WORC

When I was fifteen, I walked up to the Whataburger on Seminole Boulevard at the edge of our lower middle class neighborhood in Seminole, Florida and applied for a carhop position. My family had moved into a rental house a few months earlier and I needed a job. My stepfather Ted had recently retired after twenty years in the army. His highly specialized technical and tactical skills as a Chief Warrant Officer did not transition well into the civilian job market, and after a long and fruitless search he had taken a job on the assembly line at Open Road Campers. His wage was $1.60 an hour, the minimum in 1971. My German mother Susi had no marketable skills except housekeeping and also had two young children at home besides me. She had attended school until the age of fourteen, then stayed home to take care of her siblings. Ted’s army pension was barely enough for a family of five. If I wanted clothes, toiletries, makeup, and mad money I needed to earn it myself. 

Up until this time, I lived a life of leisure. My mother had grown up in a broken family during and after WWII. As the oldest, she had been responsible for her five siblings while her mother worked as a seamstress and a housekeeper. Her four sisters and one brother called her “little mother.” As parents tend to do, she wanted to give me a different life, and the only chore I had was to walk our long-haired dachshund Bitsy. When I wasn’t in school, I mostly lay around on my bed, writing stories and reading books by the score. The library became my second home. On weekends, I woke up, peed, fluffed my pillow, and settled in with a current read. Sometimes Mom brought me French toast and a glass of milk. When I finally headed to the library for new reading material, she would pluck my clothes from the floor, and make my bed. The down side to all this care was that I felt like a stranger everywhere else in the house. When I stepped into the kitchen for a snack or a drink, my mother flew in behind me, demanding to know what I was doing. Mom kept her home spotless, and lounging around in the living room was not an option for me. 

I don’t remember how long I worked at Whataburger, but I do know I passed a summer vacation working nearly every day. I met the kids in my neighborhood. One of the boys had built a wooden go-cart, and he would wend his way through the neighborhood streets and pull in with a flair. At the end of my shift I often climbed into the boxy thing with him for a ride home. But not straight home. At the other end of the neighborhood were empty fields, a place for the local teens to hang out, drink Boones Farm Strawberry Hill, and toke the occasional reefer. My ego flush with tips, I exuded a new kind of confidence, a security that comes with accomplishment, of feeling purposeful. I was helping myself and my family. When I looked into the mirror I had a new glow, even with bad hair and looks that didn’t quite fit in as I worked on assimilating into the 70’s culture so different from the army base in Fukuoka, Japan, where I had lived just a few months before.  

###

Etymologically, the early word work as a verb is closely associated with labor, and was advocated (by those who needed laborers) as a way to alleviate poverty. Many definitions seem to align with negative connotations: weorc or worc has an Indo-European stem of werg (to do) via Greek ergon: action without punitive connotations, and the Latin urgere: to press or bear down, or compel. Add in wrikan: to persecute, and wrecan as in wreak havoc. The German word Arbeit connotes hardship and suffering. 

As a noun, the Old English worc, c.1200, is defined as “something done, a discrete act, action, products of labor, toil, physical effort or exertion. Also from c.1200 comes artistic labor—better, but could this be a reference to the labor applied to the physical creation of architecture and churches which was nothing more than toil as “extreme or exhausting work”? 

Or as a reference to the painters, such as Giotto, who labored in creating the beautiful frescoes inside them?  Scholarly labor shows up c.1200 as well, perhaps later in reference to the scribes who painstakingly copied existing artistic works. Work of art shows up in 1774 and refers to artistic creation. Interestingly, to be out of work is from the 1590s. Wonder what they called it earlier? Work ethic shows up as late as 1959.  Look up synonyms for work and you find a whole new list: slog, drudgery, sweat, exertion, travail, servitude, grindstone, donkey work. Yikes.

 From that Whataburger job onward I worked. Many meanings of the word touched me in some way. I created ice cream sundaes at Dairy Queen; exerted physical effort as a stockperson at McCrory’s; I demonstrated my work ethic as a desk clerk drudge (so boring) at Allstate for part of the day and sweated while flipping burgers at McDonald’s at night, then moved on to servitude waiting tables at Gi-Gi’s Italian Restaurant as I attended English and creative writing courses in college (scholarly labor) and realized my writing could be an artistic creation. The Thesaurus lists a couple positive synonyms: endeavor, performance, drive, which are the words I took to heart.

