Gifting Art

Gifting Art 

By John R. Greenwood 

Art savoring his gift, brings a wide smile to the artist 

In my last post, I wrote about a painting I received as a gift from artist Chris Leske. It was a painting of my past life delivering dairy products in the city of Saratoga Springs. It was a ten-year span that made me rich. Not monetarily rich, but rich in the friends, stories, and experiences I amassed in the decade of the 80s. I now enjoy looking at that painting every day and seeing those years through a beautiful 8x10 window. 

That gift was doubled today when I witnessed another friend receive his own painting from Chris. Along with my milk deliveries, Chris had equally fond memories of a coffee truck that pulled up in front of the Manle Auto Parts store every weekday morning. Manle's (now Scallions) was located on the corner next to The Parting Glass, where Chris worked. Art Bullet and his red truck with the stainless cap would circle the city, stopping wherever a group of workers could be found. Manle Auto Parts was locally owned and predated all the auto part chains of today. It was a daily ritual to see a large group gathered around Art's truck, getting their morning coffee and donuts. Chris recently captured that image in a beautiful watercolor painting. From the minute he rediscovered Art via Facebook, he had a vision of that truck parked on the corner.

You got more than something to eat and drink when Art showed up. He was a stand-up act that came right to your door Monday through Friday. In a pre-politically correct era, you were sure to be entertained by the coffee-truck comedian with a devilish grin and a dirty joke or three. It was his signature and his success. You didn't have to be hungry to look forward to hearing that unmistakable horn coming up Lake Avenue. You'd show up for the raucous laughter surrounding the truck for the next ten minutes. With money to make, a schedule to keep, and another twenty stops to get to, Art would pull down the hinged sides and take off down the road. 

Art bought dairy products from me throughout those ten years, so I was speechless when Chris showed me the painting he'd done of the coffee truck. When he said he wanted to surprise Art with it, I knew I had to be there.  

We all texted back and forth about getting together for some laughs and a cup of coffee. It took a week to coordinate a time and place to meet. We decided on a nearby Stewart's. Chris and I rode together while Art showed up on time as expected. Within minutes laughs were flying out of the corner booth like fireworks. There were almost forty years between those laughs, but they hadn't changed one iota. What followed was a three-way ping-pong of stories, jokes, and do-you-remembers. We roared when someone mentioned we'd become those same old men we used to kid about sitting in the Stewart's booth for hours.

Eventually, we ran out of steam, and Chris pulled out the painting. He'd posted a photo of the artwork on Facebook previously, so Art had seen it, but he had no idea he was about to be its owner. When Chris handed it to him, he froze like I did the week before. You could see those 80s running through his head like a runaway train. The three of us sat there in silence, soaking up the moment. The picture of the three of us wouldn't have made a great cover for a Hallmark Card, but the emotions associated with it could have sold millions. 

This piece attempted to put into words the impact an act of kindness can have on someone. It was a gesture that couldn't be measured with any machine or gauge. It was an act straight from a generous heart brought to life with a paintbrush and fond memories. A perfect example of life being better through the gift of "Art."

Art's Coffee Truck 

Caught Off Guard

Caught Off Guard 

By John R. Greenwood 

“Hey Johnny, I got something I want you to have.” 

That was the text message I received on a random Tuesday afternoon. It was from my friend Chris Leske. 

Minutes later, we sit down for a quick cup of coffee in the maroon booth at the corner Stewart’s. Chris and I had been collaborating on a magazine article that would be a snapshot of his life as a musician, cook, and artist. It came out days earlier in the Simply Saratoga Spring 2022 Edition. I wanted others to see what makes Chris and his story worth reviving and sharing. Read it, and you’ll better understand the connection we shared and the time lapse between then and now. 

With two fresh coffees and another ten minutes of story swapping, neither of us could wait another minute. I’d been staring at the parcel wrapped in brown paper lying on the table between us. I’m far from Sherlock Holmes, I’m more of a Get Smart tripping on the clues type, but even I knew the package in front of me was a painting. 

