Long time no see

Wow it has been a while since I have blogged. Much of my first motive for writing was the threatening rule of a teacher and my desire for a good grade. Now after all this time and a great many writing assignments, I have decided that I do like to write.

Essays are so tedious and research papers are daunting in their level of arduousness, but writing for fun is quite refreshing and relieves some inner desire for release from... well something; if only to communicate what goes on inside my heart and my head.

I've never been much of a journaler (that's not a real word, but you get the idea), but perhaps a blog may the right venue for expression and self exploration as I pour forth my ideas and contemplations.

Coffee Hour

Every time my family and I visited my Norwegian grandmother we would have coffee hour after dinner. This was a special time where we had dessert and coffee (or at least the adults had coffee) as we listened to my grandmother tell stories of her life in Norway. In Norway coming of age used to be marked by the privilege of drinking coffee, unlike the American tradition of consuming alcohol at age 21. I remember the proud moment when I had my first cup of coffee-which I stopped drinking frequently to add more sugar and cream until it reached a tolerable flavor. My grandmother was so proud, she loved seeing all of us grow up and teaching us her traditions; coffee was just one small step towards adulthood. Learning to bake was a whole different story.
The traditional baked goods that were consumed during coffee hour were created from recipes that had been passed down from generation to generation. Each cookie, pastry, and doughnut symbolized a little piece of history, my heritage. I didn’t realize it at the time; I was too mesmerized by the smells and tastes to really appreciate the history and tradition behind it. Now that my grandmother can no longer bake I appreciate it so much more. It wasn’t like having ice cream at Baskin Robins or a sundae at Dairy Queen. Coffee hour was its own moment, a time of reminiscing and ‘counting your blessings’ where you could forget your worries and just melt into the comfort of good food, memories and fellowship with family. Now I must make the delightful food, memories and moments myself. It may look a little different because recreating something so unique and wonderful is difficult, but will be meaningful nonetheless.

Romacians

Romac is a community. Every morning I wake up at 4 a.m. like every other person I work with at Romac. I stumble into some pants and shoes, shrug on a coat, grab my lunch and run out the door where I am greeted by the brisk morning air on the way to my car. Once at work I head to the lunchroom and down some breakfast and a very essential cup of coffee (I’m a true Washingtonian) as I try and come to my senses.

At Romac we make ductile iron castings. We do the whole bit, we make molds, melt the iron, pour the metal into the molds, and clean up the castings to make them appealing to our customers. This work environment is harsh and the labor is hard, but we manage because we all work as a team. Most people probably wouldn’t think of it as the best kind of job and they might even look down on Romacians because their jobs are menial and they get off work looking like coal miners. But we don’t care what others think; we work hard and earn an honest living.
We are a community; we aren’t one of those places where you go to work, get your job done and go home. People actually hang around and talk to each other and are interested in each other’s lives, even going to the extent of inviting coworkers into their homes. I haven’t seen this kind of work environment anywhere else, nor have I heard of anything else like it. It’s like a second family; we have inside jokes, pranks, encouraging words, and lots of laughter.

The hardest part about fitting in at Romac is finding you place on the social political ladder. Quite a few people have worked there for a number of years and are not too willing to listen to the input from a newbie; it takes a while to earn their respect and trust. Another issue is the male-dominated atmosphere. Many of the guys are gentlemen, but some just don’t care and will swear and share their digestive noises and crude jokes having no qualms about manners. It’s difficult to earn their respect especially when you are a woman and your job is to tell them what to do.

I started out humbly at Romac, I was just the janitor. I was no threat to anyone’s status or reputation. It was during this time that I established good friendships with my fellow coworkers and a reputation for being honest and kind. This proved very valuable later on.

After I had been working at Romac for two years I was hired on in the Quality Assurance department where I got to check everyone’s work and make sure they were following our process. They didn’t take to it very well at first, but over time they warmed up to the idea. It took a good year before they respected my opinion and experience enough to listen to me without the mediation of their department supervisors. It has been hard at times, but I love the people at Romac; they are so down to earth and friendly you just have to love em’.

What's in you wallet?

The woman’s purse has held more consistent mystery than any other bag carried among humankind. It is every child’s playground and every man’s fearful curiosity. From a young age I came to know the essentiality of the purse, and I very soon joined the ranks of the generations of women before me. Every generation has both similar and unique items in their purse that reflect their lifestyle. Going through my purse you would find me to be a very prepared and organized person; I have lotion, lip balm, a compact mirror, hair accessories and gum for freshening up. I also carry Aspirin and IB Profen in case anyone is in need of a pain killer. Hand sanitizer is a life saver when you find yourself in a soap-less predicament. The pocket calculator I carry is most handy when I don’t feel like doing math in my head.

From my wallet (which I carry in my purse) you can tell I shop the sales, I have a rewards card for just about every store in my town. From my medical cards you would know where I work. You would also know that I enjoy movies and books when you happen upon my Blockbuster and library cards. My cell phone would reveal what time of the morning I get up and the names and numbers of my friends, family and coworkers. Also in my wallet you would of course find my recent financial history from my checkbook and would quickly discover I carry no cash or change (nuts to you! Serves you right for rummaging through other people’s bags!). From my license and insurance cards you would find out my age, height, weight, the color of my eyes, and what type of car I drive (if you hadn’t already guessed from my nifty VW car key that snaps out of the remote like a switchblade-I love that!). On my keychain you will find a 1” tall replica of the Eiffel Tower (this is because I love Paris and plan to visit there someday), my house keys, and my awesome car remote/Key that I mentioned above. All of these are attached to one of those lanyards that everyone has on their keychain so they don’t lose them. The lanyard has the name Fort Hood, TX on it, from this you could guess that either I or someone close to me is in the Army.

What people couldn’t know from looking in my purse/wallet is what wonderful family and friends I have (I carry no pictures; they make my wallet look fat); nor could you tell what type of person I am, whether I’m quiet and shy, or a bubbly socialite (well maybe perhaps a little from the texts and minutes used on my cell phone). From my purse/wallet you couldn’t guess my moral values, work ethic, or what motivates my life and forms my character. Even with the contents of my purse/wallet revealed, I’m still a mystery.

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