Ruthi Postow Birch's Blog, page 9

Husband Appreciation Day – What’s the Secret to a Love that Lasts?

Some say the reason why we fall in love with the people we do has to do with chemistry. My reason wasn’t that brainy. I fell in love with the man with the best stories, the man who made me laugh.

He’s also scarily smart, a brilliant attorney who once learned Russian so he could read War and Peace in the original.

But life is not all funny stories, litigation, and Russian literature. There are practical tasks that need to be managed, and these are mysteries to him – mysteries like finding the way to… well, anywhere.  Also mysterious are things that need programming or mechanical aptitude or require more than two steps – for example, the double clasp on a pearl bracelet. After ten seconds of jabbing prongs toward holes, he growls at the bracelet and walks away.

Yesterday I came into the kitchen and heard him on the phone hiring a locksmith. I asked, “So you’ve had it with me and you’re changing the locks?”

“Not yet. The lock on the door to the porch is broken. It won’t close.”

We’ve been married a long time and I know him, so I asked, “Did you try turning the key?”

“Yes, I did! It won’t turn.”

“Did you try turning it the other way?”

I went to the door and turned the key – the other way. “It’s locked now. You can cancel the locksmith.”

Without a sense of direction, going around the block can turn into an adventure. “I know the way,” he grumbles, and turns right, then right again, then left. And we’re someplace new and different.

Adding to the challenge of directions, Ron gets lost in his thoughts and becomes oblivious to anything else. Put him in a car, and like the cartoon character, Mr. Magoo, he drives merrily along, going the wrong way, on the wrong road – and that’s where some of his best stories come from – like the time several years ago when he went to a conference at the Arizona Biltmore.

The grounds of the Biltmore are gorgeous. Ron had time between meetings and decided to take a drive. He wound through the beautiful estate in his big Lincoln, enjoying the scenery and the waves of the friendly golfers. Then he saw a groundskeeper running towards the car, waving his arms over his head, and calling to him. When he stopped and lowered the window, and the breathless man said, “Sir, please get off the golf cart path.”

Everywhere he goes, Ron is greeted by more friendly people. In Anchorage, Alaska, bikers called to him and waved as drove the winding road through the new park – the new bicycle park. And the diners in Bologna, Italy actually lept up from tables to wave to him, as he drove around the twin towers for a better look at the fountain. He missed the looks of terror on their faces as they ran away.

Everyday items can be tricky. They hide from Ron. If he can’t see a thing, it doesn’t exist. That’s why we have seven bags of pistachio nuts.

More than once, I’ve found Ron frustrated as he stares into the refrigerator. “We’re out of salad dressing.” I go to the fridge, move the jar of mayonnaise, and there’s the dressing, hiding from him. It’s become our little joke.

When I hear him call out, “Where are my whatevers?” I’ll know he’s standing at a cabinet or closet, confused.

I answer, “Behind the mayonnaise,” and go find it for him.

Ron is also tricked by the unexpected. My Valentine’s Day card tricked him by having the envelope tucked inside the card instead of behind it, where it was supposed to be. I was curious when he handed me the card without an envelope. It must have shown on my face because he explained, “It didn’t come with an envelope.”

It was a beautiful card, and I opened it to find another surprise. There was no note, no “I love you,” no XOXs.

“You didn’t write a message for me?” I asked.

“I did,” he said. “There’s an enclosure. You dropped it. Here it is.”

On the enclosure, my love had written the sweetest message – in the address box on the envelope.

When I showed it to him, he said, “I thought it was strange that the card came with an enclosure but no envelope – I thought maybe it was a new trend.”

We laughed. Then he told me another funny story – about the time he was home from college and holding the ladder for his dad to fix the roof when the mailman brought his grades from Colgate – all As! Of course he was excited, so excited he jumped in his car and went to tell his buddy. A half-hour later, he came back to see his dad was sitting on the roof, smoking a cigar. “Welcome back. Forget something?”

Happy husband appreciation day, Ronnie. I picked the man with the best stories. It’s still working to make love last for me.

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When Whiskey & Sin Were All They Had to Worry About

Two things made Petain Street different from any other street in the world – at least that’s how it seemed when I was nine.  

One was old people – we had more old people than any other street, anywhere. Every afternoon you could find two or three old ladies sitting on the various front porches, “just passing the time of day,” which meant talking about the comings and goings and doings of folks on the street.  

The other thing was the ditch – they called it a creek, but it was just a ditch with no more than a trickle of water and lots of tadpoles. Anyway, it was a landmark and a boundary that split the street in two and separated the kinda poor end (our side) from the really poor (the other side). The two ends were as different as night and day – or dusk and day really – because the same muddy, red-clay road ran through both sides equally. 

Grandma and I lived with my mama and daddy on the kinda poor side, where the grass was cut, the houses were painted, and most of the people who lived in them were old – Grandma, Mrs. Summerall, Mrs. Gates, Mrs. Burns, Mrs. Weaver, Mrs. Ward, and Mrs. Honeycutt. There was only one other child my age on the street, so I grew up with plenty of time to spend sitting on front porches, listening to their old stories and their reckonings about what was good and bad in the people who passed by – and what they ought to do to be better.  

The person they reckoned about most was Lorraine. She was the youngest grownup on the street; she was pretty and lively, and not married – and she had children that she was definitely not, “raising right.” 

I was sitting on Mrs. Gates porch shelling butter beans with her and Mrs. Weaver when Mrs. Honeycutt passed by. Mrs. Weaver called, “Good afternoon, Miz Honeycutt.” Then she whispered to Mrs. Gates, “There goes as fine a Christian woman as you’ll find – in church every Sunday!” Then she frowned so it added to the wrinkles on her forehead. “But that son of hers! He’s never darkened the church door. He’s on the road to hades. ” Hearing her say that made me proud because nobody went to church more than my mama – every Wednesday night and twice on Sunday. But Daddy hardly ever went and sometimes I worried that he might go to hell too. 

Drinking whiskey was so shameful the ladies wouldn’t even say the word out loud, but only in a whisper.  “I ran into the Honeycutt boy in the store,” Mrs. Gates said, then whispered, “He smelled of whiskey!”  

Laziness was another sin and lazy people were just plain sorry, like Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Ward said so. “I saw Mr. Wilson hanging out the wash again, and after he’d just put in a hard day at the mill. Sadie Wilson is just sorry lazy. I don’t see why he doesn’t send her right on back to her mama.”

 

That was life on our end of the street. Past the ditch, in the six or seven houses where the Cunninghams and Garrets lived, it was different, darker, tangled in overgrown brush and grassless yards. Grandma said they were all kin to each other. Mrs. Ward said they had a tree that just had one branch. I looked for the tree, but I never saw it. 

