Waiting Tables

          I think everybody ought to have the opportunity of waiting tables for at least two months.  Some may have to do it longer to really appreciate what hard work for little wages really is.  Although I don’t know if it’s quite as feast or famine as it used to be. 

          My second job was at the ice cream parlor where my mom worked.  I was probably there longer than any other job.  I think I started out at 2.67 an hour.  Milkshakes were less than two on the menu. I’d seen the prices going up quite often.  Wish my paycheck had been increased as rapidly.

I mostly worked weekends and one or two nights during the week.  I would come in at 6:00 or 8:00 and work until after closing.  Everybody did everything and tips were split among all of those who worked that shift.  Our assignments consisted of being host or hostess (seating customers and bringing them water), waiting tables, making orders, taking orders for and making cones, cashier, dishwasher and those who were really competent would have the honor of relieving the candy lady when the need arose.

         

          There were a few nights when patrons would enter consistently – but for the most part there were gaps of “looking busy” and then they’d swarm in due to some concert or high school dance or what have you letting out or ending up.  And as a waiter/waitress one always wondered if it had been announced to “be sure and stop by” as it was always crowded.  And then we were working just as hard as any aerobic class – maybe harder.

          My favorite jobs were either waiting tables or dishwasher – which wasn’t actually assigned to the girls all too often.  Making orders wasn’t too bad if the ice cream was soft enough to scoop out.  But on really busy nights, we would end up getting in each other’s way.

          I didn’t enjoy doing cones all that much – also a job that was more popularly assigned to the boys.  Counters were okay.  It was a “do-it-all” task and it was by the doors which sometimes invited a welcoming breeze.

          When the family business was handed to the next generation, they attempted to add new things to the menu – like sandwiches, soup and coffee – which they would stop serving after six.  And once in a while I would work the day shift.

          The day shift workers would clear tables, but that’s as far as it would get.  Never did a single dish make it into the dish room until I came on board (day time shift)  making sure to fill a tub with soapy water and drop each of the soup bowls into the water when I separated the other items in the cart.  Really.  How hard is that?  Dropping soup bowls into a tub of water? 

          Those who were assigned to do dishes loved me.  It certainly made their job a lot easier.  But I had done dishes before.  I knew what it was like.  I was getting paid to work – not to stand around and visit.  I just didn’t get why it was always such a big deal for the day shift to get off their duffs and help out a little.

          Also I don’t recall any of the employees ever being coffee drinkers.  We often received complaints on the coffee.  Sometimes we’d actually invite the customer back to make his or her own coffee (how professional, huh) I think they did away with it after a while.  We honestly just didn’t know.

          I made several friends throughout the years.  I graduated high school.  Moved on to another job.  Sometimes I would substitute for somebody at the ice cream store.  Went to school.  Returned to the ice cream.  Went on a mission. Returned to the ice cream. And continued to be on the payroll at least two years after quitting my job again (as I would still sub at least once a paycheck)

          I worked at the ice cream parlor (or subbed) in addition to at least three or four other jobs.  The ice cream parlor was never a full time job. I probably put in more hours when I was in high school than I had since.

          Funniest story ever.  Nathan (not his real name) and some other co-workers were on their break discussing going to prom.  One asked Nathan who he’d be asking out.  He said he was considering asking me. 

          “No way!  Who are you going to ask really?”

          Confused by their reaction, Nathan asked what was wrong.

          “She’s like in her 20’s.”

          Nathan didn’t believe them.

          A group surrounded me.  The spokesman of the group asked, “How old are you?”

          I was 24 at the time. 

          Nathan’s jaw fell on the floor.  I was flattered that he had wanted to ask me.  But at the same time I thought it was very hilarious.

          All of my mom’s children had worked there at one time or another. It was a good first job for most of us – as well as some of our neighbors.

          The ice cream parlor has been folded about twenty years, I guess.  They kept the name, and continued producing ice cream at the factory.  After 79 years the brand name was retired. The factory continues to operate. But there is a different name on the packaging. But to the best of my knowledge they still keep the iconic sign where I used to work. 

A Week of Employment

          I don’t remember leaning toward a specific career.  I took on jobs just to get by.  My first few jobs were just for spending money.  It seemed to have a more grown up feel than just doing chores.

          I received my first job when I was 13 or 14 years old.  I delivered a weekly newspaper.  Informative scoops about events in the surrounding community.  It was called the Green Sheet.  I delivered it on Thursday mornings for about a year.  And then I stopped.

          My second job was at the ice cream parlor where my mom worked.  I was probably there longer than any other job.  (More on that in its own post) I was there before college, after college, before the mission, after the mission . . . and even while I was working at other jobs.

