Joe is updating his resume, looking for a big time graphic design job on the West Coast that is commensurate with his experience in the Big Apple. He commented the other day that he was adding the names of specific clients to his resume, on the advice of a friend. "Of course you should," I said. He's worked for some pretty big names in the cosmetics and distilled spirits industries, and that's exactly the sort of specific detail that catches the attention of a prospective employer. "But I'm not so good at the horn-tooting thing," he said.
That made me laugh. When I worked for Jack and Dad at Ruszel Woodworks, I enrolled the firm in a relevant trade association (whose acronym is pronounced "Popeye," even though they have nothing to do with spinach or Oyl). After a few years of attending their meetings and trade shows, I was elected to the board of directors, an accomplishment which represented a major career milestone in my mind. At the next company meeting, though, no mention of my new role was announced to the assembled employees, even though I was eagerly awaiting the chance to shine. I pouted a bit about the obvious oversight, then finally complained to Dad later in the afternoon that I hadn't received the recognition I'd expected. He immediately brushed off my whining. "Hey," he said, "Sometimes you just gotta toot your own horn."
So true. We got sort of a mixed message growing up, with a mom who is self-effacing and a dad who loved to brag. Each characteristic has its appropriate time and place. When there's a horn that needs playing, step up and wail, baby. Dad is snapping his fingers to the beat.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Inside the Bus
It was only 5:45 when I left my hair dude's salon, more than enough time to get home and put dinner on the table by 7:30. So I walked around the corner to Garibaldi's, where nephew Tom works behind the bar. I lucked out: he was there, and we chatted for the 20 minutes it took me to nurse my Manhattan.
The subject of the new art studio came up, the one that his dad and Lisa are building on the front of their house, and I said, "Doesn't it surprise you sometimes, the things that your parents are up to?" He replied immediately, "I didn't know it was going to be nice!"
He was referring to Dad's oft-told story about the school bus that he remodeled in the 70s, turning it into a camper that neatly housed his brood. Vacations that would otherwise be beyond the budget became accessible, and we adventured around Northern California. The bus, of course, drew lots of attention, as the doors opened and the 9 of us piled out of it as if it were a clown car. Dad spent a lot of time on the interior, honing his woodworking skills and developing creative solutions to mitigate the lack of space. There were two sets of triple bunks and a place to put the crib at night that converting in the daytime to a dining area. My favorite spot was the cot above the drivers seat, where you could spend the drive absorbed in a book, and look out the front "destination" window to see where we were headed. In such a small space, it was the closest thing to private space.
Dad built a toilet closet, and a tiny kitchenette that included not a pricey refrigerator, but a styrofoam-lined ice box that Mom carefully filled with frozen stuff to keep the perishables cold. Every feature was carefully though frugally crafted, even Mom's plaid curtains that hung at the windows.
Dad loved giving tours, of his homes and his businesses, and the bus was no exception. Guests were inevitably impressed by his project, including the neighboring camper who climbed the stairs and blurted out, "I didn't know it was going to be nice!"
Even though that lady was in the bus a good ten or twelve years before he was even born, Tom knows this story well enough to use the punch line as shorthand. I love that. It's a Dad story.
The subject of the new art studio came up, the one that his dad and Lisa are building on the front of their house, and I said, "Doesn't it surprise you sometimes, the things that your parents are up to?" He replied immediately, "I didn't know it was going to be nice!"
He was referring to Dad's oft-told story about the school bus that he remodeled in the 70s, turning it into a camper that neatly housed his brood. Vacations that would otherwise be beyond the budget became accessible, and we adventured around Northern California. The bus, of course, drew lots of attention, as the doors opened and the 9 of us piled out of it as if it were a clown car. Dad spent a lot of time on the interior, honing his woodworking skills and developing creative solutions to mitigate the lack of space. There were two sets of triple bunks and a place to put the crib at night that converting in the daytime to a dining area. My favorite spot was the cot above the drivers seat, where you could spend the drive absorbed in a book, and look out the front "destination" window to see where we were headed. In such a small space, it was the closest thing to private space.
Dad built a toilet closet, and a tiny kitchenette that included not a pricey refrigerator, but a styrofoam-lined ice box that Mom carefully filled with frozen stuff to keep the perishables cold. Every feature was carefully though frugally crafted, even Mom's plaid curtains that hung at the windows.
Dad loved giving tours, of his homes and his businesses, and the bus was no exception. Guests were inevitably impressed by his project, including the neighboring camper who climbed the stairs and blurted out, "I didn't know it was going to be nice!"
Even though that lady was in the bus a good ten or twelve years before he was even born, Tom knows this story well enough to use the punch line as shorthand. I love that. It's a Dad story.
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