I'm very thankful the internet exists. The important part of it for me is meeting people who have similar interests. Music has always been a very important part of my life but my tastes in music have not always been "in line" with my peers. Being the youngest of four children (next youngest is a whole eight years older than I) my musical taste has been a little, er, off. We had a stack of 45s around the house that, I think, came from an Uncle and others. The majority of it was from the 1960s and I loved it. I also loved listening to the "do-wop" stuff at my Grandparents' house. When I got my first tape recorder as a Christmas gift; it was one of those single speaker things, my parents included an Elvis Presley "Golden Hits" cassette along with one or two others. I don't remember what they were. There was such a wide variety of music in our house that I could never have settled on just one niche. Thank God! I listened to KISS, Ted Nugent, Black Sabbath, Henry Gross, Dan Fogelberg, Seals & Crofts, Jerry Rafferty, The Doobie Brothers, Cheap Trick, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Sammie Davis Jr., The Sex Pistols, Iron Maiden, Rush... When I got my first radio, an old clock radio, from the neighbors' rummage sale (75 cents!) A whole other musical world opened up to me. New Wave, current (for the time) pop music and, most importantly, I found a station that had what they called "Nostalgic Rock" every Sunday morning. I heard a lot of songs that were "new" to me and a lot of songs I may have heard only once or twice before. Ya see, before I could operate a record player, a lot of the music I heard was coming through the AM radio of my parents' car. There's a few songs that I MUST have heard in the car because when I hear them these days I'm instantly thrown back to my very early days. In elementary school we didn't discuss music. Kids at that age, back then at least, didn't really have cliques. Sure, there were the "cool" kids but, generally speaking, everyone got along. I joined "band" and started learning how to be a drummer. Then came junior high school. Cliques formed, the small group of kids I had spent the previous seven years with got mixed in with kids from other elementary schools, we started becoming moody teenagers, emulated the people we saw on TV and in magazines (no internet back then!) I slugged on through band and became a mediocre percussionist. Then, as if it wasn't complicated enough to fit in at that age, I joined a fife and drum corps. I instantly fell in love with that music and spent the rest of my teenage years happily playing it with other like-minded people. It was my first musical revelation. In the corps, regardless of any perceived social status, everyone was there because they liked the music. Each person did their best because they wanted to. Not because they had to. Those of us within the corps rarely, if every, spoke of it with anyone outside of the corps. It was, kind of, an "uncool" thing back then. My experiences with the fife and drum corps dovetailed with something else. Jazz band. Contrary to the band experience my brother had, there was a serious lack of drummers in junior high. Me and the other guy became rather good at covering multiple parts. In ninth grade the other drummer, Darin, talked me into joining jazz band. I had never played a drum set before but since these were desperate times the band director took it upon himself to help me. I went to the band room after school for lessons, fumbled around and just couldn't "get it." The band director gave me a simple bit of advice that, unknown to him or me, would help me for years to come. I had been struggling (and failing) to learn a drum part when the director said "Tim, nobody said you had to learn all of the parts at the same time." I just wasn't able to read the music and use both hands and both feet at the same time. So, he had me learn what each appendage was supposed to be playing individually. Then I would put two together, then three and finally both feet and both hands. It worked like a charm. The part I was learning was for "Runaround Sue." The director was amazed that I knew the song. I could even recite all of the lyrics. In high school I was in band, marching band, jazz band... Mostly playing songs that were chosen for our parents but, still, songs that I really liked. It was still a social no-no to admit liking big band, swing, soul, blues... When most of my classmates were being brooding teenagers to The Cure, I was brooding to the Temptations. This situation carried on for years afterward. I had very few ways to express myself. However, certain songs would make me feel a certain way and the emotions I kept bottling up would be released when I would hear some of my favorite songs. I've always had the ability to recall a song for any given situation. In fact, during high school and a handful of years after, I would attach a song to each girl in my life. Girlfriends, crushes, the girls I daydreamed about. They all had a song. For example, the Temptations' "Just my imagination". It was one of those 45s I mentioned earlier. That's Karin's song. I didn't pick that song for her, it just happened. During my 11th grade year I had a huge crush on Karin. She was the beautiful, sweet pom-pom girl, I was the dork. Typical teen movie stuff. Anyway, during Christmas break that year I put on that song and I instantly thought of her. Despite my best efforts, she wanted nothing of me but that song still "belongs" to her. Every time I hear it I can picture, in detail, the day it became her song. I remember what the weather was like, I remember what my room looked like... That is what my life has been like. Songs attached to people, places and things. But I couldn't discuss this stuff with anyone because none of my friends knew the music. About the same time I attached a song to Karin I got my first CD player. CDs were new and having a CD player was a big deal for me. My parents went out on a limb to get it for me. Then I discovered the CD collection at the public library. They had lots of big band and jazz stuff. I absorbed it like a sponge. Then, I went in a whole new direction. The woman I wrote about previously came into my life and during our turbulent relationship country music and the blues took hold of me. Real country by the way. Not the vaguely disguised pop/rock shit that's masquerading as "country" these days. It's very true that you can never truly understand the blues or a sad country song until you've given your heart to someone and had them rip it up and throw it back at you. The classic "You been done wrong" songs. Stevie Ray Vaughan had more than his share of demons to cope with. If you haven't been done wrong, you'll probably think "Wow, that guy can really play guitar!" If you have been done wrong, you'll hear the pain in his playing. Music was SRV's release. He was putting all of his troubles out there for the world to see, if you were capable of "seeing" it. I didn't at first, but after I met "Her" I got it. Go out and buy SRV's "The Sky Is Crying" CD (Sadly, it was released after he died) and listen to the track "May I Have A Talk With You." Either you'll get it or you won't. Don't pay attention to lyrics alone. Listen to Stevie. Hear the story he's telling you, not the song. I drove my friends nuts as I played that track over and over and over. In retrospect I was hoping someone else would "get it" and I would have someone to talk to. My relationship with "Her" was unique. Nobody else would understand, nobody really accepted it... I had nobody to talk to that could help me through those hard times. By playing those SRV songs, blues and sad country songs I was desperately trying to find someone who understood what I was going through. I even played an SRV song ("Texas Flood" from SRV's first appearance on "Austin City Limits") to "Her" and said, flat out, "This is how I'm feeling." She didn't get it. Went right over her head. She's a Top 40 person and has zero ability as far as music appreciation is concerned. It's one thing about her that's always annoyed me. Throw in the deaths of my Father and Brother and I was a seriously troubled twenty-something. Music was my only release. Even into my early 30's when I was again a professional mechanic, had my own house, things were going well... I had to crawl into music in order to sooth my soul. Not long before the alcohol fueled breakdown I had in front of my Mother, I would put on "Patsy Cline Sings Songs of Love" and listen to it for hours trying to sooth my soul. I was just beginning to accept the fact the "She" was not coming back. "Crazy" was our song by the way. Enter the internet.
