Robinswetz's Blog

“Hey, the register isn’t telling me how much change to give back!” I heard the cashier say. Oh, I remember this from when I worked at Burger
King when I was like 19. It was incredibly stressful. I initially solved this problem by having a pencil and piece of paper next to the register. But, both shame and embarrassment quickly disavowed me of this notion, not to mention the fast pace of the first lunch rush at the drive-through. Doing math on a piece of paper off to the side. Yeah, right. I was lucky to have a moment to breathe!

So, necessity is the mother of invention, or learning- in this case- how to count back change using only my brain. I honestly do not remember exactly how this lesson went or who the teacher was. But, I do know it is information that I still use today. On the rare occasion that I pay cash, I know exactly what I should be getting back. Funny, most folks don’t count the change back. They merely drop the pile of change into my palm, and cover it with a few bills of paper money, or the reverse, pressing the paper money into my hand and topping it with the change. But, I feel empowered to know exactly what the change should be right at that moment. And, I speak up if it isn’t correct.

I hope this cashier finds his way to this valuable skill. I know, in the age of smart phones with voice recognition, he could just shout out the mathematical request. But, even in modern day, shame and embarrassment still endure.

As I wait at the doctor’s office, the “cell phones interfere with our equipment. Please no cell phones while in the office. Thank you for your cooperation” sign forces me to instead look around. I spot a woman 2 seats over from me. She is reading a book on her IPad. What catches my eye about her is her shoes. They in fact are different colors. One is purple with black swirls and looks dots and green trim. The other is tan with black polka dots and purple trim only on the toe area. They are completely asymmetrical. My eyes keep going to them, to the imbalance. They are very different than the woman’s across the room, pale rose color with matching flower decorations on top, neatly atop pantyhose covered feet, nicely matching her plaid pastel skirt and green pastel spring coat; a vintage look really. Funny thing she does , she keeps lifting her feet up and looking at her shoes, legs stretched straight out. Now they are flat on the worn blue carpet S the doctors comes to the door and calls “Joan”, she is up in an instant, hand extended to shake hand of the doctor in the open doorway.

Now, and older gentleman. Eleven other available chairs, and he sits right next to me. I am vaguely irritated by his proximity. I mind as well look at his shoes. Black slip-ons. Look comfortable. Brown thick looking socks underneath, faded jeans on top. Now, the coughing begins. He brushes against me as he reaches for a tissue on the table next to me, politely saying “Excuse me” as he does so.

Now, the three of us are all nestled together in the corner of the waiting room; woman 2 seats over and coughing man right next to me. Eleven other seats in this good sized waiting room. I have a twinge of claustrophobia. I wish I could immerse myself in my multiple distraction on my IPhone; email, texts, Facebook …

Uninspired. That is me. For right now, anyway. So, I sit on my couch, and sink further and further, both into the couch and into my uninspired state. Oh, I am sure I have been here before. But, my amnesia of the difficult times keeps me from hints of a potential path out. So, I sit. And wait. For something. A thought. A sight. A memory. A smell. A something. Anything. Nothing yet. Nope. Not a thing. Not one morsel. Not one loose thread for me to tug at and unwind.

As I wait behind the woman in a long black petticoat, pulled tight at the waist, I cannot help but hear her conversation, or more like her announcement.

“I need to be able to squeeze a wedding dress in here to take on the plane tonight”, she says loudly as she tilts her head to one side to further examine the suitcase.

It is covered with dust and has a big tag on it marked $10.

“Oh, that’s not our tag” the man tending to the cash register says.

“Just need it for one night. It’s complicated” she continues her monologue.

The owner of the estate shop comes around to the front counter, interrupting his lunch. He tells her she can bring it back if it is not big enough as he rubs his hands together, presumably to remove any lingering crumbs.

“Well, it will be a while because I’ll be in Hawaii”.

“Oh”, the owner says. Then he motions me over to another part of the counter to tend to my sale. I have chosen 11 unique keys from his secret drawer of old keys that I discovered. I just love his estate shop for this reason. You make all kinds of discoveries as you travel through the store. This one was in a metal tool chest, in one of the drawers marked “look inside”.

I can still hear her, seemingly trying to entice the other worker as she goes on about her wedding. The worker does not seem that interested in her adventure.

“Do you want the suitcase or not? Five dollars and it’s yours”.

Now I’m fully into my world. Her voice goes away. The owner goes though each of my keys, and I watch, each key its own special self. One short and round. Another, long and thin with exaggerated teeth. Yet another very small and very cute.