“Well, go ahead, open it!” 

As I peeled off the masking tape and pulled back the paper, I had the same look as Ralphie Parker opening his Red Ryder carbine-action, 200-shot, range model, air rifle with a compass in the stock. 

“Wow” 

I was overwhelmed and speechless. 

I was looking at ten years of my life rolled into one not-so-simple watercolor, all of it passing before my eyes like a Rolodex of scenes. Instantly, I envisioned those early morning milk deliveries to Lou’s/Comptons, Shirley’s, and the Spa City Diner; the long dark hall leading into the cellar of Lillians, and the steep decrepit stairs under the Tin & Lint; my Friday afternoon finale at the Parting Glass, Madame Jumel’s, Hatties, Mother Goldsmith, and Caffe Lena. It was a flood of warmth and nostalgia, a flash of joy, and a tinge of regret that it didn’t last longer. 

This was more than the gift of a painting; it was an artist’s look into my heart and soul. Our conversations and recollections over the last few months had manifested themselves into Chris's paintbrush and creative eye. It was his way of thanking me for my writing, while all I wanted was to convey how grateful I was for him opening up his artistic mind to me. 

For me and many, these are the snippets of life that make the dark days worth muscling through. It can be hard to wrestle away the negatives, but when that sun comes out, boy it feels good. It takes a unique eye to decipher the needs of others and then place them on a piece of canvas or in a musical note, and many of the people in my life have that skill-set. 

Banjo Man Chris “Lee” Leske is one of them, and I want to thank him for the gift that will keep on giving. 

My "Clem" painted Price's Dairy truck loading at the
dock of the now extinct Saratoga Dairy on Excelsior Ave. 

Photo is from Bill Barton's 
Facts and Tidbits of Saratoga's Dairy Industry From 
Early 1800's To 1988 

_________________________

The Painting  

By John R. Greenwood 

colors are secondary 

to the story shared

the gift, a painting 

wrapped in brown paper

years stacked neatly 

in a old red milk crate 

revived in an instant

the hours, the work, the friends

an artist’s gratitude 

overwhelms the receiver

memories framed and hung 

in reverence 

Forgotten Farms; A Film You Won't Forget

Forgotten Farms; A Film You Won’t Forget

By John R. Greenwood

I got lucky. 

A few weeks ago I was browsing the Skidmore Events Calendar looking for upcoming lectures or exhibitions. An upcoming screening of the documentary film “Forgotten Farms” at the Gannett Auditorium caught my attention. I’ve spent the last several years of my life paying close attention to those little taps on the shoulder. Stumbling upon this film is a perfect example of why I don’t ignore them. 

Being the spouse of a Skidmore College employee entitles me to a Skidmore ID along with an endless list of opportunities that I enjoy taking advantage of. I’m grateful to Skidmore for those opportunities. I’m also impressed by the fervor in which they encourage the general public to participate. Providing a venue for the screening of the film “Forgotten Farms” is but one small example. 

This is a multipurpose piece. First I would like to publicly thank all those responsible for making the screening possible. Skidmore provided the venue. The screening itself was sponsored by Cornell Cooperative Extension, Saratoga County and its membership. Secondly, I want to thank the film’s director Dave Simonds and producer Sarah Gardner for making such a beautiful and eye opening gem. Thirdly, I want to encourage others to seek out the next screening so that you might enjoy the film as much as I did. Bring an open mind—leave with a renewed view of your food, milk, and dairy farming neighbors. I’ve enjoyed food, chugged my share of milk, and admired dairy farmers all my life. This film didn’t change my opinion—it sure did reinforce it. 