The internet allowed me to chat with people who are interested in the same music as myself. I could find songs that I was never able to find in a store. I was no longer a slave to some corporate executive's choice of music to have in some blasted chain store. I realized that I wasn't such an oddball. I freely admit that I love Soul, Blues, Country, Western Swing, big band, jazz (not the Kenny G "jazz" shit), swing, punk... I'm also old enough to not care what people think of me. Do yourself a favor. Stop listening to the radio. Radio stations play shit to get listeners. The more listeners they have the more advertising they can sell. You're cattle. Nothing more, nothing less. Go find an independent record store, get a Patsy Cline "Greatest Hits" CD and go from there. Don't think about what other people with think. Just listen. If Justin Bieber is your thing, go for it! If Eddy Arnold singing "Make the World Go Away" makes you cry, then cry. Fuck everyone else. When you find a song that makes you feel something more powerful than you've ever experienced, embrace it. The music you listen to is your unique experience. If you're lucky, you'll find someone to share that experience with. Now, get on with it. You have a CD to find!
11 October, 2013
21 September, 2013
Education. Doesn't mean what it used to.
First and foremost, I'm not a normal college graduate. I went to a technical college, which is a step below a typical community college. I didn't graduate. I never finished a required "shop math" class because I stopped going to that class. At this particular school, the "shop math" classes were the same damn thing I had in seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth grades while in high school. It bored me to tears. Looking back with the wisdom of a 41 year old man, I should have sucked it up and completed the damned class. But, I was 19 and not very wise. This little trip down memory lane is the build up to the main point I'm trying to make.
Regardless of not being a graduate of any type of college, when I left that place I still had a better education than most of today's university graduates. Just think of how many university graduates still don't know when to use "you're, your" or "they're, there, their." See what I mean? I was talking to a young man this past week, a university graduate, and I used the Latin phrase "Modus operandi." The young man looked at me and asked me what that meant. I replied, "You're kidding, right?" He was quite serious. Not only did he not know what it meant, he had never heard it before. Pathetic, absolutely pathetic. I've noticed a severe lack of spelling and vocabulary skills in young people. Find an average high school student and ask them what a conjunction is. Hell, ask them if they can SPELL conjunction. "Conjunction junction what's your function?" "Hooking up words and phrases and clauses..." I know that and I was a C student throughout my school years. So, considering my not being able to have any decent conversation with newer generations, I don't understand how there can be so many straight A students these days. In my day (and especially the generations before me) a straight A student was rare. The class valedictorian (ask a kid to spell THAT word) really was smart and earned that title.
On a side note, I ran into the valedictorian of my graduating (high school) class. It was in my early twenties and at a bar, which I frequented quite often in those days, when I bumped into her. She was, I'm guessing, a year or two out of university when I saw her. She was also stinkin' drunk, as was I. Due to, I'm assuming, the large amount of alcohol we both had coursing through our bodies, recognized one another and struck up a conversation. In high school we never said much more than "hello." I enjoyed talking with her and got some comfort seeing that the "smart" kids were just people. Again, we were both drunk. Alcohol is a very effective truth serum (ask a college student to spell "serum" without using their phone or computer for reference. It's good fun.) If you don't mind, I'm going to scare you a little bit. Think about what these "straight A" university students become.
They become doctors, lawyers, biologists, photographers *snicker*, psychologists... they become *GASP!* teachers. The teachers I had all had similar educations. Read the classics, memorize words, learn how to divide fractions... They may not know much about classic literature, but they'll probably "get" a common Hemmingway reference. They would damn-sure know what "Modus operandi" means. Modern teachers (most of them are good, don't get me wrong) just aren't as good as prior generations. I've talked with a lot of them. It can be quite painful. A conversation with a brand new teacher. Again, it was in a bar, years and years ago.
Me: "I finally forced myself to read 'Grapes of Wrath' last month..."
Her: "Is that out now?"
Me: "What? No, it's classic. You should know that."
Her: "I don't like Hemmingway. He was a misogynist."
Me: "It's Steinbeck. John Steinbeck."
Her: *blank stare*
Me: "You're fucking kidding me, right? You've never heard of John Steinbeck? You're a university graduate for fuck's sake!! I learned that shit in junior high!"
I really know how to pick up the ladies, don't I? It's no wonder I'm still single. With people that dumb teaching the children of today, it's no wonder I have to dumb things down in most conversations. And I didn't even graduate from a technical "college." For cryin' out loud, people. Read the classics (some of them are just horribly boring), do a lot of crossword puzzles, run through the multiplication tables from time to time, multiply and divide the occasional fraction... It may seem that kids are getting smarter but it ain't so. The bar has just been lowered to make it seem like they're smarter.
Regardless of not being a graduate of any type of college, when I left that place I still had a better education than most of today's university graduates. Just think of how many university graduates still don't know when to use "you're, your" or "they're, there, their." See what I mean? I was talking to a young man this past week, a university graduate, and I used the Latin phrase "Modus operandi." The young man looked at me and asked me what that meant. I replied, "You're kidding, right?" He was quite serious. Not only did he not know what it meant, he had never heard it before. Pathetic, absolutely pathetic. I've noticed a severe lack of spelling and vocabulary skills in young people. Find an average high school student and ask them what a conjunction is. Hell, ask them if they can SPELL conjunction. "Conjunction junction what's your function?" "Hooking up words and phrases and clauses..." I know that and I was a C student throughout my school years. So, considering my not being able to have any decent conversation with newer generations, I don't understand how there can be so many straight A students these days. In my day (and especially the generations before me) a straight A student was rare. The class valedictorian (ask a kid to spell THAT word) really was smart and earned that title.
On a side note, I ran into the valedictorian of my graduating (high school) class. It was in my early twenties and at a bar, which I frequented quite often in those days, when I bumped into her. She was, I'm guessing, a year or two out of university when I saw her. She was also stinkin' drunk, as was I. Due to, I'm assuming, the large amount of alcohol we both had coursing through our bodies, recognized one another and struck up a conversation. In high school we never said much more than "hello." I enjoyed talking with her and got some comfort seeing that the "smart" kids were just people. Again, we were both drunk. Alcohol is a very effective truth serum (ask a college student to spell "serum" without using their phone or computer for reference. It's good fun.) If you don't mind, I'm going to scare you a little bit. Think about what these "straight A" university students become.