I was curious and strained to look when I walked by their houses on my way to school, but most of them were built back from the road and half-hidden by a brush-covered hill. Still, I could see enough of the tarpaper shotgun houses to tell they were real poor.  

Daddy liked to joke, “I’ve been poor, but I’ve never been poor enough to have to eat Spam.” So I thought that must be it for them – they must have to live on Spam – and RC Cola.  

The RC Cola notion came from Grandma. One afternoon I sat on our front steps coloring while Grandma and Mrs. Burns talked about Lorraine, “the cat,” and her boyfriends. They stopped and watched when Mrs. Cunningham walked by, headed towards Smith’s Store. She was pulling a red wagon piled with RC Cola bottles. A chubby, barefoot boy, who looked to be about five, trailed along behind.  

Grandma shook her head and tsked. “There she goes. You can set your watch by Corliss Cunningham – she passes here every day, same time, with her soda-water bottles and that pitiful little young’un tagging along.  

I stared. “She sure has a lot of bottles. I’ll bet she has a dollar’s worth. Where’d she find that many?”  

“Honey, she didn’t find them and she’s not taking them to trade for money,” said Mrs. Burns. 

Grandma said, “She goes up to the store with that wagon full of bottles, and comes back with it crammed full of RCs.” 

Mrs. Burns sniffed. “I can tell you what little money she has doesn’t go for groceries. I’ve been in the store several times when she was there, and the most I’ve ever seen her buy was a sack of flour or sugar and maybe a few tin cans of something –  never any meat or milk. Poor child, being raised on hoecake and sugar water. By the time he’s ten, he’ll be sickly and weigh over a hundred pounds, and he’ll have a mouth full of teeth rotted black.” 

“Poor thing, said Grandma, “She doesn’t know any better. It’s how she was raised.” She turned to me. “You remember that when you’re whining for a Coca Cola instead of milk.”  

Larnie Mae, the youngest Cunningham girl, had gone to my school when I was in first grade, and I’d seen her once or twice. Then, she quit coming. Daddy said it was because she got too fat to fit in the school desks, but he might have been joking. Mrs. Cunningham wasn’t fat, but Grandma said it was because “She works herself to death taking care of those sorry menfolk.” 

The only other Cunningham I’d ever seen was the man who lived alone in the house across the ditch from Mrs. Ward’s house. Lots of days I’d see him laying on an old mattress that sagged on a rusted iron bed on his porch, and always with a bunch of dogs on the bed with him or sleeping in the dirt around the snaggletooth steps. I always wondered about his yard. It was all dirt. Nothing grew there – no grass, not even a weed — just gray, dusty dirt.  

Grandma and I visited with Mrs. Ward a lot. She lived in the first house on our side of the ditch – a pretty white house with a porch swing and a cinderblock wall in front where I practiced tightrope walking, and violets that grew wild along the ditch. One warm afternoon in October, I came home from and found Grandma there, so I stayed and picked violets. That’s why we were the first to spot the fire.  

I was nine when the fire happened, but I remember. At first, there was just a flash of red-orange in Mr. Cunningham’s window. Mrs. Ward saw it and screamed, “Oh, dear Lord,” and ran to the phone. By the time she came back, big, ugly bursts of red and gold fire were rearing up from the roof, pushing up heavy black smoke that lumbered up to the sky. 

Pretty soon fire trucks and an ambulance came. The firemen sprayed water at the house and knocked the flames back enough for them to go in and bring out Mr. Cunningham, who was gray and choking. The ambulance took him away. Then they sprayed till the fire was gone.  

Other folks had come to stand around and watch. Mr. Wilson came up to the porch, rubbing a handkerchief over his bald head. He said, “Whew! That fire is hot!  I’m not surprised. That wood was so dry and rotten it went up like kindling. What’s surprising is that it didn’t burn to the ground long ago, and Cunningham with it..” 

The firemen were stacking bundles, wrapped in blankets, in the back of a truck. 

“Are those his dogs?” I asked. 

Mr. Wilson said, “Yes, it’s those skin-and-bones dogs, and it’s a crying shame. There ought to be a law against keeping animals like that.”  

When Daddy came home from work, Grandma told him all about the fire. “It’s the worst thing I’ve seen. I heard he’s alive, but I sure don’t see how,” she said. 

Daddy said, “Nah, the only way they’d have killed that man was to have the firemen hit him with the water from the firehose. Dirt’s all that’s holding him together. If they’d have washed him, he’d be a goner.” 

 

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Tough Women of the Old West & the Men Who Done Them Wrong

Men call women “the weaker sex” but these women proved them wrong – dead wrong!

ELEANOR DUMONT, MADAM MUSTACHE

You’ve heard the story of “Frankie and Johnny.” Eleanor’s story is much the same.

Frankie and Johnny were lovers

Oh Lordy how they did love

Swore to be true to each other

True as the stars above

He was her man but he was doing her wrong

Eleanor was a gambler who owned an elegant saloon in Nevada City during the California gold rush. A striking woman, despite a small mustache, she strolled through town dressed in the finest fashions. Her saloon, that served not whiskey, but champagne, made her wealthy enough and she bought a ranch.

Then Eleanor’s trouble started when she fell for a conman named Jack. She trusted him with all she had, because he was her man and, “He wouldn’t do me wrong.”

But Jack McKnight was a bad, bad man. He stole her money and sold her ranch. If wicked Jack had only known what retribution would come his way if he made his sweet Eleanor mad, he might have lived.

But Eleanor rode out to find him knowing, like Frankie, what she’d do.

“I’m taking my man to the graveyard

but I ain’t gonna bring him back

Lord he was my man and he’s done me wrong.”

Eleanor tracked Jack down with a shotgun in her hand.

“Rooty toot toot, three times she shot, right through that hardwood door

Shot her man, cause he was doing her wrong”

With debts and her money gone, Eleanor went back to gambling, but her luck had run out along with the gold. She fell into prostitution and became known as Madam Mustache, because, under her frilly bonnet, her face was marked by the mustache that had sprouted a thick new growth. Her fortunes continued downhill until she took her own life.

This story has no moral, this story has no end.

This story just goes to show that there ain’t no good in men.

He was her man, and he done her wrong.

STAGECOACH MARY

Mary Fields was a rough, tough, hard-drinking, cigar-smoking, gun-toting woman, but she always delivered her mail.

As good with her fists as she was with a gun, Mary didn’t take anything from anybody, and broke her fair share of men’s noses.

Born a slave, after emancipation, Mary went to work doing general gardening and handiwork for a convent school. She was a hard worker, the kind every boss craves – that is until she got into a gunfight behind the school. After she shot the other guy, she was fired.

When she was 63 years old, Mary found her true calling and began the career she’s known for – delivering the mail by stagecoach in the Montana Territory, the second women mail carrier ever employed by the postal service.

