Monday, August 20, 2007
The Awakening
So it finally hit me, "If I stay in Ohio I wil die before my time. Maybe in less than ten years. I don't want to be here, I am not happy here and never have been. Ohio is killing me, if I want to live, I have to leave." And then I did something that still amazes me...
I told Fred, "I love you more than life it's self but Ohio is killing me. I have to leave. I don't know where I'm going but I can't stay here any longer." He looked at me silently for a moment and then left the room. "Oh great! I just ended my marriage," I thought. But about a minute later he came back carrying something. He had the Rand-McNally Road Atlas in his hand! He spread it out on the table in front of us, opened to the page of the entire United States and he drew a line across the country. A horizonal line, below the half way mark. "Where do you want to go?" he said, "We can go anywhere south of here, it doesn't snow in any of these places."
Looking back, I really didn't totally appreciate his gesture. His life long dream was to own his own company. He'd planned for it since he was a boy and now, here he was, willing to give it all up. He must have loved me as much as he was capable. To do that was a huge sacrifice on his part. Granted the company was in a dire situation and if we didn't accrue the printing company we'd be sunk (and that wasn't going well) but he was actually ready and willing to walk away from it all. That was very generous. The problem is, we just never did properly communicate--I could no more comprehend his willingness to walk away from his dream than he was able to comprehend that saying "okay" to me meant "not good." To him, "okay" is literally alright. Like in, "How do I look?" "OK." So then I'd go start over because that was average which to me meant substandard. See, it really is all about perceptions isn't it?
So we up and moved to Vegas. I end the story here...I've glossed or skipped over some parts. My intention has been to share my story with you so that you could see (almost first hand) how I ignored or missed feathers and even Mac trucks that Spirit sent to me attempting to guide me along my path. I was dead to that world, completely unaware. And yet at a very deep level I kept wondering, is this all there is? Isn't there more? I want more! And you know what? In the ten years since we left Ohio, I have discovered, I DESERVE more! I am worthy of it and it is my birthright and I intend to grab hold of it and hang on.
Namaste, more soon
I told Fred, "I love you more than life it's self but Ohio is killing me. I have to leave. I don't know where I'm going but I can't stay here any longer." He looked at me silently for a moment and then left the room. "Oh great! I just ended my marriage," I thought. But about a minute later he came back carrying something. He had the Rand-McNally Road Atlas in his hand! He spread it out on the table in front of us, opened to the page of the entire United States and he drew a line across the country. A horizonal line, below the half way mark. "Where do you want to go?" he said, "We can go anywhere south of here, it doesn't snow in any of these places."
Looking back, I really didn't totally appreciate his gesture. His life long dream was to own his own company. He'd planned for it since he was a boy and now, here he was, willing to give it all up. He must have loved me as much as he was capable. To do that was a huge sacrifice on his part. Granted the company was in a dire situation and if we didn't accrue the printing company we'd be sunk (and that wasn't going well) but he was actually ready and willing to walk away from it all. That was very generous. The problem is, we just never did properly communicate--I could no more comprehend his willingness to walk away from his dream than he was able to comprehend that saying "okay" to me meant "not good." To him, "okay" is literally alright. Like in, "How do I look?" "OK." So then I'd go start over because that was average which to me meant substandard. See, it really is all about perceptions isn't it?
So we up and moved to Vegas. I end the story here...I've glossed or skipped over some parts. My intention has been to share my story with you so that you could see (almost first hand) how I ignored or missed feathers and even Mac trucks that Spirit sent to me attempting to guide me along my path. I was dead to that world, completely unaware. And yet at a very deep level I kept wondering, is this all there is? Isn't there more? I want more! And you know what? In the ten years since we left Ohio, I have discovered, I DESERVE more! I am worthy of it and it is my birthright and I intend to grab hold of it and hang on.
Namaste, more soon
Sunday, August 12, 2007
No Man is an Island, but this Girl was...
Looking back, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind—Alvin pushed me! And it was his last, most wonderful, unselfish gesture in that lifetime. Now that he was on the other side he could clearly see. Because he and I had this connection and because I had given him a chance at starting life over and I had believed in him, he was returning the favor.
