Work, work, work, repeat... (By Laurie Faria Stolarz)

The topic for this month is work – first jobs, first work-ish experiences…

Work has been a major part of my life – too much really, if I’m to be completely honest and retrospective. Having grown up without a lot of money, the notion of work wasn’t just essential. It was a means of survival.

My mom worked 70 hours a week, day and night, and still we remained well below the poverty line. 

    

She worked. 

    

And, so my brothers worked. 

    

And, so I worked. 

    

There was never any question, and no excuse for not doing it - for better or for worse.

    

My first job was delivering newspapers with my brothers. I was seven or eight maybe. I also shoveled snow for money, picked weeds, tended lawns, taught piano lessons (though I really couldn’t play, couldn’t read music either; I knew the scale and some basics and somehow found people who paid me).

    

I babysat. So much babysitting. I remember helping a friend babysit too (and we split the money). At ten years old, we cared for a non-verbal boy who had significant physical and special needs while his mom was out working. I can't imagine that scenario happening today, and yet it probably does.

    

I also worked in a ceramic studio cleaning greenware (pieces that have come out of the mold and are fully dried). Additionally, I poured and pulled molds, applied glazing to pieces, and worked the register. I was nine or ten maybe. 

    

At twelve, I made and sold chocolate lollipops, able to buy my own ingredients and then sell for a profit.

    

When I turned 13, I worked illegally at a grocery store, under the table, so to speak. Actually, all of the above was “under the table.” It was at that grocery store that I met some of the funniest, most interesting "characters." It was also when I began to realize how much one's life can touch another's.  

    

The store was located not far from a retirement community, so we would see the same people time and time again, and listen to their stories, and notice whenever they were away (and they, us too). 

Certain customers would look forward to seeing us, coming to the store. We knew so many of them on a first-name basis. To this day, I can tell you the lottery numbers of one of my most favorite customers because he played them every day (188, 266, 428, 010, 575, 961, 224, 105, front and back). 

I also remember the woman who didn't have money for a coat, so I gave her mine; the woman who gave me her necklace because she had no family to pass it on to. I tried not to take it, but that made her upset, and so I did.

Then there was the woman who crawled into the meat case and tried to take a nap, the woman who ate cat food for dinner, the 80-year-old man who spent hours roaming the aisles, the couple who'd forever try to get us to convert to their own self-made religion, the man who'd bring in a wheelbarrow of books so that we could pick, the woman who made us spinach pie and baklava on a regular basis... And so, so, so many more. People – both coworkers and not – would tell me their most celebratory news and also their biggest troubles. On a fairly regular basis, I’d hear stories of life, loss, regret, discouragement, fear, and more.

    

I made the best friends in that grocery store, got to practice other languages (French, Spanish, Greek, ASL). I met my future husband there (and we’re still together), got tutored in math, tutored others in French and writing, laughed until I cried, and honed my match-making and advice-giving skills. 

    

I owe so much to that grocery store, as it also enabled me to save for college. To this day, I remember giving the bank teller the exact amount of my tuition bill, coins and all, so that I could pay for the first semester.

    

Since that job, I have worn other work-shaped hats: in editing, teaching (French, writing), tutoring (writing, reading, ESL), obituary-writing, marketing, and more. All of my experiences have contributed to who I am: a little bit scrappy, a whole lot resourceful, and a very good listener.