“Ten dollars for all of them.”

“Can you do any better for me? Remember all those brass keys- that was a big one” I counter. A few years ago, I spent a few hundred dollars on a whole bunch of brass keys- all so beautiful.

“Yeah, I suppose so. The credit card fees- last month $478. I have to fold it into the prices” he explains.

He puts the keys into a little white paper bag and folds the bag top down neatly several times, creating a special little white package.

On my drive back to the office, I get to thinking. There is a draw here to this place. I often wander into the way back back of the store where he has odds and ends of nuts, bolts and the like in glass jars. It so reminds me of my father’s workshop. A special sacred place. A place where my father seemed happy and content, a place he seemed to truly belong.

You see, my father passed a few months ago, and he is on my mind. I have been into my father’s workshop one time since his passing. I am eager to spend more time in there. Chaos and drama as part of the probate and estate does not allow anyone in his workshop at this time. I so am looking forward to spending time in my father’s oasis, his special place of contentment and ease. I see that this is the very sentiment that draws me back to this place where treasures wait for their discovery.

The No Turn on Red sign. Permission to stay. I always feel comforted when I’m at a red light and it says No Turn on Red. No decision to be made. I can just wait until I am told to go, told by the flash and splash of the green light above me. Oh, even with the No Right on Red sign, I get beeped at from behind. But, I simply make eye contact with the honker behind me via rear view mirror, and point at the sign, No Turn on Red. Defer to the sign. It’s not my decision either way.

Hmmm. I guess the red light in the lane waiting to go straight is ideal. Now this is also a ‘no decision to be made’ with presumably no beeps from behind.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I just like to go with the flow, with no decisions to be made. Put me on the track and let me go go go, like Thomas the train and all his friends, pre-destined to their path with grooved wooden train tracks snapped together like puzzle pieces. Nothing to think about. In fact, freeing my mind to think about things other than this.

No Turn on Red. A break from me making a decision. I will enjoy the decision vacation, if only for a moment!

There is a woman. She watches me whenever I am at the sink washing the dishes. She wears a strapless red dress, long and form fitting; quite formal for the occasion, really. And her hair, short and spiked. Some might find a chemical product to try to soften its coarseness. But, no, not her. She prides herself on this. It is who she is.

Now, I take her by her tiny waist and turn her upside down. Her eyes don’t even close as her head enters the soapy water. I just know her candy apple red lipstick laden lips are still smiling, as her bristly ‘do scrubs the pot, sloshing in the soapy suds.

I just wrapped up my grocery shopping, and I am checking out the pre-owned books for sale in the corner by the service desk. One dollar for softcover, two dollars for hardcover. It uses the honor system. You’re expected to put your money inside the decorative treasure box that they have. I scan over the books, looking at the different titles. I also look at the different covers. I in fact do judge a book by its cover. I am often pulled in by an interesting cover as well as an interesting book title. And, there it is. “A Year of Fog”.

I immediately laughed softly to myself. I think I may have even spoken aloud. I say “that’s like this past year in New Haven. You see, recently, I’ve been looking at other jobs. In fact, I have an interview tomorrow. It’s a sure bet. My current job that I’ve been at for a little over year has been what I describe as challenging. My 10-year-old son says that “challenging” is adult talk for “this job sucks”. I was at my other job previously for 13 years, and really enjoyed the work. So, adjusting to a new job with new people really has been challenging. My reason for leaving the long-term job was for a promotion.

So, a year and some change later here I am. I feel like I may be starting to come out of the fog. So, with this quickly developed connection to this book, I look at the description on its back cover. It talks about a parent walking on the beach with their child holding their hand and seeing something in the sand, and letting the child’s hand go for what seemed to be a brief moment to see what was in the sand, only to turn around to see the child gone. What happened after that I can only guess, as I quickly put the book down. I cannot deal with children being hurt or separated from their parents. This gave me an instant dose of perspective, and a very big one. I don’t know if this book is fictional or not, but that story is one that is all too real in the world. Parents losing their children; horrible, hideous, awful. Me being at a challenging job truly pales in comparison. There, a healthy, hefty dose of perspective.

March 2014

Recently, during an e-mail discussion with a friend, he inquired if I had “found my calling”. Our most recent thread was about his moving onto another job. I was struck that he’d found a good match in his career, had found what he was missing, as he described it. He asked me if I had found my calling. I thought about his question for a while. I work hard, and feel that I contribute at my job. But, found my calling? That did not seem to fit. My thoughts went beyond work, career, to a larger domain; life. Then, it came to me. I easily answered him. Yes, I have found my calling, in motherhood.

