Lessons

About halfway through the first summer of college, I’d had enough. 

I worked a temp job at a European-based manufacturing company not far from my hometown. I lived with my parents, fresh off my first year and a major change. 

My brother got me the job. He worked there and said they were looking for help repairing modules used in weaving machines. The pay was $10 an hour for 40 hours per week, which was more than I’d make at the family machine shop. 

A handful of us worked on the project, maybe eight or ten people, all hired through a staffing agency.

It was pretty dull work. My job was to check the modules with some kind of homemade tester (it didn’t work most of the time) and ensure they were up to code (there was no code). The days were long. We were mostly left alone, a backwater project in a company building robot arms. 

But over time, a few of the higher-ups with nothing better to do checked on us. 

At some point, someone decided our little team needed to move faster. We had some pie-in-the-sky goals to hit and we weren’t hitting the mark. Half the time, the parts weren’t even fixable when they came to us, so it wasn’t all our fault. 

But along the way, a middle manager was yelled at by a little higher than a middle manager. 

And the finger-pointing started. 

The blame was square on the team and me. It was my first taste of the inner bile created in companies with long org charts. 

They told us to pick it up or else. I don’t know what “or else” meant to a bunch of people doing the kind of work we were doing, but I decided this wasn’t right.

So, I marched across the warehouse and found my brother. I told him what was going on. That lies were being told and we were blamed for something out of our control. I told him we were working our asses off (still one of the few times I’ve used anything close to a cuss word in front of my brother) off and I was sick of it. 

He said he’d look into what was going on and like me, was not all that happy with the treatment. 

That night, I explained the injustice to my dad (sans “asses”). I told him that if things weren’t better tomorrow, I was done. I’d quit. Tell them to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. So long, suckers. 

His response? 

“No, you won’t. You’ll stay there and work this job until it’s time to go back to school.” 

Like I’ve done for most of my life, I responded with a few smart remarks (still sans “asses,” he would go on to be chairman of the deacons) and declared I’d do as I well pleased. I was 19 years old. 

I know he didn’t like that too much and he responded with the classic and irrefutable, “while you’re living in my house..” (you can finish the rest). But what he said next has stayed with me for a long time.

“This is going to show you why you’re going to college.” 

Not one to lose an argument with my parents, I took what little freewill I had and hopped in my ‘89 Blazer (4x4 and fuel injected). 

My golf clubs were in the back. I drove across the state line and went inside a Wendy’s (I’d forfeited my right to supper that night) and ordered a chicken sandwich with the dexterity of a car tire. 

After blowing an hour’s wages, I headed to a public park along a small creek. I’d fished, won baseball games, and had plenty of cookouts at this place. But today, I pulled out my $25 Academy Sports putter and rolled golf balls around an artificial green. 

I don’t remember walking away with anything insightful from my few roaming hours. My brother eventually called me. My parents were wondering where I was.

I’m not sure how the conversation went when I returned home that night. I can’t imagine it was very pleasant. 

But what my dad said to me has stayed between my ears long after I’ve forgotten even most details of the day.

It resonated because when I returned to work, I looked around. I was the youngest one there. A couple of other undergrads came and went (one fell asleep on the job). But most everyone was in their 40s or 50s. They were working a $10-an-hour three-month gig. And if that’s what they had to do, I get it. 

But I started to find a sense of purpose. I went back to college that fall with the images of that back room, those piled-up plastic modules, and the conversation with my dad in mind. I started working an on-campus job, landing internships and slowly building towards a life. 

A few extra years of life have opened my eyes to what my dad taught me that day. He showed me what was in front of me. That I had an opportunity to grab an education, a once-in-a-lifetime experience and run with it. To see where it could take me.

It wasn’t really about finishing that summer job. It was about every year for the rest of my life. It was about pushing through something that wasn’t going well but doing it anyway. 

You can’t put a price on it. You can say thank you, but it’s not really sufficient. When you have a father who knows what to say to their son at a moment like I experienced, well, it can change your whole life.