Show a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Courtney

          In my place of employment I have to wear a uniform.  It is pretty generic black pants and a white button down smock.  I work in the bakery department of a grocery store, and I like what I do. I mean how many people can say they make roses bloom with the flick of the wrist and a pastry bag filled with icing.  As a cake decorator I can color the world as I see fit.  We still cut donuts by hand.  That is how a good donut should be made, patiently and by hand. 

          I know this may seem like quit the jump, but I promise my craziness will make some sense in the end. 

          I did a very short stint at a well-recognized college in my area.  As I worked on a clay project one day, a professor went on about how daring it was that I was attending such a college since three years had passed between then and high school graduation.  I sat silently as she went on to say that my co-workers, my friends, were uneducated.  What? 

            I wanted to argue against her statement, but I gathered my things and left the clay lab.  I finished the semester, but I did not return after the holiday break.  I didn’t want to learn from someone who thought she was of more importance than the people who helped build me.  My education was mine to seek out, and so I chose to find it in the bakery.

           I may not have a college degree or certificates hanging on my walls, but I have so many other things. Things I can’t hang on a wall, but are much more valuable.  I have an appreciation for the little things like the way a waitress/waiter remembers what I order regularly.  I love that the man working at the full service gas station genuinely asks about my family and me and how the courtesy clerk at the grocery store knows that I prefer paper over plastic bags.  I appreciate kindness, even if it comes in the smallest of doses. 

            As for being uneducated, there is no such thing.  One should not be judged simply because they are educated differently from someone else.  I have a good job, skilled hands, an amazing Crew, and a give ‘em hell attitude.  How much more education does one need?  So, tip well.  Make eye contact.  Be kind.  Respect one another.  Help somebody if you can.  Now, before I put my hair net back on, I would like to propose a toast.  Here is to the ladies and gents in the uniforms.  To the ones running the world with their names on their shirt.  When it comes down to it, we’re all just trying to dance as elegantly through life as we can.    

 Heather

           I love to learn.  I always have.  I don’t remember learning to read, but I do remember being read to and then reading on my own.  It seems—at least to my memory—to have been a seamless transition.  I would read anything from the backs (and sides) of cereal boxes to the many copies of Hot Rod Magazine Dad had lying around the house.  I devoured history texts and relished book reports.  When I got to college, I took classes in non-Western history and art not because they were required for my major, but because I was interested in what I could learn there.  Some of the things I made in ceramics class are still kicking around my apartment.

            Mom and Dad always talked about college as if it were an absolute.  “When you go to college…” was a phrase I heard from my first day of kindergarten on through high school.  There was no if.  I was going.  And I went.

            I had just decided to transfer schools and change my major when Dad asked me if I thought I was smarter than him.  There was no hesitation—I told him that I was a different kind of smart.  He could tear apart an engine and put it together again without any kind of manual.  He could design and build all sorts of things with his torch and steel.  I could barely change a car tire, but I could talk about history and tear apart a poem. 

           A piece of paper in a fancy frame doesn’t denote education.  It indicates attendance at an institution and the fulfillment of minimum requirements, but it does not tell the story of what you actually know.  Education comes from experience and happens all around us—not just in ivy covered brick buildings.  I learned about the Battle of Hastings and Beowulf in a classroom, but I learned about hard work while working as a courtesy clerk and then cashier at a local grocery store.  Have you ever tried to lug two bales of paper bags from the back of a store to the front or moved two carts loaded down with groceries from the check-out area to a customer’s car while dodging other customers and traffic? How about dealing with people yelling at you because the sale doesn’t start on the day they want it to start?  The public.  Always an adventure.

            I learned about taking pride in my work from Dad.  He may have been what some would refer to as “only” a driver, but he made sure that his truck was well taken care of and that his work clothes were free of stains.  I learned about dedication from Mom who rarely calls off even when the weather keeps people who live in town from getting to work. 

            Instead of judging someone by their job, thank them.  Maybe they’re working as a server to pay their way through school or to support themselves while they produce art.  Maybe they’re doing that job because it’s what they love to do and they couldn’t imagine doing anything else. 

            Tip the courtesy clerk who slogs through snow and rain to deliver your groceries to your car, tip the server who brought you your meal, thank the postal workers, the paper carriers, and the waste removal workers.  Thank the people who make your work possible.