They become doctors, lawyers, biologists, photographers *snicker*, psychologists... they become *GASP!* teachers. The teachers I had all had similar educations. Read the classics, memorize words, learn how to divide fractions... They may not know much about classic literature, but they'll probably "get" a common Hemmingway reference. They would damn-sure know what "Modus operandi" means. Modern teachers (most of them are good, don't get me wrong) just aren't as good as prior generations. I've talked with a lot of them. It can be quite painful. A conversation with a brand new teacher. Again, it was in a bar, years and years ago.
Me: "I finally forced myself to read 'Grapes of Wrath' last month..."
Her: "Is that out now?"
Me: "What? No, it's classic. You should know that."
Her: "I don't like Hemmingway. He was a misogynist."
Me: "It's Steinbeck. John Steinbeck."
Her: *blank stare*
Me: "You're fucking kidding me, right? You've never heard of John Steinbeck? You're a university graduate for fuck's sake!! I learned that shit in junior high!"
I really know how to pick up the ladies, don't I? It's no wonder I'm still single. With people that dumb teaching the children of today, it's no wonder I have to dumb things down in most conversations. And I didn't even graduate from a technical "college." For cryin' out loud, people. Read the classics (some of them are just horribly boring), do a lot of crossword puzzles, run through the multiplication tables from time to time, multiply and divide the occasional fraction... It may seem that kids are getting smarter but it ain't so. The bar has just been lowered to make it seem like they're smarter.
13 September, 2013
"Her"
In a post long ago I said I would write about a certain lady "later". I'm thinking now may be the right time for it. I met her a long, long time ago when I was a maintenance supervisor (read: janitor) at the daycare center. I think it was the first company Christmas party when I, unknowingly, fell face first into the most complicated relationship I've ever experienced. Until the night of that party I only knew her in passing. Just one of the staff. Nothing more, nothing less. That Christmas party (which was just after the start of the new year, btw) started out different than I had expected. First off, I was in my early twenties and didn't know my head from my ass. I had just broken up with the previous girlfriend (my fault, "foot in mouth" situation) and didn't know what to do. I didn't want to go to this party alone so, like any young man, I invited one of my best friends. He also happened to be my partner in alcohol in those days. He was fresh out of the Army, I was clueless, neither of us had a woman and we both had a love affair with alcohol and bars. God, I really hate when I divert from my intended topic but, I have to. My friend, I'll call him "Pokey" had a twin brother, "Gumby" and also two younger brothers. I initially met Gumby and Pokey then met the rest of the family, we all "clicked" and here we are at present day. Shenanigans, women, marriages, kids... You know the story. Anyway, back to the original route of this post. Since I didn't have a "date" for the company X-mas party, I thought "Heck, I'll just invite Pokey." If I hadn't gone to the party, I would have been at the bar with him anyway. Going to the party we'll get some free dinner, a couple of free drinks, meet a shit-load of people who have no idea that we were about to turn their world upside down... Great fun. I found out later that since I showed up with a guy, they all (I worked with ALL WOMEN) thought we were gay. I still think it's hilarious. Both Pokey and I are straight but, at that time, were also both very bad with women. It's probably why we spent so much time together. Anyhow, after the formal dinner the staff ended up at a local (local for them) bar. Ahhh, we felt more in our element. After dumping a few drinks into me I opened up and was chatting with coworkers I would have not otherwise chatted with. I played some pool (I'm the worst you've ever seen), then moved on. To the dart board. I was fairly good at throwin' darts. I was also smoking like a chimney (you could actually smoke in bars back then.) My Sister was there, having been the person mostly responsible for my employment at that daycare center, and I think she was probably taken aback by her baby brother's behavior. There's a thirteen year difference between us. Sister was gone to college before I entered my formative years. Our relationship has always been more of a parent-child thing than a Sister-Brother thing. Worked out well because she's largely responsible for raising me. Mom had two other boys (both older than me) to deal with. I adore my Sister. Anyway, this party was the first time we had both been in an "adult" situation at the same time. I felt weird drinking like a fish and smoking like a chimney in front of my Sister and I think she felt weird seeing me as a grown man. I was noticing these things as I was playing cricket (darts, not the ball game) with Pokey and "her". "She" and I were on the same team and after she had thrown, she passed my darts back to me. This is where the whole thing started. As she passed my darts to me, she held onto my hand just long enough to make me think something was not as it should be. Game over, she and I were sitting at the bar and she just opened right up to me. She told me all about her relationship troubles, about her life in general... Normal situation for me. I'm one of those guys that women find "safe" and feel secure enough around to unload their woes upon me. It happened to me so often that I started tuning her out. Besides, she was married. I was having a good time and then I found myself, again, as some gal's confidant. Lovely. Then she shot me "the look." I can't describe it, but I can still picture it as if it was yesterday. She told me more with that look than she could have with thousands of words. Weird, but I took it in stride. Pokey and I went back to our town and hit "our" bars. I didn't think anything more about that weird situation. Until the following Monday, that is. She had left a card in my mail box at work. The first of many, many letters between us. In this card (I still have it) she explained that what she said was told to me in confidence because she thought I was someone she could trust. I really had to work to even remember what she had told me at the bar. In a nutshell, she married because she thought she had to. Not necessarily because she wanted to. The rescuer in me kicked in and it led to years of lots of turmoil, but also lots of good things. We were an on and off couple, she divorced, had issues with being alone (I won't go into that ball of wax) and, as I was planning my escape from the daycare center, she bought a house with her ex-husband. Made it really easy for me to leave her behind. She eventually realized living with her ex-husband was a bad idea and she moved out. The last I had talked to her, she had just met "Mr. Wrong #2" and was starting all over again. That was the last communication I had with her for nine years. I was stuck on her and couldn't shake her from my memory. One relationship I had in the interim failed, I'm guessing, because I was still hung up on "her." Not going to go into details about that right now. I made it to about seven or eight years since last talking to "her" before I was able to let her go. When I did let go, it was in the most embarrassing way possible. In front of my Mother. I had gone to a bar near my house with a friend of mine and between the perfectly mixed drinks and the Patsy Cline on the jukebox (for once, nobody in the bar complained) the things I had bottled up came to the surface and erupted. After I was home and in bed I realized that I was stinkin' drunk and might have some problems. I panicked and called Mom. I flat out told Mom that I was seriously drunk, was scared and that I needed help. Once she had arrived I poured out every bit of anguish I had acquired since high school. My Father's death, Brother's