A Special Giving Thanks

To Diana Wilder; who managed to recover a post deleted by accident and helped me repost, making it better than before.

I am truly grateful.

Giving Thanks 3

Today I'm going just a tad toward the frivolous and giving thanks for Good Service.  It's that time of year when you pull out the next  season's clothes from storage and realize that what you do have needs help.

So I hied myself off to a mall and hit one of my regular stores.  I was largely ignored and the person with me was absolutely ignored.  A sales clerk finally approached and asked if she could help: I said I was looking for solid colored shirts.

"The Tees are over there..."

"I was thinking of something more like a shirt...", I said.

 And she went wafting off.

I did finally buy one pair of jeans and was given a little lip at the register by the same clerk who seemed to want to look me up by my phone number rather than use the member card I was holding out to her.  I left feeling that I had interrupted her fun: we were the only ones in the store.  Perhaps she wanted to get back to the novel she was reading in the back room.

Two doors down was a new store; a British concern that had opened a few months before.  There was a lovely dress just inside the door in a jewel-toned paisley, a lovely patterned blouse and an embroidered evening dress.  I was lured in.  The two women greeted me, my companion, and anyone else who came to the store as a friend.  They didn't have assigned customers; they worked as a team, making sure no one was left waiting for help.

Over the next hour or so I tried on more than 45 items: 15 I selected myself and the rest clothes they thought I might like.  Their choices were better than mine.

I was noy pressured.  I was not made to feel out of place: I noticed women of all ages in the store.  They were helpful.  They provided honest feedback.  I lest with three items that made me feel pretty.   The store?  Monsoon in Holyoke MA.  The experience?  It reminded me of the training I received in an upscale boutique in Philly.  The clothes? Well made.    Why I am thankful?  I don't usually enjoy shopping, I usually leave with my ego in shreds.  This was different, due largely to two young women who loved their job and liked people.

Giving Thanks 2

Yesterday was the beginning of Holy Week and we relived the triumphal entrance into Jerusalem. The palms waving, the crowds yelling "Hosanna!"

Words of praise. The savior comes. 

I learned it can also be a plea, as in the 118 Psalm, Save Us! Or, more importantly "save me". Save me from loneliness. Save me from despair. Save me from my enemies. Save me from myself... 

At the core of the joyful entry into Israel's capital city is the mustard seed that grows into a mighty plant at the end of this week. So today I give thanks saying "Hosanna!" Save me from myself this day; still my hasty tongue; help me cool my hot temper; bring me Peace; and grant me and all those around me Joy

Giving Thanks 1

It's so easy to get caught up in the drama around us: prima donnas throwing fits, Kim and Kanye's wedding favors, and whether Justin Bieber should go back to Canada...it can make your own life seem so, well, odd.

No one is chasing you for autographs.

No one cares if you complain about your coffee.

You can cry in public without people snapping your picture all over the web looking less than stunning.

If you lose a child, parent, or spouse no one expects you to release a press statement at one of your darkest hours baring your grief for public consumption.  You don't need a PR expert.

So I am giving thanks for the fact that I am not a celebrity.  That I don't live under a microscope.  That I. Can be me rather than what the "public" expects me to be.

It doesn't get much better than that.

Some assembly required

Our garage had become more than a little cramped, what with the tools a person living in New England requires.

We didn't want to follow the lead of many true New Englanders (use the garage for storage and park the cars in the driveway - those frugal New Englanders have figured out that during a storm the cars keep the snow off the asphalt and you need only clear them off and drive away), so we  hied ourselves to Lowes to look at storage.

We found the Holy Grail:  33 cubic feet of storage, made of plastic in America.  It had sides, a roof that could be lifted doors, even a place to put a padlock.  We were so there!

The box was 2'11" x 5' x11" - it would fit in the bed of the P. T. cruiser!

My sister went to prep the car while I struggled mightily to get the box off the shelf.  That was a huge problem.  The box weighed less than my briefcase at times, but it was in that space with no room to spare.  I couldn't tip it, couldn't shift it, couldn't find a service rep (in their defense they were busy with other customers).  I was pulling and tugging and softly swearing in Japanese when a nice young man in a NASCAR baseball cap came over, asked what I wanted to do and calmly lifted the shelf above, goods and all, so we could lift the box out.  He said something about how his mama taught him to help others and went on his way.

I trundled the thing to the register (the cart steered like a bad grocery cart).  We paid, trundled it out to the car, loaded it and drove triumphantly home.  And the fun began.  It only had 8 large pieces, 4 hinges, 2 lift plates, one door latch and 42 screws but the easy assembly instructions, if you took out the text looked something like this:  















But we soldiered on and about 4 hours, 3 broken nails, 2 bruised shins and a partridge in a pear tree later we had our shed and wondered if we might have been better off assembling the box.  But it's loaded now, and all I can think of, when I look at it is "what a waste,  I could have stored most of my yarn stash in that.

Customer Service, Anyone?

So, I'm at the local grocery store waiting my turn at the Customer Service desk; the checker had overcharged me.  I reached the head of the line and laid my problem before the woman.

The phone rang.  With the speed of Pavlov's dog responding to the bell she turned and picked it up, turning her back on me.

The call went on: someone checking the price of season tickets to the local 6 Flags and, it seems, the cost of cakes.  A line was forming as they nattered on.

I cleared my throat.

No response.

I finally, with some difficulty, made eye contact.

"Repeat after me," I said loudly.  "I'm sorry,  I'm with a customer, please hold."

She jumped, put the woman on hold and turned to me.

"I have to answer the phone," she started to argue, but I cut her off.

"I've been in retail," I countered, "and you never abandon a customer in the middle of a transaction.  Now, about my refund?"

Sadly, this is not an isolated instance.  It has happened a lot lately.  It happened the same day at an
LYS that is famous for its customer service.  I received an apology, not an argument, at that store.

Missing Dad

My father died earlier this year.  A good and brave man, he faced his illnesses and life in general with the same courage he faced battle in WWII and with the honesty and integrity that had marked his life.

I got the word of his final illness while I was at work and left to be with him and my mother as quickly as I could.  I had to return briefly, and he slipped into the next world before I could get back.

The next weeks were a blur, as we moved through all the things you have to face when a loved one dies.  So many of my friends and my family were wonderful in their support of my mother, brothers and sister as well as me and the love and support was truly welcome in that time when the pain was at its most raw.

But a strange thing happened.  My co-workers, people I've known and worked with for years, ignored it. As if it had not happened.  I came back to work, and we had lavish baby and bridal showers.  But nothing was said to me.  With time, and with people asking about my "vacation" I began to learn that really, no one was told of the death of my daddy.

I was hurt; I still am.  You see, I was told that when one of the people who did know asked if they were going to send a card, they were told it really was none of the company's business.  A wedding is the company's business, it seems, as is a having a baby (a very intimate act, I would have thought) but not a death in the family of an employee.

I bless and thank those of my coworkers that found out and sent me their personal notes.  I've told the ones who learned late and were upset that it was not their fault.  I hope in time to forget.  But this night, as I approach my first Christmas without him, I'm having a little trouble letting go of my anger.

My loss is not as tragic as some of the things I have seen in the news: while you never are ready for the death of a loved one my father lived a full life and was much loved.  So I ask you to remember all who are grieving and keep them in your prayers, and I wish you all remain, in this season, surrounded by those you love and who love you.