That work ethic again – she never missed a day of work and she got the mail through on time – no matter what men or beasts she had to fight to get it done. Mary embodied  the “neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow,” motto, even when it meant getting down from the stagecoach and trudging through snow and ice in snowshoes, she delivered her mail.

She retired in Cascade, Montana, but kept on working, babysitting and running a laundry service at home. People of the town loved her. They closed the schools on her birthday and the mayor exempted her from the Montana law against women in saloons.

SKULL SALLY

Sarah Jane Newman, Skull Sally, was a notorious gun-slinging, bullwhip-wielding horse-trader, who often dressed as a man and could outfight most of them.

She was born in 1817 in Austin, Texas Territory where her folks were some of the first settlers. Native Americans already living there weren’t happy with the invasion. They fought to rid themselves of the settlers and Sally’s folks fought back. Her mother, Rachel Newman, is said to have cut the toes off of a man who was trying to break into her house.

Few men could match the girl who grew up fighting. She became known to shoot, ride, drink, and cuss as well as any man. Fearless, she dressed as a man and rode out, all alone, on the dangerous treks to Mexico to bring back horses. Some said the horses she brought back were stolen, but nobody knows for sure.

Afraid of no man, she threatened a grisly freighter who owed her money, “If you don’t pay me right now you son-of-a-bitch, I’ll chop the Goddam front wheels off every Goddam wagon you’ve got.”

She was paid.

Sally didn’t always dress in men’s clothes. Sally loved men and could dress in frills and lace to attract them. She married five of them – but Sally’s husbands didn’t stick around. They ran away, died, or disappeared. Nobody knows for sure if Sally killed a couple of them, as some believed but were afraid to ask.

When they told her the body of her fourth husband had been found she said, “I don’t give a damn about the body, but I sure would like to have the $40 in that money belt around it.”

W eaker sex? No, a sex as tough, as capable, and as scary as any man.

 

Some sources:

https://www.thevintagenews.com/2016/02/08/madame-moustache/

https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2019/04/02/dice-roll-madame-mustache/

http://montanawomenshistory.org/the-life-and-legend-of-mary-fields/

https://cowgirlmagazine.com/stagecoach-mary/

https://www.legendsofamerica.com/tx-sallyskull/

http://www.ncobrief.com/index.php/archives/the-legend-of-sally-skull/

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How a Torch-Singing Hen & a Scary Cat Stole the Talent Show

Saturday morning, the children pounced on Uncle Gus. “You promised to tell us a story if we did our chores,” said the girl, “and I gathered the eggs and swept the porch.”

The boy chimed in, “I milked Popeye and Esmeralda, and brought in two pails of milk, and I didn’t spill any.”

The girl spun round and round on her stool, chanting, “Story. Story. Story.”

Gus put up his hands to stop the spinning. “Sit still so I can think.” He sat down, rubbing his chin. “Okay. Here we go.

As I recall, when we left off, the animals on Crenshaw Farm were planning a talent show. Pearl, the feisty speckled duck, took charge. “Next Saturday is Valentine’s day. We’ll do it then.” She started signing up performers – and right quick she had a mighty talented bunch. And Hank, the fast-talking old gander, said he was on board to MC.

Pearl looked around. “Is that all?

Bacon, the ancient boar stood. “I’ll be in it – I’ll do a rousing poetry reading.” Hoots and groans came from the animals.

Pearl shushed them, and said, “Okay, just one poem – a short one!”

Then, Goldie, the bashful little hen, whispered, “Is it okay if I sing a song?”

Pearl said, “Huh?”

Goldie nodded her head. Pearl said, “Sure, Goldie. That’ll be real fine. But she thought, even if Goldie didn’t chicken out, nobody would be able to hear her.

Well, you could have knocked Pearl over with a feather when Rocko, that scary cat that lived under Farmer Crenshaw’s porch growled, “I’ll be in your show.”

She blurted out, “What on earth will you do for talent, kill something?”

Rocko slunk back, mumbling, “I’m a… I mean I tell jokes… I’m funny….” Pearl saw she’d hurt his feelings, and put a wing around him. “I’m sorry, Rocko. I’m sure you’re funny.”

All week the performers could be seen rehearsing their songs, dances, or hi-jinks – except for Goldie. She hid by the pond so nobody could hear her – except the frogs.

Friday night, the barnyard went wild with the sounds of rehearsing  and stage building – till Farmer Crenshaw came out with his shotgun, yelling, “What’s got into you animals? Stop the racket! You’ll wake up folks clear to Gretna.”

But they couldn’t hear him over the noise. He shot his gun in the air, and yelled, “I’ll shoot the next animal that makes a peep.” That got them quiet!

I sure can’t blame Farmer Crenshaw, not a bit. I’d likely take out my shotgun too if noisy animals, or children, kept me from my beauty sleep.

Saturday finally came, sunny and shiny as a new penny. At noon, two opossums, a fox squirrel family, four raccoons, and a white-tailed deer joined the farm animals crowded around the stage. They brayed, stomped, and crowed for the show to start.

Hank strutted onstage, gave a low bow, and said, “Welcome to the Crenshaw Farm talent show. We have a regular extravaganza for you, so let’s bring on our first act, Josie, Snow Cone, and Peach, the three sweetest ewes whoever sang a love song.

The trio came on stage, but before they sang, each ewe stopped to search the crowd for her one true love, then looking all moony-eyed, sang only to him. Hank saw a storm brewing because they were all singing to the same ram, Dexter.

“Embrace me,
My sweet embraceable you
Embrace me, you irreplaceable you
Just one look at you
My heart grew tipsy in me
You and you alone
Bring out the gypsy in me”

At the end of their act, each blew a kiss to Dexter. Hank hurried back onstage, thinking he’d best get them off before they realized they were all after the same ram.

“Lovely job, Girls. You make an old gander wish he was a boy again. Now folks, get ready to laugh at our rough and tumble ducklings comedy act.”

The ducks tore onstage from both sides, ran, smack, into each other, and fell like dominoes. They got up spun around, collided, and fell again. Ralph somersaulted off of Bilbo and landed on Bumpkin, who got up and chased him round the stage. For their big finish, they cartwheeled off the front of the stage, and landed on top of the angry animals in the front row, while the rest of the crowd laughed, flapped, stomped, and quacked.

Hank came back, laughing. “Ouch! I see aches and pains coming. Now let’s welcome a fine little singer, Rose.” The little spotted pig came onstage, and oinked,

Moo, moo brown cow, have you milk for me?
Yes sir, yes sir, as tasty as can be.
Churn it into butter, make it into cheese,
Freeze it into ice cream or drink it if you please.