death, three Grandparents, a Cousin... It all came out. Including me spilling my guts about "her." Mom knew all along that I was still carrying a torch for her. It was the most embarrassing moment in my life, the most vulnerable moment in my life and the most liberating moment in my life. I had finally let go of her. In the midst of that alcohol fueled breakdown, in front of my Mother, I accepted that "she" was gone, she was never coming back and I should get on with my life. I truly was a new man. I was given a great gift. A fresh start, free from the baggage I had been carrying around for so long. What a marvelous new beginning! Then I did something stupid. A year after my breakdown, I found "her" on Facebook. I just couldn't help myself. I sent here a message. We eventually met again and that old spark was still there. At least she wasn't married this time around. A few months after that initial meeting we spent a day together. We were in a state park exploring things and found ourselves deep in the woods. I stopped her and I said something like "Well, we're in about as private a spot as we'll ever be. If there's anything we should discuss, now is the time." Considering the beginning of our relationship, neither of us had anything to lose by being completely honest with each other. It's the part of our relationship that's most important to me and, probably, why I'm so attracted to her. Anyway, I was expecting to discuss the fact that what we were doing, seeing each other while she was living with another guy, was wrong and it should probably not go any further. She blindsided me. She stopped in her tracks, turned to me, looked me in the eye and said "I love you." I was speechless. We spent the rest of that day feeling a bit awkward. Things, uh, "progressed" and her boyfriend eventually found out. She cut me out of her life instantly. It hurt, but I understood why she did it. I didn't hear from her for about another year. She eventually contacted me again. She had left her man and was living on her own. She, oddly, asked if she could come and see me. I said that would be fine and she came to my house. It was awkward, but it was nice to see her again. Then she disappeared again. The next time I heard from her she was in a hospital. She had become so despondent that she had tried killing herself. I was instantly walking on eggshells around her. I found out that her last visit was her saying goodbye to me. I get the chills whenever I think about that day. We've seen each other on and off since then. One day, while riding in the car, I brought up her attempted suicide. I told her it was not like her to take the easy way out. I told her that life was a game and the only way to win was to see it through to the end. Quitting meant losing the game. Then I told her something that shocked me as much as it did her. I said "How dare you! How dare you try and leave me like that!" She's been seeing a therapist and has turned her life around. She's no longer afraid to be by herself, she's become more independent, she's my hero. And I still love her as much as the day she shot me "the look." I only see her a handful of times throughout the year and we're not an "item", but neither of us can deny we're connected at some deep level. We're not lovers, we're not soul mates (I hate that term), we're more than friends... We're Kameraden! I just realized what we have as I was typing it. What a relief. I can describe our relationship! Kameradschaft! You'll have to read up on German military history to understand. She and I, though we may not like each other all the time, share a foxhole as life charges at us. She confides in me and I in her. I've told her things I've never even hinted at with anyone else. She's told me almost everything about her life, even the dark bits that society would frown upon. We're true kameraden, and not in the dictionary's definition. The German definition of Kamerad is much different than you'll find in Merriam-Webster's grand book. Our relationship is like no other and I will never have the same closeness with another human being. It's more than friendship, it's more than love... I treasure her and will forever be grateful that we got to know each other. That's the story of "her."
08 July, 2013
Dorah
As of about three hours ago, I now have no living Grandparents. Grandma Dorah slipped away quietly and peacefully at the nursing home. She was 97 years old. A heartier woman I have never met. Grandma Dorah was a full blood Dane (As was Grandma's husband, Arnie) and was born (if I remember correctly) in 1916. Earlier in my life I attempted to put Grandma's life in perspective. When this great woman was born America west of the Mississippi river was still, largely, untamed. She grew up on the plains. She lived through WWI, WWII, the jet age, the Korean war, the space age, the Vietnam War, the digital age, Both wars in Iraq... She grew up in a good family, married a good man, raised three children, eight grandchildren and ten great-grandchildren. My Mom is, understandably, having a difficult time. Grandma has been deteriorating quite rapidly over the past few years. Having been a woman with a sharp mind, it was easy to tell when things started going south. Grandma was moved into an "assisted living" apartment and then into what, for lack of a more accurate description, a hospital room with her own things in it. It was clear for some time that the writing was on the wall. My Mother, as are most children, has been very distraught seeing her Mother wither away. The only comfort I could give my Mother was the truth. Mom's Dad, my Grandpa Arnie, was a Methodist minister for the majority of his life and some of him is within me. I can't quite recall exactly, but I don't remember Grandpa being the kind to be stereotypical by saying "I'm so sorry for your loss." I have always imagined him saying something that would be comforting and matter-of-fact at the same time. As a minister Grandpa, obviously, performed a great number of funeral services. He was good at his job. He wasn't phony about it either. The man was doing what he was meant to do, and he was good at it. So when Grandma told Mom that she was ready to die I consoled my Mother as best as I knew how. I told Mom that Grandma had led a long and fulfilling life and if she wanted to go, she had every right to do so. 97 years is an awfully long time to be alive. Grandma occasionally had enough clearance of mind to realize she was fading. As my family is much too aware, a long drawn out descent is much too painful for everyone involved. I think most people would agree that a quick death is preferable. My cousin Micky for example. He was taken from us much too soon, but it was quick and he didn't suffer. I miss my Grandma, but I'm also glad that she has finally been released from her pain and is now among the stars. I've accepted Grandma's death though I'm sure it will hit me later, but with the amount of loss our family has experienced I've a different view of it than I did twenty years ago. I'm sure most people go through the same things. Maybe it's the pain we deal with when a loved one dies that ages us more than time does. For me the deviation from what is supposed to happen has been the hardest to deal with. We expect natural progression of the oldest generations of our families to die first. So when things happen out of order, we're hit harder than necessary. I know it hurt Grandma Dorah very much when she had to see her sons-in-law (my Dad and Uncle Mike) and three grandchildren (my brother Mark and cousins Mickey and Orabelle) die before she did. I would guess the premature deaths of these people can be offset by knowing that they were loved by Grandma. Now she's among them. I have so many good memories of my dear Grandma, but maybe I'll tell those stories at another time. Grandma was often heard saying "Oh my stars" Now, she's among her stars.
"High Flight"
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
- Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
John Gillespie Magee Jr.
