Category: remembrance

My first job

When I was in High School everyone I knew had a job. With rare exceptions, parents of Gen-X kids like myself tended to respond to requests for money with the well-worn phrase, “Get a job.” Now, I can only speak for my little corner of the world, a small Middle-to lower-middle-class town in Eastern Massachusetts. Still, my understanding was that when it came to giving money to your kids it wasn’t about whether it was affordable to the parent. It was about teaching valuable lessons, primarily the value of money and the sense of accomplishment that comes with a paycheck in exchange for honest work.

I, like many of my friends, received an allowance from my parents. It was a mere pittance, enough for a young man to be able to afford to go to the local store and get a candy bar and a soda a few times a week. Looking back, it was laughable how little it was, even when adjusted for today’s value. But it was something. Looking back, I can immediately recognize that one thing a meager allowance taught me was how to budget. As much as I may have learned about budgeting. I can’t say I practiced it very well. I could never live on my allowance.

Fortunately, what I lacked in money management skills, I compensated with a work ethic. I had an amazing role model in my father in many aspects; honesty, accountability, eye contact and a firm handshake, and to always be kind and respectful. But there was one area where Dad simply excelled, to the point in which I was in awe of him, and that was his unfaltering work ethic. One of my earliest memories is of waking up at 4 AM to relieve myself, only to find Dad shaving for work. He left the house at 4:30 every day and in the winter months (he delivered home heating oil) he wouldn’t be home until 6 or 7 most nights. He would come in, exhausted and cold, to a hot dinner waiting for him, the biggest piece of steak or chicken reserved for him. He would shove it down and then begin working on the house, which was under construction from my earliest memory. He would go to bed after me. On the weekends, whatever chores needed to be done he would tackle as soon as he got up. The man didn’t know how to procrastinate.

I did. But I learned how to overcome that because I could not, once I was old enough to be of use, sit and watch the man I admired most in the world, work his ass off to provide for me and not help. So I learned how to cut grass. I worked out by chopping firewood. I shoveled the driveway. I even held the flashlight as he toiled under the hood of his always broken-down truck. Beyond the pleasure of just being around him, holding the flashlight proved to enhance my vocabulary because the expletives FLEW when I didn’t point it in the right area or dropped a wrench.

One day, when I was 11, we were in Sears Roebuck. We were in the tool section and I was waiting for Dad to select another tool that he already had several of. It was his process. A shiny new socket set made him happy and who was I to stand in his way? As we were leaving the store we walked by a beautiful 10-speed bike on display. At the time, the 10-speed bike was all the rage and I wanted one. I showed my Dad the price tag. 94 Dollars. He smiled and motioned for me to go. In the car, he finally spoke.

“I could buy that bike for you, but I don’t want to.” I asked him why.

“Because you’ll like and appreciate it more if you buy it.”

“With what?”, I asked him.

“Your earnings. Go out and knock on some doors. Half of our neighborhood is elderly, I guarantee that they would pay you to mow their lawns and shovel their driveways and whatnot. Buy it with money earned and you will appreciate that bike and take care of it and you’ll have it forever. Not leave it out in the rain like your friends do. It’s different when you earn it, Bill.”

I will never, ever forget that moment.

He offered our lawnmower for me to use, and I would pay the gas. I jumped at the opportunity.

In the 70’s the sight of young people dragging snow shovels down streets in the wake of big storms was a common sight. Kids were industrious, even competitive and fought to earn and keep customers. Some customers were loyal regulars, others would give the work to whoever rang the bell first. I was one of the only kids in my neighborhood that was willing to work. Don’t think I didn’t take advantage of that. I had a slew of loyal neighbors that were waiting to give me money. It wasn’t much money by today’s standards but it was consistent and, as my father had suggested, it felt like a treasure because I had earned it.

Approximately 4 months later my Dad asked me how much money I had. Now, I hadn’t saved everything I had earned. It was a new experience to me to have money so I bought a few things, went out for subs with my friends, etc. But I had saved $80.00. I showed it to him.

“Get your shoes on, and fold that money into a neat roll. We’re going out.”

“Where are we going?”, I asked as I climbed into his truck.

“You’ll see”, he said.

As it turned out, we were going to Sears and Roebuck. I followed him to the Sporting Goods section. He asked the clerk for the assembled bike on display, amazingly it was the same one, and told him that we would be purchasing it. He turned to me with open hand and motioned for me to hand over the money I had in my pocket. The clerk gave him the total and my Dad reached into his pocket and plucked the differential out of a roll of bills. Not wanting to spoil the moment, I didn’t say anything. We walked the bike out of the store, he carefully placed it in the back, and we drove out of the parking lot. Finally, I said,”Thanks Dad, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Sure I did”, he said. I pointed you in the right direction but you did the work. I could have waited until you had all of it but it was never about the money. It’s about appreciating what you have and every time you ride that bike you’ll think about the sweat and back-breaking work you did to buy it.”

I had that bike for 10 years. I sold it in near-perfect condition at a yard sale.

I would go on to earn enough to buy 10 bikes as I became the neighborhood odd jobs kid. Even when other kids caught on to what I was doing, many of my regulars turned them away. They got what I didn’t want. This would continue until I got my first “real job” bagging groceries at a local supermarket.

