rollinglocal@gmail.com

Breakfast

I’m a big fan of breakfast food. Any time of day I can happy fill my belly with a good omelet, side of hash browns and a good cup of coffee.

Finding an inexpensive place to get these goodies isn’t difficult. Finding a high quality place IS difficult.

My favorite joint is inexpensive, but not high quality. It’s my favorite because Bob (the owner and cook) remembers my name and inquires about my life each time I dine. I feel like a valued customer. A friend, even.

But the food, though prepared well, is a bunch of loveless commodity ingredients.

Instant, unseasoned grits.

Bagged hash brown potato cubes.

Bacon, eggs and produce direct from a large distributor.

Flatware that bends as you try to spear a crispy potato.

Coffee that comes in prepacked filters imprinted with a name such as “Superior Coffee”.

Bob is the reason this place gets my business and the business of many others who love being ‘seen’.

But what if the food was high quality? What if the grits were locally stone ground and seasoned? What if the potatoes has personality? What if the produce and eggs came from one of the stalls at the farmers market just down the street? What if the plates and flatware felt good in your hands?

Would you pay 15% more for an experience that had love through and through? I know I would.

But really, I wonder how Bob would feel. Knowing he serves superior food with soul and a story. Would he feel proud? Or would he groan at the extra preparation required and having to reprint menus and raise prices and source food? Would his customers object or tell their friends?

I’ll bet Bob, with his charisma and excellent relationships, could pull off such a change. And I’ll bet he’d increase profits substantially. And I’ll bet he’d feel more fulfilled in his work.

Because he IS his work, and better is better.

Mr Plowman and ‘The Berm’

Every winter, since I was old enough to shovel snow, I dreaded ‘The Berm’.

The Berm is that mound of slush, ice, snow and road muck that the midnight plowmen leave across the end of your driveway. The Berm cannot be moved by means of an ordinary snow shovel – you must break out the metal spade and steel yourself for a prolonged period of hacking and huffing.

After so many years of chipping away at the berm, I’ve become resigned to the fact of it’s inevitable. Stepping back to admire the tidy product of an hour or so of shoveling the driveway is interrupted by the sneaky cynical premonition of The Berm. I always remember to set my alarm clock an hour earlier so that I can dig out and then thaw myself before heading to work the following day.

It’s just one of those things. The plowmen plow. That’s their job. Push the snow off of the road. What else are they supposed to do?

During our most recent plow-worthy snowstorm, I headed out to tend to the shoveling. It was on a Sunday, so I had the luxury of shoveling without urgency. 8 inches of heavy, moist, snowball snow. I swept the snow off of the cars, shoveled the driveway and patio clean and perfectly edged, made special effort to create a large mound of snow for the kids to play in, and even built small snowman sentries to guard either side of the driveway. When I finished I was freezing cold and wet with sweat. My six-year-old son joined me outside, bringing with him a cup of hot cider to share.

That’s when I heard the unmistakable grinding salutation of the plowman.

He came down our street fast, plow blade angled toward the curb, pushing up a strange, fluid, ever-cresting wave of frozen water. And my cynicism, forgotten in the glory of a masterfully manicured driveway, returned with ferocity. I am hopeful that my son never learns any of the words I was thinking in that moment.

And then the plowman and his wave passed in front of my driveway. And there was no berm.

Confused, I walked to the end of my driveway to inspect. No, no berm. Where had it gone? There should have been a good 18 inch high bulkhead capping my handiwork, yet there wasn’t. I looked up and down the street. Not one driveway was blocked. None of the sporadic parked cars were ramped with freshly churned snow. How had the plowman accomplished this? Why?

I watched as he deftly cleared the cul-de-sac at the end of the street and made his way back toward me. As he passed, I noted two distinct things:

1) Each time the plowman passed a parked car or driveway, he deftly adjusted the angle of the plow blade just enough to throw the snow forward instead of to the side. (Fortunately my street does not have too many parked cars, or this technique may well be impossible)

2) The plowman was smiling.

He was at his job, AND he was doing his work. He was engaged, thoughtful, creative, sympathetic and striving to make a difference in an easily boring, monotonous and thankless job.

I appreciate and applaud you, Mr Plowman! Your Wake is positive and memorable! You ARE your work!

~Alex.

#YourTurnChallenge

You Are Your Work

The Google is full of results advising you that you ARE NOT your job. The Google knows a thing or two.

You ARE NOT your job.

You ARE your work.

For many people (dare I say, most), JOB and WORK are synonymous.

I agree.

I agree in the same way that CAR and AUTOMOBILE are synonymous.

You ARE NOT your job. You ARE your work. And your JOB is part of your body of WORK.

#YourTurnChallenge has motivated me to share the stories, wisdom and worldview of people who embrace their JOBS as a facet of their WORK.

And what a remarkable bunch they are.

~Alex