He wasn't the most handsome man I've ever met; in fact, over the years of knowing him, I've heard others say he was downright ugly. Slightly built, he was rather short, had the worst case of adult acne I've ever seen; his watery blue eyes drooped at the outer corners like those sad eyes of a Basset Hound and his teeth needed the services of an orthodontist desperately.
At one time in his life he had been married, producing a daughter who was very important to him; he talked of her often to me during the years we worked together. The only other person I knew about from his private life was his mother whom he adored; it was easy to tell she felt the same, though I only met and talked with her when she came into the store to shop or go to lunch with him.
He was a quiet, unassuming man who spoke softly; I never once heard him raise his voice in anger; nor did he ever complain even though years of hard physical work had played some havoc with his back. He wasn't the speediest cashier I ever worked with, but he was steady, accurate and dependable. His customers loved him. Why? Because he was so genuinely friendly and real.
Anyone willing to look beyond the facade of his looks found a man of extreme intelligence and a sense of humor that could have made him millions. Unfortunately, some people were unwilling to do that, which was their loss. By some stroke of luck, I've been fortunate enough to be a person who doesn't care what a person wears around for a body, or what bad habits, weaknesses or flaws they may have; I try to see past all those unimportant things into the heart and soul.
My friend, Bob Looney, was a beautiful person in my eyes. Though I had few opportunities to see him in the last ten years, it was always a pleasure when I did, always involving a great hug and hilarious laughter. Bob passed away a couple of days ago, his body riddled with cancer.
I am truly grateful for the opportunity to have known such a great soul. So... here's to you Bob Looney. May your new life be filled with laughter, be pain free and have all the beer you could ever possibly want. I will miss you!
Showing posts with label Tell It Like it Is. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tell It Like it Is. Show all posts
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
My Tired Really Hurts!!
Both the UI and WSU opened for fall semester on the 25Th. As I've said before, this is one of the busiest times of the year for business at my store.
I don't know whether the majority of students are sharing in a kazillion dollar lottery win, their parents are richer than a foot up a bull's butt, paying for everything, or they are just plain lazy. I say this because my business has always hired students to work part-time (or full-time if they want) to help with the extra business the academic year generates. This year however, getting students to even apply for a job is like pulling hens teeth. Of those who do apply, a majority can't pass the drug screen or, are so restricted on their availability, it is impossible to schedule them to fit our needs. I'm beginning to fear that earning your own way is sadly fading into obscurity.
This brings me to whining about why my Tired hurts. It goes without saying, that I am no spring chicken, which means that most of my get up and go has got up and went. However, I signed up to do a tough job, so for the past ten days I have worked my butt off. Well, maybe not literally, as it still has the same circumference, but I'll tell you, after ten days and 119 and 1/2 hours since my last day off, I am ready for my trip to Boise and some R&R. After about a half hour at home, I heard a knock on the door; it was my dragging-ass finally catching up with me.
There is not a cell in this old body which doesn't ache, every fingernail on my hands is broken, some past the quick, my cuticles look like they went through a meat grinder and I could put a final finish on a custom built piece of furniture with my sandpaper rough hands. I can hardly wait to see whether I can meet the challenge of putting on a pair of pantyhose for Eric and Jenn's wedding on Friday. (I wonder if gloves are back in fashion?) :) I threw freight, faced and pulled cardboard from the shelves, scrubbed floors and cleaned bathrooms, put baskets full of "I decided not to get this" items back on the shelves, and cashiered. This, along with the everyday paperwork, trying to hire people, personnel issues, getting bills paid, answering calls, dealing with vendors and taking care of customer needs.
Yes indeed, I've been working very hard but nothing compared to the folks who work graveyard stocking truck loads of freight, or cutting meat, trimming and stocking produce; those who keep the dairy full of milk, eggs, butter, etc; those who make hundreds of sandwiches & salads along with frying/baking chicken, slicing meats and cheeses; those who work constantly refilling bulk food bins and the bakers who keep fresh breads, rolls and goodies available for all to enjoy. My kudos go out to all of these people who keep the wheel greased, and lastly to the people who stand in one place all day long, legs aching, feet screaming, trying hard to keep a smile on their face, while their arms ache from scanning or weighing thousands of food items while checking out hundreds of people during a shift. All these people are the real heroes in my tired eyes and I want all to know that I appreciate each one for every ounce of effort they make to keep our customers happy with their shopping experience.
Ok, enough of this mushy stuff. Wahoo!! I'm on vacation and I plan to have a damn good one. See you when I get back.
I don't know whether the majority of students are sharing in a kazillion dollar lottery win, their parents are richer than a foot up a bull's butt, paying for everything, or they are just plain lazy. I say this because my business has always hired students to work part-time (or full-time if they want) to help with the extra business the academic year generates. This year however, getting students to even apply for a job is like pulling hens teeth. Of those who do apply, a majority can't pass the drug screen or, are so restricted on their availability, it is impossible to schedule them to fit our needs. I'm beginning to fear that earning your own way is sadly fading into obscurity.
This brings me to whining about why my Tired hurts. It goes without saying, that I am no spring chicken, which means that most of my get up and go has got up and went. However, I signed up to do a tough job, so for the past ten days I have worked my butt off. Well, maybe not literally, as it still has the same circumference, but I'll tell you, after ten days and 119 and 1/2 hours since my last day off, I am ready for my trip to Boise and some R&R. After about a half hour at home, I heard a knock on the door; it was my dragging-ass finally catching up with me.
There is not a cell in this old body which doesn't ache, every fingernail on my hands is broken, some past the quick, my cuticles look like they went through a meat grinder and I could put a final finish on a custom built piece of furniture with my sandpaper rough hands. I can hardly wait to see whether I can meet the challenge of putting on a pair of pantyhose for Eric and Jenn's wedding on Friday. (I wonder if gloves are back in fashion?) :) I threw freight, faced and pulled cardboard from the shelves, scrubbed floors and cleaned bathrooms, put baskets full of "I decided not to get this" items back on the shelves, and cashiered. This, along with the everyday paperwork, trying to hire people, personnel issues, getting bills paid, answering calls, dealing with vendors and taking care of customer needs.