I spent the next two and a half weeks flat on my back in a bed. Couldn’t even get up to pee. There was this contraption around my ankle and leg, up to my knee and it was hooked up to an igloo ice chest! No kidding! It circulated ice water 24/7 over the wound. I’d had surgery where they’d put two pins on the left side of the ankle and a seven inch plate with nine pins on the outside of the ankle and up my outer leg bone. 40 staples! The swelling was amazing. The hospital gave me a foam “bowling alley” to prop up my entire leg from the knee down so it would stay above my heart to reduce swelling.
OhMyGOD! Fred was beyond furious!
“You did this on purpose!” he yelled at me.
“On purpose, how could I possibly do something like this on purpose?”
“You didn’t want to work this weekend and you found a way out of it.”
Yeah, that’s rational—since I don’t want to work I think I’ll just shatter my ankle and force myself into nearly three weeks of bed rest followed by 12 weeks in a wheel chair, 4 weeks with a walker and another 2 weeks on crutches before I get the “walking cast. Oh, and I won’t be able to drive for six months, either. Yup, this is definitely “on purpose!”
He had to refill the ice chest three times a day with fresh ice—an entire bag of ice every eight hours. But he had a business to run and he had to do it without me. So since I’d done this “on purpose” he chose to not speak to me for the duration. Two and half weeks of no words, just grunts and glares. I’m in serious pain. I’m completely helpless, totally dependent. I had the portable phone and the TV remote, that was it. After four days I called the only person I felt I could impose on—our bookkeeper. She came over and found my stationery, hand sewing, and a few books and put them next to the bed for me. Pat, wherever you are, thank you very much. I am so grateful for your kindness. I know it put you in an awkward position with Fred. I’m sorry you had to be between us.
I had a lot of time to think. I thought about all that had happened since we moved to Ohio. This was the fifth major surgery in six and a half years. I had gone from being a mere secretary to being the production manager responsible for troubleshooting jobs and repairing equipment. (I cannot tell you how many times I found myself on the floor under the imagesetter in a $500 suit, on my back, in pantyhose, screw driver in hand. Sometimes I cursed my great mechanical abilities!) I thought about how after six and a half years I only knew the people I worked with, a handful of vendors, and Fred’s family. And he didn’t particularly care to associate with his family. I could certainly never count on any of them for assistance (or so it seemed). I had pined for Dallas, my family, and Texas for most of that time. I had no friends, no girlfriends, no network, no safety net. I was an island unto myself, especially since Fred refused to talk to me. Laying there in that bed, it became very, very clear that Dayton, Ohio was slowly but surely killing me. Physically, mentally, and spiritually. Thank you Alvin. If you hadn’t of pushed me, I would never have figured this out. Thanks for providing me with my Mac Truck so I could move forward rather than slowly dying.
to be continued...
I spent the next two and a half weeks flat on my back in a bed. Couldn’t even get up to pee. There was this contraption around my ankle and leg, up to my knee and it was hooked up to an igloo ice chest! No kidding! It circulated ice water 24/7 over the wound. I’d had surgery where they’d put two pins on the left side of the ankle and a seven inch plate with nine pins on the outside of the ankle and up my outer leg bone. 40 staples! The swelling was amazing. The hospital gave me a foam “bowling alley” to prop up my entire leg from the knee down so it would stay above my heart to reduce swelling.
OhMyGOD! Fred was beyond furious!
“You did this on purpose!” he yelled at me.
“On purpose, how could I possibly do something like this on purpose?”
“You didn’t want to work this weekend and you found a way out of it.”
Yeah, that’s rational—since I don’t want to work I think I’ll just shatter my ankle and force myself into nearly three weeks of bed rest followed by 12 weeks in a wheel chair, 4 weeks with a walker and another 2 weeks on crutches before I get the “walking cast. Oh, and I won’t be able to drive for six months, either. Yup, this is definitely “on purpose!”
