Facebook Birthday Wishes

Facebook Birthday Wishes 2016
By John R. Greenwood


They kept coming and coming. Some short, some with added exclamation points, some with nice comments, a few with shots about my advanced age--but they came. I was here to see them, and appreciate them. Facebook helps the Happy Birthday chain letter extend far and wide. At first you don't pay attention because you know your name is popping up like spam from a porn site all across the internet. People you haven't heard from in years show up at the party and wish you a Happy Birthday like you were special or something. At first you treat it matter-of-factly like the Happy Birthdays don't mean anything to you. Then reality sets in. These are people who you embraced as friends somewhere along the last 61 years of your life. You start adding them up like the accountant at the end of "It's a Wonderful Life." Then as you look closer at the list you realize how lucky you are to know the people you do. Whether it's family or friends, they are people who have touched and influenced your life in some fashion. I have been blessed with an abundance of people who, even if we haven't seen each other since high school, I consider a friend. Close friends or old friends, immediate family or distant relative, the experiences and memories remain a part of us. It's not about keeping score. It's about the ride. It's about how we got to this point and who was some cog in that wheel. Whether they contribute to our campaign or whether they're viewing from the curb they're a participant in our album. It doesn't matter to me if you were at my wedding or graduation. I could care less if you were someone I knew for one summer or you're someone I've seen Monday through Friday for the last thirty years, you're important to me and I cherish whatever connection we shared regardless of the footprint. What has been most important to me in this 61 year journey has been the stories of the people I've been blessed to know. The people sending Facebook birthday messages are a cross section of my life. There are many people on that list I have never even had the pleasure of meeting in person yet their well wishes blanket me with calm and comfort. It isn't about what people do for you, it's about what people mean to you. Knowing a friend is struggling with a sick parent or the loss of a pet at the same time as you can ease you through a rough patch. Something as simple as a "Like" on a feel good moment can fluff your pillow and make you sleep a little better at night. Facebook can do a lot of damage if left alone in the wrong hands but it can also shrink our world just enough to see our friends and family a little clearer and closer than we could before its existence. 

To all of you who were kind enough to send me birthday wishes, I thank you for them and I thank you for your friendship regardless of how thick or how thin it is. You make me happy to be in this game. Even if birthday wishes never arrived from you, know that if you're on my list, you are there for a reason. It's because you're someone I met along the way and that means more to me than anything. 

Happy Birthday to me?

You betcha.

Color Change

Color Change

By John R. Greenwood

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning in May and there’s a world of options at my doorstep. Do I work in the yard, clean the garage, get the motorcycle out, go for hike, wash the car, or something else on the endless list of possibilities? It’s always a question that’s better answered Friday night before going to bed. Mrs. G and I start every day early, even Saturdays and Sundays. This allows us to maximize our timeline for the rest of the day. You also feel less guilty if a little nap fills in the cracks. If we don’t have a game plan by 7am things tend to go askew. It’s called compromise and conquer. I’ve found a little horse trading doesn’t hurt as long as I don’t try to sneak one by a circumspect spouse. Like she says, “I’ve worked with you before.” 

I discovered after years of research that is indeed better to say, “If I get this done, I was thinking of going to do that?”, versus saying,” If I go do that, I promise I’ll do this later.” These are the little technical aspects of marriage you don’t learn overnight. There are a lot of perks to being married, I have been in training for decades on how to enjoy them all with the smallest amount of conflict. For those liars out there who claim to be in charge—“Wake up, it’s a dream.” 

Here’s a good example: 

I’ve honed my brain to more readily accept paint color changes. Fighting them only prolongs the inevitable. My father was a champ. He avoided repainting the living room 25 years at a pop. I’ve found that accepting painting projects is like putting premium gas in your car. It’s a little more expensive and you question whether the expense is worth it—until you realize just how much smoother the engine runs on the good stuff. Succumbing to that sentence all men dread, “I was thinking about painting the living room a different color.”, and responding with, “Sure, I think that’s a great idea, I think we could use a change.”, will not only give you the same result it will make you that mythical knight in shining armor you heard about when you were dating. 