           Also, take some time to thank the people who have taught you valuable lessons.  That could mean sending a note to your fourth grade teacher who encouraged your writing or thanking your first boss for giving you a chance. 

Gratitude can make a difference.

 

The fishermen on Piedmont Lake have traded in the shacks of ice fishing for boats and I couldn't be happier.  Spring means a new beginning and hope.

 

Rulers, Pay checks, or Coffee Spoons? How Do You Measure a Year?

Courtney

Paper coffee cups.  Laughter.  The warmth of a child sitting on my lap.  Cell phone games. Friends.  In one swift elevator ride, all of that comfort was replaced with an achy, hollow feeling that settled itself in my chest.  Smeared mascara.  Hoodie sleeve tissues.  My second last kiss.  I was suddenly aware that the hospital smelled like sanitizer, salt, and sickness.  I wanted to leave.  I wanted to run to my car and drive as fast as those four wheels could roll, but I didn’t.  I told my friends to go home and I waited with my family for the funeral director to come for Dad. 

For a while after Papa Bear’s death I carried that hollow feeling with me constantly.  Now, almost four years later, the Beast only rears his ugly head every so often.  I don’t know if that feeling ever really fully heals after losing a parent, and part of me doesn’t want it to.  Every time my heart constricts in that way it is kind of a reminder of the man I carry with me. Because of this I have noticed that I have a bit of a problem. 

They say that the first step is admitting to having a problem.  I am not entirely sure who “they” are, but “they” may be onto something.  Once I admitted that I needed to fix myself, life became so much lighter.  You see I, Courtney Taylor, do not know how to measure.  I am not talking about busting out the ruler here.  I am talking about life.  How am I measuring life? 

One day I looked down at my coffee cup and silently wondered just how many cups I go through a year.  Then, I started thinking about other everyday things that I so very often take for granted.  How many smiles are there in a year?  How many hand written letters?  So for one year I want to chronicle the journey of bettering myself.  I want to stuff the days with too many pictures and not enough sleep.  Let’s go zip lining.  Let’s be kind to one another.  Let’s all take the time to smile more.  Let’s measure life differently this year.  So pack an overnight bag, come on, and bring your jukebox money.

Heather

On a March day, much like this one, my life changed with one phone call.  It was a short call—maybe two minutes in length, but in that time I learned that Dad had been diagnosed with cancer.   The months that followed were filled with doctor’s appointments and treatments.  I began carrying a bag that became known as my hospital readiness bag.  It contained snacks, tissues, bottles of water, books, notebooks, and pens.  Days blurred together as I put in a day at work and then either went home or to the hospital to see Dad.

On July 30, 2010, my life changed again.  I don’t remember the exact time, but it must have been late because I remember it being dark outside and the main lobby was nearly deserted.  My sister and I had been on the sixth floor with family for several days straight and had gone to the lobby to talk to some friends who had come to check on us.  When our brother stepped off the elevator, my heart sank.  The next several hours are a blur to me.  I know that we rushed back to Dad’s room and I know that there were tears.  I know that I couldn’t be in the room or even in the hallway when the funeral director came to take Dad away.  The next thing I remember is sitting at my Nan’s table with a cup of coffee thinking that I couldn’t go home because at home it would all be real.  I wasn’t sure that I could stand waking up in a world that didn’t include Dad.

My sorrow swallowed me and I buried myself in work.  If I stayed busy, I didn’t feel the emptiness.  One summer evening I was driving from my apartment to Mom’s and I passed the truck that Dad used to drive.  I reached for my phone to call him—and then I remembered.  I put the phone down and thought about what he might have said to me if I had been able to call him. 

Dad was a character.  He had a story for every occasion and he talk to everyone—for hours on end.  At the funeral home, people told me stories of their adventures with him.  He had really lived.  There were stories of motorcycle rides, senior pranks, parties, and truck pulls. 

I will always carry my grief for Dad, but, like my sister, I need a lesson in measuring.  Instead of measuring my days with meetings and time spent behind a desk, I need to start measuring it in the things that really matter.  I need to spend more time with friends and family.  I need to spend more time doing the things I always promised I would do later.  There is no more “later.”  There is only now.  My sister once asked me, “We all know life is hard, so why are we so mean to each other?”  My question is this: We all know life is short, so why don’t we make the most out of each and every day we’re given?

See the theme? 

This year, I’m going to really live and I’m going to share my story. 

Are you ready? 

I am.