Tenaciousness

The Book of Ron · 6 of 48 · 2 minute read

A few years back, I was watching a reality show. Sarah Palin's husband was on it. The challenge they faced was moving a treasure chest or something heavy through a muddy bed. The mud was two or three feet deep, and they had to get the chest up to a certain area. I don’t remember all the rules, but what struck me was how the other reality stars struggled immensely, while Sarah Palin’s husband moved the chest, climbed over the top, swung it around, climbed over again, swung it around—again and again.

It instantly reminded me of a story from my own childhood, one I hadn’t thought of in years. Either my older brother or I had to stay up until 1 or 1:30 in the morning, waiting for Dad to come home in case something happened—a fire, anything. Someone had to be there to protect the other siblings.

One evening, around one o’clock, maybe 1:15, I remember it was February or March. Dad had three acres of land and 10 head of livestock. Nothing but mud. Not a blade of grass. Everything relied on feed and hay. That night, he brought home a truckload of alfalfa hay—bales weighing a little over 100 pounds each. I was 11 or 12, my older brother was 11 or 12—I don’t remember exactly which.

Dad called us in, came inside, and said simply, “Go get your brother up, get that hay in the barn.” Nothing else was said. I woke Gene, knowing exactly what we were up against.

The truck was backed up to the gate at the end of the driveway. The barn was maybe 30–50 yards away. We had to get the hay from the truck into the barn, slogging through mud. Instantly, our shoes came off. It was about 35–36 degrees, cold, wet, with light sleet falling. Miserable conditions.

Each bale of hay weighed as much as I did, maybe more. The only way to move it was to set it down, climb over it, stand up, swing it around, set it down, climb back over, and repeat. Hands wore out, feet went numb, every muscle screamed. It was horrible work, cold and exhausting.

By the time the sun came up, the hay was in the barn. Not neatly stacked, not in the hay mound, but safe from the weather. We could finally go get ready for work.

The lesson here is immense: tenaciousness is not something you’re born with; it’s something you learn. It requires putting aside discomfort, agony, and every reason your body and mind give you to stop. Every person possesses the capacity; we just have to develop the skill.

There is a companion workbook for this story. Open the workbook (PDF).