I am blessed with my two gifts, James and John. Motherhood is so impacting to me. My world is now divided into two distinct time periods; before kids and after kids. I have learned so much from my children and this experience. I cherish it so.

I delight in the smallest of things. Recently, my youngest, James, age 7, took his father’s hand and led him away, off to their next adventure. They paused for a moment, and James turned around to speak to me. He said ” Mommy, you have had Daddy for 21 years. I’ve only had him for seven. It’s still my turn.” I am still lingering in his sweet sentiment.

The thoughtfulness of my 10-year-old, John, warms my heart as well. We were visiting a friend who has a dog, Xena. My younger son took to licking ice cream off of the table where it had melted onto. My older son, John, addressed this with his younger brother. “James, you are licking the table like some kind of….of…..of…hamster.” John did not want to offend Xena, the dog, or her human mother. His forethought and kindness I so treasure.

Raising my children has given me a window into my own childhood, a window most often covered with a dark heavy curtain. How empowering and healthy it has been for me to be able to give in a loving and healthy way. And, how blessed I am to have found my calling.

It is my hope that each person finds a calling, something in which you can both give of yourself and your gifts while receiving satisfaction, appreciation, and joy from giving.

2013

About the contributing author:

Robin enjoys a variety of interests and activities, including writing, making jewelry, volunteering for Big Brothers/Big Sisters, creating note cards, photography, spending time with friends and family, and, of course, being a mother. Please take a moment to visit her blog at robinswetz.com.

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Finding My Calling

Recently, during an e-mail discussion with a friend, he inquired if I had “found my calling”. Our most recent thread was about his moving onto another job. I was struck that he’d found a good match in his career, had found what he was missing, as he described it. He asked me if I had found my calling. I thought about his question for a while. I work hard, and feel that I contribute at my job. But, found my calling? That did not seem to fit. My thoughts went beyond work, career, to a larger domain; life. Then, it came to me. I easily answered him. Yes, I have found my calling, in motherhood.

I am blessed with my two gifts, James and John. Motherhood is so impacting to me. My world is now divided into two distinct time periods; before kids and after kids. I have learned so much from my children and this experience. I cherish it so.

I delight in the smallest of things. Recently, my youngest, James, age 7, took his father’s hand and led him away, off to their next adventure. They paused for a moment, and James turned around to speak to me. He said ” Mommy, you have had Daddy for 21 years. I’ve only had him for seven. It’s still my turn.” I am still lingering in his sweet sentiment.

The thoughtfulness of my 10-year-old, John, warms my heart as well. We were visiting a friend who has a dog, Xena. My younger son took to licking ice cream off of the table where it had melted onto. My older son, John, addressed this with his younger brother. “James, you are licking the table like some kind of….of…..of…hamster.” John did not want to offend Xena, the dog, or her human mother. His forethought and kindness I so treasure.

Raising my children has given me a window into my own childhood, a window most often covered with a dark heavy curtain. How empowering and healthy it has been for me to be able to give in a loving and healthy way. And, how blessed I am to have found my calling.

It is my hope that each person finds a calling, something in which you can both give of yourself and your gifts while receiving satisfaction, appreciation, and joy from giving.

2013

About the contributing author:

Robin enjoys a variety of interests and activities, including writing, making jewelry, volunteering for Big Brothers/Big Sisters, creating note cards, photography, spending time with friends and family, and, of course, being a mother. Please take a moment to visit her blog at robinswetz.com.

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Today I went to the Subway shop to get lunch. I was pressed for time, and, admittedly, I thought about scooting in ahead of the woman that I saw coming into the shop. You see, I saw it. There, on top of the pile of money she was carrying; a list. Yes, written on a brightly colored sticky note, three or four different lines. Clearly, this woman was buying lunch for herself and others back at the office. I decided to do the right thing, and held the door open for her and let her go through. As I settle in behind her in line, I notice the woman ahead of her already being helped has two lists, one atop of each of the piles of cash that she is holding in each hand. I said to the woman in front of me, “well, at least you only have one list”. Unfortunately, she did not find this to be funny, and gave me a serious look, asking if I wanted to go ahead of her. I said no, that I was only joking, even though I wasn’t. Trying to do the right thing again. Next, a woman settles in behind me in line. Yes, she too has a list. I in fact am now sandwiched in between to list carriers. Oh, I’m sure their good deeds of getting the lunches for folks back at the office will be appreciated by their colleagues. But, for now, I wait, and wait, and wait. Without a list.