I was reflecting on the tough week we just had, and it made me think of those who came before us. They were some tough folks.

My dad was born in 1929, in about the middle of 11 siblings (actually 13 siblings; one was a stillborn twin to my Aunt Bessie and dad’s little brother, Jackie Lee, died when he was a toddler).

My dad told me many times that if he and his brothers didn’t go hunting, they didn’t eat. He said he once went rabbit hunting out in the snow, wearing only plastic bread wrappers over his socks, and when he went back inside, he soaked his feet, which had already started to turn blue and black, in hot water to get the feeling to return to them. That’s what I call tough.

I don’t know if they had running water in the house or not, but I know they had an “outhouse” and had to venture out in the cold when nature called. That’s roughing it.

And don’t even get me started on the whole war thing... my grandpa served in WWI, and three of dad’s brothers were overseas fighting In WWII simultaneously. I think all three of them were wounded. In fact, my Uncle Ranzy took machine gun spray and was carried through the jungles of the Philippines on a stretcher for two weeks to a hospital. He survived not only gunshot wounds, but a severe case of malaria. Now that’s tough.

While my mom’s side of the family didn’t have it quite as rough as my Dad’s, times weren’t easy. She grew up on a farm, and the daily chores had to go on, even in extreme conditions. There were no “snow days, and they had none of the amenities we enjoy today.

No, those were not easy times. I was complaining about having to lower my thermostat to 65 or below this past week, but my dad and mom would’ve probably given anything to have a furnace that blasts warm air throughout the house when they were growing up.

I’m not downplaying the severity of recent events. I’m just trying to keep it all in perspective. No matter how tough life is for me, someone has (or had) it much rougher.