The summer before college, wanting to try my hand at working in the physical world, and not the fantasy world of Fancy import family retail, I took at job at a local nursery. Not for children. For growing seedlings.
The work was hard. Manual. The days started early. So early I set blaring alarms, instead of relying on the sweet custom of my mother waking me daily, by rubbing my back and fixing me a breakfast that I often refused to eat. I was pampered then, I didn't appreciate it enough. Teenagers can be hard on mothers. I think my mother spoiled me a little bit, when I was young, before I made mistakes and she made unhappy choices in love, unrealistic and illogical chances at reconciliation that left her at times bereft and colder.
I hate alarms. I despise loud jarring noises that interrupt trains of thoughts and especially dreams.
The only alarm clock I could ever tolerate was one that I could alternately set to go off with "babbling brooks, chirping birds, or my favourite, the sound of ocean waves hitting the beach with gulls in the background. I prefer softer wake up calls, an in love-lover's kiss; in spring and summer, the sun gently rising near my toes with barely perceptable enlightenment-warming its way over me and my bed until finally willing my eyelids to open and look out at the day.
I know, my words are meandering, like a dancer's grapevine. Back to the nursery.
The alarms would blare, I'd shower and dress in layers for a day at real work.
Still spoiled, although I didn't know it then, I'd speed off in my parents little red MGB, top down, somewhat enjoying the early sun warming my head, waking me up for good. Chilly damp morning air and sometimes fog still rising from the hilly backroads lined with huge cedar and Douglas fir. Music blaring to echo the earlier rude awakening of the alarm clock.
I'd pull into the dirt sideroad of the nursery, turn down the music, hoping like hell I'd beat the sound of the early work whistle, and be able to walk in, lunch box and sunscreen in hand with the other workers, wishing a little bit they hadn't seen me arrive in my parents little red car.
The car tended to polarize people. Some liked it because it was red and sweet as a little lady bug. Some guys liked it because they knew how much trouble it was, with massively unpredictable electrical problems, crazy starter. Some guys, friends, were impressed, I think, that I could handle it, faults and all. If I drive a car that I love, not just a get-me-there-and-that's-enough car, I am prepared to change the tires, wiggle wires, wash and wax it by hand. I liked that I could handle that car, was proud of it. It was my baby then, even though I had to negotiate, a lot, to drive it. It was a privilege I had to earn.
I still like cars with soul. I wonder who's driving my first love car now. I hope they are cherishing it, the way I did. It was sold, during a divorce proceeding (not mine) in a parking lot in Colorado. I never got to say good-bye. Silly, but I wanted that final good-bye. I was miles away, in school at the time. (Gee, I should probably let that go, it was almost two decades ago). Sometimes I'm overly nostalgic, not for the actual objects, but for what they represented.
The polar opposite reaction, to the car, were those coming from fair weather friends. You know, the kind who'd call on a bright sunny day to see if you could "get the car" because they wanted to cruise past prospective boyfriends houses, the lake, downtown at twilight. The user friends, who liked the illusion of old money and the brief ability to turn heads for a minute. Then the car was simply a tool. I didn't like driving it that way, or being used in that way.
Then, comes the last group. The last group were the people that hated you, superficially, for being given a car like that easily. The group of people that would hate you, without getting to know you, for the nice clothes your parents bought for you, the spending money, and imagined ideal life you lived. Mine was pretty soft, I guess I was fairly spoiled, but it didn't come without cost. Unless we are very fortunate, we all have strings pulling us in different directions, controlling our movements, our direction, our outlook. To those prejudiced envyers I would caution that the grass is not necessarily greener on the other side of the tracks, as pretty as those maintained yards might be.
I fought hard to earn the respect of the last group, the group that worked at the nursery every season, rain or shine, supporting families, single moms, abused teen boys sleeping in their cars, thirty five year old grandmothers who never had a chance to leave town because of love or having gotten themselves "in trouble", out of work construction workers that drove pickups and el caminos. The ones who'd have a beer with lunch on the broken picnic tables we shared on breaks, the cool few who worked there for the innate simplicity of making something grow, because it was their personal philosophy. I wanted their respect. I wanted to earn it by hard work. I was, even then, concerned about the telescope illusion of privilege and character. I wanted to prove my worth as a human, not impress people with what my parents (mostly from long hours of hard work, a little by inheritance) felt compelled to provide for me.
The summer of my nursery work, I remember the the dry dust on the roads, the coolness of the early morning, the quiet resignedness trudging in to line up at the punch clock. I'd overhear stories about drunken nights, domestic abuse, sweet things those young grandmothers told about their grandbabies, and boys bragging about events in cars, complaints about exes. It was an education. I'd alway been fairly sheltered from that reality, for better or worse. I kept my eyes and ears open,
hoping to round out my "education."
We'd punch in, after the warning whistle, before the you-sure-as-hell-better-be-there-for-daily-assignments whistle, standing around in groups, usually squinting up into the rising sun, to find out our jobs for the day.
Some days, usually rainy cold ones, we'd sit inside, listening to country music, or heavy metal, depending on the most senior person in your group, doing endless cuttings for starter plants in the greenhouses.
My favorite day there was my most physically challenging. Filling and carting, what seemed like sand, from a large pile against an outbuilding, to another large pile, spreading it flat. Stripping down to a tank top, ignoring the sunsreen for sweat and salt. It was blisteringly hot that day. Load after load of some heavy dirt mix I don't remember, and finally poking sticks in the ground I'd prepared, in wonder that the sticks would someday be soft, entertwining vines harvesting grapes and eventually coaxed into wine.
It was a hard day. But a good day. I was exhausted from the physical labor and the sun which had undoubtably dehydrated every ounce of water within me. There was no sweat left. Only dry lips and red burned shoulders and nose. And the knowledge and respect that I could, in fact, make my body work for me. Beginning a grapevine that had nothing to do with dancing for pleasure.
I might have earned the respect of my nursery friends that day, I might have opened a few minds.
A few may have seen me as more than a spoiled summer girl on her way to college. At the end of that day, when the whistle blew, I remember being damn proud of myself for the hard work I'd done. For the knowledge that I'd done my part to encourage those starters to evolve into something fruitful.
Driving home, slowly, so as not to lose my mood, I remember hearing that song from Richard Marx-"Missing You" and hoping someday someone would feel that way towards me. That someone would appreciate all of my grapevine steps, and I would have a home based on hard work, hope and love.
When I got home, the smell of dinner, as usual, in the air, I was dirty and hot, tired and pensive. Mom was concerned at my sunburn. "You will ruin your skin, not very smart! You'll look old before your time." I was slightly irritated. She did have a point. What I kind of wanted, I remember now, but hadn't articulated then, was some sort of pat on the back, for my hard work, for not choosing the easier job that summer of taffeta curtains and imports. I patted my own back for the small effort I'd made in making a real world difference. That was the real reward, not the dollars I made, although it was nice to know I'd earned my wage through hard work, just like most people did everyday.
I remember feeling pretty okay with the sunburn and sore muscles. It was when I first began rounding out my education. I felt quiet and proud of my hard work. Pleased that I'd maybe proven something with the nursery crowd, and more importantly, to myself. My skin may have suffered the aging process a little that day, but my soul was a little older and wiser. I was hopeful for the grapevine I'd begun.