"High Flight"
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
- Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
John Gillespie Magee Jr.
05 June, 2013
Sometimes, I'm proud of what I do.
I've written about my entry into the crazy field of auto mechanics before so I'll spare you the details. For those of you who are new here I'll do a brief recap. I grew up in a blue collar family, in a blue collar town and never imagined doing something other than blue collar work. My senior year of high school the guidance counselor pulled me out of class, asked me if I had given any thought to what I wanted to do after high school, I ran through my options and told him I wanted to be a mechanic. Graduated high school, went to tech school and landed my first auto job. Went to the second auto job for more money (I'll never make that mistake again), got fired and took it harder than I should have. Up to date now? Good. On with the ramblings of a slightly drunk mechanic.
Having grown up in a blue collar town I always thought (and still do) that manual labor and the skilled trades were a respectable way to make a living. Somewhere in my youth something got me thinking that certain jobs were things to be ashamed of. A janitor for one. When I was young, my Dad worked at "the plant" which is what everyone in town called the local GM assembly factory. Dad worked on the line, doing various jobs, and ended up as a janitor in the EDS offices. I never gave it any thought until I saw how the janitors at my junior high school were treated. As I passed on through junior high and high school in the late '80s, the term "blue collar" almost became a four letter word. Blue collar parents, which were usually the traditional family of working Dad and stay at home Mom, naturally wanted better things for their children. Emphasis was put on "white collar" jobs such as doctors, lawyers, accountants etc. In large part this was due to money. Overseas labor was cheaper than paying for union labor at home. The bean counters were looking at the bottom line and didn't consider the long term consequences of their actions. America was once the industrial giant of the world and that distinction has evaporated. As have an alarmingly large amount of the skills we (America) once had. The white collar/blue collar pendulum had swung over to the white collar side and the blue collar professions suffered accordingly. The day I told my counselor I wanted to be a mechanic, the move to white collar was already in progress and I didn't know it. The day I got fired from auto job number two devastated me. Not so much from the fact I would have to find another job, but because I had to go home and tell my Dad I got fired. Before I even graduated from high school, my parents had instilled certain values in me. My Dad may not have liked his job at the "plant", but he had a family to provide for, and that was his first (and only, looking back on it) priority. Food on the table, roof over the heads. Dad spent four years in the Navy and when he got out he was unemployed for a short time. When his first child (my dear Sister) was born he didn't have a job. In those days birth certificates had a spot where the Father's employment was written down. My Mom told me that when my Sister was born and Dad had to write "unemployed" on the form, he was devastated. So, getting that "mundane" assembly line job was a gift from God to him. Dad had a union job with good pay and good benefits which allowed him to care for his family. That job put money in the bank with which my Mom could go and buy the food she would feed us with and the clothes she put on our backs. That "shameful" factory job also gave my Dad the option to buy bonds and invest in retirement accounts and life insurance policies. I didn't realize until my adult years that the reason I had to do without certain luxuries (popular brand name clothes, cable TV or even color TV) was because my Dad was socking away money for his family's future. My parents sent all of us to college of some sort. And my Mom? She worked for a short time before my Sister was born, for a few years when I was a teen and a few years after Dad died. But, she didn't have to. Those lowly blue collar jobs allowed comfortable lives for families across this nation. This is the situation in which I was raised. I never expected anything else for myself. But things changed.
I'm the youngest of my siblings. The next youngest being eight years older than myself. The oldest, my Sister, 13 years older than myself. The next youngest (I'll call him Spaz) suffered through the horrible early '80s when it was hard to find a job at McDonald's much less at the "plant". As a kid, I watched Spaz go through some really hard times. He eventually got a job at "the plant" but, unfortunately, it was towards the end of the "happy times". Spaz got a layoff notice more than once. But, he made it in with enough seniority (which unfortunately doesn't mean jack-shit these days) that he was able to support his new family and have a pretty decent future. He's now just a couple of years from being able to get the decent retirement which he has most definitely earned. However, that short time span of eight years between us may as well have been 100 years for me.
In high school my first real job was at a Chinese restaurant. Spaz was the host/bartender there during one of the layoffs he suffered through at the plant. One night as I was eating dinner with Mom and Dad, Spaz called. The guy who was the busboy at the restaurant didn't show up (he was worthless from what I heard) and Spaz apparently told the owner he could get someone in to work that night. My brother thought of me. I showed up, was given the briefest of training and started my new job. The other guy eventually showed up but, from what I gathered, was fired on the spot. The restaurant owner apparently appreciated dedicated employees. I guess he saw that in my brother and assumed that if my brother was recommending me he could expect more of the same. I cleaned tables and poured water and made coffee. Not terribly difficult but it was a job and, for the first time in my life, I had money coming in. Spaz got called back to the plant and when summer came I quit because the fife and drum corps I was a part of was more important to me than money. That was my sophmore year of high school. My junior year I was completely unemployed except for the random baby sitting I did for Spaz. I guess you could say that was my only experience with being unemployed. I applied for a job at a local greenhouse and didn't get it. Failure. Not something that sits well with me. As I began my Senior year of high school I was informed that the restaurant was looking for a dishwasher/side order cook. I hemmed and hawed over it because my pride prevented me from what I thought would be crawling back to the restaurant. A short lesson from my Dad cleared things up. He told me that the restaurant had given me a job, on the spot, before and they were giving me the chance to be employed again. Applying at the green house was one of my first "independent" moments and it had failed. So, I became a dishwasher/side order cook. I don't regret it at all. Then, a bigger leap.
I was expecting to spend the summer after my high school graduation with the fife and drum corps as usual, but things took an unexpected turn. My best friend, Pete, had applied at a grocery store and when they didn't respond quickly (he's a seriously motivated individual) he moved on. The grocery store eventually called him and though he told them he'd moved on he called me to let me know there was a job opening. I applied, interviewed and got hired as a dairy/frozen foods assistant. My first grocery store job. This job was short-lived as the place went out of business a little over a year after I was hired. The things I learned from that job were many. I was given responsibility for certain (though menial) tasks, I learned that I was capable of doing all sorts of things and, most importantly, that when you work with good people a job can be enjoyable. I guess I learned that at the restaurant but, being my first job, I had nothing to compare it to. Sadly, one day my boss called me at home and told me not to come into the store because they were closing for good. I was crushed because the people I looked forward to seeing every day wouldn't be around anymore. Then the things I learned from Mom and Dad kicked in. "I need to find another job. Fast." My brain was screaming "You need to provide, provide, provide!!". I was still living at home and had no debts except to Dad. I borrowed $500 from him to buy my first car. The day my boss told me the store was closing, I went to the store to turn in my shirts and name tag then went directly to every other grocery store in town. I got an application from every store, went home, filled out every application and then went out and returned them. All in less than twelve hours. The next day I went down to the unemployment office. I walked in, got in line, picked up the first form and started filling it out. At some point I thought "This is ridiculous. I need to get a job." I was unemployed for less than a week when another grocery store called. I didn't care what the pay was or what the job was. I took it. Again, I ended up in a great place. New people, new building, but the same "family" atmosphere. Somehow, the manager thought I was responsible enough to be "promoted" in a way. I delivered flowers for them. This was during my second year of tech school, the '91-'92 school year.