###

After graduating from USF with a degree in English Lit, the challenge became how to make a living, because I didn’t want to toil for someone else anymore. I wanted to support myself with my creative work. A few local magazines gave me freelance assignments. I loved the research and interviews, and working on deadline to create an article. Always goal-driven, I especially loved the byline and felt a sense of accomplishment. But the money wasn’t there. I moved to Orlando for better job opportunities, and answered an ad from the Winter Park Observer, a community paper, for a classified ad salesperson. The plan was to impress the editor with my writing skills and have him beg me to join their reporting staff. In the meantime, I would have a steady income. Although I didn’t have any sales skills I was hired. And my life turned. I reveled in helping customers market their businesses and sold a lot of ads. This led to other sales jobs, each time a move up and forward; from outside ad sales to office building solutions. Until I eventually ended up out of work. 

And felt I had lost an important part of me. 

Here’s what happened. I had taken a job with Comcast Sound Communications, where I met my future husband. After three years we married, and I soon became pregnant. My high-stress position as an account executive demanded a 50+ hour work week, along with evening network functions, and sales conferences. After my son was born, I took one blissful month off and then hurried back part-time to take care of my clients. After a few months I was back to a full schedule. This was a career I loved. In the 1990’s Comcast had a thriving division that provided commercial sound environments, such as background music, noise masking, or white noise, and paging. I had built a good account base and made rounds within my territory daily. At this time, it was still possible, and essential, for face to face visits. Customers became friends; we did lunches and swapped Orlando Magic tickets. I made my own schedule, had freedom throughout the day, and felt like my own boss. I also made decent money. Actually, good money. A win-win situation I found deeply satisfying and enjoyable. 

 Until one day it wasn’t. 

 I had hired a kind and experienced nanny a few months after Jay was born. She fell in love with my cheerful son and I felt secure with her care of him. When I wasn’t at work, I hung out with Jay. I hurried home in the afternoons, and switched gears from numbers and meetings to saturating myself with toddler smiles and wet kisses. Jay opened up a magical world for me and taught me to see things from a child’s innocent and wondrous perspective. I remember one night we walked into the front yard to gaze up at the full moon, when suddenly my son exclaimed AAAAH! and jumped a few feet away. He focused on something in front of him, but I couldn’t see anything. Then I realized he was fascinated with his shadow. When he moved, it moved with him. To see the realization come over him that this was somehow a part of him, was priceless.

But it wasn’t, couldn’t, be enough, these special times. When I found myself too frazzled at the end of the day to give my best to those who mattered most, I knew I had to make a change. My husband had become a necessary but often neglected shadow. So I gave notice at my beloved corporate job. I resolved to stay home and become a proper mother. Find time to be a wife again. A different kind of work; a different identity. A work in progress, for now. 

So Jay and I spent our days together. We sat at the kitchen table with bright crayons and attempted to color pictures within the lines. We hung out in the pool, Jay in his floating duck and me floating on my back beside him, making faces while he laughed uncontrollably. We threw a ball in the yard, both of us trying to throw straight. I pushed him in a tree swing which made him giggle and scream. We made daily trips around our neighborhood in his stroller and met every person and every dog. We sat on our back deck, Jay in his high chair picking at bits of fruit and sharing them with me. We watched Barney the Purple dinosaur in the afternoons; Jay learned to mimic Barney’s opening theme and was entranced as he rocked back and forth attempting to sing the Barney song. We looked at lots of books. I read and pointed to the words while he stared and pointed along, his mouth trying to form what he heard. We even braved Chuck E. Cheese, once. I put together play dates, during which I did my best to learn insights from the other moms. 

For a while my son and I did great together. But after a few months, we both became restless. Or perhaps I did, and he felt it. We started getting cranky with each other which left me feeling like a bad mother. Jay was delighted when his father came home in the evenings; I even thought he looked relieved. Here was a new face, new fun to be had. Or maybe I told myself that to get over the guilt of my restlessness. 

I needed more. And that sucked. Why couldn’t I be content being a mother all day and a wife at night? Instead, I felt I had lost a part of myself; that I was working against an inherent need, a part of my identity. Enervated, and feeling as if my inner self was a bit dimmer, fading perhaps, I knew I had to make a change. This staying home stuff was not working for me. I would do myself –and my son—a great disservice if we continued like we were. But I also didn’t want to go back to my high-stress job. So I expanded my love of old things and opened an antique store in a tony section of town. I opened at 11:00 and closed at 4:00, catering to well-off housewives and interior decorators who would do their business during these hours. 

For childcare I recruited GaGa (my son’s name for his paternal grandmother) who was delighted with her free reign to spoil her newest grandchild. Coming home one afternoon, I pulled up in front of our house and there was my son still in pajamas, hair sticking out in every direction and wearing new cowboy boots. He had a broom under him and was galloping around the front yard. His mouth was ringed with a rainbow of colors, something sugary, which I did not allow. Clearly he was having a blast. Perhaps this was what he needed all along? 