Rather than focus on the struggles dairy farmers face, I want to emphasize the need for the general public to support and encourage their survival. I’ve lived my life on the fringes of dairy farms. I spent the very best years of my youth in the early 60’s making hay bale forts in the haymow of Brookside Dairy in Greenfield Center. As a child you only absorb the fun that exists on a working farm. You recall sitting in the shade of a large maple at the farms entrance sharing lunch with the men who’d already been up for hours milking. You got to ride through the fields on the hay wagon, oblivious to the work that went into getting the hay from seed to bale. You ran free like a farm dog from one adventure to another never understanding the complexity and sacrifice going on behind the scenes. Not until I’d logged ten or fifteen years working in a milk processing plant, peddling milk, and raising a family did I truly understand a 24/7/365 working lifestyle. You mature quickly when the fuel bill comes in your name and the winter temperatures freeze the half gallons of milk on your truck. When I look back at my work life it pales in comparison to that of a dairy farmer. Most of my work life I had health insurance and a retirement plan. Even during the ten years I owned my own business I always seemed to have enough money to do the things I did find time for. Being a dairy farmer is another story. Every acre comes with a sore back, little free time, and no instructions. The film “Forgotten Farms” spells out the challenges of today’s milk producers in a way that emphasizes their pride and love of doing something they can’t always explain. I see it as a ground level embrace of independence. The difficulty lies in their lack of control of the world outside the stone-walled boundaries of their farms. They are at the mercy of consumers and corporate America. Watching this film acknowledged and highlighted the lessons I’ve learned in the last several years in my job which falls dead square between the two. It is an interesting place to make a living between the farmer and the place that picks up their milk and puts it on the counter for the consumer. My chest carries the logo of my employer but my boots and responsibilities carry the soil of the farm as well. I’m fortunate to be able to enjoy the best of both worlds without carrying the burden that comes at the tips of either end. 

In a world where compromise is finding it a tough go, the dairy farmer has little choice but to bend until he breaks. They must continually reassess, readjust, and react to the problems everyone else has created. As I witnessed the integrity and resolve the farmers in the film displayed, my mind kept looping round and round in search of some light at the end of the tunnel. One thought kept flashing through my head. 

“We have to find a way to make a glass of cold milk cool again.” - John Greenwood

Like vinyl records and Sinatra, some things simply can’t be replaced. 

As I watched this wonderful documentary I was saddened by the lighter than expected crowd. It’s not surprising that dairy farms are forgotten. Today’s fluid interests lie in microbrews and wineries. The internet is bloated with negative press about diary products yet our children are guzzling caffeine and sugar laced energy drinks at an alarming rate. This isn’t a nostalgic whine about trying to turn back the clock to the good old days, it’s about common sense, good health, and our future. 

 

We need to look out for our farming friends. We will someday realize that no theme park can replace the sights, sounds and smells of a working farm. Driving by a freshly mown hayfield in late June and I’m instantly transported back in time. Back to a time when wading in a cold farm creek soothed you like a mother wiping your brow with a cool washcloth. I’m certain the first view I have if I’m lucky enough to travel north when I leave this crazy planet will be a green pasture surrounded by a moss covered stonewall, blanketed with a blue sky, and brimming with a herd of Holsteins grazing in the shade of a giant maple. 

I always carry a notebook and pen when I attend a lecture or presentation. Many times I use the notes to write a piece like the one you're reading here. As this film unfolded my pen never stopped. I jotted everything that stood out or spoke to me. When I began to compile my thoughts I noticed a distinct pattern. 

Here are several of my notes just as I as wrote them down. 

• First couple of cows at age nine
• Choice
• My father was my biggest role model
• Perseverance 
• Dedication
• “Everyday” Got to be there
• “I had 40 hours in by Tuesday noon”
• Animals need you
• So many things
• Weatherman
• Businessman
• Doesn't miss a beat
• Don’t show up to play around
• You adjust
• You never know how long you're going to last
• Each cow generates $13,000-$14,000 per year in revenue to the local economy. 
• “The only business that buys at retail, sells at wholesale, and pays shipping both ways”      —JFK
• "Good years, last a year"
• Break Even
• Challenge
• Fuel, seeds, veterinarian, Workmen’s Comp
• “Years to build, in minutes it was gone” — a farmer describing a farm auction
• 11 million dollars in lost economy when a dairy farm goes out of business
• Nice to drive by a dairy farm
• Lose history—How we got here
• Deep roots
• Great, Great Grandfather
• 13 generations
• 2% feed all the people
• They’ve been here for centuries—What are they doing right?
• Gets in your blood
• Keep going
• “Class Issues” —Milk not part of the food movement 
• Education v/s Stinky kid on the bus
• Isolated 
• Criticized
• Invisible
• Disparaged
• Don’t care
• Hopeful