This post is really a little deeper under the surface. It’s about compromise in a marriage and in life in general. We all want what we want and when we don’t get it we either pout, complain, or revolt. Seldom do we go to the other side of the street to see what the view is from there. This is not a decline in today’s society, it’s not Obama’s fault, it’s not due to gluten overload—it’s human nature. When I was a kid I was pretty lucky, I didn’t go without much. I didn’t just stick my hand out, I did as I was told. I mowed the lawn, changed the bulb in my grandmother’s well house, and fed the dog when threatened. I stayed out of trouble (didn’t get caught), I was polite, and I didn’t talk back to my parents—until the stupid part of my brain kicked in my senior year of high school. 

What happened over the next few years is what happens to most men. We go from receiving to providing. I became a husband when my age still ended with an ’n’, and a father the first year it ended in 'y'. That’s when everything changed, “big time.” I became my father, a father, the father. Someone turned the mirror around and I was not prepared for it. You tackle the most intense on the job training program ever devised and it lasts until you flatline. The best thing you can do for yourself is crank open your mind and your heart as wide as it will go, take a deep breath and enjoy every diaper, cut, crash, tear, repair, tantrum, conflict, suggestion, rain drop and cable bill. If you take them like a Mike Tyson sparring partner you will survive disheveled but intact. You might even get through your fifties with a smile and no artificial parts. 

I watch all the political rhetoric and I shake like a Chihuahua in November. I can’t even go there, it makes my temples throb. Wake up America, we’re already great, we need to start acting like it. Stop going from 0-90mph before doing your homework. Don’t jump on the first bus that promises free beer in your faucets. The song tells us, “You can’t always get want you want,” and it’s true. If we were more geared for giving and sharing we’d sleep better and wouldn’t need our Winchester’s. Suck it up, kiss the dirt in front of your house, apartment, or trailer and be glad you have running water and toilet paper. I whine with the best of them when things get squirrelly but eventually someone splashes cold water in my face and I come to my senses. I’m convinced we all need to turn around, go back in the house and fix our own messes. Stop blaming, pointing, and critiquing everything we get our big mouths on. This post began over a month ago and I filed it away under "Not Sure." After listening to the nonsense oozing from the airwaves this morning I thought maybe it made sense to post it, if for no other reason than to settle my mind and to look forward to whatever tomorrow brings. 

Color Change, it's a lifesaver...

The Bottom Line

The Bottom Line

By John R.Greenwood

A prized possession, a writer's box from my sister Joanne

Whenever I'm writing and I struggle for words I always lower the bucket to the bottom of the well and pull up whatever's there. It's been that way since my first blog post. In fact, I have this thing I like to do. When I stumble across a blog I like I often dig my way to the beginning and read the very first post the person wrote. Many times I will leave a comment wishing them well. I know they will get an alert letting them know someone was at the door and left a message on it. I am always curious about what initiated that first post and what made the person finally share it with the world. Was it a life changing event? Was it therapy, or to vent? Was it to teach or to tickle? In my case it was all of the above but the final nudge came when my father passed away. For some reason I never felt I was myself when my parents were alive. I was always the son, which meant I needed to behave the right way. In no way am I saying that was a bad thing. Parents want their children to do good things. They want them to be polite and respectful. They want them to be successful and happy. The problem for me was everything I did had that notation at the bottom. What will my mother and father think? It's not as though anything I would write or share would hurt or embarrass them its the simple fact that it would always be my first thought. The first thought would need to go through customs first to be sure it didn't have any contraband stuffed between the words. It's similar when it's a spouse, relative or friend but it's never exactly the same as when it's your parents. They are the reason you're here and for many the power they hold over us lasts a lifetime and beyond. What I write and what I do with is now just me(mostly?). 

This post, "The Bottom Line" was written more as a suggestion for others who are just beginning to share stories or thoughts on a blog or anywhere else. I'm not telling you you shouldn't worry about who's affected by things you write or how they will interpret it, I'm telling you to be yourself. In my case I run from confrontation like a kid from a spider. The most nail biting controversy on this blog probably involves a sarcastic remark in a retail setting. But that's me. I'm not James Dean, I'm Garrison Keillor. I'm not Meet The Press, I'm American Pickers. I'm not oil and vinegar, I'm milk and cookies. I don't care to push boundaries but I do want to explore them. 

