Loving What You Do
by Olive L. Sullivan
I’ve been known to complain about poor customer service, but the other face of the world of work is the person who is working at the job he or she is meant to do. When you meet someone who truly loves the job, it’s a gift to everyone. It doesn’t matter whether the person is a waiter, a blues musician, a politician, a college professor, or a plumber, it’s a joy to watch them.
I encountered several people in this lucky state last week, one of whom was the Sedgwick County judge who performed my son’s wedding.
You may be surprised that you haven’t been reading about the weeks of preparation leading up to the wedding. Weddings are the perfect opportunity, after all, for boosting the economy, and fraught with all the complications that make for good column copy. But not in this case.
I received a text message from my son a couple of weeks ago. It said, “I asked Georgia to marry me.” Because I use a track phone only when I travel, I didn’t get the message for a few days. I immediately called him back.
“I’m asleep,” he said. He works a weird kind of split shift, so it seems as if he’s always asleep. I explained that I’d just gotten his text message. “Yeah?” he mumbled.
“So what did she say?”
“She said okay.”
“So, what are your plans?”
“Mnmph?”
“Do you have a date? For the wedding,” I added, after a long pause filled with gentle snoring.
“As soon as we can afford it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Keep me posted. Good night.”
I assumed that “when we can afford it” meant a couple of years from now. Right now Georgia is looking for a job and planning to go back to college. They live in a “tribe” of five in a three-bedroom house. They want an apartment, a dog, a yard.
No. As a matter of fact, by “when we can afford it,” Frank meant Wednesday.
Even in this condensed timeframe, there was plenty of time for drama. Georgia and I got to talking and came up with a plan for them to come to Pittsburg for a small family ceremony in the back yard, with a family friend officiating. Then Frank’s best man thought he’d propose to his girlfriend and they’d make it a double wedding, complete with dogs as attendants. The best man has an enormous extended family, which made the back yard less practical, because no one could be left out without hurt feelings that would make a soap opera look like a day at the park.
Spike said, “This is insane! Doesn’t anyone else think this is insane?”
I assured him that of course we did, but we could either participate, or they’d do it without us. He seemed to see the logic in that; perhaps he simply gave up on expecting logic.
Frank, who has avoided ceremonies, rites of passage, and crowds his entire life, predictably freaked out. He told Georgia he wasn’t happy about the plan. She huffed, “Well, maybe we should just call it off!”
“I don’t want to call it off,” he said. “I want to get married. I just don’t want a big deal. We haven’t even talked about what we want!”
“We don’t have time to talk about it,” she said. “You have to go to work.” Then she went into the kitchen.
Frank was telling me this on the phone late one night. “So what did you do?” I asked.
“I went to work.”
I knew right then that everything was going to work out.
And it did. They talked, they set a date, lined up a judge, and agreed that I could come. I invited my parents, and we drove to Wichita Wednesday afternoon. We met the bride and groom at their house. They were wearing black T-shirts and coordinating plaid shorts. The groom wore flip-flops. The bride wore sneakers. I said, “Wow, cute matching outfits.”
Georgia looked down at herself in utter astonishment and said, “Oh, now I gotta go change.” She didn’t; we just piled back in the cars and headed to the courthouse.
Frank was a bit freaked out by the sign in the hall reading “Abshire-Williams wedding.” I was freaked out by the fact that the sign led us to traffic court.
We waited a few minutes for the judge to show up, but he soon did.
And he is a man who loves his job. By day, of course, he oversees traffic court, which he referred to as purgatory. His other choice of appointment, probation, he referred to as hell. He said he spends his whole day dealing with people who keep saying they didn’t do it. Weddings are a perk because at last he gets to deal with people who are saying I do.
And Georgia and Frank did. There were some precious moments along the way. For example, the judge asked them for rings, and I had a moment of panic. “Ohmigod! They’re not going to have RINGS!” I said to myself. But they did — Wal-Mart to the rescue.
When it was Georgia’s turn to put the ring on Frank’s finger, he held out the wrong hand, which was not discovered until the ceremony was complete. “Do-over!” the judge caroled merrily. And Georgia perhaps said, “’Til death do us part” with a bit more of a threat in her voice than you usually hear... but it was done. The judge posed for photos with the couple, and told them they had made his day.
by Olive L. Sullivan
I’ve been known to complain about poor customer service, but the other face of the world of work is the person who is working at the job he or she is meant to do. When you meet someone who truly loves the job, it’s a gift to everyone. It doesn’t matter whether the person is a waiter, a blues musician, a politician, a college professor, or a plumber, it’s a joy to watch them.
I encountered several people in this lucky state last week, one of whom was the Sedgwick County judge who performed my son’s wedding.
You may be surprised that you haven’t been reading about the weeks of preparation leading up to the wedding. Weddings are the perfect opportunity, after all, for boosting the economy, and fraught with all the complications that make for good column copy. But not in this case.
