The Diamond Man's Legacy

Once upon a time in a land long ago...

Well, actually, it was over 36 years ago in a locally owned chain of jewelry stores owned by Larry J.B. Robinson.

I was out of a job, having quit my prior position after only 8 days. My husband at the time was nervous about bills and such (with good reason), and I had poured through the want ads in search of gainful employment. My skill set at that time was secretarial/clerical.

I called and was granted an interview. The offices were located downtown in the Schofield Building. Up to the seventh floor I went to meet with the woman in Personnel.

Tests were taken, interviews conducted. Then I sat and waited. And waited. Eventually, my interviewer came out and told me that the position I had applied for was filled. But they really liked my credentials, and would I be interested in a different position?

Sure. So, I was interviewed by a pair of men from accounting. One was the comptroller (Rob), the other his boss (Don). It was clear to me that Rob didn't feel he needed a secretary, but Don did.

They made an interesting pair.

Don grilled me about my relatively short work history. Before my ill-fated 8-day job, I'd been a receptionist then secretary for three years for a construction company. Prior to that, I'd worked at the print shop at my high school. I pointed out that I was part of a program whereby I went to school half a day and worked half a day. Don's response was, "When I was in high school, I went to school all day and worked all night."

Okay...coming out of the interview, I had no idea if I was in or out.

The next day, I found out I was in. And so it began.

J.B. Robinson Jewelers provided me with an amazing work experience. Over the course of the six years I was there, I went from being a secretary in accounting to working in print production in Advertising. My co-workers were the best of the best. It was a true work family, complete with sibling rivalry and an "I've got your back" attitude. Not an easy place to work, but if you wanted to be challenged personally and professionally, JBR was your kind of place.

When I was burnt out in Accounting and considering leaving, my boss's boss called me into his office for a chat. He asked what I wanted to do.

"Advertising," said I.

So, off to the land of make-believe went I. To do whatever needed to be done. Including peppy newsletters about top sales achievers and collecting polling results from stores about what radio stations our customers listened to. I had my first experiences with writing copy. And working Managers Meetings, including creating catchy lyrics for songs that were sung during the events. I worked on the company newsletter, The Ringleader. Wrote radio copy for Larry Robinson. Managed special promotions while Judy was on maternity leave. And did whatever anyone needed me to do.

It was challenging and harrowing and amazing. The people I met influenced me in ways that would stick with me for always.

And leading the charge was Larry Robinson. A graduate of the Harvard Business School, Larry had not planned on running his father's jewelry store. But when his dad passed away, he stepped up and took it on. He built a single store into a chain of locations. He espoused the golden rule. He hid behind planters in malls and paid passers-by to shop in our store and come back and report to him on their experience. There were store people who left the company in tears because they didn't get it right. He was a hard ass. But when the dust settled, those who remained were some of the best salespeople around.

I've been thinking about all of this because yesterday one of the best from JBR retired from my current company. Paul was one of the few remaining who survived two acquisitions, landing at the home office as a vice president. His retirement party lasted two hours, with speaker after speaker sharing funny and touching stories about his achievements and his mentoring skills. There was a lot of laughter and an equal number of tears. Personally, I worked with Paul more in the last few years than I had for most of the time he was with the company. We had fallen into a comfortable pattern of information-sharing that worked well. And I will miss him. Selfishly, what I will miss, too, is that link to JBR.

During the proceedings yesterday, I could feel Larry Robinson's presence. His legacy. I felt like Paul passed on that torch to a number of people. It made me sad and happy all at once.

I still strive to live up to the JBR standards. I can't help it, I still really care about what I do. I want to get it right for our customers.

Someday, when it's my turn to walk away, I hope there are a few people who take up the torch. Who do it the right way. The JBR way.

In the meantime, I will do my best to keep the torch lit.

Girl Power

"We should go for a walk tomorrow," said Mr. Ginley.

"I know just the thing," said I.

And so, this morning, we shared a packed Rapid Transit car with a few dozen other marchers in the Cleveland contingent of the Women's March.

We reached Public Square in time to gather with thousands of other marchers and began the procession up Ontario Street, past City Hall, across Lakeside Avenue, down East 9th Street and back along Superior Avenue to the Square.

The crowd was friendly, focused and peaceful. But make no mistake, under the veneer of civility, these folks were frustrated as hell. Something we all shared.

And that, for me was the beauty of it.

Having witnessed the reprehensible behavior of this country's new president, I was dismayed and discouraged. Attending today's march made me feel that I'm not alone. That these thousands of other souls who showed up to put their feet to pavement shared my grief and determination to rise above the current quagmire.

As for my husband, how did he feel about all of this?