A friend of mine who is an excellent writer and loves political debate once asked if I would be interested in writing articles for an online periodical he was looking to launch. He said he didn't like what was out there. He said everyone's afraid of saying what's really on their mind. He said nobody wants to do any real reporting these days, everyone's afraid to speak up. He wanted Erin Brockovich, I was Mr. Rogers. He said I don't want something filled with fluff. I said I'm sorry, fluff is what I do. I want to entertain with a smile or a tear not a fist pound or a finger point. That's who I am and it took me a half a dozen decades to say it to the person in the mirror. I'm that person who doesn't care that you took my parking space. I'll find another one and I'll sleep like a rock tonight. I don't have any fight left in me because there was never much there to begin with. 

Don't get me wrong, I admire my alter egos. I love the Mike Wallace's, Roseanne's and Jon Stewart's of the world. I don't do good taking sides unless it involves injustice or abuse. Then I can get ugly. My biggest problem is I don't have too many problems. You do your thing, I'll do mine. 

When it comes to writing, dig to the bottom, don't over think it because self doubt will kick in and the next thing you know you're sitting there with your head in your hands going, "Why do I do this?". Right now I'm beginning to question this piece and whether it makes any sense. I wonder what triggered it and if it's even worth sharing, or should I just hit delete. I have things I've written that never see the light of day because I stall in traffic and don't know what to do with them. These are roadblocks we all face, only with different names on different days. 

Write from the inside out. When the words come slow remember to peel away the heavy layers of doubt. In the end it doesn't much matter what you say, what matters most is not to remain silent. Whether you speak on paper, with a guitar, or with a paint brush remember to speak. There's always someone listening somewhere. 

Henry's Birthplace

Henry’s Birthplace

By John R. Greenwood

I received a call recently from my cousin Henry. Henry’s retired now and lives in Florida. He was in Saratoga visiting his mother. He'd spent one day with his younger brother on a successful Lake Ontario fishing trip. Henry didn't call to tell me about his fishing trip, he called to ask a favor. You see, Henry was born on our grandmother and grandfather Kubish's farm. He'd read my recent story about my visit with the present owners of the farm, Ray and Carolyn Bouchard, and wondered if I could arrange for him to see the place. Like me, Henry hadn't been back there in over 50 years. Henry spent the first years of his life on the farm. His mother stayed with her parents while her husband was away in the Army. Because of that Henry had more history there than all of the cousins. He told me on the phone that his fondest memories were made on the old farm. Like me, Henry had spent years wanting to go back to see how it had changed. He had no idea just how much of our grandparents still remained on the property. Although I'd visited a few months earlier, there were still a few surprises that alluded me on my first visit. 

My call to the Bouchard’s was predictable. They opened their hearts once again and invited the two of us back without hesitation. We set a date for the following Monday afternoon and I called Henry to give him the good news. He reacted like a kid being told the family was going to Disney. I was equally excited about spending a few hours with a cousin I hadn’t seen in years. 

The weather hit the mark with a cool breeze and sunshine. I left work at noon and met Henry at my Aunt Jennie's house. This was another bonus, as I hadn’t seen her in quite some time. She closely resembles my mother so it always makes seeing her extra special. She doesn't get around like she used to but she’s sharp as a tack and always a pleasure to visit with. It was the highlight of my week. My cousin Tom was there too. He was mowing his mother's block deep backyard. We asked him to join us but he quietly declined. I think he knew this was his older brother’s moment and he didn’t want to disrupt it. I could see the anticipation growing in Henry’s eyes, it was time to head to Greenfield. Out to the old farm. 

Henry photographing our grandparent's headstone

On the way to the farm we passed the cemetery where our mothers parents were buried. We stopped for a minute so Henry and I could pay our respects. We both had our cameras with us and we simultaneously took a picture of the headstone of Joseph and Johanna Kubish. They’d both been gone since the 1960’s but I could see them standing there as clear as day. They were strong hardworking people and even though I was a young boy when they passed, I took from them a lifetime of memories and life-lessons--Henry and I both did. We didn’t say much at the cemetery, we didn’t need to. We each had our own favorite stories of Baba and Zeddo. I think we were both rewinding the reel for one more look back. It was all we’d wanted out of the day. We quietly got back in the truck and as we headed toward the road we began reading familiar names off the headstones. Each one brought a flashcard memory.

