Milk Buckets are For Milk, Not Rocks

Last Tuesday I posted an experience I had with my cousins and Grandma Cazier and swimming in an irrigation ditch. If you read this post perhaps you remember that I made a promise to my grandmother that I wouldn’t get my cast wet (I had a dislocated elbow). And then I broke my promise and got it soaking wet and was punished by sitting in the hot sun for two or three hours. Today’s post explains what happened after the cast came off. But first an explanation as to why I was wearing a cast is in order.


You may remember that I mentioned that my cousins Roger and Gary and I were riding a horse bareback, and we fell off and I suffered a dislocated elbow which required a cast.


Now for the rest of this story. 


Finally, after who remembers how long, the day came when I went with my grandmother to see Dr. Worthen, the country doctor who fixed my arm. He carefully and methodically examined it and then I seem to remember him asking if I was ready to have it taken off. Of course, I’m sure I wondered to myself what kind of a question that was, but nodded my head with a positive shake and he took it off. He didn’t even ask me if I wanted to keep the cast as a memento to hang up in my bedroom.


After taking off the cast he instructed Grandma that for my sake she needed to provide adequate torture so my arm could heal correctly without causing future problems. He suggested that she make me carry around a bucket of rocks for the rest of the summer. He explained that this would help straighten my arm. So, when I got back to her house, believe me when I say the torture began.


For the rest of the summer, she made sure I was attached to that bucket of rocks. Under Grandma’s watchful eyes and strong vocal encouragement (i.e. “Calvert, pick up that bucket”) or through the eyes of my aunts who lived just down the road and were Grandma’s allies, I hauled rocks everywhere I went.


The thing about it was, Grandma could stand at her kitchen window and see wherever I went. She had a clear vision of two of my aunts’ houses where I spent most of my time. If I happened to put the bucket down to give my arm a rest or to scratch my nose, she would see me and make a call to the appropriate aunt and tell them to remind me to pick up that bucket. In all honesty by the end of the summer I thought that bucket of rocks was going to make my arm too straight, and I would end up being deformed. However, while I hated carrying that thing around, I must admit that it worked.


As a result of Dr. Worthen’s unique method of giving me physical therapy I avoided permanent damage to my arm. When the cast was initially taken off, I could only straighten my arm approximately 25%. By the end of the summer when my dad and mom came to pick me up, I could straighten it about 95% because my grandmother listened to the country doctor and made me carry a bucket of rocks around the farm.


When I got back to Salt Lake, I saw a city doctor who told my mother that the treatment prescribed by Dr. Worthen was not the right way to treat my arm. I don’t remember what he thought the right way was but what I’m quite certain about is that today’s doctors would probably recognize what this country doctor and my grandmother did was an effective way to rehabilitate my arm. I am certain that they would wholeheartedly support and applaud their actions. Personally, I am grateful to both of them and especially to grandma who had the hardest job.


Grandma taught me the reward of diligence as well as obedience. I didn’t want to carry those rocks but I’m glad I did. Teaching our children the value and importance of being obedient and diligent will provide rewards and personal growth that will benefit them throughout their entire life.


Happy Failing Forward,


Calvert Cazier


1. O’Neill, Tim. People in the Middle Ages Get Rid of Human Waste? Found in QUORA – Dec. 24, 2013.