The audience laughed and some said, “Ahhh, isn’t she cute?”

“Good job, Rose,” said Hank, and she ran off, giggling.

Folks, what we have for you now is as beautiful a spectacle as you’re ever likely to see,  a blue rooster and a blue peacock, Blue Tommie Joe and Sundara, dancing the Barnyard Tango!”

Blue and Sundara glided out, turned, sashayed, swooshed, swirled, and twirled around the stage. The animals gave a standing ovation, and the birds bowed – and bowed again until Hank edged them offstage.

Up next, was Bacon. But Pearl pecked him on the snout as he was climbing the steps. “Four minutes!” she whispered.

The ancient boar harrumphed and went on. Taking a proud stance, he said, in his high, nasal voice, “I will share with you a poem I wrote for this occasion, The tremulous fireflies.”

Nobody  understood a word of it, but applauded politely. Then, the crystal clear voice of a child rang out, “Mama, that didn’t make any sense.”

Bacon’s expression turned dark. Hank rushed back onstage, saying, “That’s because Bacon’s a real poet, Son. It’s not supposed to make sense.”

“Now, we have a treat. Rocko is coming on to make us laugh.”

The scary cat was nervous, but he forced a big grin on his face and told a joke. But his grin made Rocko look even scarier, so nobody dared laugh.

He plunged on. “You know, Folks, chickens are really poetic creatures. A chicken crossing the road is truly – poultry in motion.”

Silence again. Rocko said, “Get it? Poultry in motion?”

There were a few nervous titters.

“Okay. Did you hear why they kicked the duck off the basketball team? For making FOWL shots. Hey! I thought you geese would QUACK up at that one.”

What a surprise! Rocko really was funny. They laughed, and the laughs fortified old Rocko.

“So you want more?”

“Yes,” they screamed.

“Okay. I read about a pig that was a CIA spy and passed secret messages to another pig-spy in INVISIBLE OINK!”

He waited for the laughter to quiet down, and added, “It’s a sad story – the  pig came to a bad end. The other pig SQUEALED.

More laughter.

Now the only job he can get is GRUNT-work.”

The animals were laughing their heads off at scary old Rocko.

“How about a knock-knock joke?

“Yes,” they shouted!

“Okay. Knock. Knock.”

“Who’s there?” they yelled.

“Honey bee.”

“Honey bee who?”

“Honey be nice and catch me a mouse.”

He bowed and started to leave, but the crowd yelled, “More!” and Rocko was the happiest he had ever been.

“Okay, one more, then I’ve gotta go meet my buddy, the bull. He just got a divorce – because his wife was an UDDER BORE.”

The crowd jumped up, clapping and cheering, and wouldn’t stop till Rocko did more jokes.

Hank came back, laughing. “Thank you for surprising us with your talent, Rocko. Now, for our last act, our little Goldie is going to sing a song for us. Let’s be real quiet so we can hear her.”

Goldie stood on stage looking like she might faint for a minute. Then she opened her beak and shocked every animal in the place. She belted out a song, in a voice that was loud, lusty, and hot!”

Someday he’ll come along
The man I love
And he’ll be big and strong
The man I love

At first, the animals were stunned silent, then they were up, cheering and whistling, and wouldn’t stop till she sang another song, then another, and another.

I ain’t got nobody, and nobody cares for me!
That’s why I’m sad and lonely,
Won’t somebody come and take a chance with me?

When she finished, all the animals were on their feet, whistling and throwing flowers and clover at the stage. Hank came up, bringing Rocko and stood between the two stars.

That’s our show folks, and it’s one for the history books! The scary cat and the shy little hen stole the show. Now, that’s a story with a happy ending!

Uncle Gus stood and stretched. “So, the end.”

 

“The Man I Love”   George Gershwin / Ira Gershwin

“I Ain’t Got Nobody” Roger Graham / Spencer Williams

“Cry Me a River”  Arthur Hamilton

“Ain’t Misbehaving”  Andy Razaf and Fats Waller

 

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Granny’s Advice for Your Job Interview & Other Funny Stories

The Ferret Dance

Sara’s first impression of the office was that it didn’t lend itself to frivolity. The walls, carpet, and curtains were all in shades of gray ranging from ash to gun-metal. The interview room was without curves or soft surfaces, and clearly designed for cool heads and serious business.

She was greeted by two executives, who could be her next bosses, and looked as starched and crisp as the straight-edged desk where she sat across from them. But the executives were welcoming and good-humored. As they told her about the company and the position, they even made little jokes on themselves. The chill began to leave the room.

Sara was quite relaxed by the time they began asking questions, starting with, “We’ve read your resume and your experience is impressive. So, tell us a little about you.”

Sara, totally at ease, jumped right in. “Okay. I’m new in town. I moved here alone, except for my pet ferret. He’s amazing. He loves to play, and he does this dance that’s so funny – leaping and twisting and waving his legs, like this,” and Sara threw her arms up in the air, waving them around wildly, while kicking her legs out to show them just how funny a ferret dance could be.

She got the job.

God Was On Her Side

Josie had just graduated from high school and this was the day she was going or her first-ever interview for a “real” job. She got up early and shined her shoes, ironed her dress, and combed her hair neat as a pin. Then, she sat down to breakfast with her grandmother, and talked about how scared she was. “It’s a good job, but what if he doesn’t like me?”

Granny, a devout woman, told the girl to take it to God in prayer. “God loves you and wants you to have good things. You don’t need to be afraid. You go in there with confidence in the Lord, and claim the job in the name of Jesus.”

The bank director was the very image of a stiff, starched banker. He looked intimidating when he stood up ramrod straight to shake Josie’s hand, but she was armed with her Granny’s advice and trust in God. She sat down beside his desk, slapped her hand firmly on the desktop, and said, “I claim this job in the name of Jesus!”

After she left, the banker called me to share the story. I was stunned, but managed to ask, “What did you do?”

“Well, what could I do? I hired her.”

Her Formal Interview

Picture the 1980’s when the business world was more formal. I was a recruiter working with an investment company to fill an administrative position that required hard-to-find skills. I’d been searching for two weeks and had begun to wonder if it was impossible. Then, I finally met a woman named Mary who had all the right skills – and this was exactly the job she wanted. But the problem was she was dressed in pants and a golf shirt, way too casual for this client – or the era.

I was twenty-two, and I was uptight about having to tell this much older woman (forty was old to me then) that the company had a business-formal dress code and her outfit wouldn’t work. But she was fine. She said. “That’s no problem. I can be formal. If you can set up an interview for me tomorrow, I’ll be dressed for it.”

Answer she was. I didn’t see Mary before her interview with my client, but she stopped in afterwards, and gave me a heart-stopping experience. She was wearing a floor-length formal gown.