          Searching for jobs was always more work for me than the job itself.  I have worked so many dead-end jobs just to avoid hunting.  I suppose there was room for advancement in some of the places I worked – but none of them offered positions that held my interest.

          I spent about two years as a manager at a pack and mail.  Customers would bring in goods to be shipped – sometimes my assistant and I would have to wrap them.  As with so many other companies I have worked for over the years, the pack and mail place went out of business – I believe at the time I was still employed there.

          I was interested in teaching.  First putting myself through school to become a teacher’s aide – and then go for my teaching degree while working as a teacher’s aide.  Problem is, I wasn’t a great student.  I don’t mind learning – but it’s got to be at my pace.  I find I get burned out with pushing courses after only six months and then I need a rest.  The desire to teach (as a profession) is no longer there.  I don’t mind clerical work.  That’s what I am most comfortable with. 

          The last job that I worked at (one that provided a paycheck) was Swire Coca-Cola.  I quit my position about a year before Jenna was born.  Since then I’ve done clerical work for Roland and some of his fellow workers.  But he has since changed professions – I suppose he could return to it eventually . . .

          Anyway, I have decided that this week I will post a job for each day of the week.  Nothing spectacular.  It may be of no interest whatsoever – but it’s part of my character.  And the story unfolds . . .

Learning to Love My Grass, Part 2

          So often we look at others’ lives and wish they were our own – or that we could have that kind of luxury or peace or knowledge or whatever.  For the most part we only see just one piece of the puzzle.  We see what we perceive as beautiful and elegant and glamorous; we don’t see the struggles behind whatever it is that we think we envy.

          Everybody has struggles.  Those that don’t or think they don't are at a disadvantage because they aren’t growing.  We all make sacrifices.  Little day to day things.  Sacrificing the doughnut as a result of better health.  Giving up a bit of time each month to contribute to your child’s education or the welfare of those in your neighborhood or church.  Not spending money on one’s self but giving it to another who’s more in need – though it often feels like the finances of the giver are even less than the receiver.

          I had a missionary companion whose family put all their Christmas funds into buying wheat.  That’s what Santa had left them.  It was hard for her to explain or even comprehend when she went back to school and listen to her classmates talk about gifts they had received.  She was only six.

          There have been those who have sacrificed their jobs while attending to their families or the other way around.  Losing their families because they are always at work.  Everything comes with a price – or so it seems.  And we don’t always know or understand the price that the other person has had to pay for whatever we perceive as wanting a part of our own lives.   

          And certainly the cruise appeals to us a lot more than attending a child’s bedside while at the hospital AGAIN – but at what cost.  Do we ever see the full picture?  Do we see the cruise as a luxury that we may never have because we obviously don’t have the finances that the other obviously must have.  Obviously?  Do we understand what sacrifices were made on their part in order to have a cruise – or why?

          Are they cruising to satisfy the wishes of a dying spouse?  Are they cruising because it was recommended by a physician or therapist?  Have they been setting 10 dollars aside every month for the last 30 years? 

          Until we understand fully what we see on the surface isn’t always the glamour we envision, until we understand the sacrifices made to get there, we don’t really KNOW if the other man’s grass is always greener than our own.  It may only appear that way on the surface.  But do we have an understanding of HOW it was grown?

Learning to Love my Grass, Part 1

I love this recording by Petula Clark.  Unfortunately the video is actually quite boring to watch.  Thus I’ve include the lyrics by Tony Hatch and Jackie Trent so you can follow along as you listen.

Life is never what it seems 
We're always searching in our dreams 
To find that little castle in the air 
When worry starts to cloud the mind, 
It's hard to leave it all behind 
And just pretend you haven't got a care 

There's someone else in your imagination 
You wish that you were standing in their shoes 
You'd change your life without much hesitation 
But would you if you really had to choose? 

So, don't look around 
Get your feet on the ground 
It's much better by far 
To be just who you are 

The other man's grass is always greener 
The sun shines brighter on the other side 
The other man's grass is always greener 
Some are lucky, some are not 
But just be thankful for what you've got 
[ Lyrics from: http://www.lyricsfreak.com/p/petula+clark/the+other+mans+grass+is+always+greener_20316218.html ] 
Many times, it seems to me 
There's someone else I'd rather be 
Living in a world of make-believe 
To stay in bed 'til nearly three 
With nothing there to worry me 
Would seem to be the life I might achieve 

But deep inside, I know I'm really lucky 
With happiness I've never known before 
And just as long as you are there beside me 
I know that I could ask for nothing more 

Then living can start 
With the love in your heart 
So, with you all the time, 
All the treasures I've longed for are mine 

The other man's grass is always greener 
The sun shines brighter on the other side 
The other man's grass is always greener 
Some are lucky, some are not 
But I'm so thankful for what I've got 

Conversation With Mom

          My mom has dementia. Normally I visit her on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  This week I happened to drop by on Wednesday evening as well.  Since she had seen me three times in a row, yesterday morning I jokingly asked, “Are you tired of me showing up on your doorstep?”

