With Labor Day just around the corner, I thought I’d share with you an old Irish tale that underscores the value of the axiom that each of us are made stronger by the realization that, in most instances, the only helping hands we truly need are readily found at the end of our own arms and that there is a great difference between idle time that we steal and leisure time that we earn.
I discovered this tale in William Bennett’s wonderful Book of Virtues which I turn to often for my own inspiration. The story is a bit lengthy, but I feel it’s well worth the read. I hope you enjoy it and the message it imparts.
Once upon a time there lived a man named Bobby O’Brien who never did a stitch of work in his life unless he absolutely had to.
“Come on now, Bobby,” his friends would chide him, “what’s so wrong with a little hard work? You’d think it was the black plague itself, the way you guard yourself against it.”
“My friends,” Bobby would retort, “I have no more against work than the next man. In fact, nothing fascinates me more than work. I can sit here and watch it all day, if you’ll only give me the chance.”
It goes without saying that Bobby was just as useless around the house.
“Aren’t you even just a little ashamed of yourself?” his wife, Katie, moaned one afternoon. “A fine example you’re setting for your children, Bobby O’Brien! Do you want them to grow up to be to be lazy slugs just like you?”
“It’s Sunday, dear wife, the day of rest,” Bob answered. “Now why would you want to be disturbing it? If you want my opinion, it’s the only day out of the whole week worth getting out of bed for. The only problem with Sunday is that as soon as it’s over, the rest of the week starts up again.” Bobby was a great philosopher, having so much time on his hands to develop that talent.
That very night the whole family was sitting around the fire, waiting for their soup to boil when what should they hear but a tap-tap-tap at the window. Bobby strolled over and raised the sash, and into the room hopped a little man no bigger than a strutting rooster.
“Top of the evening to you good people,” the wee man exclaimed, “I was just passing by and smelled something good and strong, and thought I might stop and ask for a bite to eat.”
“You’re welcome to as much as you want,” Bobby said, thinking to himself that such a little man couldn’t possibly hold more than a spoonful or two. So the tiny fellow sat down at the fireside, but no sooner had Katie given him a steaming bowl than he slurped it down and asked for another. Katie gave him seconds, and he swallowed that down faster than the first. She gave him thirds, and he drained down the bowl almost before she had filled it up.
“What a little pig,” Bobby thought to himself. “He’ll have all of our suppers before he’s through. Still, I asked him in, and he’s our guest, so we must hold our tongues.”
After finishing his sixth bowl, the little man smacked his lips and jumped off his stool.
“It’s most kind you’ve been,” he said laughingly. “A more hospitable family surely I’ve never met. Alas, now I must be on my way, but as a way of thanking you I’ll be more than happy to grant the next wish uttered aloud beneath this roof.” And with that he hopped through the window and vanished into the night.
Well, everyone wanted to wish for something different. One of the children wanted a bag of sweets. And the other child wanted a box of toys. Katie thought a new bed would be nice, as the old one was showing signs of collapse. Bobby could name a dozen or so things he’d like to have, right off the top of his head, perhaps a new fishing pole, or maybe a chocolate cake.
“We need more time to think this over,” he declared. “The trouble is, tomorrow’s Monday morning, and there’ll be work and chores to get in the way of our thinking. I wish we had a week of Sundays, and then we could take our time and properly figure out what we should wish for.”
“Now you’ve done it!” Katie cried out. “You’ve gone and wasted our only wish on a week of Sundays! You might have wished for a few more brains in that thick head of yours before you opened your mouth for a wish like that!”
“Well, well, it’s not such a bad wish, you know,” answered Bobby, who was just now realizing what he had done. “A week of Sundays will be a fine thing, after all. I’ve been needing a little rest, and this will give me the chance.”
“Rest is the last thing you need, you lazy bag of bones,” Katie moaned, hustling the children off to bed.
But the next morning when Bobby woke up to hear the church bells pealing, and he remembered that he now had seven whole days before him of not having a thing in the world to do, he decided that he’d made the wisest of all possible wishes. He lolled around the bed all morning, while Katie took the children to church, and he didn’t bother to rouse himself until he finally smelled a nice plump chicken coming out of the oven for Sunday dinner.
“What a remarkable event!” he yawned and stretched as he sat down at the table. “King Solomon himself could never have wished for such a wonderful thing as a week of Sundays.” And after he stuffed himself, he wandered outside and took a nap beneath his favorite tree.