The pattern I gleaned from watching Forgotten Farms and reading my notes is this; dairy farmers are the most dedicated, committed, knowledgeable, and hard working people on the planet. I’ve always known this to be true, but after watching this film and adding it to my 60 plus years of quiet observation it became abundantly clear. As the film came to an end the crowd remained politely quiet. I however stood up and clapped as loudly as I could. It was my private standing ovation. Yes, it was for the beautifully crafted documentary but it was also for my personal admiration of the work ethic and pride that goes into every delicious cold glass of milk I drink. Since 1974 I’ve fed my family, and paid my mortgage and car payments by picking up, processing, and delivering milk. Add to that the fact that milk is my favorite farm product and you’ve got yourself a real live milkman and dairy farm advocate. 

I hope everyone who reads this gets an opportunity to watch this film. I provided links to the Forgotten Farms website. In searching their site I found they provided dozens of links to other dairy and farm related sites. 

Bravo, Dave Simonds and Sarah Gardner! You should be very proud of this film.

"All my friends say, You should retire and do something you enjoy. 

Well I guess I've been retired my whole life." - Dairy farmer 

                 “There are three people that know how the cost of milk is calculated. 

                                     Two are dead and one doesn’t remember.” 




Forgotten Farms Website: http://forgottenfarms.org

Cornell Cooperative Extension, Saratoga County: http://ccesaratoga.org

Skidmore College Events Calendar: http://calendar.skidmore.edu/MasterCalendar/MasterCalendar.aspx

My Uncle Billy Moment

My Uncle Billy Moment

By John R. Greenwood

Have you ever experienced the same panic Uncle Billy did when he realized he misplaced the $8,000, Bailey Bros. Building and Loan deposit in the movie, "It's A Wonderful Life?" 

I have. 

It happened to me one summer day back in 1982. I was the proprietor of Price's Dairy in Saratoga Springs. Price's Dairy consisted of a couple of milk trucks and an employee (RIP David Mabb) or two. I delivered dairy products to places like Peppers Market, Lillian's, Mr. Ed's, Lou's Luncheonette/Compton's, Skidmore College, Saratoga Racecourse, Bruegger's Bagels, Saratoga Raceway, Pennell's, The Hall of Springs, Richie's Deli, Art Bullet's and Mo's Coffee Trucks, Professor Moriarty's, The Adelphi, Saratoga Sweets, Spring St. Market, Eartha's Kitchen, Shirley's, Scallions, Gaffney's, Spa City Diner, Hattie's, Saratoga Golf and Polo, Madame Jumel's, The Parting Glass, Mr. Mangini's Backstretch Kitchens, Anchor Inn, The Little Store, Anthony's Country Kitchen, The Country Corner Cafe, The Dining Car, The Kettle, Holiday Inn, Home of the Good Shepard, Joe Collins, Triangle Diner, The Old Firehouse, Sperry's, Tin & Lint, Humpty Dumpty, KFC, Long John Silvers, Caffe Lena, Interlaken, Moon's Lakehouse, Saratoga Pizza House, Pizza Hut, The Starting Gate, The Country Store, St. Clement's Infirmary, Ash Grove Inn, Siro's, The Reading Room, Lantern Lodge, Mrs. London's, Friendly Corner Grocery, Mr. Cherry at  Espey's Manufacturing, Lakeside Market, Saratoga Schools, DeGearo's, Scudder's, Waring's, Roma Imports, Tradewinds, Yaddo, Mother Goldsmiths, The Country Gentlemen, The Packhorse, S&M Market, and even a dozen or so home deliveries for while. 