Yes indeed, I've been working very hard but nothing compared to the folks who work graveyard stocking truck loads of freight, or cutting meat, trimming and stocking produce; those who keep the dairy full of milk, eggs, butter, etc; those who make hundreds of sandwiches & salads along with frying/baking chicken, slicing meats and cheeses; those who work constantly refilling bulk food bins and the bakers who keep fresh breads, rolls and goodies available for all to enjoy. My kudos go out to all of these people who keep the wheel greased, and lastly to the people who stand in one place all day long, legs aching, feet screaming, trying hard to keep a smile on their face, while their arms ache from scanning or weighing thousands of food items while checking out hundreds of people during a shift. All these people are the real heroes in my tired eyes and I want all to know that I appreciate each one for every ounce of effort they make to keep our customers happy with their shopping experience.
Ok, enough of this mushy stuff. Wahoo!! I'm on vacation and I plan to have a damn good one. See you when I get back.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Outrageous!
Ever lived in a subdivision with a Home Owners Association? I'd rather pay taxes and high gas prices any day than live under this kind of suppression ever again. The rules and the people who enforce them must be reincarnated from Hitler's regime. They tell you what color to paint your house, what trees, shrubs and plants you can grow, how often to mow and water, when to flush the toilet, what day you can buy groceries, and for God's sake don't park your Mercedes in the driveway; it's not aesthetically pleasing. Then to add insult to injury, you have to pay them to dish out their abusive judgements every month and risk fines and liens if you dare to defy their ridiculous demands.
We've all heard of the HOA in Florida who put a lien on the home of a family who chose to install a flagpole to fly the American flag. (wasn't aesthetically pleasing to the elitist golf players in the Sub)
Now, this past week, an HOA somewhere is protesting people who chose to hang their laundry outside to dry. Again, these sleazy bastards, who dare to use the wind to save energy, are ruining the aethestics of some 'Puttin' in the Ritz' neighborhood in America.
I don't live in an HOA neighborhood any longer, thank God, but I'll tell you what; if I could find one, I'd but a clothes line in my yard in a minute. Moscow, ID certainly has the wind for it and if you've never climbed into a bed with sheets fresh off the clothes line, you've never lived. The perfume of God's wind in fabrics is one of the sweetest gifts of life. HOA Gestapo leaders (?) should try it sometime, they might actually find something they like in life.
Let your bloomers blow in the the Wind. This is the Land of the Free, isn't it?
We've all heard of the HOA in Florida who put a lien on the home of a family who chose to install a flagpole to fly the American flag. (wasn't aesthetically pleasing to the elitist golf players in the Sub)
Now, this past week, an HOA somewhere is protesting people who chose to hang their laundry outside to dry. Again, these sleazy bastards, who dare to use the wind to save energy, are ruining the aethestics of some 'Puttin' in the Ritz' neighborhood in America.
I don't live in an HOA neighborhood any longer, thank God, but I'll tell you what; if I could find one, I'd but a clothes line in my yard in a minute. Moscow, ID certainly has the wind for it and if you've never climbed into a bed with sheets fresh off the clothes line, you've never lived. The perfume of God's wind in fabrics is one of the sweetest gifts of life. HOA Gestapo leaders (?) should try it sometime, they might actually find something they like in life.
Let your bloomers blow in the the Wind. This is the Land of the Free, isn't it?
Sunday, June 1, 2008
It Stayed in Vegas
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas? There's no doubt about that! I left 'em plenty of my hard earned Idaho bucks. I'm sure they love people like me who don't know when to quit, but oh well.........I had a good time losing my shorts.
The meeting was short, sweet and informative; the food was excellent (I experienced my first taste of caviar) and it was good to see and visit with so many people I've worked with over the eighteen years I've worked for Winco.
We had a veeeery interesting speaker for the first part of our Manager's meeting. He called himself a Mentalist. And that he was! I watched him bend and twist a spoon with his mind, and the usual card number thing but the most fascinating was how he came up with the names of wives, husbands, kids, driver's license numbers, birth dates, etc from members of the audience. Every thing he came up with as 100% accurate, in every case. It was incredible. The majority of this came from just talking to these people and asking questions. A few answers came from things he had people write on a piece of paper. He randomly chose us to participate. My experience was him coming to my table and asking me to come up to the podium to participate.
He asked me why I thought he chose me and I said, "Because I'm so damn beautiful?" He said it was because I was the only person in the room who didn't look at him when he said he was coming down to get a participant. Lesson learned: don't avoid. Anyway, he asked me to think of a time of day anytime in my life that meant something special to me. It only took a few seconds to think of 10:30 AM, when Mom passed away. I remember it so well, not only because I was at her side, but because the Hospice nurse had told me and my siblings early that morning that her death would come about 10:30. She was totally accurate.
He asked whether I had a time in mind, which of course, I did. He then asked me to write it down on a piece of paper he had given me. He showed the audience that the paper was blank on both sides, handed it to me, turning his back as I wrote the time down. I then folded the paper in four, telling him I was finished. I kept the paper in my hand while he asked a few questions such as: "Was this during the day?" And, "Was this an important event in your life?" He told me to think of this time while he looked into my eyes for a few seconds. He then walked over to his table and picked up a small blackboard, which I had seen him write on before the meeting started, then put it face down on the table. I did not see what he wrote. When he picked it up, showing it to me and the audience, it had 10:30 written on it! He then asked me if it was the correct time and what the significance was to me. It was mind blowing. No one in that room could know that information, except me. I was impressed, as was everyone there. He told us that we all have that ability if we work at it and also that he wasn't allowed to gamble in the casinos! LOL
After dinner that evening, we went to a show in the Mirage Love theater. It was "The Beatle's LOVE", by Cirque du Soleil. It was a tribute to the music of the Beatles. The music, costumes, lighting, props and acrobatics were fabulous but it was the strangest thing I have ever seen in my life. I'm still shaking my head trying to figure out what it all meant. Don't get me wrong, I love fantasy, science fiction and all that stuff but this was downright weird. Guess my imagination was on hold for that one.
