My father ran a tight ship with his crew of seven children

MY FATHER ran a tight ship, or so our neighbors often said. He had a crew of seven: five boys and two girls. All of us knew early on that we had to pitch in and carry our weight. With just eight words - "Men, I have a little job for you" - we knew, Maryann and Madeleine included, that we were in for a long day.

And the jobs were always big: scraping, painting, plumbing, raking, mowing. The list was endless. We thought nothing of hanging by ropes out the window, four stories up, scraping and painting the tower of our old Victorian shore house. The rope would be secured around the waist of a bigger brother inside. Many days were spent three stories high on wooden ladders the weight of elephants, covered in paint as we scraped and wire-brushed away. We learned pride in work, but always had beach time, too.

Dad lived by example. He'd come to the shore each weekend ready to work. It wasn't a successful day unless he put at least two gallons of paint on the house. If it wasn't painting, it was scavenging for old bricks on the beach in front of the house to use for patios and a driveway. The bricks were from houses long ago washed out to sea. We wheeled them back by the hundreds, and he'd be on his knees all weekend, sweating bullets, laying bricks. His jobs were resourceful and grand, and, with an obliging crew, we made great headway, on projects and in life.

After my dad returned to the city on Sunday, we seven looked to the yellow legal pad left on the dining room table - a page for each of us with a long list of chores to be tackled in the week ahead. Parents today might call this child abuse, but it was so much more. There was always enough time for fun, and we were at the shore all summer. He showed lots of love, and taught us responsibility, respect and duty along the way. He was a great captain, and we a good crew - maybe too good.

I'm now past middle age and have grown children of my own. My ship hasn't been run even remotely tightly. My kids see vacuuming and taking out the trash as medieval chores best left for others. Painting, scraping, hanging out the tower: To them, this kind of work is as remote as the discovery of America.

I've figured out what went wrong in my own house: I became a victim of my own success. I was such a good crew member, I never learned to be a captain. I inherited my father's passion for large old properties, and wanted to raise my children as I was raised.

But I was still just a crew member. I did all the work, couldn't delegate, didn't trust anyone to get it right. And as the years passed, I was a one-man crew: There was no tight ship, just a luxury cruise for my kids, with me stoking the boilers.

I was slowly defeating myself, and couldn't right the ship. As I grew older and wanted to do less and have my three kids chip in more, it was never more apparent on one frantic Saturday how poorly I'd prepared them.

Setting up for a graduation party for all three of the kids (high school, college, law school), I became overwhelmed. So I drafted my son. It didn't matter that he'd never done any yard work. How bad could he be? He chose the high-powered gas trimmer and off he went to attack the hedges. The control freak in me let go. I wouldn't interfere. He had to learn the ropes.

High on a ladder, it briefly sounded like a well-oiled machine. But the humming was soon replaced by a scream, a moan and rustling bushes. I grew concerned, but stayed away. After all, this was his teachable moment.

And then I saw him, running up the hill, blood pouring from his forearm. Seemed he leaned too far forward and fell off the ladder with the clippers still on, now chomping more than the hedge.

Off to the hospital we went. Many stitches later, we returned home, arm intact. Relieved, we had a good laugh and learned the lesson: Those great crews do not necessarily make great captains.

The type of ship my father ran isn't so admired anymore. Everyone has "the pros" do the chores - painters, landscapers, you know the drill. They're in and out quickly, and the place looks great, never like a work in progress.

Some time back, my wife and I were doing yard work when a few neighborhood kids inquired about work. We indicated that we did it ourselves and they looked at us, aghast - "Oh, you're one of those types; the people up the street are just like you."

No longer a badge of honor, physical labor is now beneath us.

We all see it. In how many neighborhoods do kids still go out and mow the family lawn? Properties today are trophies, just like our kids. Status has trumped good old-fashioned chores.

No more standing back and admiring your day's accomplishments. Rather, hoping others stand back, take in the professionally manicured properties and take note of the idle kids and judge us as accomplished. Because it's not so much what we can accomplish for ourselves that matters now but what we can afford to have others accomplish for us.

Dad's been gone many years. And here I am this Father's Day missing him and all that he was and still is in us, growing nostalgic.

Longing to drive into a neighborhood, to a sea change of kids high on ladders, scraping, painting, mowing lawns, and helping Mom and Dad to run a tight ship.

Christopher J. Dean lives in Wyncote, and owns a small business. Email him at

idyinc@comcast.net.