I just stared, frozen, for a minute. Finally, in a taut voice, I asked, “Mary, you came here directly from the interview?”

“Yes. I wanted to tell you about it right away.”

“This is the dress you wore?”

She beamed. “Yes.”

“It certainly is formal.”

She smiled, “I know. I told them you explained their formal dress code, and that I’m comfortable with it.”

Certain I’d lost the client, my voice quivered when I asked, “What did they say?”

“They told me I didn’t need to dress this formally, just a business suit or business dress, and they hired me.”

A few days later, Mary came by again. “I came to bring you a little thank-you gift. It’s chamomile tea – to calm your nerves. You need to learn to relax. You’re too uptight.”

The Acceptance Speech

The young man’s interview went great, and he was offered the job on the spot, at which time he leapt up yelling, “Gee! Wow! I can’t believe you hired me!” and fell backwards over a table.

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Lorraine Was a Cat, a Dancing Cat, as Showy as a Movie Musical

My grandmother and I lived with my parents in an old mill house on Petain Street, a street where the houses were worn, and almost every person was old – at least older than I was. Most were as old as Grandma, and they spent afternoons sitting on each other’s porches having lemonade or sweet tea and gossiping. 

I was on the front porch having lemonade and playing dominoes with Grandma one warm fall afternoon when Mrs. Gates walked by. 

Grandma called, “Miz Gates, come up and have some lemonade.” Motioning to me to get up so Mrs. Gates could have the rocking chair, she said, “Baby, I want to visit with Miz Gates. Go sit on the steps and color in your book awhile. We’ll finish our game later.” 

Grandma’s friends never called each other by their first names – no matter how long they’d known each other.  It was always Mrs. Gates, Mrs. Webb, Mrs. Bailey, even Mrs. Peat, who lived on the poor end of Petain Street – and drank whiskey. Shhh! 

Every man was Mr. And every woman was Miz – that is, all except for Lorraine, even though she was grown too and she had kids and her own house.  

When the women talked about Lorraine, they whispered. They thought I didn’t hear, but I heard.  

Just then, Lorraine walked by with her kids. She waved and they waved back. After she passed, Mrs. Gates whispered, “I sure do feel sorry for those little children. Last night they were outside playing till after ten – on a school night. The woman is just not raising them right.” 

I wondered what Mrs. Gates meant by, “raising right,” but I knew better than to ask. Lorraine’s kids were younger than I was, so we never played together, but they were nice enough. I thought maybe she meant Lorraine didn’t cook the healthy food, like what Daddy said about his cousin. “She’s raising those children on hotdogs and Coca-Colas. That’s why they’re sickly.” But Lorraine’s kids didn’t look sickly. 

Grandma said, “Bless her soul, I suspect she never had good raising herself, from how her mama carried on – with different men hanging around.” 

 “Well, that’s Lorraine all over!” said Mrs. Gates. “She’s just like her mama. You can guess where the money for that house came from. Those sorry men she was married to didn’t have a thin dime between them  – and she can’t make much money working in the diner.” 

“She’s a cat!” whispered Grandma, leaning close to Mrs. Gates’ ear. 

I heard it anyway. Grandma called Lorraine a cat. I thought about it. She did look kind of like a cat – a soft, yellow cat with sparkly green eyes. And when she tied her hair up in a ponytail, it swung like a cat’s tail. I drew pictures of the cat, Lorraine.

Mrs. Gates shook her head and asked, “That dress she’s wearing sure doesn’t hide any secrets. She ought to watch out. She’s asking for trouble, and I won’t be surprised if she gets it.” 

“I know it’s true. She’s showy – the kind of showy that brings you-know-what kind of attention.” 

I understood that! Lorraine was a show all right – like a dancer in a movie show. She laughed and the lights came on. I thought she looked pretty in her bright red sundress, that was belted real tight at the waist and had a full skirt. When she walked down the street, on her tall, dancer legs, her skirt bounced and swung like a band was playing. 

Nobody on our street ever had parties – except for Lorraine. Sometimes she had big, jolly parties. Some nights, when Mama and I were driving home from church, I’d see her house, bright with lights in every window and loud with dancing, laughing, and people who didn’t live on Petain Street. If my window was open, I could hear people having fun till way past my bedtime. 

Lorraine was a cat alright, a dazzling, dancing cat, as showy as a movie musical – and sometimes she was married.  

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What Was the Best Christmas Gift You Ever Got as a Child?

What was the favorite gift you ever got as a child – one that wowed you or influenced you?  

JC: The gift of a Christmas fantasy  

We lived in Honolulu until I was ten years old.  Every year, a few days before Christmas, Daddy would assemble three wooden orange crates and nail them together, then cover them with wrapping paper printed with red bricks–a fireplace in Hawaii! Unimaginable in the 40s. We three kids loved it, especially the part where we each would thumbtack our stockings right over the artificial fire he had somehow constructed. It was a gorgeous ceremony. 

JO: The Christmas morning expedition  

Christmas morning, when I was fifteen, I came downstairs to find, instead of my gift, a string of Christmas lights leading out of the living room and out the back door. In our boots and bathrobes, we trekked across the snow following the lights. They led us into the garage, where lo and behold, we found…  

No. Wrong story. It was my Jet ski tied with a big red bow! It did influence me. It shaped my love of being on the water, and led to making many memories with family and friends through the years. 

CD: The go-go gift that was sold out everywhere 

You know how every year there’s always that one present all kids want, but quickly sells out? I don’t know how, but my folks were able to always master the market place to get that game or special toy. That’s why I was the only girl on my block to have white vinyl go-go boots. See, now you know how old I am. 

EM: Freedom to fly 

My favorite definitely was my two-wheel scooter – not the electronic kind. I was seven years old and ready to hit the ‘hood’ on my two wheels. Of course, Dad made sure I got the best bike helmet money could buy.  

AW: The wrong gift turned out right 

Picture the excitement on a girl’s face coming into the living room on Christmas morning, and seeing a ping-pong table – just what she wanted – aglow in the lights from the tree. Now, picture her face when she finds out it’s not for her – it’s for her brother.  Her gift was the piano – not on her Christmas wish list. Seven years of piano lessons later, she still wasn’t a concert pianist.  

However, her not-so-favorite gift had a positive result. It gave her an advantage when she was starting her career. Before there were computers on every desk there were typewriters, and when she started out, being able to type fast and accurately was the key to getting your foot in the door of good companies. “All that time practicing the piano enabled me to learn to type faster than my competition.” 

CD: The non-gift 

Hmmm – excellent question. I think the best gift for me was a non-gift – an empty box. It was a carton from the new fridge that my folks gifted each other. My brother Michael and I played with it for weeks, if not months. It was a fort, a hide-out, a whatever we wanted it to be. It taught me material gifts are not so important. Children’s imaginations need to be nurtured. That non-gift is the one I’ve always remembered. 