The majority of my dairy products were produced at the Saratoga Dairy (Now a vacant lot on Excelsior Ave). Saratoga Dairy was the milk production side of Stewart's Ice Cream until 1995 when milk production was moved to the ice cream distribution plant in Greenfield and the two entities became Stewart's Shops Corp. Price's Dairy had cooler space and it's own access door at the Saratoga Dairy. We called the space "The Cage," because in the 60's and 70's there were a few milk dealers still around. Hyde's and Pitney's were at least two others who shared cooler space there. We called them cages because each dealer's space was separated by chicken wire surrounds. This allowed plenty of air flow and kept the orders from being mixed with each other. 

On a Friday in August I would make some 40 plus stops all within the city limits. I would have to return to the plant two or three times a day to take back empty milk crates and replenish our small trucks. It was hectic and hard work but I loved it and I am forever grateful to Victor Price for giving me the opportunity to run a business at such a young age. 

Running your own business is demanding, especially when you are in your early 20's and you are already supporting a wife and two young boys. My wife handled all the billing and calls from home and I spent 6-7 days a week keeping Saratoga supplied with dairy products. Much of my business was cash. In August it was lots of cash. More cash than I'd ever handled in my life. One day I had a small Adirondack Trust deposit bag stuffed full of cash and checks. The deposit was over $4,000 dollars. It was good portion of the weeks receivables and my wife handed it to me as I left the house. "Can you please stop at the bank and deposit this for me today? I have things I need to get done around the house. DON'T LOSE IT!" 

Sounds easy enough. 

Stopping at the bank wasn't the problem, ninety percent of my day was running up and down Broadway. With the Adirondack Trust smack dab in the middle it would take less than two minutes to run in and make the deposit. The problem lies in the "Uncle Billy" in me. I tend to struggle with more than two vegetables on my plate. The phrase, "He must have seen something shiny," was created with me in mind. I had several deliveries to make before I got close to the bank so I did the safest and most responsible thing I could think of. The milk trucks of the day had a hand controlled door between the cab and the back compartment. All you had to do was pull the lever toward you and the split door would part in the middle giving you access to the refrigerated compartment behind you. I threw the deposit bag in an empty milk crate in the back, put one or two on top to double up security, closed the door and continued my deliveries. Around four o'clock in the afternoon I was across town delivering to the Hall of Springs. I'd already logged a 12 hour day and was running out of steam. There was a big concert at SPAC that night and traffic was already choking the Avenue of Pines in both directions. 

That's when I had my Uncle Billy moment. 

I'd forgotten to make the deposit and the bank would be closing soon. 

THE BAG!!! 

What did I do with the bag??? 

Never in my life have I been so scared! 

My mind raced in a dozen directions. I couldn't focus or relax. What did I do with it? Did someone steal it? My heart was pounding. 

The feeling was almost worse than the, "I've misplaced my toddler panic." 

What did I do? 

What did I do? 

Calm down, think, breathe. 

My wife is going to kill me! But, not until I find the bag. She'll tell me to retrace my steps.

"Think John, think," she'll say in that, I-know-I-should-have-done-it-myself tone. 

She's right, again. 

Wait, that's it!

I unloaded milk crates at the Plant. It's got to be there somewhere! 

That's where it's easy to put myself in Uncle Billy's shaking boots. Now I'm hoping beyond hope that out of hundreds and hundreds of red milk crates piled high on the loading dock that one little deposit bag smaller than my lunch will turn up. The problem is I'm across town. Traffic is gridlocked. All the "real" trucks with hundreds of empties on them will be returning to the plant and unloading their empties on top of mine. It will be like finding a $4,000 needle in a milk crate haystack. 

I return to Saratoga Dairy without suffering a heart attack, getting a ticket, or running over anybody.

Where do I start? 

I jump out of the truck and start walking the stainless steel chain that circles the plant. The chain is like a set of train tracks carrying stacks of milk and empty milk crates from production, to the cooler, out to the dock and back in again. It hadn't been that long since I was here last so I was hoping my empties would be close at hand. There were lots of variables on what might happen to that deposit bag. The scariest one of course was it being covered by half gallons of milk and going back out into the world. The crates could get buried and not be used for weeks. At first I was too embarrassed to share my Uncle Billy moment but having worked side by side with every guy in the building I knew they would do anything to help. It's funny, the last thing I even considered was someone finding the bag and not saying anything. I've been blessed with being surrounded by George Bailey's throughout my life. 

