The Maturity of the Wheelbarrow

Used it to build character and our homestead

About 4 summers ago we bought our first family wheel barrow.  We had purchased our first home and that was all the excuse I needed to begin a series of projects that I had neither the experience nor the instructions to accomplish.  The scope and number of those projects has only gotten larger in the years since and shows no sign of abating, but I digress.  We had recently begun attending local auctions to accumulate the supplies and tools that often times contributed to harrowing, near death experiences and occasionally ended in some version of a successful project.  On our second or third trip to the local farm auction, my eldest daughter and I had spotted a single wheeled, wooden handled red chariot for barrowing.  Being August in Oklahoma, the auction yard battlefield was 3 degrees shy of Hellfire but Rori’s eyes gleamed as I nodded to her, whispered ‘poker face’ and handed her the bidding card.  With each bid and counter bid she would look at me as I nodded gently for her lift the card again.  I watched as the crowd caught on and the bidding slowed.  Folks were watching a young girl learn the auction way.  When the auctioneer gave last call and nodded to Rori with his customary ‘Sold’ she nearly came unglued, then quickly composed herself and whispered ‘poker face daddy.’

In the years since I’ve watched that little girl learn to balance the barrow.  She has hauled everything from toys to cinder blocks (yes, my daughters move cinder blocks).  She has moved firewood, both split and not.  Many times I’ve looked up from working at the table to see her out by the goats or gardens, wheelbarrow loaded with some adventure, plowing across the yard.  We had to convince her on more than one occasion that our puppy was not, in fact, a Siberian Husky sled dog so she could untie her from the barrow. 

Last fall, after several seasons of hard use (and occasional misuse – my sons mistook it for a trampoline a time or thrice), the wheel bracing bracket gave way.  All fall and winter the contraption lay on its side, seemingly destined to become a planter or fodder for the local landfill.  This past Saturday I watched as Rori was once again trying to move cinder blocks.  I saw her try her trusty wheelbarrow.  The wheel wobbled and came apart several times.  As I watched this young woman, teetering on the edge of her teen years wrestle with the blocks and the busted barrow I was struck by how much she has grown.  No longer only my little girl but now also a strong, capable young woman; she managed to slide the wheel axle under the wooden handle to hold it in place.  Then, quietly and confidently she completed the task at hand.  As she walked away I was left looking at this object that brought her so much joy those years ago and so much satisfaction so many times since.  That was Saturday morning. 

A few hours later found us in the hardware store looking through bins of bolts and nuts.  We picked a pair that looked like they would fit.  The following day, with all my kids plus a few neighborhood regulars gathered around I attempted another of those projects that I had never done before.  With a strip of drilled steel, a wood block, a mallet and an angle grinder we fashioned a new bracket to hold that wheel on.  Now, this may not seem like a big deal but I promise you, it was profound.  About 20 minutes later I was standing over our first family wheelbarrow with the same satisfaction that my daughter had those years ago.  It was fixed.  Money was saved.  Lessons were learned.  With a quiet satisfaction I loaded up my tools into the freshly repaired wheelbarrow and walked it to the shed.  4 years have passed since that sweltering auction afternoon.  Who would have thought that this tool used to carry cinder blocks would also build character, both in my young daughter and in me.