 

JR: The gift that saved on cuts and bruises  

My life-changing, and maybe saving, gift was a blue Schwinn girls tornado bicycle. I was 6 years old and already displayed the determination I still have today. It changed my young life – and possibly saved it, because it meant I didn’t have to keep sneaking around trying to teach myself to ride my brother’s way-too-big-for-me bike with the bar I could hardly climb to straddle.  

I got a lot of bumps and bruises, but I was so determined to be like the big kids on my block that I’d risk anything to teach myself how to ride.  

I’m sure my mom decided she either had to get me a bike that fit – and was designed for a girl – or I’d kill myself on my brother’s.  Today, bicycles are my karmic connection to the ground and life – my passion that doesn’t give up. So, that gift was the one and only game changer of my memory.   

JC: A gift made with love 

There was one most special gift – a pair of blue, down-filled bedroom slippers. My husband made them, all by himself, from a mail order kit. He even taught himself how to use the sewing machine and finished them on Christmas Eve while I was at church! I still cherish my long-ago, worn-out gift. 

ES: The untouchable gifts 

My best – and worst – gift was a set of twelve Nancy Ann Story Book Dolls my rich aunt gave me. They were the dolls of my dreams – beautiful little bisque dolls, with sleepy eyes, soft rooted hair, and each wearing different, beautiful clothes.  

Polly (put the kettle on) had brown hair and a yellow dress with red rosebuds. Little Red Riding Hood wore a red hat and cape. My favorite was, “Saturday’s Child,” who must work hard for a living. She had raven hair, wore a red and white gingham dress, trimmed with red and black ribbons and she held a little broom. 

Each doll came in a pink and white polka-dot box. Mine never left their boxes.  That’s why they were the worst gift. Mama stood the open boxes on a shelf, where I could see them, but never touch them. “You’ll ruin them, then you won’t have them to look at.” 

BB: A gift of music 

When I was 8, I got my own Motorola record player with a few record albums, classical and jazz – AND some crisp cash, with a note to choose my own music at the record store. I still remember how very grown up I felt.   

I was a piano performance major in college…. still play the piano but my classical repertoire is very rusty. I mostly play Cole Porter and smoky room jazz. 

LS: A gift with influence  

My father gave me yarn and a beautiful yarn basket when I was 12. It inspired me. Since I am currently waiting to hear if I have been accepted into a Masters in Arts in Museum Curation program with a focus on historical textiles, I would say that creative gifts I received through my childhood had a large influence in the person I became.  

AP: Ghostbusters gun 

My favorite gift was a Ghostbusters gun. You put on the proton backpack, turn a handle and a foot-long foam came out to grab whatever “ectoplasm” creature was in the room. Coolest ever! 

RB: A gift to draw 

My favorite, and most influential, gift was a Jon Gnagy Learn to Draw kit, with real art paper, pencils, a kneaded eraser, and a book on how to draw things from a covered bridge, to a great Dane. I tried them all, but the covered bridge was my masterpiece when I was nine. I grew up and went on to a different career, then came back to drawing – cartoons for my blog using the skills I learned when I was seven. 

FP: A gift full of surprises 

I had a huge (as tall as I was), beautifully wrapped box (actually a Scott Tissue carton) from my Aunt Kat. I opened it and there seemed to be hundreds of little wrapped presents– pencils with my name on them, a brush, comb, and mirror set, a tiny tea set, games, candy and, well, I could go on and on. I fell in love with Christmas, wrapping paper, beautiful gifts, and just waiting for Christmas morning.   

What gift did you really want but never got? 

RB:  Gifts that made demands 

Betsy Wetsy 

I wanted Betsy Wetsy from the first time I saw her advertised on the kids shows. She had big blue eyes – like mine – with  eyelashes and they closed when she went to sleep. But the best thing was she came with her own baby bottle and diapers, clothes, and plastic bath tub. I asked Santa for one, but Mama said NO to any toy you had to feed and clean. 

Chatty Cathy  

The other doll I never got was Chatty Cathy. She actually talked – you just had to pull her string. I begged for one, but Daddy said she was “just a gadget and it won’t last a week before the string breaks and it’s no good anymore.” (I wonder how many future doctors and engineers got their start by taking her apart to learn how she did it.) 

Today, I’m sure I wouldn’t want a chatty Cathy. She was way too bossy, too demanding – “Tell me a story” – “Let’s change my dress“ – “Brush my hair.” When she wasn’t bossy, she was whiny – “I hurt herself” – “I’m sleepy“ – “I’m hungry.” 

What was the favorite gift you got as a child? 

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Pop Beads & Tie Clips – Memories of Christmas

The Christmas after I turned nine, Mama let me take the bus to downtown Prichard, all by myself, to shop for presents. And I had a whole seven dollars to spend! I was so excited I couldn’t sit still. I hugged myself and jiggled up and down in my seat, till an old lady got on and sat beside me.

I got off the bus in front of Kress’s Five and Ten.

It was the best store for buying presents in Prichard – maybe in all of Mobile. It had rows and rows of counters piled high with everything anybody could want.

I walked in past the lunch counter and into a whole section with nothing but toys. But I only stopped for a few minutes, because I was there on important business.

I went to the men’s department. I liked the first thing I saw, a fancy pipe made of dark swirly wood, but it was two dollars and thirty-five cents, and Daddy smoked cigarettes anyway. I moved to the fountain pens. I knew Daddy didn’t have one. I liked a silver and gold pen and pencil set in a black case. It looked like it cost too much, but it was only seventy-five cents. Daddy would look real smart when he signed checks at the bank. I was telling the saleslady I wanted it, when I saw the cutest thing, a little ceramic hobo with a red nose, bowed mouth, and black top hat. It had a hole in its belly, and I supposed that was why it only cost thirty-five cents, but the saleslady told me the hole was on purpose. If Daddy put a cigarette in his stomach, smoke would come out of his mouth. I could see Daddy laughing and showing it off to Uncle Stanley when he came for dinner.

I bought the hobo and pen set, and still had nearly six dollars left to buy gifts for Mama and Grandma. I turned to go to the jewelry counter, but I saw something else perfect for Daddy – a gold tie clip with a silver boat on it for fifty-five cents. Daddy was a tugboat captain. I had to buy it.

Then I went to find a gift as nice for Mama. I walked down isles with things for women – fabric and buttons in every color, dress patterns, dresses, underwear, scarves,  hats, and perfume. I liked the dark blue Evening In Paris perfume bottle, but Mama didn’t wear perfume.