Tech school, of course, helped get its students into the jobs for which they had been training. My two professors, Mike and Bill, knew their jobs well. Still do. They had the the know-how to place their students in jobs that were appropriate. I didn't go searching for my first auto job, Mike told me about the opening and suggested to me that I apply for it. Mike knew me better than I did. Interviewed, hired... Food on the table. I still remember asking the manager at the grocery store for a minute of his time. I still feel the shame of telling Ken I was leaving for another job. I was raised to be grateful for a job, any job, that allowed you to provide for your family. Job hopping was frowned upon. If someone gave you a job, you showed that employer some respect by staying with them and giving them your all. So, having only been at this second grocery store about four or five months, I felt horrible telling Ken that I was leaving. Ken being older and therefore wiser than the 19 year old me, therefore, knew that I was trying to begin a professional career. He understood completely and even gave me his blessing. I still felt terrible for leaving. But, I did move on. I won't rewrite my experiences with what happened next. It's all in the "Career Blues" series of posts I have on here. I will, however, fill in the blanks.
I went to the first auto job, went to the second and got fired. The day I got fired I went home, early, and walked in to the house. Mom and Dad were eating dinner at the kitchen counter as I walked in. Neither of them were expecting me for another three hours. They both stopped eating, at the same time, and stared at me. Probably trying to figure out why I was home at that time. With my parents I never really tried to cushion things. I simply looked at them and said "I got fired." I don't remember what happened after that. The incredible shame of having to tell my parents that I was fired from a job must have been so great that I've blocked it from memory. I was a product of my parents, however, and the next day I was out hunting for a new job. Gotta keep that money coming in so you can provide for your family! Here's the twist to my story. Just after I started auto job 2, the first grocery store I worked for had reopened under new owners. My former manager had called me, along with other former employees, asking us if we were interested in coming back. Prior experience = less training. I thought about it and politely declined. I had changed jobs so frequently (restaurant, grocery 1, grocery 2, auto 1 and auto 2) within the past three years that I didn't want to change yet again. Besides, I was just starting out on my chosen career. I thanked Dave for even thinking about me for the job. A few months later I got fired from auto 2. I weighed my options. Barely one week passed before I went back to grocery 2 (I'll call it grocery 3 from now on) and asked if I could meet with Dave. I was honest with him and told him about being fired from auto 2. I told him that I needed a job and if he had one available would he please consider me. He hired me on the spot. I told him that my intentions were to get back into auto and he was understanding. I put in four years at grocery 3.
Though I hadn't planned on staying at grocery 3 for four years, it just worked out that way. The shame I felt from being fired from auto 2 was so great that I thought I wasn't good enough. Why would any shop hire me after finding out I had been fired? I dealt with this while I advanced through grocery 3. So many things happened in that time. Dad died. Dave came to the funeral and gave my family a card, signed by every single one of my coworkers. What a great place to work! People cared about one another. Why would I leave that kind of environment? Most of my coworkers were from grocery 1, who had come back, and the business was in the same building. I started as a third shift stocker and was quickly moved to second shift supervisor. I had no clue how to run a store but Dave saw something in me that I wasn't able to see in myself. I alternated between dairy/frozen manager and second shift supervisor for most of my time at grocery 3. They eventually moved me into the meat department. I did NOT want to go there, but I did because I wished to remain employed. Reluctantly, I started in the meat department. Long story short, if the shit hadn't hit the fan, I would be a journeyman meat cutter right now. I eventually liked the meat department and the guys I worked with in that constantly chilly environment. It wasn't going to last.
Having been through one failed grocery store, I started to see the writing on the wall for grocery 3. Nobody wanted to admit it because those of us still there loved that place, but the ship was sinking. My Sister had talked to me about an opening at the daycare center she worked at, for a "maintenance man" i.e "janitor" and I told her I had no interest in commuting or cleaning toilets. Three months after that conversation I finally realized that grocery 3 was as good as gone and I had better jump ship before it sank. On a lark I called the administrator of the daycare. I explained who I was and inquired if the job was still available. It was. I drove up there and interviewed. Honest as always, I said that my current employer was sinking fast and I needed a job. Period. Pretty much got hired on the spot. I'm a lucky son of a bitch aren't I? So began another career path.
Again my best friend, Pete, came to my rescue (see the Career Blues series) and I'm back in my chosen career. But, at the daycare center I was ashamed of what I did. Think of how janitors are looked down upon. My official title was "Maintenance Supervisor" but I knew, as did everyone else, that I was a glorified janitor. I cleaned toilets and floors for a living. I decided early on that I wouldn't try to bullshit anyone. When asked was I did for a living, I came right out and told them I was a glorified janitor at a daycare center. Then, finally, things started to change.
I got back into auto repair and started to respect myself more. There was never any reason to not respect myself. I have never, ever received unemployment compensation from the government. Still, I felt ashamed to be working a blue collar job as a mechanic.
Thank you, Alabama! The band, not the state. I first heard Alabama's song "40 hour week" when I was cleaning toilets at the daycare center. At the lowest point of my life (up to that time anyway) hearing that song started to give me back some of my pride. Sure, I was cleaning toilets and changing light bulbs but I had a job. I was providing for my (non-existent) family and doing something somewhat useful for society! Then I moved on to auto 3 and auto 4. Mike Rowe had his "Dirty Jobs" show on TV. For the first time I felt no shame in being a blue collar professional. Sad that it took 40 years to get to this point but I'm here. When you get down to the bones of it, there's no shame in being blue collar or white collar. What matters is providing for your family and those who depend on you. I don't care if you're digging ditches, vacuuming the shit out of porta-johns or crunching numbers. Family is what matters. Feed them, shelter them and clothe them. The rest is immaterial.
