“I got a C in phys-ed,” my then 13-year-old stepson sighed. He gave me his last report card for the year.
“I had a few C’s in gym myself,” I said as I handed him the newspaper sack heavy with the day’s papers. He shrugged, hooked the sack to his bike’s handle bars and rode off to deliver the newspaper before supper. After supper, he and his dad were too busy digging a hole under our house to discuss the grade.
At the time we lived in Indiana. There, building foundations have to be 4 to 6 feet deep to reach below the freeze line. Many home builders go a few feet deeper to make the area into a cellar or basement. Our house had come with enough space to sore a few things underneath, but was far short of the full 8 to 10 feet deep basement with cement floor ad block walls. Although we lacked the funds to pay for a professional to jack up the house and clear out the dirt with a small bulldozer, we could afford the couple of dirt elevators to move the dirt above the ground, a pick ax and shovels to load the elevators.
Father and sons began moving the dirt out from under the house shovelful by shovelful. The pre-schoolers and I stayed out of the way, taking care of the newest baby.
As they dug deeper and further under the house, father and son propped up the house on 8-inch oak beams. My husband would arrange a base to secure the jack and beams used to raise our two-story home a couple inches. The C phys-ed student helped move, lift and push 10-foot oak beams into place, held them steady and eventually cranked the jack a few times to lift the house a tenth of an inch. With the floors moving slowly (sometimes quickly) up and down, I lived in my own personal manmade earthquake zone.
As the summer progressed, the heavy dirt elevators were moved and adjusted a couple of times to make them more accessible.
Between summer fun, paper route deliveries and work, the men toiled at digging out the basement with some help from their friends. The women and children stayed out of the way.
I watched with amusement and amazement when our teenager shared glances of camaraderie during meals as they talked about the dig. He exuded confidence and budding manhood from every pore as he summer progressed.
They finally began moving cement blocks down into the big dirt hole under our house. As the wall of blocks rose 10-feet to meet the house and oak beams, the once 98-pound weakling whacked them out of place with a couple of blows of a sledge hammer – and he went back to school and phys-ed class.
The same coach gave him an A on his five-week progress report. During parent-teacher conferences, my husband stopped by to ask the coach about the difference in the grades.
“I have never seen such a change in a kid over one summer in my entire life,” the coach said. “He can do anything.”
It is amazing what a summer of hard work will do. It truly it is.