We turned back onto Wilton Road and headed east. 

A few minutes later as I turned into the Bouchard's driveway I could sense Henry's excitement. His eyes were glued on the old house in the distance. The leaves hadn't come out yet so it was slightly visible through the trees. “The driveway seemed much longer back then,” he said with surprise. 

Ray warned me on the phone he was working on the driveway near the house and that he had it all dug up. He has a large farm size tractor with all the trimmings to go with it. It's one of those big boy toys that’s the envy of any grown man. 

I parked at the bottom of the hill in front of the house. Henry unbuckled his seatbelt and was out of the truck before I could shut the key off. I understood, I'd felt the same way when I pulled in a few months before. 

Ray Bouchard and Henry Ebert 

Ray was on the tractor in front of the garage and spotted us right away. He jumped down and headed toward us. Ray may be short in stature but to Henry and I that day he was ten feet tall with the swagger of John Wayne. Henry stuck his hand out while Ray was still twenty feet away saying, “Thank you! Thank you for letting me see the place.” I think Ray knew instantly he'd given Henry a great gift. Two seconds later a smiling Henry had his arm around a smiling Ray and I snapped a picture. It was a Hallmark moment if ever I’ve seen one. 

While we stood there talking, Henry’s head was turning from side to side absorbing the scene like a video camera on a tripod. Ray’s wife Carolyn came out and invited us in. Henry was in Nostalgia Heaven. It got even better real fast. Ray had a collection of farm-finds spread out like a museum display. There were antique door handles a horseshoe, mason jar, and a hatchet.

There in the middle of the collection was the old hatch to the chicken coop. The hatch I spotted a few months earlier when I visited the farm. The same hatch my sister and my cousins used to crawl through as kids. The hatch to a 1960’s playhouse full of scabby kneed kids with splinters in their hands and cobwebs in their hair. Kids who would file those moments deep within their pockets to use a half century later for a nostalgia fix. 

There was another surprise in the collection that both Henry and I dialed in on. It was a small metal shovel made for scooping ashes out of a wood stove. It was handmade and familiar to both of us. We were certain it was crafted by our grandfather and used to clean the ashes from the stove. 

Another reel of memories rolled by. 

Ray and Carolyn provided a full tour of their home once again. This time there were four of us weaving from room to room smiling as the recollections we each had brought back voices, smells, and faces. The Bouchard’s raised a large family of their own there and had done many renovations with small children racing around underfoot. Now, those children brought more grandchildren back to begin their own mind based photo album. How lucky we all were to have that opportunity. I’m forever grateful for the hospitality of two generous people. 

I remembered the post and beam wall on the back porch that Ray exposed and rehabilitated. I didn’t want to be pushy but I knew Henry, the retired carpenter, would appreciate the work Ray had done. I wanted to be sure he got a chance to see it. My request had us on the porch in seconds and my hunch was right. Henry just stood there admiring the craftsmanship put into reviving the vintage structure that unknowingly lay beneath the siding of the house where he was born. For us, it was like standing before the Mona Lisa. 


Carolyn took a moment to describe many of the items they'd found in the cellar. One of them was this ceramic jug. It was a treasure all on it’s own. I would have paid a lot of money to leave there with that jug, but it wasn't for sale and it was right where it belonged. 

I knew Henry was anxious to get outside and walk around the property. When we did get out we both stood there imagining all the cousins running around and playing in the many outbuildings behind the house. The tour continued to the edge of the woods where Ray and Carolyn still maintain various gardens. The property has never been without gardens of some type. That made me happy. I think it made us all happy. 

Next we entered the museum of history. Ray’s refurbished shed slash workshop where Henry and I would both discover the best surprise of all; our grandparents old wood stove complete with clock and integrated salt and pepper shakers. 

Seeing that stove stopped us both in our tracks. 