In my relatively short life I've seen America swing from blue collar to white collar and back towards the middle. Jobs are coming back from overseas because the bean counters are, I hope, finally starting to realize that you can't get quality products made overseas. Here, in America, were able to be both concerned with providing for our families AND providing quality products and services. I hope things keep going for the middle. Blue collar or White collar, we both have red blood. Red, White and Blue!
Having grown up in a blue collar town I always thought (and still do) that manual labor and the skilled trades were a respectable way to make a living. Somewhere in my youth something got me thinking that certain jobs were things to be ashamed of. A janitor for one. When I was young, my Dad worked at "the plant" which is what everyone in town called the local GM assembly factory. Dad worked on the line, doing various jobs, and ended up as a janitor in the EDS offices. I never gave it any thought until I saw how the janitors at my junior high school were treated. As I passed on through junior high and high school in the late '80s, the term "blue collar" almost became a four letter word. Blue collar parents, which were usually the traditional family of working Dad and stay at home Mom, naturally wanted better things for their children. Emphasis was put on "white collar" jobs such as doctors, lawyers, accountants etc. In large part this was due to money. Overseas labor was cheaper than paying for union labor at home. The bean counters were looking at the bottom line and didn't consider the long term consequences of their actions. America was once the industrial giant of the world and that distinction has evaporated. As have an alarmingly large amount of the skills we (America) once had. The white collar/blue collar pendulum had swung over to the white collar side and the blue collar professions suffered accordingly. The day I told my counselor I wanted to be a mechanic, the move to white collar was already in progress and I didn't know it. The day I got fired from auto job number two devastated me. Not so much from the fact I would have to find another job, but because I had to go home and tell my Dad I got fired. Before I even graduated from high school, my parents had instilled certain values in me. My Dad may not have liked his job at the "plant", but he had a family to provide for, and that was his first (and only, looking back on it) priority. Food on the table, roof over the heads. Dad spent four years in the Navy and when he got out he was unemployed for a short time. When his first child (my dear Sister) was born he didn't have a job. In those days birth certificates had a spot where the Father's employment was written down. My Mom told me that when my Sister was born and Dad had to write "unemployed" on the form, he was devastated. So, getting that "mundane" assembly line job was a gift from God to him. Dad had a union job with good pay and good benefits which allowed him to care for his family. That job put money in the bank with which my Mom could go and buy the food she would feed us with and the clothes she put on our backs. That "shameful" factory job also gave my Dad the option to buy bonds and invest in retirement accounts and life insurance policies. I didn't realize until my adult years that the reason I had to do without certain luxuries (popular brand name clothes, cable TV or even color TV) was because my Dad was socking away money for his family's future. My parents sent all of us to college of some sort. And my Mom? She worked for a short time before my Sister was born, for a few years when I was a teen and a few years after Dad died. But, she didn't have to. Those lowly blue collar jobs allowed comfortable lives for families across this nation. This is the situation in which I was raised. I never expected anything else for myself. But things changed.
I'm the youngest of my siblings. The next youngest being eight years older than myself. The oldest, my Sister, 13 years older than myself. The next youngest (I'll call him Spaz) suffered through the horrible early '80s when it was hard to find a job at McDonald's much less at the "plant". As a kid, I watched Spaz go through some really hard times. He eventually got a job at "the plant" but, unfortunately, it was towards the end of the "happy times". Spaz got a layoff notice more than once. But, he made it in with enough seniority (which unfortunately doesn't mean jack-shit these days) that he was able to support his new family and have a pretty decent future. He's now just a couple of years from being able to get the decent retirement which he has most definitely earned. However, that short time span of eight years between us may as well have been 100 years for me.
In high school my first real job was at a Chinese restaurant. Spaz was the host/bartender there during one of the layoffs he suffered through at the plant. One night as I was eating dinner with Mom and Dad, Spaz called. The guy who was the busboy at the restaurant didn't show up (he was worthless from what I heard) and Spaz apparently told the owner he could get someone in to work that night. My brother thought of me. I showed up, was given the briefest of training and started my new job. The other guy eventually showed up but, from what I gathered, was fired on the spot. The restaurant owner apparently appreciated dedicated employees. I guess he saw that in my brother and assumed that if my brother was recommending me he could expect more of the same. I cleaned tables and poured water and made coffee. Not terribly difficult but it was a job and, for the first time in my life, I had money coming in. Spaz got called back to the plant and when summer came I quit because the fife and drum corps I was a part of was more important to me than money. That was my sophmore year of high school. My junior year I was completely unemployed except for the random baby sitting I did for Spaz. I guess you could say that was my only experience with being unemployed. I applied for a job at a local greenhouse and didn't get it. Failure. Not something that sits well with me. As I began my Senior year of high school I was informed that the restaurant was looking for a dishwasher/side order cook. I hemmed and hawed over it because my pride prevented me from what I thought would be crawling back to the restaurant. A short lesson from my Dad cleared things up. He told me that the restaurant had given me a job, on the spot, before and they were giving me the chance to be employed again. Applying at the green house was one of my first "independent" moments and it had failed. So, I became a dishwasher/side order cook. I don't regret it at all. Then, a bigger leap.
I was expecting to spend the summer after my high school graduation with the fife and drum corps as usual, but things took an unexpected turn. My best friend, Pete, had applied at a grocery store and when they didn't respond quickly (he's a seriously motivated individual) he moved on. The grocery store eventually called him and though he told them he'd moved on he called me to let me know there was a job opening. I applied, interviewed and got hired as a dairy/frozen foods assistant. My first grocery store job. This job was short-lived as the place went out of business a little over a year after I was hired. The things I learned from that job were many. I was given responsibility for certain (though menial) tasks, I learned that I was capable of doing all sorts of things and, most importantly, that when you work with good people a job can be enjoyable. I guess I learned that at the restaurant but, being my first job, I had nothing to compare it to. Sadly, one day my boss called me at home and told me not to come into the store because they were closing for good. I was crushed because the people I looked forward to seeing every day wouldn't be around anymore. Then the things I learned from Mom and Dad kicked in. "I need to find another job. Fast." My brain was screaming "You need to provide, provide, provide!!". I was still living at home and had no debts except to Dad. I borrowed $500 from him to buy my first car. The day my boss told me the store was closing, I went to the store to turn in my shirts and name tag then went directly to every other grocery store in town. I got an application from every store, went home, filled out every application and then went out and returned them. All in less than twelve hours. The next day I went down to the unemployment office. I walked in, got in line, picked up the first form and started filling it out. At some point I thought "This is ridiculous. I need to get a job." I was unemployed for less than a week when another grocery store called. I didn't care what the pay was or what the job was. I took it. Again, I ended up in a great place. New people, new building, but the same "family" atmosphere. Somehow, the manager thought I was responsible enough to be "promoted" in a way. I delivered flowers for them. This was during my second year of tech school, the '91-'92 school year.