As for all my worrying about what to wear: I could have worn a potato sack and no one would have noticed. It was Vegas for Heaven's sake! I bought at least four new outfits and ended up taking jeans and tops for days one and three and wore a more business-like pair of slacks, shirt and jacket I had worn to another meeting last year. All I did was turn the jacket inside out after I discovered it was a two-way job and TaDa!, a new outfit. No one knew but me, nor did they care. I've got a couple of sacks of stuff going back to Macy's this week. They'll probably hate me but I really don't need more clothes that I never wear. Forever in blue jeans!! That's me.
My pocket book is much lighter and I was very tired from spending long hours in the casino, but all in all I had a wonderful get-away for a few days. Tomorrow..back to the grind.
The meeting was short, sweet and informative; the food was excellent (I experienced my first taste of caviar) and it was good to see and visit with so many people I've worked with over the eighteen years I've worked for Winco.
We had a veeeery interesting speaker for the first part of our Manager's meeting. He called himself a Mentalist. And that he was! I watched him bend and twist a spoon with his mind, and the usual card number thing but the most fascinating was how he came up with the names of wives, husbands, kids, driver's license numbers, birth dates, etc from members of the audience. Every thing he came up with as 100% accurate, in every case. It was incredible. The majority of this came from just talking to these people and asking questions. A few answers came from things he had people write on a piece of paper. He randomly chose us to participate. My experience was him coming to my table and asking me to come up to the podium to participate.
He asked me why I thought he chose me and I said, "Because I'm so damn beautiful?" He said it was because I was the only person in the room who didn't look at him when he said he was coming down to get a participant. Lesson learned: don't avoid. Anyway, he asked me to think of a time of day anytime in my life that meant something special to me. It only took a few seconds to think of 10:30 AM, when Mom passed away. I remember it so well, not only because I was at her side, but because the Hospice nurse had told me and my siblings early that morning that her death would come about 10:30. She was totally accurate.
He asked whether I had a time in mind, which of course, I did. He then asked me to write it down on a piece of paper he had given me. He showed the audience that the paper was blank on both sides, handed it to me, turning his back as I wrote the time down. I then folded the paper in four, telling him I was finished. I kept the paper in my hand while he asked a few questions such as: "Was this during the day?" And, "Was this an important event in your life?" He told me to think of this time while he looked into my eyes for a few seconds. He then walked over to his table and picked up a small blackboard, which I had seen him write on before the meeting started, then put it face down on the table. I did not see what he wrote. When he picked it up, showing it to me and the audience, it had 10:30 written on it! He then asked me if it was the correct time and what the significance was to me. It was mind blowing. No one in that room could know that information, except me. I was impressed, as was everyone there. He told us that we all have that ability if we work at it and also that he wasn't allowed to gamble in the casinos! LOL
After dinner that evening, we went to a show in the Mirage Love theater. It was "The Beatle's LOVE", by Cirque du Soleil. It was a tribute to the music of the Beatles. The music, costumes, lighting, props and acrobatics were fabulous but it was the strangest thing I have ever seen in my life. I'm still shaking my head trying to figure out what it all meant. Don't get me wrong, I love fantasy, science fiction and all that stuff but this was downright weird. Guess my imagination was on hold for that one.
As for all my worrying about what to wear: I could have worn a potato sack and no one would have noticed. It was Vegas for Heaven's sake! I bought at least four new outfits and ended up taking jeans and tops for days one and three and wore a more business-like pair of slacks, shirt and jacket I had worn to another meeting last year. All I did was turn the jacket inside out after I discovered it was a two-way job and TaDa!, a new outfit. No one knew but me, nor did they care. I've got a couple of sacks of stuff going back to Macy's this week. They'll probably hate me but I really don't need more clothes that I never wear. Forever in blue jeans!! That's me.
My pocket book is much lighter and I was very tired from spending long hours in the casino, but all in all I had a wonderful get-away for a few days. Tomorrow..back to the grind.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Scottish Royalty? Yeah, right!
If you read my daughter, Michelle's blog, Creative Treasures, she recently posted about a December trip she and Wilt took to St Marten. During that trip they met a couple from Scotland who were quite impressed by the fact that my ancestors were of Scottish descent with Kinghorn as the family name. These folks did, in fact, live in a village, town, city, or whatever, in Scotland named Kinghorn. They told Michelle that all Scots knew that the Kinghorns are of royal blood and so were very thrilled to meet her. Bill warned them not to fawn over her too much for fear she would demand to be treated as a Queen on a daily basis.
Royalty, huh? Well..........today while I was feeling a little burst of energy, I decided to do some heavy duty house cleaning, moving every piece of furniture to vacuum up all the dust bunnies, dead spiders, partially eaten dog cookies, loose coins, etc., etc. After the vacuuming, and before I moved the furniture back into place, I got out my handy, dandy Scrubee Doo mop and washed the wood floors, followed by washing and polishing the tables and vacuuming a bag full of dog hair off the sofa. I continued on in sections throughout my living room and into my dining area and kitchen.
By the time I had finished with the kitchen and was sitting on the floor vacuuming the hair from Buddy's dog bed, my tired was hurting and I was thinking about my "royal" blood and what a "royal" pain in the butt this house cleaning crap can be. "Geesh," I thought, "The queen would never do this crap! So why am I in this contorted position on the floor, vacuuming hair from a dog bed? This eyen't right! I shud 'ave a "royal" maid tiken' care of my castle. I am, after all, of "royal" blood."
I continued with this thought as I crawled over to the cabinets to pull myself to an upright position. "Hmmm, I could hire someone to do my bidding.", I was thinking. But then reality sank it's ugly teeth into me and I realized that before I could bring a cleaning person into my home, I would have to do some more heavy duty cleaning. Someone of my "stature", couldn't allow a mere peon see my dirty palace, you understand. It would probably be spashed over every tabloid in the country...............The Kinghorn Queen is a Slob!