He said he was so moved, that for the first half hour he could barely speak. He stopped several women and asked if we could photograph their signs. He shook the hands of the police officers who lined the route, thanking them for being there. And he stood by my side and held my hand, as we walked the streets of Cleveland in support of women, minorities, the disabled, those who are new to our country, and in support of the land itself and the climate we all share.

It was exhilarating. I am still feeling the joy, the camaraderie, the peace, the love. Call me a feminist. Call me a hopeless liberal. Call me whatever you like.

Today I walked with giants. And felt 10 feet tall.

P.S. The weather was a balmy 60 degrees and sunny in the last half of January in northeastern Ohio. I take that as a nod from the highest powers that our cause was just and right.

Sickening

The ability to breathe is underrated.

In. Out. In. Out. Unless you have asthma or COPD or suchlike, no one thinks about breathing. There are no sonnets devoted to the constant work your body does to bring you oxygen. Oh sure, the heart and stomach get plenty of attention, but the respiratory system, not so much. Nobody gives breathing a second thought.

Until they get a sinus cold.

On the first day, when things were getting drippy but I didn't feel too crummy yet, I walked into the conference room with a box of tissues. I sat at one end of the table, the other attendees lined up on the other. "Unclean, unclean," I called, as the bible proscribes. No one was amused.

Yes, I realize you're not supposed to go to work when you're not feeling well. But half of the people there have either the respiratory thing or the stomach thing. The other half have already had one or both. And the creeping crud lasts a week or more. Plus, I took one day off to help with the recovery, but the process is slow.

And the worst part is, you have to breathe through your mouth. The nose is totally out of commission, first because it's a faucet, then because the sinus passages are swollen and nothing is getting in or out. Cold medicine might work for, like, five minutes. Vicks Vapo Rub helps a little. (This was my mom's go-to back in the day.) Halls cough drops are somewhat helpful. Tea soothes. But mostly, it's just a matter of time. In about a week, if one is lucky, one is once again able to smell the good, the bad and the ugly.

And you think, "Wow, I'll never take breathing for granted again." That's the stage where I am now. I walk into the brisk outdoor air, close my eyes, get a snootful and think it's grand.

I know it won't last. In another week, I'll be doing the air-in, air-out thing without a second thought.

But before I become blasé, I'd just like to send up a big "thank you" to the heavens above for the ability to breathe freely.

It's a real treat.

Hey, what's that smell, spray some Glade, would you?

Unresolved

This year, I've resolved not to make any resolutions.

Last year, I decided to lose weight. Which I did, over the course of five painstaking months. Then I fell and messed up my right knee. Twice. (I still can't feel my kneecap.)

I wasn't able to exercise for a couple of months. Then when I could, I found it impossible to get the motivation going. So here I am, one year later and back where I started.

Maybe it's like a jinx. Maybe you just need to get in the habit of eating the right things and walking a few extra paces every day. Stop talking and thinking about it and just do.

I must say, though, in the current climate of our country, it's very difficult not to console oneself with one too many servings of potato chips or an extra chocolate bar. Yet, as I say this, I can hear every self-help guru shout from the wings, "you can't use food as a crutch."

Sure, sure, I know that. And yet...

As I struggle with depression and repress the urge to overindulge, I wonder what it is I can do that will make me feel better. The world outside is extremely cold and crunchy. And I don't think it's going to thaw anytime soon.

Maybe I will just stay inside today and read a book. Or crank up my binge watching of Gilmore Girls. Or, even better, put together another jigsaw puzzle. That way, my hands will be busy and I won't be able to shove food into my face.

Or maybe I will just wing it. See what the day brings. Not seize the day, but the let the day come to me.

Gee, I wish I was as smart as I was at 21, when I had all the answers. When the road was clear, and I knew exactly what I wanted from life. Ha ha.

Funny how life bites you in the ass. How you can plot and plan and end up chasing your tail.

I like to think I've come a long way, baby. But I think it's just been a big circle.

Maybe that's what it's all about.

Carrie On

Let’s just say it’s been a tough week.

Carrie Fisher’s death, followed by that of her mom, Debbie Reynolds, crushed me.

Not so much because Ms. Fisher was Princess Leia. In fact, it had little to do with her work as an actress and everything to do with who she was as a person.

I’m a big reader, so it’s no surprise I’m a fan of Carrie Fisher’s writings, both “fiction” and memoir. She was so outrageous, so witty, and when I lecture my son about every word being gold, I can think of her and say, “yes, she knew.”

My favorite Carrie Fisher book is Wishful Drinking. But I enjoyed the others, too. She had a laser-sharp tongue, which she used to cut through the Hollywood B.S. Much of her charm could be attributed to the fact that she was so honest about herself, describing situations in her life that would incinerate anyone else, but which she turned into a series of dark comedic scenarios that had me laughing and crying at the same time.

