I Thought I Saw a Dog, But It Was Really a Wheelbarrow

     I was driving past the local Lowe's, on my way to Shop Rite, when I saw what looked like a very big dog, standing next to a tall, well built man.  A man might occasionally merit a double take from me, but a dog will grab my eye every time and hold it longer than is safe when operating a vehicle.  I slowed and stared at this large, dark gray canine, and realized that the mutt was a wheelbarrow.
     I grinned.  This was such a funny example of the eyes and the brain being out of sync.  Funny enough to be blog fodder?  Well, yeah, but not because it called to mind heart warming big, gray dog stories, but because it called to mind my relationship with the family wheelbarrow. 
     My father, a guy with quite a broad skill set, built our house with his own hands.  Except for the cement mixer (which my grandfather owned and loaned out to all the sons and sons-in-law as needed), my father had all the tools and equipment needed to establish his homestead.  The wheelbarrow must have been purchased around 1948, and it probably came from Sears.  At first, it figured predominantly in the mixing and carrying of cement.  Later it was indispensable for gardening and other yard work.
     Almost as soon as children learn to walk, they decide they would rather be carried or toted around in some sort of conveyance.  I found that if I followed my father, taking a load of brush or leaves to the back property line where it was dumped, I could hitch a ride back in the barrow.  Now that was fun.
     It didn't occur to me that wheelbarrows could also be used to transport adults until I reached the legal age for drinking alcoholic beverages.  We always joked that we did our serious drinking at the corner bar because we could walk home if we overindulged.  A friend of my parents, a retired bartender from this same establishment, assured me that if I were ever to be stumble-down-drunk, he would put me in his wheelbarrow and roll me home.  I've never been that drunk, but it's nice to know that someone has your back.
     Sometime during the 1980s, the old wheelbarrow got rickety from being left out in the weather, and one of the handles snapped.  My father went out and bought a new barrow for the heavy jobs, and he did a hasty repair on the old one so he could use it for light work.  I inherited both of these one-wheeled work horses.  I reluctantly said goodbye to the 1948 model.  It was just too far gone.  The newer wheelbarrow served me well until recently, when I bought a model with a solid tire - no more flats from the thorns, glass, and nails I always seemed to pick up in the woods next to the house.

My sister is helping with yard work, probably in the 1970s.
From time to time, the wheelbarrow got a coat of spray paint.  It looks like it was recently spruced up in this picture.

My nephews carried on a family tradition in 1995.
Look closely, and you'll see that the broken handle was replaced by a board.

In 1994, my mother used wheelbarrow #2 to transport her flowers.

In 2003, I used wheelbarrow #2 to build a chain link enclosure for my dog.
After all that work, the dumb animal barked and howled non-stop when confined to her special playpen.  All that work for naught!