RRN Online Volume 351

February 22 '03

Volume 351

Jason's Job Temporary Slave Labor

In January of 2002, Taylor Made, the corporation that owned the company most of us remember as Ram Golf in Pontotoc, was bought by yet another corporation. Taylor Made closed its doors and its equipment was moved to a sister plant in South Carolina. More than one hundred employees were laid off at the Pontotoc plant. One of those was my son, Jason.

It was an apparently devastating blow to my son's ego. So great was his mental anguish that he could not bring himself to look for other work while his termination compensation lasted. When those benefits ended, he managed to get by until his savings eroded, and he somehow managed to go on living after that. I suppose the fact that he lives in my house, eats my food, showers with my hot water, plays music, burns CD's on computers that use my electricity, enjoys the comforts of air-conditioned living in the summer and central heat in the winter, all within the privacy of my guesthouse have helped him through this time of financial struggle, though I think I am he who struggles the greater.

Jason could have easily found a job at any number of points within the year of his joblessness, but Jason did not want a job; he wanted a position. Jobs are plentiful, positions are not; and when one has had a position, a job is far less desirable. Jason could have returned to the retail grocery business, but he doesn't like to deal with the public. He might have found work at a factory, but he says factory work is not for him. He might have earned money as a musician, but his band disbanded.

While at Taylor Made, Jason held a supervisory job in quality control. I think he became spoiled in not having to perform physical labor, or possibly he was spoiled earlier in life, say, during what should have been his prime lawn mowing years, years in which he learned that by botching the chore, his dad would rather assume the responsibility than teach an errant son the proper method. The only members of the public Jason had to deal with at Taylor Made were employees who had difficulty meeting quality control standards.

One should not equate my son's inability to find work as a measure of laziness, though he did not exactly go looking for work. I've never thought of Jason as lazy, but when it comes to work he is selective. Unmotivated might be a better description. However, the mantra of athletes is applicable in Jason's situation, "When the going gets tough, the tough get going."

Thus, it came as something of a surprise to me, when I discovered that someone had contacted Jason about working at the Furniture Market in Tupelo. More surprisingly was the nature of the work. After his first day at work, I asked him what he did that day.

"I did the same thing that I do every time Rayanne comes over here; I move furniture," he explained.

I caught the humor in his comment, but said nothing. He really does not move furniture around every time Rayanne shows up, but it may seem that way to him.

"Explain what you mean by move furniture?" I asked.

"Just what I said," Jason responded with a tone that implied he was insulted that I had asked for a clarification. "There's this huge room filled with furniture, and I have to move it from one place to another."

Jason has a habit of not supplying more information than is necessary, a characteristic that frustrates me on occasion. Through more questions, I was able to learn that the furniture moving he did is a necessary part of setting up the displays that the manufacturers showcase to their clients during the biannual events at the Furniture Market. Jason works with a contractor responsible for arranging the showroom for Ashley, a large furniture manufacturer in Pontotoc County. He feels that by working in association with Ashley, he may later get a job with the company, or better yet a position.

I could sense a bit of irony in his situation. Here was my son explaining his job in terms of manual labor, a work condition he normally seeks to avoid. Furthermore, he mentioned applying for a job at a furniture factory, a type of work he has resisted throughout his adult life.

After about three days on the job, Jason informed me the type of work he was doing was slave labor. When I pointed out a few of the major differences in his working for a wage versus the work required of a slave, he became argumentative. Unless it's a recessive gene on his mother's side of the family, I don't where the boy gets it, but an old saying suits him well, "He'd argue the horns off a billy goat and throw rocks at a sign post 'cause it wouldn't argue back."

A few days later, Jason came home and announced, "They brought in some Mexicans to help us, today."

Except for problems communicating with persons who know very little English, Jason was pleased to have some additional help. The four Mexicans brought the total number workers contracted by Ashley to seven. In addition to having more help, Jason then had some workers he could boss.

Unfortunately, Jason's job is not permanent, and once the Furniture Market show is over and the furniture is sold or moved to another building or plant, the job will be gone as well. I don't expect it to take him another year to find another job. After all, slave labor is in big demand these days.