Interestingly, I now run a small side business that consists mostly of locals who loyally retain my services and feel compelled to recommend me to whoever they meet.

On Service

In 1985 I joined ROTC in college. It was an impulsive decision and to this day I can’t list my reasons for doing so in proper order. The world was relatively peaceful in Reagan’s America and we weren’t in a particularly Nationalistic phase. I think I was inspired by a good friend that I had seen positive changes in due to ROTC and wanted them as well. I had seen him acquire a purpose in his step, a determination in his gaze, and a confidence I had never seen in him. I think I wanted that. So in August 1985 I was off to Fort Knox, Kentucky.

I liked it and I didn’t. I enjoyed the physical aspect of it and cruised through that aspect of the training. I didn’t like the prospect of being an Officer. I was uncomfortable with my ability to lead and make decisions that may cost lives of my fellow soldiers. I was also a free thinker and rejected the simplicity of calling every target “Ivan”. 8 weeks later, I stepped off the plane at Logan Airport 25 pounds lighter, with a more purposeful step and 2 weeks to make the decision to continue. I would choose not to and I will always regret it.

I am the son and grandson of Veterans. My grandfather served as a SeaBee in the Navy in WWII and exemplified in every way the Greatest Generation. He returned home, made no conversation or complaints about the war, and began to rebuild a life. My father was called to Vietnam but when I was born he was restationed stateside. I beam with pride when I think of either of them. In addition, I have many friends who served, and some are still on active duty. I met some of them while living in an apartment complex 10 years ago. There was a group of 5 soldiers and their families, and I became close to them, despite being much older. I heard their stories, from the ones that were comfortable talking about it, and I shared more than one moment of tears and frustrations over drinks as they recalled experiences they endured as part of their jobs. I heard some things that I will never forget, nor will I minimize the importance of being trusted to hear them.

When the US entered WWII men and women flocked to the recruiting station to enlist. Young men lied about their age to fight for a righteous cause they believed in. Those at home all pitched in. People bought war bonds and curbed their own lifestyle to preserve resources for the war effort. Rosie the Riveter went to work in the factories. When the soldiers returned home, they were greeted as heroes. This country will never have a generation like that ever again.

In Vietnam, the cause was less righteous and appealing to people, and, while there were still many civic-minded young people, not enough volunteered, and a “draft” was created. The draft deeply divided this country and a generational culture war divided society. In stark contrast to the WWII generation, the unpopularity of the war extended to a terrible and unjust treatment of the soldiers returning home. After fighting with valor and a deep love of country, instead of being called heroes, they were spit upon and called “baby killers”. This in no way eased the return to society for a generation of soldiers who had seen a new, horrific side of warfare. It was a shameful time for this country.

Veterans of recent conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan are facing the most critical lack of support ever. This is not to say that the good citizens of the USA don’t overtly support them proudly in spirit. The lack of support lies in benefits and resources both medically and in mental health. The Iraq/Afghanistan era veteran engaged in warfare unlike any other generation. There was no clear and defined enemy. Once Saddam’s Revolutionary Guard was defeated the war became borderless and the enemy unclear. In Afghanistan, brutal terrain and tribal loyalties and betrayals further complicated warfare. Traditional warfare, already out the window after Vietnam, was taken to an entirely new level as our soldiers were forced to deal with roadside bombs, mothers sacrificing babies to kill soldiers, vague and restrictive rules of engagement, a lack of equipment and recruits, and extended tours. These brave men and women have been subjected to evils that most reasonable people would have difficulty believing even exist only to return to society and be expected to be able to put everything they have seen aside and just function. Very few of us, perhaps only one who has been in that situation. I only know what I hear.

I hear of a hatred for the people that they were fighting and for those that they were supposed to be protected. A hatred that never subsides and will never go away.
I hear of resentment of officers who put soldiers in danger to advance their careers.
I hear of rules of engagement that are vague, ineffective and subject to constant change.
I hear of seeing comrades mutilated or decimated in a “red mist” right in front of them.
I hear of sleepless nights, drug and alcohol abuse and decimated families due to inability to compartmentalize and handle haunting memories.
I hear of a convoluted, overwhelmed and inefficient VA.

Veterans deal with all of this with as much dignity as they are able to muster every day. They don’t expect us to understand but they would appreciate our appreciation and respect. They still love their country and believe in something that a dwindling number of Americans subscribe to, the concept of Service.

I didn’t have that sense of service when I joined. I want to regret that but there’s nothing I can do about it. I now have a respect, dedication and commitment to service as I serve any way I can. In my Masonic endeavors, by volunteering, by helping strangers, and by always thanking a Veteran. To them, military service is not a career. It is a calling, a duty, a responsibility with a job description. They write a blank check to their country that may include up to their very life and they do it with pride.

Don’t pretend that you understand what they’ve seen and done in the name of service. Just appreciate that they were willing to do it. Remember that regardless of whether you agree with the assignment, the American soldier doesn’t question the orders, they do what they were trained for and do what they can to get themselves and their comrades home.

I cannot begin to say how much I appreciate that.