My saving grace came in the form of a mechanical malfunction. There was a piece of equipment similar to a railroad track switch that funneled the stacks of empty crates into what was called the de-stacker. The crates would hang up there and at some point they would come tumbling down like dominoes. On any other day that would result in a swearing barrage, today was different. As I rounded the corner there was a pile of milk crates strewn across the floor. Buried in the middle of the pile was a blue bag and my future. My guardian angel will be a first year inductee to the Guardian Angel Hall of Fame. I don't recall who if anyone was there at the time. It was over thirty years ago. I do remember such an overwhelming sense of relief that I probably wanted to cry like a baby, but first I needed to get that money in the bank.

I watch Frank Capra's gem once a year with mixed emotion. On one side I enjoy the narrative and the acting. On the other I am always reminded of my Uncle Billy moment and how devastating it would have been if I hadn't recovered that deposit bag full of money. I decided to document this story after my friend Chris Barlow commented on how much a photograph I posted on Facebook looked like Bedford Falls. It was a George Bolster photograph of Broadway in Saratoga Springs taken in the winter around the1940's. 

When I was in the middle of writing this my wife asked what I was writing about. 

"Remember the time I lost the $4,000 bank deposit?" 

She looked at me with curious eyes. 

"You never told me about that!" 

My Uncle Billy moment was about to double in value. 

Some stories are better left alone. 

Thanks a lot Chris.  

Note: There are several links throughout this piece, each one bringing you to another one of my Saratoga Springs memories. Please take your time and look around. hopefully one will trigger a smile or two. 

Happy Holidays! 

Blue Collar Bliss

Blue Collar Bliss

By John R. Greenwood

I'm parked. No letters please. 

The phone rang at 4:30am. It was a sick driver. The flu has been taking down guys like a high winds grass fire. One more route I can’t fill. I really didn’t want to do my morning exercises anyway. I can get a real live workout by loading and unloading 10 tons of dairy product. I’ve been wrestling cases of milk for 42 years why not add one more day for old times sake. There isn’t anyone left to call. I’ve got all their wives hating me. "Leave him alone, he’s mine today," I hear them say under their breath. You feel that brief hesitation before she hands him the phone, making him choose between helping the boss or keeping a marriage intact another day. This is the life of a transportation manager. Robbing from Peter to pay Paul. Fix today’s routes with tomorrow’s guys. Plead harder. Sweeten the pot with promises you’ll regret making. Get everything covered and wait for the next phone call you know is coming. 

Today was different.

I’d just read a piece about negativity and how it seems to be all the rage. We can’t wait to take down the next superstar. If it’s not tragic or catastrophic, it’s boring. Pessimism is the drug of choice these days. We’re addicted to feasting on the faults and mistakes of others. Watching someone else’s struggles somehow makes us feel better. I’m not saying this author can’t get a little anti-happy now and then. When you’re over 60 and you’ve moved as much milk from one place to another as I have, you get achy parts. Sometimes I sound like a vat of Rice Krispies. But, at the risk of being called an outright liar by my family and coworkers, I’d say I lean a little more glass-half-full than glass-half-empty.

In fact I can prove it with one simple sentence. 

“I like my life.”

I like it because I earned it. I did that by taking pride in my job no matter who’s name was on the building. I like finishing my day with nothing left in the tank. I never cashed a check I didn’t earn. Even when the opportunity came up for me to go from blue-collar to white-collar, I did it for physical survival, not to get out of getting dirty. I like rolled up sleeves and leg cramps, it proves you did something. So, when the phone rang this morning I started to get upset. I said a few pre-coffee obscenities, but I back-tracked quickly. I’m worn down trying to make someone else do the work. Maybe today I should be the callee. Maybe instead of getting stressed I should get strained. Why not pick up a dairy hook instead of the cell phone. I splashed some cold water on my face, threw a coat on my back, and headed out the door. My wife knows by the intensity of my steps on on the Pergo what I’m up to. She worries about me getting hurt when I try to turn back the clock. She put’s the same effort in her job, so she knows when I get that, “Don’t ask, just wish me luck and give me a kiss,” look on my face--to do just that. After 42 years of it, no words are needed. I hit the marriage jackpot. 