Dena's Dilemma You've Gotta Watch 'em

Humans are among the slowest of all mammals with respect to development. It's been so long since I studied the sciences that I don't recall if we are in fact the slowest or just in the top ten. Some mammals have a longer gestation period, but the young of our species take quite a few years to acquire the mental and motor skills to care for themselves.

Babies and toddlers require almost constant supervision, else their natural curiosity and a tendency to put anything and everything into their mouths will get them into serious trouble. As parents, we may overuse the word "no" in guiding our children away from harm. If we could relive our childhood, we might now have a better appreciation for the child's point of view. Not every item a toddler touches is a "no-no" but I've the feeling the toddler thinks so.

I've been privileged to rear two children and have helped care for my three grandchildren. Of the five, my youngest grandchild, Katherine pays greater heed to my "No's" than any of those who preceded her. When I mentioned my observation to her Adam's grandparents, her grandmother Beckie disagreed with my assessment, claiming that Katherine got into everything. Maybe the child has a split personality, but she is tops on my list of obedient children and grandchildren in my family.

Because the four children of my parents were spaced out over a twenty-year period with none of us less than four years apart, I observed that the rules of discipline established for the first two were greatly slackened when the last two came along. I've never known if it had to do with my parents aging and not wanting to dole out the harsh punishment my brother and I received, or if they'd simply given up on us and didn't try with my sister and younger brother. However, since their discipline worked pretty good on Fred and me, maybe they were just too old when Sara Sue and James got here.

I believe that my background as the second child in a family of "spaced out" siblings, my parenting experience, and now my grand-parenting experience qualifies me to find some humor in the following situation:

Dena Kimbrell was roughly thirty-eight at the time of the birth of her third child, a daughter named Gracie. Gracie is almost two, so you can guess how old Dena is now. Dena and her family moved from Indianola to North Mississippi a few years ago and more recently located in a remote part of Pontotoc County that is about midway between Thaxton and Hurricane.

Dena's older sister, Kim Goslin, and I became friends when Kim worked for Supervalu. Dena has a second sister, Lisa Rolik, whom I've never met, but I get an occasional email from her. Incidentally, Lisa bestowed the unflattering name, Hooterville, upon the area of Pontotoc County in which Dena and her family and Mom, Jo Bennett, reside. Dena and her family and Mom are active members of First Baptist Church in Pontotoc, and I have enjoyed getting to know them as individuals as opposed to merely being a part of the family of my friend Kim.

Dena is good to keep Bodock Beau supplied with material for his humor column in this newsletter, but the other day Dena relayed a real-life experience. The following is excerpted from an email she sent to several friends:

"Well, I wanted to let y'all know how exciting our life is. Gracie started it off by eating a mouthful of Rolaids…no heartburn for her. Then, she wanted to color and ate a purple crayon! Needless to say, her teeth were purple and her tongue. She had chunks of crayon in her teeth. I called Crayola. She should be rid of the crayon soon (ha ha). We are all looking for purple POOP!"

I fired off a response, mildly chastising her for "letting her child do something like that" and scolding her for not watching the baby like she should. I also explained I was merely sharing the things others had told Barbara and me when our children managed to hurt themselves.

She took my teasing good-naturedly and replied, "I was watching her. I am the one who placed her in her high chair to color! Little did I know that she thought she was there to eat crayons. Oh, what a day!"

I was not the only individual to respond to Dena's dilemma. In fact, another friend was inspired to capture the moment, not with a Kodak, but with a poem (printed here with the author's permission).

PURPLE POOP

By Tami Harrell

"I'm forty with a two year old"
I heard my friend declare
People think she's Mamaw
Perhaps she'll dye her hair.

Her house is all a clutter
And Hayden's puked hot dog
It appears she has good reason
for her mind to be in a fog.

And now my friend has written me
with all the latest scoop.
Instead of colored hair
It seems she's colored Gracie's poop!

Tami also noted, "Written especially for my friend Dena on this auspicious occasion."

Dena won't be the last mom to have a child in the latter stages of her prime childbearing years. Gracie won't be the last young'n to chew up a crayon. Tami won't be the last to pen a humorous poem for a friend's dilemma. And, for those of us who've already been there, we say thanks to Dena, Gracie, and Tami for sharing a lighthearted moment with us.