Soon I felt it was time for pre-school, at least a couple days a week. I found a local church daycare with intimate classes and signed up.The first day I took him there is seared in my memory wherever guilt is stored. I carried my happy and secure son to his new classroom. We stood and gawked at the kids and toys and general mayhem which looked like so much fun. He was delighted. Until I started to hand him over to his teacher. Jay’s body went rigid, his eyes swiveled to me in a panic and I felt a warmth through his diapers; he had released his bladder in fear. The director rushed me out, saying that it was best to make a clean break.  Assurances from the director were firm and confident: all children go through this, the teachers know how to distract them quickly.  He’ll be fine. I left. And promptly threw up in the bushes by the front door. 

When I pulled up to the church that afternoon, I saw him at the window, his hand on the crank, opening and closing the jalousies, clearly fascinated with the mechanics. Our eyes met and he broke into a grin. The next time I dropped him off he hesitated only briefly, then ran to a new friend. Hmm, I thought, he sure adapted fast. My ego was bruised, although I felt relief that I wouldn’t be spewing my breakfast into the bushes again. But I had my doubts about his supervision. So I recruited a wonderful elderly woman who lived down the street from us and had raised a bunch of her own kids. Ms. Ellie stayed with us until we moved and Jay began Kindergarten. She taught him new words, big words, and insisted on perfect annunciation. She taught him how to hold and eat with a fork in a neat and elegant manner. She pointed to the planes that flew overhead to land at the nearby Orlando airport and made up stories of where they may be coming from. This was her purpose, as in working up or to “bring by labor or special effort to a higher state or condition.” (from the 1660s). 

In turn, I was able to regain the part of me that needed to be vital outside of the home, a purpose that belonged to me alone. In my little antique business I created displays, kept the shop immaculate, played Benny Goodman through overhead speakers, and attended estate auctions. I chatted up my customers and always had a story to tell them about any certain piece. Although I closed the shop after two years and went back to work in sales for a while, I missed being my own boss and eventually started another business, a security systems integration company that turned into a lucrative family business. Throughout the years, beginning with that Whataburger job, I deeply felt the power of work as purpose. Being a mother and wife gave me shared purpose, but I needed more. Having my own business provided the perfect amount of individual identity. Ms. Ellie had infinite patience, loved teaching my son, and was able to fulfill her purpose. And she allowed me to fulfill mine. 

###

Our passion drives our purpose; feeling strong emotions for something motivates us. Sometimes we know from an early age what our passion is and find a way to pursue it with purpose. For others it changes throughout the years. I’ve been multiple women with multiple passions. Sometimes they overlapped. My passion for providing quality products and services gave me purpose, so much that I was compelled to start my own small business providing security and life safety systems. I provided employment, embraced fair and ethical practices, and offered a comfortable work environment with good pay. It supported me and my family. My purpose began with that Whataburger carhop job; with the power of self-sufficiency. My passions shifted throughout the years, but the purpose remained constant.. 

Eventually, the desire to write returned; I rediscovered my passion for artistic creation, and I wrote and published two children’s books about dogs, another passion with an important purpose. When I discovered a long-held family secret and was asked to write about it, passion and purpose turned me towards memoir and creative non-fiction. Reading excellent literary journals created a desire to become an essayist. I took classes and began working on my ten thousand hours toward excellence. After twenty years of fostering our company, the difficult decision was made to sell it. My husband and I each had artistic passions to devote our time to: he with music and me with my writing. 

Writing is hard work, more difficult than anything I have done before, not only in learning and applying the skills needed for excellence— the hours upon hours of classes and practice— but something more. I’ve spent way too much time ruminating over this fact. After years of confidently selling products and services within the framework of a company (either mine or someone else’s) do I question everything I write and submit? Is it good enough? How can it be better? 

I well remember the ka-thunk of my heart as my shaky finger hovered over the SUBMIT button for my first essay. How I hesitated over and over and wondered why anyone would want to read what I wrote. (I still get nervous when I submit, just less so.) And why now, while always trying to write the truest possible words, do I question the honesty of what I write? I’ve concluded that, because I write creative nonfiction, my feelings emanate from the deeply personal aspect of putting myself and my life “out there.” The product now is me, which can make rejection feel personal. In the writing world, we are taught to differentiate between the author and the story’s narrator, but the reader may not be aware of this. When, after reading my latest essay my friends say wow, I had no idea! and look at me as if they have been let in on a closely held secret, I cringe inside, just a bit. But not enough to stop. Purpose drives my passion. I well remember the brief euphoria and lasting sense of satisfaction when I published the first book, and when I received my first essay acceptance. 

Worc belongs to a part of our self-identity. Doing anything to the best of our abilities gives us the sense of accomplishment, and purpose that we all need. Even a carhop job.