After our move, my drive to
work went from a 6-minute meandering to a 45-minute commute. In Atlanta,
Chicago, Dallas, my commute is called “A mere hop.”
Anyway, the drive begins in a
neighborhood on a lake, then gets a little country, then a lot rural and –
depending on my route – winds through a pretty desperate-looking area. Let’s
just say the burglar bar salespeople do okay there.
That’s my route today. It’ll
make whatever you were complaining about seem small. The area is a curious
mishmash of businesses and homes that scarcely make the definition; lots of
broken glass, far more broken dreams. “Vacant” applies to many things here.
Looking up from my coffee, I see a sight that’ll flat-out get your attention.
Like, now.
A youngish clean-cut man is heading
into a Pawn Shop, with a toddler in one arm. And
a gun case in the other.
It’s about 9 am. The adjacent
liquor store is doing a brisk business already. A rattling bass seems to thrum
through the streets, with little hint to the source. The man and child seem
purposeful amid those who clearly aren’t. He’s got on well-worn work boots
(construction variety), dusted with the whitish clay that lines this river
lowland.
He’s a worker. A father.
Probably a survivor. And – for the moment – a little desperate. I’d venture his
Halloween had frights few of us know. Thoughts flash into my mind; I pull into
the parking lot across the street.
There’ve been times in my
life I thought I was desperate, or it felt so. And like the “commute versus the hop,”
it’s all relative. I remember nervously twirling my new wedding band under a
very long walnut table among humorless bankers, denying me a loan to finance a
half-rented property. The ghouls of my memory make them bloodless and cold. The
truth was that it served me right; the property was a pig and I didn’t deserve the loan.
From that hardship, I didn’t even
look at another piece of investment real estate for 15 years, only then scrutinizing
it like an Amish father over his daughter’s first date. The next several
properties over many years performed well. Desperation is a merciless teacher,
but the lessons stick.
I sometimes wish
I could feel what desperate immigrants felt, leaving their homeland
with little money and a lot of hope when they first saw the Statue of Liberty. Now that was a commute. It meant
something. Freedom. Opportunity. Yet, entitlement?
The word hadn’t been invented
yet, but if it had, every immigrant on that boat would’ve beat it up. The
Italians would’ve ground it into a paste for sauce, the Germans would’ve
sprinkled it in beer, both savored during the first “It Is Up to Me” Victory
dinner.
I believe desperation can be a good thing, shedding
fluff, reducing you to your core. I’ve said before – and it’s no more popular
now – that the ‘R’ word we began in ‘08 was largely healthy. Taught us to cut
out waste and any indulgence of marble-lined idiocy. Those who felt that storm
first-hand are changed people. Probably some bitter ones in the bunch, but all are wiser for the experience.
I wish every ‘My-latte-is-getting-cold’
youth in America had gotten a taste of it.
Probably’d do ‘em good in the
long run. They’d likely not walk into job interviews 20 minutes late, asking
how many days off they get. Would probably not don the earbuds when meaningful
lessons were inches from their purview. Neediness has a place.
It’s good to need instead of
just want. It’s good to be denied, instead of being insatiable. It’s good to
make-do with what you have, rather than make-believe for what you don’t.
Though extreme, the Great Depression
gave us a pretty darn good group of Americans. It triggered more start-ups,
more millionaires, more patriotism, more thriftiness, higher family values and
more eventual optimism than was ever rightfully expected of any Nation. (Capitalized
on purpose.) You think the recession scared them? “A mere hop” they’d say.
How would you treat your job and family if they were
truly all you had? Would you care
more, try harder, complain less, reach farther? I imagine that all progress,
all customers, all relationships and any small victories would make you
indescribably grateful. Not a bad attitude to have, and likely contagious.
Rattled from my thoughts, the
young man emerges from the pawn shop. This time, no gun case, but he’s holding
the boy’s hand as they walk toward a dented truck. He lifts his son into a car seat
and carefully straps him in. He gives him a little hair tousle as he departs to
his side.
I imagine the boy will
remember the day daddy sold his hunting gun. It’ll be years before he finds out why. Here’s
hoping their desperation won’t last, but the lesson will.
As we enter a season of
thanks, may you feel a twinge of desperation, followed by a wave of gratitude.
Adams Hudson