          Quite relieved, she said, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.  I’ve been by myself all day!”  It was 10:00 a.m.

          “Well, [Corey]’s here,”

          “No.  [Corey] went to Las Vegas.  And I don’t know when he’ll be back.  But it sounds like he will be gone for a long time.”

          “Well, his car’s out front.”

          “Oh, is it?  Well he must have taken the train to Las Vegas” {There is no train from Salt Lake to Las Vegas – not that I know of}

                “I think he’s here.  He’s just still in bed.”

          “No. He got up early this morning.  He’s gone.  And I don’t know when he’s coming back.”

          It’s sad to see her so sad and distorted.  I knew that Corey was there – but I wasn’t going to wake him up to prove it.  And there was really no point in trying to convince her otherwise.  So I just let it go.

          She appeared to have wanderlust.  I asked her if she would like to go for a drive.  Something.  Get her out of the house.  I wish I would have thought to take her to the senior center.  I never think about it when I’m with her.

          She said she couldn’t drive {for the umpteenth time} said her driver’s license had been taken away and that she had to go to somewhere in Draper to get it back because they took it from her {as if they had stolen it} “. . . but say they will give it back if I come get it.  But how am I supposed to get it if I can’t drive?  Stupid people.”

          It’s all I can do to keep from laughing.  She then changes the subject to her first car – “you know, when we were living in San Francisco.” 
         I have never lived in San Francisco – but somehow she thinks all of us lived there.  She really was raised in San Francisco and sometimes will talk about where she lived as though I am familiar with all the landmarks and streets  and so doesn’t have to add further explanation – yet whenever she talks about her family she explains like I am not familiar with anyone but her

          “There were two of us that drove.  One lived north of Dudley Stone {an elementary school that went up to the eighth grade - when she wasn't driving} and I lived in the other direction.  And so she would take people who lived north and I would take ones that didn’t live north.  Remember?”

          I actually was familiar with some of the names she used just from her own resources given in years gone by – only I don’t know about the car pooling part - though I'm positive that she wasn't driving while attending Dudley Stone.  It’s true her step father had purchased a car for her – but I don’t think it was until after high school.

          “My mom and dad were divorced.  My dad was mean.  He used to smack my mom around.  I was scared of my dad {I think she was} but he ended up with this other woman.  I don’t know if they were married.  But she called me one day and told me that something was wrong and so I went over to her house and my dad was laying on the lawn and he was dead.  I don’t remember what happened.  I think I went to find the police and they took him away”  

          It’s true that my maternal grandfather and his second wife may have lived in California for a while – but had moved back to Utah sometime before my mom had turned thirteen – as she was thirteen years old when her mother put her on a train to Utah so that she could visit with her dad.  He didn’t die until several years later –

He didn’t die until after mom had married and given birth to three children.  We had even gone to the funeral.  I remember my brother, Patrick, looking into the casket and asking, “Why is that man in a box?”

 He died in a small town in Utah.  But mom believes (with every fiber of her being) that her father passed away on the lawn in California when she was a driving teenager

          “And my mom was 90 when she died – Oh, you are not going to believe this – my mom died at the cemetery while she was visiting . . . I don’t know who she was visiting – but she had family in the cemetery and she died while she was visiting them.  And they called me and told me I should have her cremated and they threw her ashes over the graves that she was visiting.”

          I had to throw my hands over my face so she wouldn’t see the laughter I was trying so hard to hide. First of all the only person my grandma would have known in said cemetery was my dad.  She, herself, did NOT have any relatives there.  Nor did she ever visit the cemetery to my knowledge.  My maternal grandmother died at Cottonwood Hospital.  And she was in her 90’s – I think that and cremation are the only parts my mom got correct.

          The cemetery doesn’t strongly advice cremation just because a person’s body was found lifeless over some headstones that they presume are family members.  Nor are ashes scattered over headstones.  There is a certain procedure that takes place in “scattering one’s ashes” and it had been grandma’s wish to be scattered in the ocean.  Mom had received some pictures that were taken on the east coast (Maine, I believe) to show her where the ashes had been scattered.  Whatever.  We take it upon faith that it was done, but we don’t really know

          She has lunch with a friend the second Thursday of every month.  They had met in San Francisco but had learned that they had both been born at the same hospital in Ogden.  She says they were in the hospital at the same time {I don’t know how much of that is accurate – especially since she says her friend’s birthday might be in July and mom’s is in June} and that her friend lives up the street but she’s not sure which house (probably because her house is NOT at the end of the street – though the two really are living in the same city and have lived in the same cities at the same time)

          Corey was home.  Mom was very surprised.  And happy. 

