Jack has been very remiss with Wednesday blog posts – but there have been many distractions –
I learned a lesson some years ago that has stayed with me over the years. I was a senior manager in a community college in Scotland and was going through a difficult time. This was due to the hidden actions of other colleagues, and I felt isolated and alone.
Two of my colleagues (both women) could sense I was troubled and invited me out a few times to restaurants or bars for a meal or a drink. I’m sure they did this together so there wouldn’t be any gossip although they would have been perfectly capable of dealing with that anyway.
The lesson it taught me is that whenever it seems that anyone is behaving in a manner you consider unprofessional or unnecessarily awkward, you need to remember that you don’t know what else is going on their life. Most people try to keep their work life and personal life apart but I suspect that is almost impossible these days, with so many people in upheaval from the recent storm.
Seeing the devastation affecting other areas, I got thinking about how sometimes it’s upfront and obvious how people are affected by events. In those times, maybe we give grace a little longer. I’ve tended to give people the benefit of the doubt anyway, but these days everyone can see what’s happening.
But not always – – –
Sometimes those battles are hidden, and in those situations a little friendship, even a kind word, goes a long way.
I’ve been described as an empathetic person and I think it all goes back to those two wise and observant women! Ever since then I’ve tried to give folk some slack. If we can all do the same during these stormy times, perhaps we can weather it a little better—together.
Bad days that follow good times feel somehow worse, as though reality wishes to remind you that you’re not on holiday anymore, you have responsibilities and the occasional wild card, so here’s one to remember that with.
I left my last aunt’s house at 6:30 am on Sunday. Four days of visiting relatives, attending conferences, making strategy, and running around with childhood friends from my old neighborhood would culminate in getting to my parents’ house in time to see my sister, who was there helping them get their wills finalized.
This was a big deal, the moment when “what happens if” became a certain plan involving who had what decisions to make and who would come live with them and inherit the house, all the things. My sister and I had agreed an amiable plan, and we really wanted to celebrate it with Sunday fun before they went to the lawyer’s office Monday.
My tire blew at 9:30. There was a rest area right there and off I wobbled–knowing what that smell, that sound, and that pull to the right meant. But hey, I had Triple A, hurray hurray!
Yeah, right.
Four hours later the tow truck took me five miles on their dime and another three on mine. Every time I called to check progress, they told me the tow truck would be there within 45 minutes. A nice truck driver offered to help me, but the Prius had no spare. A couple of people asked if they could do anything, but the tire store open on Sunday was behind us, northbound, and everyone at the rest area was going south. So Triple A got a scathing review, and I got a new tire at 3:30 pm.
Which meant the day with my sister was lost. I should have been there at 1, but still had three hours of driving. After a few phone calls (hands-free, of course) we agreed I would shop up Monday after the wills and we’d all grab lunch before I had to conduct business in Knoxville for my day job.
So I drove another couple of hours until the emotional and physical exhaustion of a packed week of extroverting coupled with the anger of realizing Triple A was a scam and I’d been took suggested now would be a good time to pull over.
I pulled off in some little town called London, Kentucky, and found a hotel with a pool. By then I was starving, and 600 feet straight down the road was this little shack of a restaurant labeled “Mexican Grille”
Whatever. I stashed my stuff in the room and walked to the place, decorated like every other Mexican foodery in America. I ordered a veggie quesadilla and the house margarita.
A minute later the waitress brought me a party in a swimming pool. I’ve seen hotel bathtubs smaller than that thing. I stared at the sparkler, which seemed to be singing something to the effect of “THE SUN’LL COME OUUUUUUT TOMORRRRROWWWW” while simultaneously promising immediate delights.
It had five pieces of fruit, three pieces of candy, and a rubber duck hanging off its rim in addition to the sparkler. Forget salted rim; there was no rim showing beneath that stuff.
The waitress openly laughed at my face, and then she patted me on the shoulder and left.
I don’t think I’ll ever know if she read my face and added a few things, or if that’s the way the margarita sparkles in London, Kentucky, in this tiny little shack of a restaurant by the side of the road in this deserted small Appalachian town.
It was the next day, talking to Jack (hands-free!) as I drove down to Knoxville that he pointed out where I had been: THAT London, where the guy had shot up the highway before disappearing. Well, maybe that explained why the place was so empty and the hotel and the restaurant were so friendly and kind. They were recovering from a very bad week as well.
The sparkler told the truth: in all the hard times and strange circumstances, we still have Light to guide us, some fun to have, a few delightful surprises to lift our spirits in bad times, and always, the friends and family who undergird our lives. Thank God for London, for sweet waitresses who makes amazing margaritas, and for sparklers.
Wendy Welch: Books, Yarn, Cats, Opioids 