Over the past 100+ years, or so I have involved myself in almost
half that many jobs, vocations, advocations, and professions.
(Yeah. I have)
By this time, you are, no doubt, “doing the math.”
I can almost read your thoughts.
“While you might convince me that someone is capable of floating
from one menial job to another, and during that time might “rack up” several
dozen entries on his rather dismal resume, I’m sorry, I’m not believing anyone
other than Methuselah or a mythological vampire would be capable of putting
over a century into his career; once he or she had reached the age in which
people normally fill out their first application.”
I expect my 4x great grandfather came as close any anyone I
know, (other than yours truly) to making it happen. His is, to say the least, a
compelling tale.
Old Isom Peacock was an anti-temperance Independent Baptist
minister. He founded the first Protestant church in the State of Florida; which
still boasts an active congregation today. It has been said that as Isom stood
behind the pulpit, he sometimes pulled out a bottle of whiskey, would “chug a
lug,” and sermonize about his freedom in Christ.
Well, my friends, I don’t know if the whiskey finally got him,
or his mode of transportation. For you see, Rev. Peacock died at the grand old
age of 107; falling off a horse! It might be rightly supposed that he died
“drinking and riding.”
Although I can’t account for my great grandfather’s career
choices before this event, be they many or be they few, at least the old boy
was blessed with a very long life in which to fulfill the plans God dreamed for
him; before He made the worlds.
Pt. 2
100+ years of toil and trouble.
And while I know there’s one God (and I’m not Him) by now
perhaps a scripture comes to mind.
“Then the Jews said to Jesus,
‘You are not yet 50 years old, and yet you have seen Abraham?’”
(or)
“Here we have someone who can’t possibly have experienced all he
claims to have experienced, and seen all that he claims to have seen, but in
spite of his youth, this dude maintains he’s been around a very long time.”
100+ years of toil and trouble.
Yep. I’m as old as dirt. But I often tell my clients, (friends,
relatives, grocery store cashiers, and anyone else who will listen), “I’m 30,
as long as I avoid mirrors.”
To be sure, I’m not yet 70, and lest you’re close to bailing out
on me, I suppose I ought to clear up the obvious discrepancy.
Yesterday, I was thinking about the long list of jobs, vocations,
advocations and professions I have accumulated in a lifetime.
I was, apparently, quite an entrepreneur, as my initial
undertaking was as a self-styled florist. The month was December and the year
was among the first two or three of the sixth decade of the 20th
century. I had been walking down an old two lane road near my country home, and
as I passed a cemetery, I glanced up into an ancient oak tree, and noticed
several large sprigs of mistletoe. I saw green. You know, the kind of green
which includes the portraits of several dead presidents.
Making my way up the truck of the tree, and into its boughs, I
broke three or four of the massive growths off a couple of the larger limbs,
and set my course for home. Having arrived, I proceeded to break the mistletoe
up into more manageable pieces, begged, borrowed or stole a ride to the nearest
town, and peddled my wares in fifteen or twenty nearby businesses.
So far removed from the scene as I am now, I can’t give you a
true accounting of my profits, but I definitely wasn’t tempted to change my
name to ‘Donald Trump.’
Pt. 3
I have worked since I was in Junior High School. And speaking of
flora and fauna, well, flora my first ‘real’ job was (drum roll) pulling weeds
in “old man Pickens” humungous caladium field.
I would drag a bushel basket through the nasty muck in which the
colorful leafy plants grew, and bending my back for hours at a time, I would
jerk up handfuls of miscellaneous weeds, and drop them into the oversized
receptacle. During the summer of my junior year, I worked as a laborer at one
of the plentiful phosphate mines which ‘graced’ my local area.
And with the passing of years, I added pages to my dubious
resume; that is, if I had bothered to compile a resume. (Which I assure you, I
did not).
College janitor. Mine laborer x4. Coca-Cola bottle stacker.
Vending machine attendant. Insulation blower. Utility hole digger. Asphalt
laborer. Construction clerk. Irrigation pipe layer. Fruit picker. Newspaper
subscription vendor. Short order fry cook. (Need I go on)?
Ultimately, I was nominated for the prestigious,
“Most Menial Nothing Burger of So-Called Jobs in the History of
this or any Other Planet Award.”
(While I definitely made the short list, I’m still waiting to be
notified of the date and place of the ceremony).
Immaturity Incarnate
Drifting from one menial position to another. To be fair, I
managed to procure a few worthier, more professional “there there” vocations
along the way.
Personnel clerk - U.S. Air Force. Personnel specialist - U.S.
Army Civil Service. Shoe store manager. Associate pastor. University professor.
Personnel Assistance Team supervisor - Army National Guard. United Parcel
Service driver. Pastoral counselor.
Pt. 4
And speaking of the last three positions on the previous list,
allow me to inform you that these vocations account for the nucleus of the 100+
years I referred to at the beginning of my account, and positions from whence I
received (drum roll) two retirements.
35 years with the military; primarily reserve. 20 years at UPS.
25 years (and counting) as a pastoral counselor.
And by now you may realize that the foregoing vocations have
overlapped, and that at one time or another, I was simultaneously involved in
the pursuit of all these professions; to include the completion of two graduate
degrees.
And while the accumulation of almost fifty jobs and professions,
and over a century of sundry vocational experiences is, in the scheme of
things, fairly singular, the wisdom of the same is, I think, rather
questionable.
However, I’m glad to report that while I missed God, too many
times and in too many places, “in the fullness of time” Providence allowed me
to make a few “mid-course corrections,” set my feet on a firm place, and a
loving Lord made the pathway clear before me.
Odd, but as I bring this reminiscence to a close, I am reminded
of what I might characterize as my initial, though admittedly momentary
advocation.
For you see, my second grade teacher, Mrs. Samson, nominated me
to portray a particular incarnation of the Wizard of Oz; in the play by the
same title.
I made my entre onto the elementary school stage ‘decked out’ in
flames. (Well, rouge). I mean the gaudy red stuff covered every millimeter of
my face; ‘from stem to stern.’
And, as you might imagine, my personification of that old
pretender received a great deal of acclaim. (Well, giggles, laughter and
joviality).
Apparently, my teacher had rehearsed me well since I never
faltered, and my brief monologue echoed across the far recesses of the vast
auditorium.
“I am Oz the great and the terrible. Who are you, and why do you
seek me?”
While I can’t speak quite so unflinchingly about the caliber of
many of my failed endeavors, I was, if for only a moment, a consummate actor.
If I’m ever called upon to do an encore presentation, I’ll be
ready.
(Oh, I’ll keep you informed on the status of
my afore-mentioned M.M.N.B.S.C.J.H.O.P. Award).
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending
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