The next day he lay in bed all morning again, and got up only when church was safely over. But the only thing Katie put on the table was a few chicken bones left over from the day before, when Bobby had eaten the whole Sunday dinner. The next day was even worse. Bobby sat down with a roaring appetite, only to find porridge and potatoes gracing the table.
“Now what kind of dinner is this?” he asked. “Have you forgotten what day of the week this is? Porridge and potatoes aren’t fit for Sunday, my dear.”
“And what else do you expect? Katie cried. “How am I supposed to buy a new chicken with every shop in the village closed for seven straight days? It’s all we have in the cupboard, so you better get used to it, my good man.”
Well, the next morning Bobby’s stomach was growling so fiercely he couldn’t help but get out of bed a little earlier than his usual Sunday custom. He wandered around the kitchen a bit, checking here and there for a bite to eat, but he found only a loaf of stale bread in the pantry.
“You know my dear,” he said, “I’ve been thinking I need a bit of exercise. I believe I’ll go out to the garden and dig a few potatoes for dinner.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Katie snapped. “I won’t have you digging potatoes on Sunday morning, with the neighbors passing by on their way to church. That won’t do at all.”
“But there’s nothing in the house to eat but bits of stale bread,” Bobby cried.
“And who do you have to blame but yourself and your week of Sundays for that?” Katie responded.
The next day Bobby was up at the crack of dawn, pacing back and forth across the house and drumming his fingers on every windowsill. The children followed him everywhere he went until the church bells began to peal, and then they began to bawl and whimper to no end.
“What’s wrong with these young ones?” Bobby whined. “Have all their manners gone and left them?”
“And what do you expect, after all?” Katie cried. “The poor little things have sat through more sermons in a week now than you’ve snored through all year. Their backs are sore from living in pews, and they’ve tossed every last penny they’ve been saving into that collection plate.”
“They should be in school, that’s where they should be,” Bobby declared.
“And who, may I ask, is to blame for that?” Katie inquired.
On the sixth Sunday, Bobby was so fidgety and bored, he decided to go to church with the rest of the family. Every head in the congregation swung around when he came through the door and crept up the aisle.
“There’s the man!” The priest yelled from the pulpit. “Here’s the rascal who’s kept me up every night this week, wracking my poor brain for another new sermon! Here’s the troublemaker who’s ruined every last throat in the choir, and almost worn the fingers off our poor organist! I guess you’ve come to survey your dirty work now, have you?”
And when the service was over, Bobby found his neighbors lined up to greet him.
“Well now,” asked one, “did you stop to think of how we’re going to bring in the harvest with so many Sunday’s getting in the way?”
“And how are the rest of us to make a living, having to keep our doors closed all week?” asked the butcher and the baker.
“And what about the washing and ironing and mending?” someone called out. “Do you know how much has piled up for next Monday, should it ever come again?”
“And by the way,” said the schoolmaster, “have you been taking care of your children’s lessons, or have they forgotten how to read and write by now?”
Bobby made his way home as fast as he could.
“Thank goodness there’s only one Sunday left!” he sighed as soon as he was safe behind his own door. “Any more would be dangerous to a man’s health.”
That last Sunday was the longest day of Bobby O’Brien’s life. The minutes passed like hours, and the hours stretched into eternities. Bobby twiddled his thumbs, and stood on one foot, and walked in circles, and watched the clock.
“Is this thing broken?” he exclaimed, grabbing it from the mantel and shaking it till its insides rattled. “You can’t tell me that the time has ever dragged by so slowly.”
“When have you ever wanted a Sunday to end?” Katie asked. “Aren’t you forgetting that finally tomorrow will be Monday?”
“Forgetting it? It’s all I can think about, Bobby cried. “I’ve never in my life looked forward to any day as much as this Monday morning.”
The shadows slowly crept across the lawn, the sun finally went down, and just as the first star popped into the sky, who should come rapping at the window but the same little man who visited one week ago.
“And how did you enjoy your wish?” he asked Bobby.
“Not very much, I’m afraid,” replied Bobby.
“Really?” exclaimed the little man. “Then you wouldn’t want to trade another bite to eat for another week of Sundays?”
“For goodness’ sake, no!” Bobby retorted. “The only days of rest I want are the ones I’ve worked six days to earn. It took me all week to learn that lesson, and I won’t be forgetting it anytime soon. So I’ll thank you to be gone with your wishes, my friend.”
And at that the little man disappeared, and was never seen in the village again.
Have an AWE-full Labor Day weekend and holiday!
William J. “Bill” Bacqué