End of one era, beginning of another

This will be a very difficult and delicate blog entry to write. And I’m sure it will go long. Over ten years long, in fact.

That’s how long I’ve worked at Price Chopper/FreshCo. It’s hard to leave a place after over a decade: no matter how strong the force pulling you away may be--and even if there are forces pushing you out--there is resistance. Ten plus years of blood, sweat and tears can push all it wants, but an equal measure of laughter and love has a pull all its own.

The sweat goes without saying. Many verging on most days at FreshCo, a lunch break is flatly impossible and any bathroom break I dare to take is like as not interrupted mid-stream with a page: “Ken to receiving...” Receive this! Can’t a man pee in peace?

I can’t begin to guess how many hours of my own time I have put into this job, long after it stopped being rewarded or indeed noticed. It seems stupid, I’m sure, but when others around you are doing the same thing--the boss works at least sixty hours a week and our produce manager hasn’t ever worked an eight hour shift to my knowledge--it also seems obligatory. So I punch a clock every day, and every day my punches are “adjusted”. This never used to bother me in the slightest, but then it started being taken for granted...

The blood can’t really be explained most of the time. On several occasions I came home bleeding. Eva would say “Ken, what did you do to your arm?...your OTHER arm!” and I’d look at her with all the intelligence of a shopping cart. Cuts and scrapes are just part of the job, and until I discovered gloves I could actually use--ten years in, and thanks, Karri-- they were a frequent partk of the job. Digging things out of cardboard boxes can earn you the grandpappy of all paper cuts.

And the tears...there’ve been a few of them. The day Larry Dobbs, the best boss I’ve ever had, was transferred. The funeral for Rick Kent, my Parmalat rep for many years. The time I got my finger caught in the metal of an egg slat right out on the sales floor. (It’s the ‘ck’ in the F word that blunts pain, did you know that? I couldn’t complete the epithet the way I wanted to, there being customers in the store and tender ears throughout the city...so I tried to content myself with a good hearty rendition of "FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!" Didn't help much. The tears came anyway.

The tears will come today, I'm sure. Today is my last shift.

But there has been a great deal of laughter in that job, too. Most of it at my expense, of course, but that’s okay...

--The tuna incident

--the time Jeff sidearmed a brick of cheese directly at my groin. “Here, Ken, catch”, he said, and I went down as if poleaxed

--watching in horror as about ten galllons of cream fell in slow motion to form a lake that took two hours to vacuum up. At times like that, you either laugh, cry, or scream

--endless jokes told and retold in the back room out of customer earshot, almost every one of which can’t possibly be printed in this family blog

--The time I accidentally paged “mushrooms to receiving”. Or the time I very much intentionally sung, to the tune of Ride of the Valkyries, “Jeff to receiving, Jeff to receiving, Jeff to receiving, the grocery truck’s here!”

--Trying to unplug a block in my dairy cooler drain. I guess “block” is kind of an understatement: I had my arm up to the shoulder in congealed milk with the exact consistency of cottage cheese

 There are so many memories. How can I have accumulated three lifetimes’ worth in ten years?

--my first shift, just before we opened, Mark got on the P.A. and said “Scud missiles, the non-nuclear missiles. Surprise your friends, amuse your enemies, start your party off with a BANG!!!”...and I thought,  I’m home. Of course, some time later, the same wag paged “Ken to the men’s washroom for reorientation”...

--Kyle farting in my dairy cooler. The stench was beyond belief and beyond my limited powers of description, and he just stood there blocking the door, cupping his hands behind his noxious butt and bringing them forward, chanting “cup of soup? Cup of soup?”

--Lunchtime games of Super Quiz, back when lunch had an actual time. I was usually quizmaster, which for some reason made people think I was smart. Three years running, I was voted “most likely to appear on Jeopardy” in the Christmas survey--which, by the way, was the highlight of the year until the PC police got hold of it. I guess asking things like “who makes the uniform look good” and “who’s got the nicest butt” put somebody’s knickers in a twist. Rather than strike the “offensive” questions, the entire survey was killed. And it was at that precise moment that morale started to slip

--Nick casually strolling out of the meat prep room with an eggplant sticking out of his fly

--Karen opening a cup of yogurt only to have most of it splooge all over Ric beside her in the lunchroom. It looked for all the world like a money shot

--an endless revolving door of pretty young nubile things coming and going, making me feel like a dirty old man. And that’s just the customers. You should see some of the cashiers.

