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Tuesday, April 29, 2025

How a Chicken Feather Became Part of My Career Story

 

One moment, you're poised for a major career milestone in a polished setting; the next, prairie reality sneaks in. It’s the kind of contrast that reminds us that no matter how high we climb, little reminders of our roots have a way of showing up unexpectedly.

There I was, sitting in a sleek, high-end restaurant, waiting for my first-ever management interview. I had the creds, the resume, the outfit, and just the right mix of excitement and nerves. Then, I looked down. There it was. A chicken feather. Just casually existing next to my foot, like it belonged there. In that moment, corporate ambition collided with prairie reality, and all I could do was hope there wasn’t anything worse clinging to the bottom of my shoe. 

Was it a sign? A stroke of luck? Or a gentle reminder that no matter how far I climb, prairie life isn’t just a term. It’s a part of me, woven into my journey, showing up when I least expect it.

Prairie life and corporate life might seem worlds apart, but if that feather was proof of anything, it was that I belonged in both. All I could do was sigh, grin internally and keep my mind in the game.  

Life has a funny way of keeping you grounded—sometimes, quite literally.

 “Ever had an unexpected moment before a big interview? Share it in the comments!”

Photo Credit: Janine Sterry Pittman

Sunday, April 27, 2025

Lessons from the Tobacco Fields: My Father’s Wisdom and Hard Work


 

"Beyond the tobacco fields—where labor shaped resilience and a father’s wisdom shaped a lifetime."

More than 50 years ago, I stepped into the tobacco fields of the Connecticut River Valley, ready to work, unaware of the lessons waiting for me. My father didn’t want me to love the job—he wanted me to learn from it. And half a century later, his wisdom still shapes how I understand effort, success, and perseverance.

A Rite of Passage in the Fields

Farm labor wasn’t just about earning money—it was about stepping into a legacy carried for generations. My great-grandparents, grandparents, and parents had all worked the tobacco fields. Now, it was my turn.

Eager to begin, I asked my father if I could start the day after my 14th birthday. He told me no.

Confused, I asked, “What if I don’t like it?”

His response carried more weight than I expected: "I don’t want you to like it, because I don’t want you to stay. I want you to learn the value of a dollar. Let me know how you feel when you receive your first paycheck."

That was when I understood—this wasn’t just about work. It was about learning labor, resilience, and what it meant to truly earn something. My father’s foresight guided me before I even realized I needed it.

Back-Breaking Work Under the Tobacco Gauze

Before we reached the sheds, we worked in the fields, tying each plant by hand—a relentless process of bending, standing, and moving row by row.

Each bent, stretching between two poles, held 30 to 36 plants, each one needing to be tied. Sixty bents a day was the minimum—but the real challenge wasn’t just meeting the quota. It was pushing past it.

All of this was done under the suffocating heat of the tobacco gauze. Instead of providing relief, the thin, protective covering trapped the heat, pressing down like an extra weight. The air beneath it stood still—no breeze, no movement—just the sweat, the dirt, and the relentless sun.

A Friendship Forged Through Labor

At first, I chased the fastest, trying to catch up—but I let her go. Instead, I found someone just as relentless, someone who matched my rhythm and endurance. Side by side, we pushed forward, never letting the other fall behind.

And when we moved to the sheds, we became sewing partners, our movements synchronized, our drive undiminished. The competition faded, replaced by respect, trust, and a bond forged through labor and understanding.

A Lesson That Has Lasted Over 50 Years

The fields are long behind us, the twisting machines silent, but that connection never faded. More than 50 years later, the friendship has lasted, proving that some lessons extend far beyond their origins.

The work was hard, but what it gave us was greater than any paycheck. It gave us something lasting, something reala work ethic that would last throughout the long years ahead as we at times struggled to put food on the table and pay for heating oil for the cold New England winters. A work ethic that has endured through life itself.

My Father’s Wisdom, Five Decades Later

My father saw further than I did. He wasn’t teaching me how to work tobacco—he was teaching me how to build a life beyond it.

Working tobacco was a test, but the real lesson wasn’t in the tobacco rows and sheds. It was in the persistence, the endurance, the understanding that success is earned. He wanted me to see that effort matters, time is valuable, and wisdom stays with us long after the work is done.

His foresight didn’t just prepare me for the fields—it prepared me for life.

Photo Credit: Austin Lee Pittman

Friday, April 25, 2025

When the Gears Grind - 2

When the gears grind, it's often a cue to realign. Perhaps this is an opportunity to pause and gently recalibrate. Focus on smaller, manageable steps that allow you to test the waters. Whether that's spending time crafting, sharing your wisdom, or exploring hobbies, treat this phase as a journey rather then a sudden shift. Afterall, you've worked your whole life to earn this new chapter!

What am I trying? A little bit of everything, moving from one thing to the next and back again. I've always valued diversity in my day and that's one thing I'm not giving up.  :)

Wednesday, April 23, 2025

Shifting Gears - 1

Ever wonder what it would be like to retire? Or were you too busy living in the moment? Raising kids, working, finishing school, reinventing yourself?  I'm finding out in real time what it's like since retiring at the end of 2023.  And if you think you hear gears grinding, that'd be me. Grinding gears rather than a smooth shift is - literally or metaphorically - jarring, and I find the transition to retirement is just like that. It's like moving to a slower pace but still feeling the friction of the gerbil wheel and the uncertainty of when it will stop never mind where I'll land. Going 90 to nothin'? You definitely feel it. Anyone out there feeling the same?