Since people keep asking about the job and I've been so quiet about it, I guess it's time to let everyone know what's up. I'm not going to be a store manager. It's not a bad thing at all, although they're going to put me back on 7.00 an hour. I'm actually very relieved. The manager at Starkey approached me last week and asked me if I really wanted to do this, and I flat out told her no. She could tell that my heart wasn't in the job, and we both agreed that it would be better for me to stop now rather than get my own store and be stuck in something I absolutely hated. All the talk is that the new store is going to be opening in Wytheville, and if I had stayed on and taken it over I would have to move there and be on my own. Every night when I came home from Starkey I'd think, "Hot damn, I'm going to be a manager making mad money." But the more I'd think about it I'd think, "Holy crap. I'm going to be on my own. There will be no one to refer to. If something happens, I'm the one who is going to have to sort it out. It's all on me and no one can help me." I'm actually very glad this has happened. Like I said, going back to hourly for the time being is going to stink, but money is only money. I'll get by. I'm probably going to be working at the Botetourt store in the coming weeks, because they are a man down and desperate for someone to cover shifts, and the manager at Starkey is feeling pressure to find someone else to train. When she brings that person in, it's going to mean cutting back on hours for the rest of the help, and if I leave for a short while it's going to free up that much time. I talked things over with Hunter yesterday (he owns Salem, and he's kind of second in command), and he told me that if I wanted to work 100 hours a week he'd let me. He values my efforts that much, and lord knows all the stores in the area could use the help. I don't think I could stand working 100 hours, but it's reassuring to know that people value what I put forth. The coffee shop needs sergeants as much as it needs officers, and I'm one hell of a sergeant. Things are changing drastically, it seems, but it's going to be interesting. I'm actually feeling very good about my life. I'm writing more, thinking more, relaxing more, and just having a ball. Granted it's only been about three days on this new schedule (no more ten hour shifts!) and I have today and tomorrow off, but I feel great. I love my work. There's nothing else to it.
Here's what I wrote yesterday:
Something odd happened this evening. I was leaving Barnes & Noble, sitting down behind the wheel of my car, when a scent I hadnt smelled in years met my nostrils. It was the smell of the inside of my grandparents car. I paused for a couple of seconds while I took it in, letting a brief flood of memories run through my head. I thought about long car rides with my grandfather on the Blue Ridge Turnpike while he took photographs for his paintings. I thought of the long trip to Alexandria my grandparents, my brother, and I took in the summer of 1989 to see my Uncle Johns family and to meet up with my parents after they had gone house shopping in Martinsburg. I thought of my grandparents' house, with the car port on the side, the garden out back where my grandmother used to bury compost that she collected in an empty gallon jug of milk in the kitchen. I thought of their basement, always the right temperature for summer days, and my grandfathers art studio in the laundry room, and the watercolor disasters I used to make while my grandfather painted his neo-Impressionistic works and my brother always seemed to make more sense of what his mind was telling him to do with his own watercolors. I thought of playing with some of my fathers old toys in their living room, a small collection of metal cars and an entire plastic air force of Korea-era fighter jets colored pink and blue, divided into opposing sides and always seeming to re-spawn whenever we needed more people to shoot down. I thought of my grandmothers spaghetti sauce, second only to my mothers because of the slimy things I claimed she put in it (they were only onions, but my mother got a kick out of it). I thought of the bushes in their front yard, of church on Sundays in the front room, of the stone-tiled entrance way, of the double beds where my brother and I would sleep, of Easter mornings and breakfasts and hellos and goodbyes and reading the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie book in one whole sitting one afternoon. They live in Westminster, Maryland, now, but I know exactly where that house is on Stonybrook Drive. Its strange to think that they have moved on, but in a sense I have come home. Home is in Martinsburg, I know, but there was also a home here in Roanoke for the first twelve years of my life. It would only be for a few days at a time, two or three times a year, but it felt like a place where I belonged. The sights, sounds, and smells were a part of me, and this evening reminded me of how much Roanoke remains a part of me. I think its the air here, full of life from the hills and the flora thats in bloom and pollinating this time of year. Springtime and summer were the times of the year when my family would venture down here to visit, and those smells are always what I associate with this area. Smelling that scent in my car made me feel like I still belong here, that this place accepts me and wants me to stay for a while. This is where I live now. This is the place that I call home. As much as the hills have roots gripping the foundations of the Earth, so do my body and soul have roots gripping the foundations of time that lay beneath the surface of what is. Roanoke is a part of me. I love Roanoke.
Here's what I wrote yesterday:
Something odd happened this evening. I was leaving Barnes & Noble, sitting down behind the wheel of my car, when a scent I hadnt smelled in years met my nostrils. It was the smell of the inside of my grandparents car. I paused for a couple of seconds while I took it in, letting a brief flood of memories run through my head. I thought about long car rides with my grandfather on the Blue Ridge Turnpike while he took photographs for his paintings. I thought of the long trip to Alexandria my grandparents, my brother, and I took in the summer of 1989 to see my Uncle Johns family and to meet up with my parents after they had gone house shopping in Martinsburg. I thought of my grandparents' house, with the car port on the side, the garden out back where my grandmother used to bury compost that she collected in an empty gallon jug of milk in the kitchen. I thought of their basement, always the right temperature for summer days, and my grandfathers art studio in the laundry room, and the watercolor disasters I used to make while my grandfather painted his neo-Impressionistic works and my brother always seemed to make more sense of what his mind was telling him to do with his own watercolors. I thought of playing with some of my fathers old toys in their living room, a small collection of metal cars and an entire plastic air force of Korea-era fighter jets colored pink and blue, divided into opposing sides and always seeming to re-spawn whenever we needed more people to shoot down. I thought of my grandmothers spaghetti sauce, second only to my mothers because of the slimy things I claimed she put in it (they were only onions, but my mother got a kick out of it). I thought of the bushes in their front yard, of church on Sundays in the front room, of the stone-tiled entrance way, of the double beds where my brother and I would sleep, of Easter mornings and breakfasts and hellos and goodbyes and reading the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie book in one whole sitting one afternoon. They live in Westminster, Maryland, now, but I know exactly where that house is on Stonybrook Drive. Its strange to think that they have moved on, but in a sense I have come home. Home is in Martinsburg, I know, but there was also a home here in Roanoke for the first twelve years of my life. It would only be for a few days at a time, two or three times a year, but it felt like a place where I belonged. The sights, sounds, and smells were a part of me, and this evening reminded me of how much Roanoke remains a part of me. I think its the air here, full of life from the hills and the flora thats in bloom and pollinating this time of year. Springtime and summer were the times of the year when my family would venture down here to visit, and those smells are always what I associate with this area. Smelling that scent in my car made me feel like I still belong here, that this place accepts me and wants me to stay for a while. This is where I live now. This is the place that I call home. As much as the hills have roots gripping the foundations of the Earth, so do my body and soul have roots gripping the foundations of time that lay beneath the surface of what is. Roanoke is a part of me. I love Roanoke.