Wheelchair Incident New Year's Happening

Ken Hester was not the only person with an interesting News Year's Day. Ken got lost in the woods, and my Aunt Jo got ran over by a wheelchair.

It was the day after New Years Day when Aunt Jo phoned to say, "My wheelchair ran over me, last night."

It took a lot of will power on my part not to laugh out loud, drop the phone, get down in the floor and hoot and holler as the visual imagery of Aunt Jo’s misfortune unfolded. Had I been there to see the accident, I might have found less humor in the situation than I saw after the fact.

Earlier, Aunt Jo had been approved by Medicaid or Medicare, whichever agency approves such things, to receive the motorized wheelchair. She’s not so decrepit that she needs any sort of wheelchair at home, but thinking she could fold it up and transport it in her car, she reasoned it would be good to have one when shopping or running errands around town.

A motorized wheelchair is meant to be operated with someone seated in it, but since Aunt Jo only needed to move it a few feet, she opted to manipulate the controls while standing in front of it. She did fine in getting it turned and ready to back up, but then she got confused and pressed the joystick the wrong way and instead of it moving backwards, it moved forward, knocking her to the floor. Apparently she held onto the control as she fell, because the wheelchair climbed over her feet, past her knees, and came to rest with a wheel on her inner thigh.

It took her a few minutes to get out from under the weighty device. Scooting on her backside, she managed to get to her recliner and was able to get up from the floor, unaided (not too shabby for an octogenarian).

Aunt Jo was fortunate not to break a bone, but she did not escape without injury. Her thigh remained sore for a few days, but the shin of her right leg was badly bruised and blood pooled just under the skin’s surface. The following Monday, she had a doctor look at it, and he drained the blood and bandaged it. When her leg took a turn for the worse, she went to the Wound Center in Tupelo and is still being treated by specialists there.

The last time I asked her if she had reached the point where she could laugh at her accident, she did not hesitate in saying, "No."

My older brother, Fred, has been working on a song patterned after, the country classic, "Grandma Got Ran Over By A Reindeer," and I’ve gotten along with my own version as far as "Aunt Jo got ran over by a wheelchair, all alone at her house New Year's Day," but I’ve not had the time to finish it.

The adage, "You can’t teach an old dog new tricks" may also imply that you can’t teach an elderly aunt something new. However, here’s hoping Aunt Jo has learned not to operate a wheelchair unless she’s seated in it.

Bodock Beau The Cheating Wife

There must be a gazillion jokes concerning unfaithful spouses. Of the ones I remember, most deal with something dreadful happening to the man involved. However, the following joke, contributed by Powell Prewett, Jr. is just different enough to be delightful.

Cheating Wife

Saturday morning... Bob's just about to set off on a round of golf when he realizes that he forgot to tell his wife that the guy who fixes the washing machine is coming around at noon. So Bob heads back to the clubhouse and phones home.

"Hello?" says a little girl's voice.

"Hi, honey, it's Daddy," Says Bob. "Is Mommy near the phone?"

"No, Daddy. She's upstairs in the bedroom with Uncle Frank."

After a brief pause, Bob says, "But you haven't got an Uncle Frank, honey!"

"Yes I do, and he's upstairs in the bedroom with Mommy!"

"Okay, then. Here's what I want you do. Put down the phone, run upstairs and knock on the bedroom door and shout in to Mommy and uncle Frank that my car's just pulled up outside the house."

"Okay, Daddy!" A few minutes later, the little girl comes back to the phone.

"Well, I did what you said, Daddy."

"And what happened?"

"Well, Mommy jumped out of bed with no clothes on and ran around screaming, then she tripped over the rug and went out the front window and now she's all dead."

"Oh my God... And what about Uncle Frank?"

"He jumped out of bed with no clothes on too and he was all scared and he jumped out the back window into the swimming pool, but he must have forgot that last week you took out all the water to clean it, so he hit the bottom of the swimming pool and now he's dead too."

There is a long pause, then Bob says, "Swimming pool? Is this 854-7039?"

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