my mom, or as I think of my mother's mom, Grandpa Nellie, she could definitely manifest a mean streak. Or, perhaps just not putting up with the shenanigans of a four-year old, or an 8 year-old, or a 12 year-old little brother.

I watched some war movies with my dad, watched cowboy and boxing films, James Bond and Star Wars and Superman, and Indiana Jones. Movies for men, tough dudes, hombres of strength and cunning. They were tough.

Tarzan the Apeman, Conan the Barbarian, Buck Rodgers of the 25th century, the Bionic Man, even real life men such as George Washington or Abe Lincoln, two American political icons, but prior to that they were tough fighter types.

The cool guy was tough. From my scriptures, there was David and other strong Bible heroes, John the Baptist and Jesus, and certainly Peter and Paul were not wall flowers; while the Book of Mormon had plenty of others, starting with Nephi but tracing through Abinadi, Ammon, Teancum, Nephi and Lehi, Mormon and his son Moroni. Modern day prophets of the LDS Church were tough men, especially the first two, Joseph Smith and Brigham Young.

The Church has a college football team with big burly men for a reason, too.

And then there are the American Indian icons that I devoured in elementary school:

Pontiac, Crazy Horse, Massassoit, Seneca, Chief Joseph, Red Cloud, Tecumseh, Oceola, on and on. These were men who led in battles and would say to each other serenely:

"This is a good day to die!"

That rang true with me as a child. Those American Indian legends were tough. They were cool.

Tough. Cool. Strong. Sweet.

Warriors. Fighters. Tough guys and rogues, commandos and legends.

Stoic and at times laconic, with a few exceptions; they put up with pain. They did heroic things.

When I was 8 and 9 and 10 years old, that's how I fancied myself. A tough kid. Not mean, not cruel, but a toughie. Or at least, strong.

I would play outside with my friends or alone, and we would play war. We would play in the ice and the snow, or in the extreme heat. We would dig up trenches in the dirt and climb trees and make rope swings and fight off known and unknown enemies from every war knowable.

In real life I valued my "toughness": my ability to run fast or  climb a tree with my strength and ingenuity, to run with a football through or around my cohorts, escaping the overwhelming force of bodies pulling me down. To be able to swim fast and stay under water long, to be able to take on a bully threatening others at school or wherever, a boy ready to pummel a home intruder when the occasion arose. Or a cosmic invader, whichever came first. Step right up and meet my wrath, buster!

Like Clint Eastwood, I considered myself somewhat of an enforcer. I did not look for fights but I looked to end them. In my thoughts, anyway.

One sunny clear day I remember crossing the park across the street from my home with my friends, we a band of intrepid soldiers following our marching orders, battling the forces of evil with our stick guns and faux grenades. In the middle of Bryan Park you are closer to trees and the running water of the creek than any dwelling, separated from reality by a collective imagination of derring-do, bravery, heroism, and toughness. One of my buddies that I always respected and thought highly of asked if we could pass by my house, which was closest, and get some drinking water.

I told him, like the tough wanna-be hardened sergeant of World War II, "Water is for wimps! Tough guys don't need water to drink. That is just being weak, drinking water. Water? You need water? Ha!!"

And thus were some of the 1970s for me, a boy who would learn other versions of tough, later on in life, and most of them did require that precious elixir: water.

But back then, as a child, I fancied I knew what tough looked like, or felt like.

Who needed water? Comfort for a parched throat or overheated body?

Nah. Water is just weakness entering the body.

Being tough? You are beyond the elements, you suffer day after day, struggle for that crazy lifestyle of blood, sweat, and tears. You live like a hero on the silver screen, but you don't talk a big game.

And you don't ask for water.

You only ask for the opportunity to be the silent, cool, tough guy who saves the day.

You don't need help. You are the help.

Life was simpler back then. Life wasn't as tough.