         

           While there are some things that my mom truly does remember and the details are truly real, there are just as many “myths” that have entered into her mind and have become just as real (if not, more than) the memories that really did happen.  
            Not a very reliable source, my mom.  It’s sad to watch her fall into another dimension.  And I sense her slipping further into this “marshmallow world” and there’s nothing we can do to bring her back to reality.

          I think it's highly probable that my mind may be visiting that same world that mom is now.  I hope for my family's sake that death may claim me before my mind does.  And I hope that they will be at peace with that. I think the mind-slipping thing is a lot harder to deal with.

It's time to turn up the heat

These are not my words - but there is certainly power and I wanted to share with any who may be following:

I wish that we would all apply this to our lives.

There Must Be Uniformity at the Pulpit

          

Shortly after Roland was called to the bishopric, he was asked to summarize a talk that had been given about the conformity of testimonies and submit it to the monthly newsletter – which actually didn’t exist before this particular bishopric. 

Now there are a few people in the ward who tend to drone on and on until the gratitude that is felt in their hearts turns into penetrating boredom on the part of the audience.  Every ward has them.  They start off by expressing what it is that brought them to the podium – and then they take us on a stroll down memory lane, or into their health, or into their entire week.  Gradually the testimony gets lost in their words.  And all eyes turn to the clock and you can almost hear a chorus of silent groans.

Sometimes there is a dead silence and often times the droner just feels it’s his (or her) duty to fill the silence while the audience wonders which is worse: the silence or the droning on and on.

Today it was announced in each first meeting (primary, Relief Society and Priesthood) that if one spends more than three minutes at the pulpit than it is no longer testimony.  And we are reintroduced to five subjects that should be topic of one’s testimony.

I get it to a certain degree – the timing thing.  Sadly, it doesn’t seem to register with the ones who are guilty of running off the mouth.  And though I do have a testimony of the five given subjects, I don’t always feel inspired to share – especially because it now seems so conforming.  I like to hear individual experiences and a brief history of the belief – but not by just one individual for the whole entire meeting.

Sweet Jeff got up to bear his testimony.  He’d written it down so that he wouldn’t stumble.  And yet he did.  He is a member of the special Olympics.  They treat him like he matters, but not all people do.

Our ward mission leader quickly followed him up to the stand, and stood by his side.  The words he used were non-conforming and perhaps out of line with what a true testimony is – but it was real.  It was genuine.  And as he teared up with his plea for prayer support, the ward mission leader stepped closer to the mike and finished reading what Jeff had written.

Before Corey had even decided to go on a mission, my dad had had a series of strokes.  His brain wasn’t able to communicate to his muscles quickly enough to have them do what and when he wanted. 

He had a one or two minute talk, but it had taken him an entire minute just to get out the first sentence.  Corey lovingly put his arms around dad and asked him if he (my dad) would like  Corey to finish reading it.  That moment between Jeff and our ward mission leader triggered those memories.  I started bawling.  But it was actually a good memory – for there had been so much gratitude on my dad’s part – it shined as he told Corey “thank you.”  And I wasn’t the only one crying.  Those who didn’t cry (if any) were definitely in the minority.

Shortly after Jeff sat down, a couple came to the stand.  Roland and I often refer to them as Frank and Marie Barone –though he is certainly way more humble than Frank could even dream of.  It’s just the constant bickering they seem to do with one another.  They genuinely do love one another.  And perhaps their arguments are just playful on their part (well at least on his) it still doesn’t seem in harmony with a happy marriage.

He got it.  His testimony was short, sweet, covered at least three of the subjects.  He was very humble.  His testimony was genuine.  It was nice.

His wife didn’t drone on as much as usual – but she did drone.  Time to sit down, Marie.  Oh, I would not want the bishop’s job for anything.

I enjoy watching the second counselor.  His expressions often mirror my own thoughts.  He looked like he was trying to keep from laughing while the bishop painfully checked the clock.  She finally sat down without his inviting her to do so.

Overall, it really was a nice meeting.  Not a lot of conformity.  I must say I liked that as well.  I realize that I do not go to meetings to be entertained.  But the heart gives me more focus than guidelines do – though I really do understand their purpose.  I just think it’s sad that so many of us have to be asked to conform because there are individuals that just don’t get it – even with the guidelines.