This is a Shared Inspiration from Ken Peters.
People from all walks of life go to work each day, do the best they can, then go to sleep and start over again in the morning – all the while hoping that what they’re doing has meaning.
Finding that meaning isn’t always easy.
Through the years, the American dream has been recast in the die of celebrity.
Contrary to what television teaches, life isn’t a talent competition, and Warhol’s proverbial 15 minutes aren’t an entitlement.
Merit isn’t measured in notoriety or fame. Value comes from hard work, and integrity. Life takes effort – effort that sometimes goes unnoticed.
On my bookshelf rests a relic that reminds me of this every day – a battered and beaten carbide headlamp that once lit my grandfather’s way in the coal mines of Ohio. It represents a work ethic you don’t find much anymore.
For me, it’s a reminder that a life of meaning doesn’t require celebrity.
My grandfather never achieved fame. He never cured a disease or created a stirring work of art. His name never appeared in lights. He never solved great mysteries or made amazing discoveries. You won’t find his pithy quips quoted for posterity on Twitter.
In fact, his was one of those anonymous faces you might ponder in faded old photographs and wonder, “Who was that guy?”
Who “That Guy” Was
My grandfather was born in 1913, to an Ohio family of modest means. He came of age during the Great Depression and the Dustbowl, in what author Timothy Egan dubbed “the worst hard times.”
Not much is known about his early life. Part of his young adulthood was spent tramping the Midwest, working in the circus, and doing the kinds of odd jobs available to someone with only an eighth grade education. By 1937 he’d made his way back to Ohio, and into coal mining.
After the attack on Pearl Harbor he enlisted and shipped to the pacific with the U.S. Army 37TH Infantry Division.
There he saw action during campaigns at Bougainville, in the Solomon Islands, and Luzon, in the Philippines – enduring brutal jungle warfare where the malaria and conditions were as deadly as the enemy. He participated in two amphibious assaults, was awarded the Bronze Star, and attained the rank of Staff Sergeant.
Upon his honorable discharge in 1945 he returned to mining, where he would spend the next 15 years working for the Hanna Coal Company of Ohio.
Why he resigned himself to a life of labor in the mines rather than seek greater opportunity through government programs for returning veterans can only be speculated. Perhaps the lingering pall of the Depression, and a limited education made the familiar seem secure for a man with a growing family.
Through those years he and my grandmother raised three children, including my mother. Eventually, the family moved to Michigan in 1960, where he worked in a machine shop until retirement in the early 1970’s.
An Ornery Man
By the time I was born they tell me he’d become an ornery old man. Downright mean, in fact.
Understandably, early poverty, war, and years of arduous labor could cause a man to develop emotional armor, but I never saw that side of him.
As a child, I was his “little buddy,” and toward me his manner was always gentle and kind. Heaven knows he often had reason to be angry with me, but he never was.
Decades of inhaling coal dust eventually took a toll in 1994. Pneumoconiosis, or Black Lung, rendered him weak and emaciated, while emphysema tethered him to an oxygen tank. That once strong soldier who stormed beaches under a barrage of enemy fire had become a thin, pale shadow of a man.
Nearing the end, he wanted to see me. He was in Michigan, and I was at college in Arizona, immersed in finals. I planned to visit after the semester, but his condition unexpectedly deteriorated and he died.
Not being there is the biggest regret of my life.
Whatever my grandfather’s aspirations might have been, he was an utterly common man whose life and accomplishments are barely a footnote in history. Yet, that ordinary life had extraordinary meaning that proffers an enduring legacy to all.
Through the years there was purpose without prestige, and fortitude without fame. In such quality of character is found the most authentic measure of a meaningful life.
Fittingly, perhaps, in a metaphorical sense, records from the Hanna Coal Co. cataloging his employment note that, “All work was underground.”
This post is dedicated to my grandfather – and everyone toiling in their own mine to make a life of meaning.
This is for people from all walks of life, doing their best each day, hoping that what they’re doing matters and that they’re creating a legacy.
It does, and they are, even if to the world they merely end up as nameless faces in faded old photos…
About Ken: Ken Peters is the co-founding partner and creative director at Nocturnal Designs, a brand amplification consultancy. You can follow Ken on Twitter @brand_BIG.
Faded Old Photos originally appeared on Danny Brown - - all rights reserved.