Not wanting to take that chance of ruining the family name, I said to myself........."God save the Queen, she needs a nap!" And that she did, for the next two hours. Royalty? Yeah, right.
Royalty, huh? Well..........today while I was feeling a little burst of energy, I decided to do some heavy duty house cleaning, moving every piece of furniture to vacuum up all the dust bunnies, dead spiders, partially eaten dog cookies, loose coins, etc., etc. After the vacuuming, and before I moved the furniture back into place, I got out my handy, dandy Scrubee Doo mop and washed the wood floors, followed by washing and polishing the tables and vacuuming a bag full of dog hair off the sofa. I continued on in sections throughout my living room and into my dining area and kitchen.
By the time I had finished with the kitchen and was sitting on the floor vacuuming the hair from Buddy's dog bed, my tired was hurting and I was thinking about my "royal" blood and what a "royal" pain in the butt this house cleaning crap can be. "Geesh," I thought, "The queen would never do this crap! So why am I in this contorted position on the floor, vacuuming hair from a dog bed? This eyen't right! I shud 'ave a "royal" maid tiken' care of my castle. I am, after all, of "royal" blood."
I continued with this thought as I crawled over to the cabinets to pull myself to an upright position. "Hmmm, I could hire someone to do my bidding.", I was thinking. But then reality sank it's ugly teeth into me and I realized that before I could bring a cleaning person into my home, I would have to do some more heavy duty cleaning. Someone of my "stature", couldn't allow a mere peon see my dirty palace, you understand. It would probably be spashed over every tabloid in the country...............The Kinghorn Queen is a Slob!
Not wanting to take that chance of ruining the family name, I said to myself........."God save the Queen, she needs a nap!" And that she did, for the next two hours. Royalty? Yeah, right.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Our Government at Work
Following is a letter written by my nephew, Mark, as an answer to the letter he received from the State of Idaho which follows Mark's reply. I'm happy the State is on top of this crucial issue facing the people they represent. This kind of diligence give credence to the reason removing tax from the people's food bills is so far down on the list of important issues to resolve in this State. Please, pass this on to your family, friends and neighbors who are always asking, "What the hell do they DO in those agencies?"...................................................
Subject: State of Idaho vs. Skidmark
The year was 1992 when I tumbled down the inlet side of Redfish Lake near Stanley Idaho while on a 6 hour mountain bike ride. My fellow mountain bikers where very supportive during the initial incident and provided much needed first aid. They also helped repair my bike enough to ride the remaining two hours back to our camp site. Many checks were eventually written for professional medical care and antibiotics over the several weeks.
Once back safely to our camp site, we proceeded to BBQ all forms of meat products available while drinking lots of carbohydrates. This was necessary due to the extremely strenuous ride and because we like to drink beer and eat.
It was during the drinking portion of the event that my fellow riders began experimenting with new nick names for me related to my crash. Lots of names where proposed and discarded until the name "Skid" came up. As soon as some fool figured out that adding my name to the back of "Skid" struck them funny, the new moniker SKIDMARK was cemented. The fact that the word 'skidmark" had a double meaning related to tire tracks left on pavement was purely coincidental. See NASCAR.
My wife (bless her heart) was so enamored by the event and my new nick name she bought me personalized license plates. I have been using these plates for 15 years as a symbol of my wife's love for me.
I have been informed by the State of Idaho that after 15 years of use, my personalized license plates reading SKIDMRK have been deemed offensive. I have been notified by letter that I have until March 31st to petition the government for formal review or relinquish my license plate. According to the letter: "The plate "SKIDMRK" has a double meaning which the department has deemed to be inappropriate for display on an Idaho issued license plate." The government further clarifies it assessment of said double meaning. I won't share that with you as I was offended. I had no idea.
I apologize if I have ever offended you while following me out to the parking lot.
humbly yours,
Mark
********************************************************
Welll................no matter how I try, I can't seem to get the letter from the State to upload into this blog, therefore, I will simply type the sentence the government clarified as the "double meaning" Mark mentions above as having offended him. With all of the thought and attention that went into the letter sent by the State, it is only right that I quote the entire paragraph.
It is as follows:
"The Idaho Department of Transportation recently performed an audit of personalized license plates which have been issued to Idaho vehicles. The plate "SKIDMRK" has a double meaning which the department has deemed to be inappropriate for display on the Idaho issued license plate. The words "Skid Mark" are also considered slang terminology for fecal traces in a persons underwear."
I'm surprised Mark didn't learn this double meaning while serving in the military. Oh yeah, he has remained in the reserves for well over twenty years, ready to go defend our freedoms any time he is called up......even the freedom of the State to be ridiculous at times. Life is indeed interesting. Good Night and sleep tight!
Subject: State of Idaho vs. Skidmark
The year was 1992 when I tumbled down the inlet side of Redfish Lake near Stanley Idaho while on a 6 hour mountain bike ride. My fellow mountain bikers where very supportive during the initial incident and provided much needed first aid. They also helped repair my bike enough to ride the remaining two hours back to our camp site. Many checks were eventually written for professional medical care and antibiotics over the several weeks.
Once back safely to our camp site, we proceeded to BBQ all forms of meat products available while drinking lots of carbohydrates. This was necessary due to the extremely strenuous ride and because we like to drink beer and eat.
It was during the drinking portion of the event that my fellow riders began experimenting with new nick names for me related to my crash. Lots of names where proposed and discarded until the name "Skid" came up. As soon as some fool figured out that adding my name to the back of "Skid" struck them funny, the new moniker SKIDMARK was cemented. The fact that the word 'skidmark" had a double meaning related to tire tracks left on pavement was purely coincidental. See NASCAR.
My wife (bless her heart) was so enamored by the event and my new nick name she bought me personalized license plates. I have been using these plates for 15 years as a symbol of my wife's love for me.
I have been informed by the State of Idaho that after 15 years of use, my personalized license plates reading SKIDMRK have been deemed offensive. I have been notified by letter that I have until March 31st to petition the government for formal review or relinquish my license plate. According to the letter: "The plate "SKIDMRK" has a double meaning which the department has deemed to be inappropriate for display on an Idaho issued license plate." The government further clarifies it assessment of said double meaning. I won't share that with you as I was offended. I had no idea.
