My father was a steamfitter who rose from laborer to foreman to estimator to the construction company owner's right hand man. For many years before attained this oversight position, he worked in the field and came home filthy dirty every night.
Since it was just he and I after my mother died, we would eat out at one of several local restaurants for dinner, but not until he had washed off every last spot of dirt and changed into a white shirt.
Years later, more than a decade after he died, I worked with my church to build a house for Habitat for Humanity. I had no laboring skills as my father made sure I went to college and did not have to work with my hands in the elements as he did. But I was a willing learner and soon was hammering and power drilling and painting my heart out.
For the first time in my white collar life, when I bathed, the water turned dirty! I cannot tell you how much it meant to me to see that dirty water and know I was building something substantial just as Daddy had done all his life.
I so wished he was alive the day of the House's dedication so I could show him the results of my hard labor. He would have been as proud of that, I'm sure, as he was of my college degrees. I know I was.

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