Pitching Perseverance

My father’s brow furrowed in concentration.

“If we angle it just so,” he continued in his signature steady voice, “then I can drive it into the ground and it should hold.”

It was the summer of 1981 in Yellowstone National Park, and my father, sisters and I huddled around an expansive bulk of forest green fabric that, with the proper twists and tugs, promised to transform into a cozy tent for five.

Despite my father’s many life adventures — from roaming Jerusalem with his childhood pals before the state of Israel existed to leading soldiers in the Israeli army to weaving his way through Switzerland on a motorcycle after that, the man, for all the hands-on experience he had accumulated, could not build a thing. And this complicated tent was no exception.

Still, he had three daughters watching him closely, awaiting his next move. I, as the youngest, had full faith that he’d figure it out.

Armed with an array of equipment and an instruction manual seemingly penned for a CIA mission, he grabbed one corner of the fabric and instructed me to pass him the mallet. Dutifully, I did, and my father began hammering away at the hard dirt. We continued in silence — me passing pegs, poles and parts of the tent — and my father, not a bead of sweat showing, instructing and building with the focus of a heart surgeon performing a triple bypass.

Slowly, a tent began to take form, and with it, the pride and admiration I felt for my dad. I can’t recall what happened with my sisters. Perhaps they’d grown bored and resorted to helping my mother make lunch or they’d simply lost interest and got lost in a good book. Either way, by the time the tent stood, my father’s look was victorious, and I, his biggest fan, practically glowed.

“Let’s be the first to go inside,” he suggested with a hint of conspiracy, reaching for the zippered entrance.

But as soon as he began pulling the zipper, a slight tremor through the tent made him pause. We grew quiet, and in that instant, it felt like we were the only two in the park. My father’s fingers still clutched the zipper as he looked at me for instruction, and I, empowered by the newly appointed role, returned the gaze and gave him a tiny nod to proceed.

With that, he continued to unzip the door and the entire structure tumbled to the ground.

My father could have, really should have, been incredibly frustrated watching our efforts collapse in a split second. But instead, he gave a shrug, let out a chuckle, and muttered in Hebrew, “Oh well, what to do?” and set about reconstructing the tent from scratch.

In the end, our tent stood firm. It may have not been the quickest build nor the prettiest on the campground, but it served as our family’s home for the next few nights. I’d forget about that moment, distracted by all the beauty of the park and the fun of our summer vacation. Still, unbeknown to me then, my father’s unwavering resolve in the face of adversity and his ability to laugh off failure and start over with grace, taught me about the power of resilience. It was a simple moment, a fleeting summer day in Yellowstone, yet it left an indelible mark on how I approach some of the hardest challenges I’ve come across so far.

Happy Reading!

Alona Abbady Martinez

alona@bocaratonobserver.com