I apologize if I have ever offended you while following me out to the parking lot.
humbly yours,
Mark
********************************************************
Welll................no matter how I try, I can't seem to get the letter from the State to upload into this blog, therefore, I will simply type the sentence the government clarified as the "double meaning" Mark mentions above as having offended him. With all of the thought and attention that went into the letter sent by the State, it is only right that I quote the entire paragraph.
It is as follows:
"The Idaho Department of Transportation recently performed an audit of personalized license plates which have been issued to Idaho vehicles. The plate "SKIDMRK" has a double meaning which the department has deemed to be inappropriate for display on the Idaho issued license plate. The words "Skid Mark" are also considered slang terminology for fecal traces in a persons underwear."
I'm surprised Mark didn't learn this double meaning while serving in the military. Oh yeah, he has remained in the reserves for well over twenty years, ready to go defend our freedoms any time he is called up......even the freedom of the State to be ridiculous at times. Life is indeed interesting. Good Night and sleep tight!
Monday, March 31, 2008
It Really Irks Me
I am the manager of a retail grocery store, which is a challenging position for any human being. I dreamed of working in a grocery store from the minute I walked into a "Supermarket" for the first time when I was about seven years old. The hustle, the bustle, all the people picking out this and that; the cashiers in their matching uniforms, the male employees in their starched white shirts and ties; the lunch counter where you could buy a sandwich and soda, the ice cream counter where you buy a four scoop "Big Joe" ice cream cone for fifteen cents; the bag boys carrying the bags of food to the cars of the shoppers; the aisles of canned and dry goods; the mounds of colorful produce; the meat cutters in their white coats and hats; the smell of fresh baked goods wafting throughout the store; the sounds of the bells as each item was rang into the ornate cash registers, all of this was fascinating to me and I wanted to be a part of it.
In the early sixties, when I was old enough get a job in a grocery store, it was almost impossible to get hired. They were some of the best jobs available, as far as pay and benefits went, and the people who were lucky enough to get hired, stayed for years. It took me until the early seventies to get my opportunity. I had worked other retail jobs, which were great, but grocery was my dream, and I was thrilled for the opportunity, which was given to me by Buttrey Foods in Boise, Idaho. I started on the bottom rung of the ladder, learning everything hands-on.
The work is not always easy, the hours are not for the nine-to-five type person, especially now when stores are open 24/7, nor is it for the thin-skinned, shy and retiring type. I love it!
What irks me is the few people in this world who treat grocery workers like they are the scum of the earth. The people who talk down to you like you were some kind of mentally challenged drop-out from the third grade.
There are approximately one-hundred and fifteen people working in my store. A high percentage of them have college degrees, are attending one of the universities to earn one, or, at least, have graduated from high school. Some are still young enough to learn yet more about life but none are dummies, by any means.
So, when some self-important jerk (male or female) with their "better than thou" attitudes, come into my store, taking pleasure (and pride, for god's sake) in demeaning my employees BECAUSE of the work they have chosen to do, it irks me.
I admit, none of us in this industry is perfect, and I do have unpleasant issues to deal with at times with my employees, but overall, they are good, honest, hard-working people who have chosen to do one of the hardest jobs in the world.....working with the public. I love them for that.
With that said, I want to say KUDOs to all the retail workers of the world who deserve the same respect and appreciation as any other profession. And to those who look down upon us.........get a life!!
In the early sixties, when I was old enough get a job in a grocery store, it was almost impossible to get hired. They were some of the best jobs available, as far as pay and benefits went, and the people who were lucky enough to get hired, stayed for years. It took me until the early seventies to get my opportunity. I had worked other retail jobs, which were great, but grocery was my dream, and I was thrilled for the opportunity, which was given to me by Buttrey Foods in Boise, Idaho. I started on the bottom rung of the ladder, learning everything hands-on.
The work is not always easy, the hours are not for the nine-to-five type person, especially now when stores are open 24/7, nor is it for the thin-skinned, shy and retiring type. I love it!
What irks me is the few people in this world who treat grocery workers like they are the scum of the earth. The people who talk down to you like you were some kind of mentally challenged drop-out from the third grade.
There are approximately one-hundred and fifteen people working in my store. A high percentage of them have college degrees, are attending one of the universities to earn one, or, at least, have graduated from high school. Some are still young enough to learn yet more about life but none are dummies, by any means.
So, when some self-important jerk (male or female) with their "better than thou" attitudes, come into my store, taking pleasure (and pride, for god's sake) in demeaning my employees BECAUSE of the work they have chosen to do, it irks me.
I admit, none of us in this industry is perfect, and I do have unpleasant issues to deal with at times with my employees, but overall, they are good, honest, hard-working people who have chosen to do one of the hardest jobs in the world.....working with the public. I love them for that.
With that said, I want to say KUDOs to all the retail workers of the world who deserve the same respect and appreciation as any other profession. And to those who look down upon us.........get a life!!
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Boy, was I embarrassed!
Ever had one of those excruciatingly embarrassing moments? I had a DOOZY today.As I have stated previously, I know just enough about computing to be slightly dangerous. Keep this in mind as I continue with this confession
Near the end of the day, I was in my office preparing to type a document in Word. I set my font style, etc, then began entering text. There appeared to be a problem when, after each word I typed, a dot would appear. "What the heck is that?", I thought as I was pushing every button I could see, trying to make them go away. I deleted the words, tried again with the same result. Hmmm. OK, I thought, I'll just exit without saving, then try in a new page. Didn't work.
I decided that before I blew the thing up, I would call one of my college students up to my office to help, knowing they were raised on computers. I erased the text as I was talking to Wayne, who said he would be up shortly. It occurred to me I should have something to show him when he arrived , so I started typing again.
