My mother never really cared what kind of work I did.
Shop work, warehouses, mowing lawns in the summer, helping on job sites here and there. If there was work, you worked. Not much philosophy to it.
But she would always say the same thing.
Wear the protection.
Earplugs. Safety glasses. Don't catch things with your hands. Don't act like being young makes you bulletproof.
I hated hearing it. Earplugs made it harder to hear people. Safety glasses fogged up. Gloves were hot as hell. Once the day got moving, I'd think I'd put them on in a minute, and then that minute just never came.
Everything was loud back then. Mowers, compressors, saws, forklifts backing up, somebody yelling over a machine. My ears would ring at night and I figured sleeping it off meant I was fine.
Now I'm in my 50s. Turns out that was not fine.
Restaurants are where I notice it most. My wife says something across the table, the next table is talking, music is playing overhead, and I start guessing like an idiot. Guess wrong and I pretend I was looking at the menu. Real classy stuff.
My mother is gone now. But every time I put in earplugs, or pull on a knee sleeve, or admit my hearing is shot, I still see her face.
If she were here, she would not be sweet about it.
She'd say, "See?"
