Some people just love to stay busy, though I may never understand the appeal.
My grandfather always seems mired in the middle of 3 or 4 projects. Last time we went to their house for a get-together, telephone posts and steel trusses that he had salvaged from some place had been assembled into the framework for a huge shed and sat in the distance like some prehistoric ribcage. But I have to admit that it seemed to fit in well with the old gasoline pumps, army surplus equipment, and bizarre farming machinery that litter his yard.
Anyway, several years ago, my father drove up to my grandparents’ house and found them in the middle of another project, their garden. Every year, they share the vegetables they grow with friends and family. It’s a really healthy hobby, but I think my dad was afraid they were about to kill themselves.
They were plowing their garden with an old mule plow (my grandfather has an incredible amount of stuff). But see, my grandparents don’t own any mules. Instead, my grandfather had strapped himself into the harness and was dragging this plow through the field, with my grandmother hanging on behind. It’s a wonder neither of them had a stroke.
The lazy side just must not be hereditary.