Tech school, of course, helped get its students into the jobs for which they had been training. My two professors, Mike and Bill, knew their jobs well. Still do. They had the the know-how to place their students in jobs that were appropriate. I didn't go searching for my first auto job, Mike told me about the opening and suggested to me that I apply for it. Mike knew me better than I did. Interviewed, hired... Food on the table. I still remember asking the manager at the grocery store for a minute of his time. I still feel the shame of telling Ken I was leaving for another job. I was raised to be grateful for a job, any job, that allowed you to provide for your family. Job hopping was frowned upon. If someone gave you a job, you showed that employer some respect by staying with them and giving them your all. So, having only been at this second grocery store about four or five months, I felt horrible telling Ken that I was leaving. Ken being older and therefore wiser than the 19 year old me, therefore, knew that I was trying to begin a professional career. He understood completely and even gave me his blessing. I still felt terrible for leaving. But, I did move on. I won't rewrite my experiences with what happened next. It's all in the "Career Blues" series of posts I have on here. I will, however, fill in the blanks.
I went to the first auto job, went to the second and got fired. The day I got fired I went home, early, and walked in to the house. Mom and Dad were eating dinner at the kitchen counter as I walked in. Neither of them were expecting me for another three hours. They both stopped eating, at the same time, and stared at me. Probably trying to figure out why I was home at that time. With my parents I never really tried to cushion things. I simply looked at them and said "I got fired." I don't remember what happened after that. The incredible shame of having to tell my parents that I was fired from a job must have been so great that I've blocked it from memory. I was a product of my parents, however, and the next day I was out hunting for a new job. Gotta keep that money coming in so you can provide for your family! Here's the twist to my story. Just after I started auto job 2, the first grocery store I worked for had reopened under new owners. My former manager had called me, along with other former employees, asking us if we were interested in coming back. Prior experience = less training. I thought about it and politely declined. I had changed jobs so frequently (restaurant, grocery 1, grocery 2, auto 1 and auto 2) within the past three years that I didn't want to change yet again. Besides, I was just starting out on my chosen career. I thanked Dave for even thinking about me for the job. A few months later I got fired from auto 2. I weighed my options. Barely one week passed before I went back to grocery 2 (I'll call it grocery 3 from now on) and asked if I could meet with Dave. I was honest with him and told him about being fired from auto 2. I told him that I needed a job and if he had one available would he please consider me. He hired me on the spot. I told him that my intentions were to get back into auto and he was understanding. I put in four years at grocery 3.
Though I hadn't planned on staying at grocery 3 for four years, it just worked out that way. The shame I felt from being fired from auto 2 was so great that I thought I wasn't good enough. Why would any shop hire me after finding out I had been fired? I dealt with this while I advanced through grocery 3. So many things happened in that time. Dad died. Dave came to the funeral and gave my family a card, signed by every single one of my coworkers. What a great place to work! People cared about one another. Why would I leave that kind of environment? Most of my coworkers were from grocery 1, who had come back, and the business was in the same building. I started as a third shift stocker and was quickly moved to second shift supervisor. I had no clue how to run a store but Dave saw something in me that I wasn't able to see in myself. I alternated between dairy/frozen manager and second shift supervisor for most of my time at grocery 3. They eventually moved me into the meat department. I did NOT want to go there, but I did because I wished to remain employed. Reluctantly, I started in the meat department. Long story short, if the shit hadn't hit the fan, I would be a journeyman meat cutter right now. I eventually liked the meat department and the guys I worked with in that constantly chilly environment. It wasn't going to last.
Having been through one failed grocery store, I started to see the writing on the wall for grocery 3. Nobody wanted to admit it because those of us still there loved that place, but the ship was sinking. My Sister had talked to me about an opening at the daycare center she worked at, for a "maintenance man" i.e "janitor" and I told her I had no interest in commuting or cleaning toilets. Three months after that conversation I finally realized that grocery 3 was as good as gone and I had better jump ship before it sank. On a lark I called the administrator of the daycare. I explained who I was and inquired if the job was still available. It was. I drove up there and interviewed. Honest as always, I said that my current employer was sinking fast and I needed a job. Period. Pretty much got hired on the spot. I'm a lucky son of a bitch aren't I? So began another career path.
Again my best friend, Pete, came to my rescue (see the Career Blues series) and I'm back in my chosen career. But, at the daycare center I was ashamed of what I did. Think of how janitors are looked down upon. My official title was "Maintenance Supervisor" but I knew, as did everyone else, that I was a glorified janitor. I cleaned toilets and floors for a living. I decided early on that I wouldn't try to bullshit anyone. When asked was I did for a living, I came right out and told them I was a glorified janitor at a daycare center. Then, finally, things started to change.
I got back into auto repair and started to respect myself more. There was never any reason to not respect myself. I have never, ever received unemployment compensation from the government. Still, I felt ashamed to be working a blue collar job as a mechanic.
Thank you, Alabama! The band, not the state. I first heard Alabama's song "40 hour week" when I was cleaning toilets at the daycare center. At the lowest point of my life (up to that time anyway) hearing that song started to give me back some of my pride. Sure, I was cleaning toilets and changing light bulbs but I had a job. I was providing for my (non-existent) family and doing something somewhat useful for society! Then I moved on to auto 3 and auto 4. Mike Rowe had his "Dirty Jobs" show on TV. For the first time I felt no shame in being a blue collar professional. Sad that it took 40 years to get to this point but I'm here. When you get down to the bones of it, there's no shame in being blue collar or white collar. What matters is providing for your family and those who depend on you. I don't care if you're digging ditches, vacuuming the shit out of porta-johns or crunching numbers. Family is what matters. Feed them, shelter them and clothe them. The rest is immaterial.
In my relatively short life I've seen America swing from blue collar to white collar and back towards the middle. Jobs are coming back from overseas because the bean counters are, I hope, finally starting to realize that you can't get quality products made overseas. Here, in America, were able to be both concerned with providing for our families AND providing quality products and services. I hope things keep going for the middle. Blue collar or White collar, we both have red blood. Red, White and Blue!
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