I received a text message from my son a couple of weeks ago. It said, “I asked Georgia to marry me.” Because I use a track phone only when I travel, I didn’t get the message for a few days. I immediately called him back.
“I’m asleep,” he said. He works a weird kind of split shift, so it seems as if he’s always asleep. I explained that I’d just gotten his text message. “Yeah?” he mumbled.
“So what did she say?”
“She said okay.”
“So, what are your plans?”
“Mnmph?”
“Do you have a date? For the wedding,” I added, after a long pause filled with gentle snoring.
“As soon as we can afford it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Keep me posted. Good night.”
I assumed that “when we can afford it” meant a couple of years from now. Right now Georgia is looking for a job and planning to go back to college. They live in a “tribe” of five in a three-bedroom house. They want an apartment, a dog, a yard.
No. As a matter of fact, by “when we can afford it,” Frank meant Wednesday.
Even in this condensed timeframe, there was plenty of time for drama. Georgia and I got to talking and came up with a plan for them to come to Pittsburg for a small family ceremony in the back yard, with a family friend officiating. Then Frank’s best man thought he’d propose to his girlfriend and they’d make it a double wedding, complete with dogs as attendants. The best man has an enormous extended family, which made the back yard less practical, because no one could be left out without hurt feelings that would make a soap opera look like a day at the park.
Spike said, “This is insane! Doesn’t anyone else think this is insane?”
I assured him that of course we did, but we could either participate, or they’d do it without us. He seemed to see the logic in that; perhaps he simply gave up on expecting logic.
Frank, who has avoided ceremonies, rites of passage, and crowds his entire life, predictably freaked out. He told Georgia he wasn’t happy about the plan. She huffed, “Well, maybe we should just call it off!”
“I don’t want to call it off,” he said. “I want to get married. I just don’t want a big deal. We haven’t even talked about what we want!”
“We don’t have time to talk about it,” she said. “You have to go to work.” Then she went into the kitchen.
Frank was telling me this on the phone late one night. “So what did you do?” I asked.
“I went to work.”
I knew right then that everything was going to work out.
And it did. They talked, they set a date, lined up a judge, and agreed that I could come. I invited my parents, and we drove to Wichita Wednesday afternoon. We met the bride and groom at their house. They were wearing black T-shirts and coordinating plaid shorts. The groom wore flip-flops. The bride wore sneakers. I said, “Wow, cute matching outfits.”
Georgia looked down at herself in utter astonishment and said, “Oh, now I gotta go change.” She didn’t; we just piled back in the cars and headed to the courthouse.
Frank was a bit freaked out by the sign in the hall reading “Abshire-Williams wedding.” I was freaked out by the fact that the sign led us to traffic court.
We waited a few minutes for the judge to show up, but he soon did.
And he is a man who loves his job. By day, of course, he oversees traffic court, which he referred to as purgatory. His other choice of appointment, probation, he referred to as hell. He said he spends his whole day dealing with people who keep saying they didn’t do it. Weddings are a perk because at last he gets to deal with people who are saying I do.
And Georgia and Frank did. There were some precious moments along the way. For example, the judge asked them for rings, and I had a moment of panic. “Ohmigod! They’re not going to have RINGS!” I said to myself. But they did — Wal-Mart to the rescue.
When it was Georgia’s turn to put the ring on Frank’s finger, he held out the wrong hand, which was not discovered until the ceremony was complete. “Do-over!” the judge caroled merrily. And Georgia perhaps said, “’Til death do us part” with a bit more of a threat in her voice than you usually hear... but it was done. The judge posed for photos with the couple, and told them they had made his day.
At last all that was left was the paperwork. My mother and I signed as witnesses, and Georgia asked about changing her name. The clerk of the court was explaining the process when Frank said, “Can we both change our name?”
She explained that some people hyphenated both names, and that would work.
“No,” said Frank. “That’s not what I mean. See, my dad, he took all the letters in both our last names and mixed them up to form a new name, Miller-Wrabissi. Can we use that?”
Georgia gave the clerk a glare that would have felled a basilisk.
“I don’t think so,” said the clerk. “I’m sure it’s possible, but it would be very complicated and expensive.”
Yet another person doing her job well. Georgia and I appreciated it!
My column "Back to the Rat Race" appears every two weeks in Joplin Tri-State Business. This edition was published on September 7, 2009. JTSB is now available online at http://www.joplintristate.biz/.
She explained that some people hyphenated both names, and that would work.
“No,” said Frank. “That’s not what I mean. See, my dad, he took all the letters in both our last names and mixed them up to form a new name, Miller-Wrabissi. Can we use that?”
Georgia gave the clerk a glare that would have felled a basilisk.
“I don’t think so,” said the clerk. “I’m sure it’s possible, but it would be very complicated and expensive.”
Yet another person doing her job well. Georgia and I appreciated it!
My column "Back to the Rat Race" appears every two weeks in Joplin Tri-State Business. This edition was published on September 7, 2009. JTSB is now available online at http://www.joplintristate.biz/.
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