The jewelry counter had so many things – necklaces, beads, bracelets, pins, watches, and rhinestone earrings. I liked the glittery red beads, and asked the saleslady if she thought they’d be a good gift for my mama. She squinted, and shook her head – too showy. She led me to a display of colored beads. She picked up a purple strand, winked at me, and broke it in two! I must have looked scared, because she laughed and put the beads back together. “They’re not broken,” she said. “They’re pop beads. All the ladies love them.”

“Look,” she said, and took a long string apart and made two. “Your mother can have a double or a triple strand, or she can make a bracelet. Try it.” She let me try. Pop beads! I picked a three-strand set in three shades of pink, rose to carnation. They would go with Mama’s gray suit. I bought them and earrings to match, and had two dollars and twelve cents left.

I already knew what I’d get for Grandma – the Lilacs and Roses Talcum Powder she loved. I found a little pin to go with it, a red-crystal rose on a green stem.

I still had enough money to get a coke-float and a bus ticket, plus a quarter extra. I got an idea. Mrs. Gates, an old lady on our street, was so sweet to me. I’d get a present for her, and I knew what. In the back, behind the dishes, for just ten cents each, were wax flowers and vases – I was certain they were real crystal. I bought a vase with a red rose in it.

I skipped home from the bus stop with my packages, hid away in my room, and spread the gifts out on my bed. I scrunched up my face in a smile. Everybody would be so happy. I got Mama’s wrapping paper and tape, and set about my wrapping.

I had a great idea for Daddy. I’d make a card for him, wrap the gifts, and use ribbon to tie them to the card. I started with the card.

I could see in my head what I wanted it to look like, but I wasn’t getting it to happen. I cut the paper too small for the pen set. I tried to patch it. It was ugly. I worked on the hobo next. He was worse, a lumpy, lopsided, blob, held together by a half-roll of tape. That’s when I threw a temper tantrum. I tore paper and ribbons off of one ugly package after another and threw them on the floor until it was a cluttered mess.

I kept trying, but no matter how hard, I didn’t get it right. I kept on until Christmas Eve when I gave up and put them under the tree.

Before dawn on Christmas morning, I was wide awake, and it was hours till I could wake up Mama and Daddy without getting in trouble. I lay back and stared up at the ceiling, picturing what it would be like when my family opened my gifts – oohing and aahing over them. It gave me a little shiver. This was going to be the best Christmas ever!

Finally, it was quarter till seven, and I decided it was late enough. I ran past the living room without looking in to see what Santa had brought for me, burst into to their room, and jumped on the bed. “It’s Christmas! Wake up! Santa Claus came. Let’s go!

I got Grandma, and we all went in to the living room, a magical place, that glowed from the lights on the tree, and decorated with filled stockings and gifts from Santa. A Barbie doll in a black gown, china tea set, Monopoly game, colored pencils, and a hula hoop were displayed around the tree. It was more beautiful than any department store Christmas window in Mobile. Nobody ever knew how to make Christmas like my mama!

I studied my gifts while Mama made coffee and hot chocolate, then we were ready to open presents. “Open mine first! Here, Grandma, go first.” Grandma opened her pin. “Oh, my, my,” she said – she always said that. “Isn’t this the prettiest thing – and she pinned it right on her nightgown.

Next, Mama. First, she read the note I’d taped to her present. “Dear Mama. I picked this special for you because you always like to look pretty, and it will be pretty with your gray suit. Mama you’re the most fun person to be with in the world. I loved you yesterday, but then, I loved you more. And now, I love you more than that!”

She opened the box, and I knew she liked it when she inhaled real fast. She already knew about pop beads. “These are nice. I was hoping for some when I saw Mrs. Reeves wearing hers on Sunday.” She did her crooked grin, and said, “and later, if we’re bored, we can take them apart and make new things.”

Then, I took Daddy’s presents, and held them up by the card, the gifts pulling the paper and dangling like a broken puppet. “I couldn’t get it to look the way I wanted.” I said.

“Well, it’s different. Let me guess. It’s a dog.” I shook my head. “Then soup bones? No? I’d better just open it.” He read the card first. He loved it – I could tell. He opened the pen set. “I’ll write real fancy with these.” When he saw the tie clip, he said, “Stanley’s going to be jealous of this.” He clipped it to his collar. “Now let’s see what this funny thing is,” and he unwound the paper wrapped round and round. When he saw the hobo, he smiled. I told him how it worked, and he said. “This goes on the mantle. Stanley will get a kick out of it.” I couldn’t stop smiling.

After breakfast, I went to see Mrs. Gates, and gave her the present. She carried on like I’d given her a Cadillac car or something. “This is just beautiful and so fine. Why, just look at this vase. It catches light just like crystal.” She hugged me. “You’re the sweetest girl to think of me. You’ve just made my Christmas!”

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It was the best Christmas – just like I knew it would be.

 

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A Thanksgiving Story: Conversations with My 94-Year-Old Aunt

October 7th – Call to Aunt Faye

Faye:                     Hello.

Me:                        Hello,
Aunt Faye.  Happy birthday!

Faye:                     Who
is this?

Me, yelling:         Ruthi.

Faye:                     Who?

Me, louder:         Ruthi,
your niece.

Faye:                     Who
are you?  What do you want?

Me:                        I
called to say happy birthday.

Faye:                     I don’t know you. I’m old. Why
are you bothering me?

                                CLICK!

October  19th  – Visit with Aunt Faye and Shirley (Aunt Faye’s daughter)

Hugs all around.

Faye:                     Come in the kitchen. I made
coffee cake.

Me:                        Aunt
Faye, you look beautiful. Is that a new dress?

Faye:                     What?

Me:                        Your
dress. Is it new?

Faye:                     Shirley picked it out. I
don’t like it. It’s drab. I don’t know why she picks out dull colors for me. I
like bright colors. She made me give away all my six-inch heels last year. Now
she dresses me in dull colors like she’s getting ready to bury me.

Shirley:                 Mama, you were right there in
the store and said you liked the dress. And you’d fall in those heels.

Faye:                    It’s alright. I put a scarf with it so people don’t think I’m dead and bury me.

Me,
laughing:     Aunt Faye, nobody could
mistake you for dead! you’re wonderful. I love you so much.

Faye:                     Why
don’t you ever call me then?

Me:                        I
do. I called you last Friday.

Faye:                    Shirley, why didn’t you tell me?

Me:                        Shirley
wasn’t there. You answered the phone but you couldn’t hear me.

Faye:                    My hearing aids don’t work. I can’t hear a thing.

Me:                        You
said you didn’t know me and hung up.

Faye:                    Well, call me anyway.

Shirley:                 I’m
taking her to get new hearing aids next week.

Me:                        That’s
good news, Aunt Faye. Then you can hear me.

October  31st – Call

Me:                        Hello,
Aunt Faye, it’s Ruthi.