Bear with me as I regress a little. When I was in Junior High, I enrolled in Typing I, which I later hated because it was sooooo boring. One of our practice exercises was to repeatedly type a particular, required sentence. The purpose of this particular sentence was to force us to use all fingers, on both hands, and the correct keys for each finger. In addition, we would hopefully, learn to type by feel, rather than looking at the keys. OK, back to today's typing experience.
For some unknown reason, my fingers remembered that sentence. I had typed a few words when the Buckman, my Assistant, came into my office, walking up behind my chair to ask a question. I quit typing, turning to face him. He started saying something when he suddenly stopped, a devilish grin appearing on his face, and said, "WHAT the hell are you writing about?" Puzzled, I turned back to my screen to see what he was seeing.
Now is the time for all good men to come, it read.
"Oh, my gawd!", I thought, as I spoke the remaining words of the sentence to him and, feeling the hot flushing of my cheeks. He waved his hand at me with an "I can't deal with this right now." motion. He left in a hurry, trying to hide his laughter, holding his mouth with his hand.
With lightning speed, I completed the sentence...to the aid of his countrymen... just as Wayne walked into the office
Wayne found the problem, fixed it, then showed me the whys and wheres. At least I did learn something new about the computer.
I am certain, that before the day ends tomorrow, somewhere in those secret places of the store where the "boys" meet to talk their Man Talk, my embarrassing moment will be the topic of discussion and creator of much laughter. However, I will hold my head high, pretending nothing happened, when each one I meet throughout the day, will undoubtedly give me that devilish, raised eyebrow look as they greet me.
Wish I could find a blusher of the same color my cheeks wore today. It was sooo natural looking. Ain't life grand.............................................................
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Till I Kissed Ya
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ME, SOMETIME DURING JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL
Today, while driving home from work, 'Till I Kissed Ya' by the Everly Brothers was playing on the Oldies radio station. Hearing it reminded me of my first experience with "real" kissing, or at least what seemed real when a girl was in seventh grade.
My Junior High school years were spent at Franklin Junior High in Pocatello, ID, one of four in the City. I had some interesting adventures while attending that school, one being introduced to a whole bunch of new kids who had spent their grade-school years in different schools than I had. Most of us were struggling with the changes from being little kids to becoming full-blown obnoxious teenagers. The girls were experimenting with make-up, hair color, and the latest styles in boy-attracting clothes. Our shapes and sizes covered a myriad of different degrees of development, some already wearing bras of various and sundry sizes, while others were spending their nights praying for those little buds on their chests to come forth and blossom and..........for some dream boat of a boy to notice.
The boys.............they struggled with their changing voices, prayed for the peach fuzz on their faces to change to real, scratch-your-face whiskers saturated in girl attracting Old Spice after-save. Other than that, they never grew up, as is common with the male species.
Well, after a couple of months of getting acquainted and establishing a group of special friends, both boys and girls, we started our three years of social activities at good old Franklin. One of the "Crowd", (as we called ourselves), Carol, was from one of the city's wealthy families. Late in the Fall of that year, Carol's parents agreed to allow her to have a girl/boy party at their home, a beautiful two story Colonial in a higher-end neighborhood of town. Of course our group was super hyped at the prospect of this party, the planning of which went on for about three weeks. No one had a "date" but we all had our hopes.
That Friday night finally came with each of us spending every minute. after school that day, getting beautiful for the 7:00 o'clock event. We primped, we giggled, we changed clothes, we primped some more, giggled some more, changed clothes again and again until we became what we considered an image of perfection. It was exhausting, I tell ya. Then we were off, driven by my brother Bob, to the place where new adventures would begin. It was a first time event for every person invited.
The house was gorgeous! It was large, decorated in the latest fashion and furnished to perfection. We were greeted at the door by the Maid who took our coats and showed us to the "Rec" room in the basement, another awesome sight for most of us who came from poor working families. Music was playing on the stereo, the lights were low, and a large table was laden with sandwiches, snacks, desserts and drinks, ready for our taking.
After all of the invited guests had arrived, there was a short period of awkwardness. Not having done this before, we weren't sure what to do, especially with the Maid hangin' around. She became bored with us quickly though, excusing herself to the upper living quarters, inviting us to have some fun and make ourselves at home. OK!
Soon we were singing along with the music, chatting, and some of us stumbling over our own feet, or the feet of some poor boy as we attempted to dance, again a first for most of us. This brought on laughter, wise cracks and teasing but we were having fun and getting more and more comfortable at our first boy/girl party.
It wasn't long before someone suggested we play "Spin the Bottle" and we all knew what that meant. Being rather bold and an adventure seeking person, I suggested we skip the little kids game, pick a partner and just start kissing. Surprizingly, I didn't have to say it twice, the partnerships had apparently been formed sometime during the two hours of dancing. I hadn't noticed because I was too busy chatting, snacking and trying to dance, at least once, with every boy there, whether they wanted to or not. I was having a ball but ended up without a partner.
So did Gordy H. We were good friends and weren't in the least bit interested in each other as a couple, but.........there we were, with no choice but each other. Other than a peck on the cheek from Eddie Dibble on the last day of sixth grade, my lips had never touched those of the opposite sex. To make matters worse, everyone else was waiting for me to be the first, or to put my money where my mouth was, no pun intended.
I gave Gordy a "Help Me!" look, he said "OK, let's do it." , took me in his arms and planted a quick, dry kiss on my pinched, tight mouth. It was awful! Everyone was tittering behind the hands which covered their mouths and I was beet-red and humiliated. However, I'm not a quitter, so I said, "Gordy, we're going to do this 'til we get it right!"
Get it right, we did. We even won the contest for the longest kiss that night....fifteen minutes!
We practiced until the kissing was perfect, our warm, soft lips embracing the other's tenderly. Gordy was my friend, and I his. We never kissed each other again after that delightful night.
Since then I've tasted some pretty good lips and some pretty damn bad ones, most of which are long forgotten memories, but Gordy's sweet lips will have a place in my heart forever because they were the first I ever tasted.
Gordy loved the mouth thing, he grew up to become a Dentist. Life is good...............