The problem with carrying a little extra weight and being an antique is; everyone thinks your going to crumble like a saltine. Yes I might, but I’ll take my chances. I need the adrenalin rush caused by heavy stacks of milk chasing me down the ramp or the feeling of accomplishment when a shop employee thanks you for doing those little extras. I love being in control of a ten or eighteen wheeler. I’m convinced that being physically and mentally active is crucial to our longevity. I’d rather leave this place on the move than on the couch. Work satisfies the above. Stress is part of the deal. You are better off learning to manage it than you are trying to find a way to avoid it. 

This past week I had two opportunities to flex my mind and my back. The first day was delivering milk to our stores, the other was picking it up from the farms. Both of them resulted via a 5am phone call from a sick driver. It was also spring vacation for the kids so many drivers had scheduled time off to be with their families. It was a week when every available body was already working, sick, or rubbing elbows with Mickey. 

I got assistance from two guardian angels my first day. Two "kids" whose combined age didn’t total mine. They weren’t feeling sorry for me, they were looking out for me. That resulted in mixed emotions. Being the senior member of a Department and even (ugh!) the Plant carries the stigma of, “How much longer?” I’ll let you know in plenty of time to round up 15,000 days of experienced replacements. In reality I know the place will never skip a beat. My coworkers possess the very same, “get it done” work ethic I proudly flaunt. They’ll never know I'm gone and they'll be feeling the same way in 2050. 

You can’t turn back the clock so you keep regurgitating the people, places, and happenings that I call, “The Good Life.” I don’t want to be one of those reflective old farts who lives in the past (I think I may have failed this part). I do want to be that appreciative adult who worked hard for what he has and who wants to remain vital for as long as humanly possible. Like the little boy who wants to button his own shirt but surrenders to mom’s help when the thought of going to the park catches up to him. Sometimes it’s nice to have someone worry about you even though your self esteem is at risk. 

I lead the charge when it comes to stepping up to help others. Not only is it the right thing to do but it’s like money in the bank. For every person I’ve ever helped in some way, I’ve been rewarded ten-fold in return. The struggle I had this week is coming to grips with how I’m perceived. I hold on desperately to my past work history and all the experiences I’ve assembled in 40 plus years of paychecks. The vast number of friends and coworkers who’ve crossed my path have provided a wealth of stories. Most of them come with a smile or a contemplative nod of the head. You can’t buy what I’ve been blessed with. People don't recognize how important those minute snippets of cooperation and sharing are to your outlook on life. Regardless of my age I still approach every day searching for another one of those relationships to stuff in my pocket. You can never have enough pockets or experiences to fill them with. Money can probably buy memories but when they come easy they don’t taste as good as when you get them with a sore back. 

It actually gives me a sharp stab in the neck when a new driver says to me, “I couldn’t sit behind a desk like you do every day.” They have no idea what’s beneath this aged exterior. No one does. Do you get angry and start listing your resume for them? Or do you simply smile and say nothing. Sometimes it depends on how full or empty my glass is that day.  

Blue Collar Bliss is real for me. I’m proud of every callus, every mile, every hour of overtime. It made me happy to be the one someone was counting on to answer the phone at 5am. Working is a privilege for me. I’ve never liked people who feel entitled. I like people who feel energized when something collapses. I idolize those who ask without hesitation, “What can I do to help?” 

This piece weaved in and out a bit. I tend to wander more these days. I know the people who share my view on hard work will understand what I'm trying to say. It’s an acquired taste. 

Time to wrap up. The alarm’s set for 4.