He had to refill the ice chest three times a day with fresh ice—an entire bag of ice every eight hours. But he had a business to run and he had to do it without me. So since I’d done this “on purpose” he chose to not speak to me for the duration. Two and half weeks of no words, just grunts and glares. I’m in serious pain. I’m completely helpless, totally dependent. I had the portable phone and the TV remote, that was it. After four days I called the only person I felt I could impose on—our bookkeeper. She came over and found my stationery, hand sewing, and a few books and put them next to the bed for me. Pat, wherever you are, thank you very much. I am so grateful for your kindness. I know it put you in an awkward position with Fred. I’m sorry you had to be between us.
I had a lot of time to think. I thought about all that had happened since we moved to Ohio. This was the fifth major surgery in six and a half years. I had gone from being a mere secretary to being the production manager responsible for troubleshooting jobs and repairing equipment. (I cannot tell you how many times I found myself on the floor under the imagesetter in a $500 suit, on my back, in pantyhose, screw driver in hand. Sometimes I cursed my great mechanical abilities!) I thought about how after six and a half years I only knew the people I worked with, a handful of vendors, and Fred’s family. And he didn’t particularly care to associate with his family. I could certainly never count on any of them for assistance (or so it seemed). I had pined for Dallas, my family, and Texas for most of that time. I had no friends, no girlfriends, no network, no safety net. I was an island unto myself, especially since Fred refused to talk to me. Laying there in that bed, it became very, very clear that Dayton, Ohio was slowly but surely killing me. Physically, mentally, and spiritually. Thank you Alvin. If you hadn’t of pushed me, I would never have figured this out. Thanks for providing me with my Mac Truck so I could move forward rather than slowly dying.
to be continued...
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
The Mac Truck Hits in Ohio...
So the therapy helps. And the Buspar™ is working (the “anti-depressant” meds they’re giving me). And I haven’t had to have any surgery, emergency or scheduled for a year and a half. Business is booming. There’s hope that we can pull a financial miracle out of the hat and get out of the debts we unknowingly inherited buying the company. We increase everyone’s shifts/hours. We are literally running 24/7 with 10 employees shoving almost two million in typesetting and pre-press jobs through a year and all the employees except 2 have less than 18 months on the job!
One day, Fred tells me, the client just called and we’re not going to get job X. And because of that, there’s nothing else on the horizon so we either have to lay off one person or cut everyone’s hours. We decide to cut hours—it seems more fair and we don’t lose the skill we’ve worked so hard to teach these employees. I start telling everyone, one at a time at their workstations. I have two more to go when he calls me in his office. “Have you told everyone yet?” “Almost,” I say. “Well, stop, and tell everyone we’re now on mandatory overtime, minimum 50 hour weeks for the next two to three months!” That, my dear readers, is the printing business! Feast or famine and it can change in a heart beat! Or a phone call, as in this case. We just got awarded sole production from a small text book publisher and it’s their peak season. This is on a Wednesday.
Now, for the past six years, I’ve lived with this roller coaster of work. I’ve worked literally 72 hours in the same suit and panty hose (and let me tell you, some where between hours 12 and 16 they “become one” with your body! e-e-e-w-w). I’ve caught cat naps on a cot in the ladies room for an entire summer, only really sleeping on the weekends. It’s been 60 to 80 hour weeks for way too long. I’m not that strong. (At least, that’s my mind set so that indeed, is my reality.)
This same Wednesday I find out a former employee has died. He O.D.’d. When he was clean, he was one of the best workers I’d ever seen. He was a happy, gentle soul, very willing to do whatever needed to be done. We’d hired him through Goodwill Industries and knew he’d been through rehab but hey, he was making deliveries and cleaning toilets so we felt blessed to have someone so bright and eager. I started to show him a bit about the computers even. What we didn’t realize was the public housing across the street from our downtown location was a known crack house. It wasn’t long before the temptation was too great. We had to fire Alvin because when he was high he stole the cash box and pawned a couple of typewriters. But I had this strange connection to Alvin and I felt compelled to go to his funeral. And it was on a Saturday after all.
Fred was livid! He didn’t want me to go to the funeral. “You’re needed to get the work out.” (Does that mean I’m irreplaceable? I daren’t ask it though!) But I was really, really compelled to go. Perhaps because my younger brother was in prison for crack addiction. I could see him in Alvin and felt so bad for my brother and so grateful he was “safe” in prison. Anyway, I for once I defied Fred and went.
