When were were kids growing up in the 1950s on a small farm near Akron, Ohio, there were always lots of things on Dad's "To Do" list. And there was always the need to dig holes for fence posts, birdhouses or flowers. There were bushes to be planted and vegetables to plant.

With five children to feed, there was also a large produce garden to tend to with potatoes to be dug out of the ground or corn to plant. Dad tried to enlist our help. We started out eager to please every spring, scratching the hard ground with shovels, trowels or even our bare hands. After a few minutes, my sisters and I would start thinking about playing instead of working, and our gaze would wander to the vacant swing set.

Seeing our lack of focus, Dad would take a couple of pennies out of his pocket and throw them into the hole we were digging. Eventually, one of us would spot one of the shiny coins and we'd begin digging furiously, convinced we were about to uncover buried treasure. The renewed efforts continued for several minutes, until we'd run out of steam and begin to think about how nice it would be to run barefoot through the creek, or to feel the wind in our hair as we made the swing go as high as it could.

Dad's ploy with the pennies worked for several years. We always thought we were going to uncover a chest of gold if we dug deep enough. It wasn't until years later we figured out it was Dad who stocked the holes with pennies. He's gone now, but the lessons he taught us on the farm go on. Every time I find a penny on the sidewalk, I bend over to pick it up. It reminds me that hard work is the best reward.