I will miss hearing about her life and adventures. When you know that much about what a person has endured – and triumphed over – when they leave this world, their loss is yours, too.

And so, I add Carrie Fisher to the guest list of women I’d like to share a meal with in the next life. I will put her at the head of the table, sit back and savor every word.

Here’s to you, old friend I never met. 

I hope I have that privilege in another time and space.

Christmas Ale

Mr. Ginley: Why is there a six-pack of beer under the Christmas tree?

Me: It was one of my Christmas presents.

Mr. Ginley: Whaaaa?

Me: What's the big deal? I was 18 at the time, so I was legal.

Mr. Ginley: Your parents got you a six pack of Genesee Cream Ale for Christmas?

A discussion ensued about the appropriateness of this particular gift. I said it was on my list, and no, I didn't think my parents were encouraging me to be an alcoholic. I just liked beer.

This segued, naturally, into a discussion about what else I received for Christmas. My memory was jogged by a photograph in which I was holding up a stuffed tiger and sporting brand new yellow slippers. Nothing too crazy there.

By that time, my sister had married, so it was just my brother Paul and me.

And what did he get? Well, it was the year before he got the Kan Klip, a device to hold his collection of pop cans. Which he kept in the garage, and which my dad, on more than one occasion, had toppled trying to get into the car to go to work (at 6:00 a.m.)

Although Paul would know better than I, his booty no doubt included a box of Cap'n Crunch.

I was interrupted here by Mr. Ginley, who said, "Let me get this straight. Your parents bought your brother cereal for Christmas?"

Yep. My mom refused to purchase the sugar-laden breakfast bonanza on a regular basis, not because it could rot your teeth from 50 paces, but because it was so expensive. Thus, it was a treat my brother enjoyed once (maybe twice -- birthday?) a year.

All of this made my husband's holiday gifts (socks and underwear, a winter coat, one banana bike) appear normal by comparison. This seemed to please him. In any family, normal is good.

This year, as I sit gazing at our own little tree, I'll be visited by many ghosts of Christmases past. I'll marvel at my mom's ability to decorate the house, bake cookies, and manage gift giving for a brood of six (later expanded to include many grandchildren). I'll toast my dad, who wrangled with a live tree for years, cursing under his breath and badgering us until he stood it up as straight as it could be, its worst flaws hidden in the corner. I'll imagine my parents sitting on the couch, armed with cups of coffee, watching us unveil our loot. I'll think about the early days of squirming through 6:30 a.m. mass -- we had to wait until afterward to open our presents. And the wrapped presents cascading from under the tree. Not high-priced mega gifts, but lots of this and that, enough to create wonder and anticipation.

Cheers to my siblings, nieces and nephews who've shared the holidays with me. And to my husband and son, who make the here and now merry every day.

And to my mom and dad, who live always in my heart. Wish you were here. No Genesee Cream Ale required -- I'm not much of a beer drinker anymore.

But I'm pretty sure Paul misses his Cap'n Crunch.

Merry Happy Christmas Festivus Hanukkah Kwanzaa Holiday to one and all!

Pressing Matters

I find ironing cathartic.

The Sprinkler

When I'm in the mood. And I have the time. And it doesn't involve pleats.

There's something about smoothing out wrinkles that feels therapeutic. The steam, the iron gliding across the surface of the material, is a kind of magic.

If I didn't have steam, like my mom in the early days of her shift, I probably wouldn't like it so much. She had an elephant sprinkler that she filled with water to wet the clothes. Mom spent hours every week pressing clothes and sheets and handkerchiefs. She welcomed the age of permanent press with glee.

By the time I reached junior high school, my siblings and I were wearing clothes that didn't require pressing. And sheets no longer needed an iron. So her weekly routine was mostly about my dad's work shirts. His job as a purchasing agent required him to wear a dress shirt and tie every day. By that time, handkerchiefs had been replaced by tissues, which were far more sanitary. Although, in my memory, it seems my dad still carried a hanky in his pocket for quite some time after they went out of fashion. And handkerchiefs continued to be a staple Christmas gift from my grandmother. (My mom kept the unopened boxes in a dresser drawer for years.)

These days, Mr. is the one who does the lion's share of ironing in our house. He cranks up Bowie and presses on. I know it's not his favorite thing to do, but he does a fine job. Alas, I am not as meticulous as he. While I love the way the imperfections on the surface of the fabric magically disappear, I know that most days I'm going to be one big wrinkle before I get halfway through my workday. I'm just a slob that way.

Oh well.

I imagine that one day in the not-too-distant future, ironing will go the way of the 8-track tape player. That wash and wear, even with shirts, will become de rigueur.

And future generations won't take the time to smooth away the wrinkles.