Now, I’m a very middle-class very white chick. Very fair skinned. Alvin was half white. So, there were two white folks at the funeral. His mom, and me! It’s rare for me to feel uncomfortable with any group of people but for some reason this seemed awkward. The service was nice—long—but really showcased the light side of him rather than the possessed side. Leaving the service, there were wooden steps leading to the parking lot. Going down the stairs I suddenly felt a presence. I even turned and looked over my left shoulder. I could feel Alvin standing there, laughing as he did, and his brilliant smile flashing at me. The next thing I know, I’m on the ground and two of the oldest, most shriveled up, skinny black men are attempting to pick me up! I weighed 220 lbs. NOT! Somehow we manage to get me up although I really know I can't walk and should just stay put. See, I missed the last step and the curb. I fell about eight inches and pretty much shattered my right ankle. 215 lbs were turning left to go to my car while 5 pounds (my right foot) decided to go 180 degrees to the right. That doesn’t work, folks!
to be continued...
One day, Fred tells me, the client just called and we’re not going to get job X. And because of that, there’s nothing else on the horizon so we either have to lay off one person or cut everyone’s hours. We decide to cut hours—it seems more fair and we don’t lose the skill we’ve worked so hard to teach these employees. I start telling everyone, one at a time at their workstations. I have two more to go when he calls me in his office. “Have you told everyone yet?” “Almost,” I say. “Well, stop, and tell everyone we’re now on mandatory overtime, minimum 50 hour weeks for the next two to three months!” That, my dear readers, is the printing business! Feast or famine and it can change in a heart beat! Or a phone call, as in this case. We just got awarded sole production from a small text book publisher and it’s their peak season. This is on a Wednesday.
Now, for the past six years, I’ve lived with this roller coaster of work. I’ve worked literally 72 hours in the same suit and panty hose (and let me tell you, some where between hours 12 and 16 they “become one” with your body! e-e-e-w-w). I’ve caught cat naps on a cot in the ladies room for an entire summer, only really sleeping on the weekends. It’s been 60 to 80 hour weeks for way too long. I’m not that strong. (At least, that’s my mind set so that indeed, is my reality.)
This same Wednesday I find out a former employee has died. He O.D.’d. When he was clean, he was one of the best workers I’d ever seen. He was a happy, gentle soul, very willing to do whatever needed to be done. We’d hired him through Goodwill Industries and knew he’d been through rehab but hey, he was making deliveries and cleaning toilets so we felt blessed to have someone so bright and eager. I started to show him a bit about the computers even. What we didn’t realize was the public housing across the street from our downtown location was a known crack house. It wasn’t long before the temptation was too great. We had to fire Alvin because when he was high he stole the cash box and pawned a couple of typewriters. But I had this strange connection to Alvin and I felt compelled to go to his funeral. And it was on a Saturday after all.
Fred was livid! He didn’t want me to go to the funeral. “You’re needed to get the work out.” (Does that mean I’m irreplaceable? I daren’t ask it though!) But I was really, really compelled to go. Perhaps because my younger brother was in prison for crack addiction. I could see him in Alvin and felt so bad for my brother and so grateful he was “safe” in prison. Anyway, I for once I defied Fred and went.
Now, I’m a very middle-class very white chick. Very fair skinned. Alvin was half white. So, there were two white folks at the funeral. His mom, and me! It’s rare for me to feel uncomfortable with any group of people but for some reason this seemed awkward. The service was nice—long—but really showcased the light side of him rather than the possessed side. Leaving the service, there were wooden steps leading to the parking lot. Going down the stairs I suddenly felt a presence. I even turned and looked over my left shoulder. I could feel Alvin standing there, laughing as he did, and his brilliant smile flashing at me. The next thing I know, I’m on the ground and two of the oldest, most shriveled up, skinny black men are attempting to pick me up! I weighed 220 lbs. NOT! Somehow we manage to get me up although I really know I can't walk and should just stay put. See, I missed the last step and the curb. I fell about eight inches and pretty much shattered my right ankle. 215 lbs were turning left to go to my car while 5 pounds (my right foot) decided to go 180 degrees to the right. That doesn’t work, folks!
to be continued...