--playing Armageddon for Bryan and making him cry with laughter. More than once.

--The JBHL, and my brief starring role in same.

--an ill-advised call across the store to ask Sue how her abscess was doing. “Sue”, I near-shouted. “How’s your cavity?” Mike sniggered, loudly, and I realized with a start what I’d just said

--the phallus-shaped icicles that used to form as if by magic on my frozen deck. Some of them looked remarkably realistic, especially after a little chiseling 

But there were serious moments, too. Back before every last teenager had her own BlackBerry, the lunchroom was full of hot-button talks on religion and politics. I’ve had more than one person come to me for relationship advice--which is deadly serious when you’re a teenager. And then there were my work-experience kids, from Keith right through to Nathaniel, each and every one of them enriching my work life, even the ones who didn’t get hired. Sometimes especially those kids.They taught me a LOT.

I don’t make friends easily--never have. So it’s hard to leave a place stuffed chock-full of them. 

Justin. No offense to anyone else, but I believe you’re the guy I’m going to see in the news in twenty years and say “I knew him when...”

Nicole. You’re gonna do just fine. And the next time you go, it WILL be for brighter horizons.

Jordan. Introduced me to a whack of good music. Great guy to swap fish tales with. 

Cathy. New Zuma Blitz Two: NOW WITH ALLOCATION TABLES!

Craig. Thanks for tagging me with the nickname “G-baby”. You’re another guy I think’s gonna go a long, long way.

Lauren aka Minnie Mouse. Brightened countless Saturday mornings with Disney chatter. You will be missed. Love from your friend, Blade.

Bryan, aka Donkey-Balls (don’t ask). I spent every day trying to render you speechless. And failing every time. The only guy there who knows filthier jokes than I do.

Sue, of cavity fame. Bus-mate, you do realize you should be next in line for CSM, right?

Trish. You've got your head firmly on your shoulders, girl. Question authority--that's how you'll get your own. And...Hasa diga eebowai!


Jamie. Leafs over Devils in seven. Book it. 


Not to mention all those who have left before me, people I still remember fondly and always will: 
Kathleen. Mike. Christine. Matt and Katie. Amanda. Sam. Mark. Amy. Colin. Crystal. Shannon. And a bunch more. 

A few special notes for last. Jeff...I recommended you four years back for a job I wanted myself. You've never given me any reason to doubt I did the right thing. May you get your farm in the country and oh, yeah, you WILL get married someday...and you will LIKE it. Trust me on that.


Todd--I never got to work with you for so much as an hour, but we've been partners in crime forever now. No, I can't help you with the Tropicana. Thanks for keeping me sane for so long, buddy.


Greg--Bike up to see me sometime, okay? Should only take you three minutes from south Kitchener. Meanwhile, keep seeing the world outside your dairy cooler.

If I have left you out, please forgive me. With a very, very few exceptions--fewer than seems possible in a place that employs so many--I will miss each and every one of you.

And there are customers I’m going to miss, too. I’ve kvetched in this blog more than once about the silliness and occasional malice from more than a few idiots, but the truth is that one customer like Dana makes up for about a week’s worth of “where is aisle 1?” and “oh, look, some lettuce in the freezer”. 

Why am I leaving a place that has nurtured me, with so many people I respect and even love? Why go to another store and do exactly the same job?

It’s not about the money, even though I’ll be making more to start there than I currently make here.

There is so much I could write here, were I the type of person to delight in burning bridges. I'm not a pyromaniac, so I will try to be as circumspect as I can. The biggest reason I'm leaving: the man who will be my new boss thanked me repeatedly and sincerely just for coming in for an interview. He  hasn’t even seen my work, but a twenty minute interview yielded a couple of compliments that made me feel--what is that feeling called? Appreciated? Wanted? Respected? Whatever you call it, it feels good.

I’m told there are more opportunities for advancement, which is also a good thing. I’ve been asking to learn other departments for years; each request has been flatly denied. My goal is to prove myself in my new store and build on what I’ve learned over ten years of effort in the old one.

And so, each ending is a new beginning. FreshCo folk, thank you for ten years of love and laughter. Please keep in touch. It’s hard enough to lose working with you every day. I don’t want to lose all contact.