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
I Cried.........Part Two
I need to regress in order to continue. My memories of my Father are very few, but vivid. Most were pleasant enough, but one in particular, in my fourth year of life, was very disturbing. It was during a cold time of the year when the pot-bellied, wood-burning stove, located in our very tiny living room, was burning full flame to keep us warm. Those who were in the room that night (it was dark outside) are vague to me, except for my Mother and Dad. Dad was yelling at Mom very angrily; I somehow knew she was frightened, which was scaring me, for her. The anger and verbal abuse to her had escalated when he reached for the iron poker, which was used to stoke the fire in the stove.
He hit her with that poker, over and over and over again. I have blanked out what happened next, only remembering today, his loud screaming and her cries of pain.
I know now, from being told by my older siblngs, later in life, that this kind of abuse to my Mom and older brothers had been a common occurance for years. I do not remember seeing it again (after that awful night) before Dad's death, although it did continue. My Mom took her last beating from him in May of 1951.
During my growing-up years, he was rarely mentioned, for any reason, but I just "knew" that my mother did not remember him with fondness. She chose not to say anything, rather than fill the heads of her children, at least the four youngest of us, with bitter, hateful, memories of him. I can't speak for my siblings, but I chose to keep the good memories of him in my mind.
Mom was a wonderful mother. She chose, instead of being a "Poor Me", to give her children the very best life a poor, widowed mother of eight could possibly give. Material "things" were lean, but there was never any doubt of her love and caring. She taught us, by her example, to work for what we wanted, share the little we had with those who had less, and accept the hard knocks in life with grace. We always knew we would have a home to shelter us, food to fill our bellies, clothes to cover our bodies and a mother who loved us unconditionally. And, although she was good at giving us a piece of her mind, when we deserved it, she never, ever raised a hand to us. We were family, together in everything, which was her greatest desire in life.
In my adult years, I admit a longing to know more about her life with my Dad, but out of respect for her, I didn't broach the subject. That longing was fulfilled, unexpectedly, by my mother, a few weeks before her death in 1994. She was living with my baby sister, MaryHell in Pocatello at that time. I knew that her life was nearing it's end and had traveled from Boise to spend some time with her for a few days. We had been having a wonderful visit, filled with laughter and fun as we talked of family, friends and good times, long past.
On my last day there, Mom asked me to come into her room so that we could have a private chat. It was during that chat that I learned of a day in her life that lead to the letter I found among the "stuff" in my basement a few days ago. She did not tell me about that letter during that chat, but what she did say was difficult to hear, but a loving act on her part because she knew, as mother's do, that I needed to hear those words.
To be continued.................
He hit her with that poker, over and over and over again. I have blanked out what happened next, only remembering today, his loud screaming and her cries of pain.
I know now, from being told by my older siblngs, later in life, that this kind of abuse to my Mom and older brothers had been a common occurance for years. I do not remember seeing it again (after that awful night) before Dad's death, although it did continue. My Mom took her last beating from him in May of 1951.
During my growing-up years, he was rarely mentioned, for any reason, but I just "knew" that my mother did not remember him with fondness. She chose not to say anything, rather than fill the heads of her children, at least the four youngest of us, with bitter, hateful, memories of him. I can't speak for my siblings, but I chose to keep the good memories of him in my mind.
Mom was a wonderful mother. She chose, instead of being a "Poor Me", to give her children the very best life a poor, widowed mother of eight could possibly give. Material "things" were lean, but there was never any doubt of her love and caring. She taught us, by her example, to work for what we wanted, share the little we had with those who had less, and accept the hard knocks in life with grace. We always knew we would have a home to shelter us, food to fill our bellies, clothes to cover our bodies and a mother who loved us unconditionally. And, although she was good at giving us a piece of her mind, when we deserved it, she never, ever raised a hand to us. We were family, together in everything, which was her greatest desire in life.
In my adult years, I admit a longing to know more about her life with my Dad, but out of respect for her, I didn't broach the subject. That longing was fulfilled, unexpectedly, by my mother, a few weeks before her death in 1994. She was living with my baby sister, MaryHell in Pocatello at that time. I knew that her life was nearing it's end and had traveled from Boise to spend some time with her for a few days. We had been having a wonderful visit, filled with laughter and fun as we talked of family, friends and good times, long past.
On my last day there, Mom asked me to come into her room so that we could have a private chat. It was during that chat that I learned of a day in her life that lead to the letter I found among the "stuff" in my basement a few days ago. She did not tell me about that letter during that chat, but what she did say was difficult to hear, but a loving act on her part because she knew, as mother's do, that I needed to hear those words.
To be continued.................
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
I Cried and I Wondered......
Last week, the Fireman decided it was time to go through some old papers stored in boxes under the stairway in our walk-out basement. There were old checks, receipts, junk mail (I don't know why!) and other "stuff" that we have not looked at, or obviously needed, for years. Some of it was from as far back as the 70's. The paper shredder was red hot for days as he sorted and examined each paper in those boxes.
Of course I had admonished him not to shred anything like pictures, cards, drawings by kids; you know, the important stuff. He actually listened to me, something as rare as the Hope diamond!
Sandee, my middle daughter, has been here visiting and working for the past week. She always dens up in the basement where she has her own private bedroom, bath, and a comfortable family room where she can work on her computer while watching whatever she chooses on the television or sleep the day away if she feels like it. Poor thing was living in what I was later to find.
I rarely go down there except to do laundry, but a couple of days ago, I gutted-up and went on into the living area. Last time I was in there, if was clean, neat and everthing was in it's place; this time it looked like someone had set a bomb off down there.
The Fireman had not only taken the boxes out of storage, he had emptied half the damn storage room. The counters on the wet bar were covered, the small dining table was covered, the end tables and coffee tables were covered with this and that....stuff I didn't even remember owning. Along with all this mess were the empty boxes from the paper shredding and stacks of the precious stuff I'd asked him not to destroy before I could sort through it. I knew he was finished with his rare burst of ambition and I was left to clean up the disaster area. Been doin' it for years. I looked around wondering where to start and asking myself why I let him near that room. I heaved a great sigh and started to dig in, putting things I couldn't bare to part with back into the boxes. It had only been a minute or two when I picked up what appeared to be an old, hand written letter. I opened it. The first thing I read was; June 1, 1951. Pocatello, Idaho.