Faye:                     Who
is this?

Me, shouting:    Ruthi
Birch.

Faye:                     Who?

Me:                        Your niece, Ruthi.

Faye:                     I
don’t know you. What do you want?

Me:                        To talk to Shirley.

Faye:                     There’s
no Jerry here.

                                CLICK!

November 8th – Call

Nurse:                   Hello.

Me:                        This
is Faye’s niece, Ruthi. Is she awake?

Faye, yelling in the background:         Who is it?

Nurse:                   It’s
Ruthi.

Faye, yelling: Hang up. I don’t know any Bruce. It’s probably one those people who call all the time to buy my house and put me on the street. Tell them to put it in the mail.

Nurse, yelling:   No. It’s your niece.

Faye:                     Bernice? Why’s she bothering me? I never liked her. She’s always got some new ailment. Tell her I’m dead.

Nurse to me:      I
think you should try again when Shirley’s home.

November 28th – Visit Thanksgiving morning

Hugs.

Faye:                     Why are you here so early? Dinner’s
not till two.

Me:                       I
wanted to see you for Thanksgiving. I can’t stay for dinner because I’m going
to Florida.

Faye:                     That’s
good. It’s warm there. We’ll have too many people here anyway.

Me:                        I brought you something.
I found this Frank Sinatra record and remembered you have a record player, so I
got it for you.

Faye:                     I have that one already, but
it’s okay. Mine is scratched. Come in here. I’ll play it.

~Plays record at top volume~

Faye:                     Come on. Get up and dance
with me.    

We dance. She leads.

Me:                        Aunt Faye, you’ve still
got it!

Faye:                     You
bet I do.

Me:                       I
hate to leave you, but I have to go to the airport. I’ll call you – I wish you
could hear me. When are you getting your new hearing aids?

Faye:                     I got them. But I never wear
them. They’re too much trouble.

Me:                       Please
wear them. I like to talk with you. The last time I called, the nurse answered.
She told you I was on the phone, but you thought she said it was Bernice.

Faye:                     Why would she call me?

Me:                       To
talk? Bernice is one of the few people left from when you were a girl.

Faye:                     I
never liked her. She was sour. She couldn’t get a date. I was popular. I had boyfriends
and went out. She couldn’t even get a date to the prom. Her brother had to pay my
brother to take her.

Me:                       Her heart’s bad. She’s been in
the hospital.

Faye:                     That’s Bernice! To hear her tell it she’s been living the last 20 years at deaths door. And, honestly, I never liked her. She never smiled. It’s no wonder she couldn’t get a date.

Me:                       I have to go. I’ll call you, so
wear your hearing aids!

Faye:                     Tell me when you’re going to
call, and I’ll put them in.

Me:                        Bye, Aunt Faye. I love you
lots.

Faye, blowing kisses:                    

                                I
love you. Call me, and use hand sanitizer on the plane. Those things are full
of germs.

November 29th –  Call

Faye:                     Hello. Who is this?

Me:                        It’s Ruthi, Aunt Faye.

Faye:                     Who? Talk louder. I can’t hear
you.

Me, yelling:         Ruthi.

Faye:                     Who?

Me, louder:         Ruthi,
your niece.

Faye:                     I
can’t hear you. What do you want?

Me:                        Just
to tell you I love you.

Faye:                     I
don’t know you. Why are you bothering me?

CLICK!

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What I Learned About Business from the 2019 World Series

My dream employee is a Nats baseball player!

I’m a pretty new baseball fan, but I’m learning. Here are some things I learned: 

One player can
bring a joyous spirit to a team that spreads and turns work into play.

Gerardo Parra reminded us that baseball is a game. He brought the spirit of the Baby
Shark, along with the dancing and hugging that made staying in the fight, even
against the odds, fun.

The great
players forget the org chart and go where they’re needed.

I learned about baseball’s org chart. There are starting
pitchers in the dugout and relief pitchers in the bullpen. That’s the way it’s drawn,
but it’s not the way the Nats’ played it.

There’s no ego
in baseball – at least for the 2019 Nationals team.

The Nats have three ACE starting pitchers, Max Scherzer,
Stephen Strasburg, and Patrick Corbin. Aces’ jobs aren’t in the bullpen, but
all three of these men went in as relievers 6 times in the postseason games.
They aimed to keep their team in the fight, and they had the skill to make it
happen, so they did what they needed to do. The bullpen was where they were
needed, so that’s where they went.

Nats are
passionate about winning and go above and beyond.

In the middle of the series, Max Scherzer woke up unable to move because of a neck injury. Four days later he was back, with the help of a cortisone shot, and pitched five innings of the final game. Then Corbin, who had relieved 3 times in the postseason, came in, pitched three game-changing innings, and won the game.

Nats celebrate
and value each other. “1 to 25!”

These players were a team – from the aces, to the weak
bullpen, to the old veterans (42 is old?), to the baby Nats from the Dominican
Republic who lit up the outfield. They were a unit in which the stronger
players stepped in for the weaker players without diminishing those players. They
weren’t all stars but they were all included in the win.

With the
Nationals as my model, I set about to list the requirements for my dream
employees.

Wondering if I’m the only employer in the D.C. area who’s
looking for baseball players, I researched job requirements posted by other top
businesses in the D.C. area. I found out I’m not! We are all looking for the
employee who –

Will love our team and be committed to the team’s successWill go where you’re needed and do what you need to do, without letting ego stop youWill bring a spirit of fun and joy to the team, dance, hug, and celebrate victories, no matter how smallWill collaborate with other team members, including those in other departmentsWill set clear ambitious goals, anticipate obstacles, persevere, and be accountable for your team’s successWill constantly evaluate, seek feedback, train, and never settle in your quest to improve, grow, and developWill jump whole-heartedly into a task necessary for your team’s success, even if, “it’s not your job”Will thrive in a fast-paced, competitive team environmentHas a drive to exceed performance goals and refuses to accept limits others might imposeHas a smiling face, engaging personality, and passionDesires to achieve important things and will do what it takes to achieve them

As I look at the Nats
compared to some of the other D.C. sports teams, I learned my most important
lesson.

To have a
winning team, you have to deserve them.

You have to build a club where those players will want to play.  You have to respect them.You have to be there for them, believe in them, and show them that you value them.When the task is daunting and the outlook is bleak, you have to encourage them to, “Stay in the fight,” as Dave Martinez did for the Nats. Even when the world was bashing him, and calling for his head, he didn’t react to the world. He just kept his mind on building up his team.You have to trust them, and sometimes get out of their way and let them figure it out.You have to have your heart in the team and in the game as much as they do, and show it, as Mr. Lerner did when he said,

Now you can call me Grandpa Shark.”

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