It was even more thrilling to know Ray still used it to heat the shed on occasion. Every one of my cousins remember the stove and each one of us have our own favorite food that came off or out of it. 

There were classic Slovak soups with dried mushrooms my grandmother picked herself. There was Baba's homemade bread slathered with hard butter or homemade fruit jam. A flood of sights and smells filled the shed as we both stood there mesmerized by the cast iron and porcelain rock star we’d just rediscovered. 

I turned around and on the back wall of the shed was another museum like arrangement of saw blades, saws and other handmade tools the Bouchard’s had discovered on the property. It was a testament to the strength and self reliance of those who'd come before us. I was glad Ray and Carolyn had gone to such great lengths to preserve, not just some of my heritage, but the heritage of everyone who’d ever set foot on the acreage surrounding the old farm. I hope whoever follows the behind the Bouchard’s does the same.

The next step was to fulfill my promise to take Henry back to the Cronkite Cemetery. He didn’t need me to point him there, he knew exactly where to go. In fact he had a surprise of his own for me. He remembered the location of the old dump where my grandmother would send him with the trash when he was young. He assured me there would be some remnants there to prove his recollection. Carolyn headed back inside and Ray gave us full reign to explore to our hearts content. He had a driveway to attend to and headed back to his tractor. Henry and I headed in to the woods on the backside of the hill behind the house. I switched from guide to tourist and tried my best to keep up with Henry who was now zeroed in on finding an old dump filled with rusty cans and old ketchup bottles. We hadn’t gone far when Henry stopped and pointed to a pile of rusty metal in the leaves. There, just as he’d described, was the old family dump. There were bottles and other debris mixed among the leaves and rocks. It wasn’t a chest of buried treasure but it might just as well have been. We were instantly transformed into couple of boys on a backwoods adventure. The movie "Stand By Me" flashed through my head. I knew what Henry was thinking. He and I had been talking about old cellars and foundations on the way to the farm. He told me he had a professional grade metal detector at his home back in Florida. He said he wished he’d brought it with him this trip. I know he was really kicking himself now.

By now we were both beginning to tire out. We had one more stop on our tour and that was the Cronkhite Cemetery. Cronkhite's were the original homeowners in the 1800's. We walked quietly. I began to drop behind a little. I wanted Henry to discover the stone walled cemetery the same way I had months earlier. He was focused in like a hound on a rabbit. It wasn’t a seventy year old man ahead of me, it was a transformed boy looking for a memory. He was back in the 1950’s. I was right there too.

When I caught up with him we both stood there quietly. We were both focused on the centuries old iron gate. The gate  still worked like it was installed yesterday; more proof of the pride and craftsmanship our forefather's possessed.  Although the cemetery was a bit overgrown and disheveled it remained intact and peaceful---much like the two of us as we smiled at each other and headed back to the farm. 

I attended two meetings of the Greenfield Historical Society just before and after Henry and I got to visit our grandparent's old farm. The meetings take place in the community room attached to the home where my parents lived when I was born. 

The author on the front porch of what is now the
Greenfield Community Center

The home was owned by my aunt and uncle, Steve and Anne Pasek. During the meetings I was literally sitting where I'd been cradled in my mother's arms some 60 years before. I knew how lucky I was to have that historical connection. It made me feel like I belonged there, then and now. I knew that was what Henry was feeling when we were heading back to my truck that day at the farm. I knew as he broke out of the woods and was looking up at the place that held his favorite memories that he was content and a little more at peace than he was a few days earlier. I know he was as grateful to the Bouchard's as I was. I'd say they had no idea how much the visit meant to Henry and I but I don't think that's true. I think they knew exactly how important the gift they'd given us was. I think that's because they appreciate  family and that sense of place that is so important to our spirit in general. It doesn't have to be a family farm, it can be a row-house or your first apartment. It can be a town like Greenfield or a city the size of New York. It's wherever you feel most whole. For me it's right here in the center of Saratoga County. Thirty miles in any direction and I'm happy as a clam. Any further than that and I'm turning my head and looking over my shoulder at what I'm leaving behind. 

Let's just say, "I like it right where I am." 

"Henry's Birthplace"

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.