Dear Beth, it began................................I read the letter, words on both sides, written on what appeared to be ruled paper from a school tablet. After finishing, I held it close to my heart and cried fifty-seven years worth of pent-up tears and wondered, why?
To be continued..................................................
Of course I had admonished him not to shred anything like pictures, cards, drawings by kids; you know, the important stuff. He actually listened to me, something as rare as the Hope diamond!
Sandee, my middle daughter, has been here visiting and working for the past week. She always dens up in the basement where she has her own private bedroom, bath, and a comfortable family room where she can work on her computer while watching whatever she chooses on the television or sleep the day away if she feels like it. Poor thing was living in what I was later to find.
I rarely go down there except to do laundry, but a couple of days ago, I gutted-up and went on into the living area. Last time I was in there, if was clean, neat and everthing was in it's place; this time it looked like someone had set a bomb off down there.
The Fireman had not only taken the boxes out of storage, he had emptied half the damn storage room. The counters on the wet bar were covered, the small dining table was covered, the end tables and coffee tables were covered with this and that....stuff I didn't even remember owning. Along with all this mess were the empty boxes from the paper shredding and stacks of the precious stuff I'd asked him not to destroy before I could sort through it. I knew he was finished with his rare burst of ambition and I was left to clean up the disaster area. Been doin' it for years. I looked around wondering where to start and asking myself why I let him near that room. I heaved a great sigh and started to dig in, putting things I couldn't bare to part with back into the boxes. It had only been a minute or two when I picked up what appeared to be an old, hand written letter. I opened it. The first thing I read was; June 1, 1951. Pocatello, Idaho.
Dear Beth, it began................................I read the letter, words on both sides, written on what appeared to be ruled paper from a school tablet. After finishing, I held it close to my heart and cried fifty-seven years worth of pent-up tears and wondered, why?
To be continued..................................................
Saturday, January 12, 2008
The Trouble With Truths
I think I may have gotten my wrinkled old butt into trouble with my daughters. Why? you ask. Because I told them the truth and haven't received a comment from any of them. It was one of the truths about the ending of my marriage to their Father. This cannot be easy for any child to hear, especially when they adore him to this day, long after his, way too early, death.
It wasn't easy for me to reveal but I felt, as adults, they should hear my side of the story. Was I wrong? I don't know. I do know that I feel better for getting it off my chest. Don't get me wrong, he was not a horrible person, he was, in fact, very well liked by friends, family, the people who worked for him and, he was a wonderful Dad to our four kids, loving them with his whole heart and soul. For various reasons, it was the union between the two of us that had to end. I knew this in the very early years but hung on, trying in every way I could, to make it last forever, but after nearly twenty years I couldn't hang on any longer and let go of the rope.
My own Father committed suicide when I was six years old, leaving some of my siblings, and other family members, wondering..why? As very young children, we wanted him to be a hero, even to this day, but it simply is not the truth. He was a very sick man, most likely with a mental illness, who used my Mother as a punching bag to release the demons within himself. I had witnessed this myself on more than one occasion during those first six years.
My Mom never talked about it in all my growing-up years. She simply left the past in the past. Then, in my fiftieth year, when she was in Hospice care, nearing her death, she took me aside, telling me she wanted me to know the truth. As she sat in her rocker, gently moving back and forth, she told me the story of the days before my Father's death and the years of mental and physical abuse to her and my oldest siblings. It was not easy for her to tell, nor was it easy to hear, but my heart filled with more love and respect for her than I could have ever imagined. She had put aside her hurt and anger at my Father to concentrate on her kids, knowing that speaking ill of him would not contribute to a heathy upbringing for us. I felt relief at knowing the truth. It answered life-long, nagging questions and has made me even more aware of the imperfections of man and that the only way to peace is forgiveness. I believe Mom forgave my Father on that day or at least, I have the hope that she did, just as I hope my kids will forgive me for "giving up" and not staying with the Father they all loved so much and still do. I too, still love him in my own way, on a soul level. Indeed, truth is troubling.
It wasn't easy for me to reveal but I felt, as adults, they should hear my side of the story. Was I wrong? I don't know. I do know that I feel better for getting it off my chest. Don't get me wrong, he was not a horrible person, he was, in fact, very well liked by friends, family, the people who worked for him and, he was a wonderful Dad to our four kids, loving them with his whole heart and soul. For various reasons, it was the union between the two of us that had to end. I knew this in the very early years but hung on, trying in every way I could, to make it last forever, but after nearly twenty years I couldn't hang on any longer and let go of the rope.
My own Father committed suicide when I was six years old, leaving some of my siblings, and other family members, wondering..why? As very young children, we wanted him to be a hero, even to this day, but it simply is not the truth. He was a very sick man, most likely with a mental illness, who used my Mother as a punching bag to release the demons within himself. I had witnessed this myself on more than one occasion during those first six years.
My Mom never talked about it in all my growing-up years. She simply left the past in the past. Then, in my fiftieth year, when she was in Hospice care, nearing her death, she took me aside, telling me she wanted me to know the truth. As she sat in her rocker, gently moving back and forth, she told me the story of the days before my Father's death and the years of mental and physical abuse to her and my oldest siblings. It was not easy for her to tell, nor was it easy to hear, but my heart filled with more love and respect for her than I could have ever imagined. She had put aside her hurt and anger at my Father to concentrate on her kids, knowing that speaking ill of him would not contribute to a heathy upbringing for us. I felt relief at knowing the truth. It answered life-long, nagging questions and has made me even more aware of the imperfections of man and that the only way to peace is forgiveness. I believe Mom forgave my Father on that day or at least, I have the hope that she did, just as I hope my kids will forgive me for "giving up" and not staying with the Father they all loved so much and still do. I too, still love him in my own way, on a soul level. Indeed, truth is troubling.
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