It matters. Here’s why

A couple weeks ago, as I was wrapping up my day as a writer and editor, I mentioned to a colleague that I was going to grab a bite to eat, and squirrel away in my room with my laptop and a cup of coffee to begin reading more than 70 newspaper articles for a press association contest I had volunteered to judge. 

She wrote back, “GEEEEZ! Why are you volunteering to judge?? That sounds like a nightmare!”

Immediately, my fingers went into defense mode. 

“You want to know why?” I thought. “HERE’S WHY!” 

Ask any seasoned communicator and they’ll tell you that using all capital letters is shouting, so as much as I wanted to shout, I left those thoughts off the page. 

Instead my answer went something like this: 

“I vowed when I moved to my new community that I’d volunteer where my talents matter most, doing things others can’t. Much of that will be communication-related. I follow an area press association on Facebook. They are judging an award competition for another association, just as someone else will volunteer to judge for their awards. 

“In the past, I’ve also done this sort of thing for industry organization award programs and scholarship competitions. I’m working with a local organization on its leadership program, too. 

“It’s my way of giving back for all the support I’ve received from others through the years. Without the example, guidance, and encouragement of other professional writers and editors, I wouldn’t be doing this for a living today. 

“It matters.”

I guess I shocked my colleague as much as if I had “shouted” at her, for she wrote back right away, “You’re exactly right. It does matter.” 

Then she wrote, “I hope you weren’t offended by my question,” and suggested that perhaps I had a story here, about why volunteering matters. 

Gee, do you think? 

After all, I’d almost written the thing already, hadn’t I? 

“Yeah,” I wrote back. “I probably should.”

I thought back to the touch others’ volunteer efforts have had on my life and my career. 

As a writer—absolutely. And in other ways, too.

When I submitted my first paid book review to a contest sponsored by my local chapter of the Association of Women in Communication, it was a volunteer communicator somewhere who judged it. The award encouraged me to keep writing.

Later, I submitted other entries. Again, volunteers judged my work. 

When the appeal came to our chapter to judge entries for another state, I didn’t see it as an obligation. I saw it as a privilege. How rewarding to see the work of other writers and to play a part in acknowledging them for their works of excellence.

But even before that, there were volunteers at work in my life—the fourth-grade teacher who gave up some of her nights and weekends to lead our church choir, the high school student who spent a week in the summer and one afternoon a week during the school year working with my Girl Scout troop, the parents and teachers who chaperoned our high school dances. 

My life was touched by each of them. From the choir director, I learned to appreciate Latin. From the Girl Scout, still a friend today, I learned that dreams are worth pursuing. From a pair of chaperones who loved to do the polka, I learned you’re never too old to live life with gusto. 

Fifteen hours of reading later, the newspaper articles are judged. 

Those small town journalists painted pictures of their communities that made me feel as if I knew their residents and made me wish I lived where they did. They entertained me, amazed me with their talents as writers and storytellers, and made me feel as fortunate to read their work as they will feel when they receive their honors. 

We all need a little encouragement through life, a nudge to go after the things that matter to us, a pat on the back for a job well done. 

I’ve been blessed again and again to be on the receiving end when people volunteer their time and their talents. When asked, I’ll volunteer mine. 

Why? 

It matters. That’s why.

© Ann Tracy Mueller 2013

(Image via)

Be like Abe

Ever have one of those days when you have to leave the house, but you hope beyond all hope that no one, not anybody, no where, no how, sees you?

Happened to me once – sort of.

I knew when I left home that I’d see a couple people, and I was okay with that. But, running into someone on whom my livelihood depended and on whom I’d like to make a good impression? Not so okay with that.

Just so you understand where I’m coming from here, I’m no prima donna, no prissy pris, no girly girl. I know people who won’t leave the house without lipstick, no less.

I’m not one of them.

In fact, I’ve gone months without a stitch of makeup, years without wearing a skirt or a dress. I’m just a jeans and t-shirt kind of gal. But I take a bath every day, and I wash my hair, brush my teeth and wear clean clothes.

Sometimes, though, even clean clothes don’t look clean, and in the course of a day of hard work, the most well-scrubbed bod can appear otherwise. This was one of those days.

For more years than I care to remember, we owned some apartment houses – not big complexes, not slums, just a handful of nice older two-family homes that we rented out to mostly nice people (though some fooled us a bit).

One summer, we’d decided we’d save money heating the homes come winter if we’d add insulation, so we called the local installation guy and had him do the job. He had some sort of high-powered blower that would fill the attics and side walls with the stuff once he drilled holes in the siding.

A few days after his visit to one home, I got a call from a tenant.

“Hi, it’s me, [name omitted to protect the innocent]. I went down to the basement to do laundry.

“You know that room next to the washer? It’s full of insulation.”

It sure was – pretty nearly, anyway.

When I went over to check it out on my lunch hour, I found that the area, originally the home’s coal room, a long narrow space about four feet wide and ten feet long, was almost half full of gray blown-in cellulose insulation.

Back then, I had Wednesdays off. So, the next Wednesday, I pulled on my work clothes – an old comfy t-shirt and a pair of faded, paint-splattered bib overalls. I took some garbage bags, a snow shovel, a broom and a dust pan with me and set off to un-insulate (Is that a word?) the overstuffed room. If I remember correctly, someone was helping me – another renter or a high school boy who worked with me. Thank goodness.

Within an hour or so, we’d made a lot of progress on the drift of gray snow. It wasn’t heavy, but it was messy, and I was looking the worse for wear. The insulation stuck to my clothes, my shoes, my face, my arms, and burrowed its way into my hair.

I needed a break, and if memory serves me correctly, I also needed more trash bags or boxes or something.

I headed to the grocery store where I worked, just a couple blocks from the house.

An “Oh no!” moment

Did you ever have one of those times when you wished you could just turn invisible, say “Beam me up, Scotty, NOW!” and be outta there? It was one of them.

I wasn’t worried about my coworkers or customers seeing me in my “work clothes.” We’d grown up together and they were used to seeing me all scruffy on my quick trips to the store in the midst of cleaning or painting projects.

What I didn’t count on was walking down the produce aisle toward the double doors to the back room and running right smack dab into one of the store’s owners, an “older” gentleman in neatly pressed suit, starched shirt, shiny shoes and tie. He and his brother had come for a visit.

What I hoped, as I spotted him at the end of the aisle, was that I could just pretend I didn’t see him, and that he wouldn’t see me either. It was too late to take a detour down another aisle.

I’d seen him in the store before, but never met him formally, so I was hoping he’d pay me no mind.

No such chance. In his friendliest voice, the owner, a man named Abe, smiled, and said, “Hello, how are you?” with a warmth not often seen or felt -- as if he really cared.

“Fine, thanks. And you?” was my answer – or something of the sort, smiling back, but thinking “Oh, $@&#!”

Then, I went ahead, pushed through the doors and did what I’d come to do.

To this day, I don’t know if Abe knew I worked for his company, or if he was just being as friendly to me as he was to anyone he met. I like to think it was the latter.

Even before that encounter, I had always tried to be friendly to every customer, no matter how dirty, unfriendly or stand-offish they seemed. I always just felt it was the right thing to do.

But after the morning that Abe treated me as if I were wearing party finery and I was the most important person he’d ever met, I always tried to treat his customers – ours – the same.

I wanted to be like Abe.

I think he would have liked that.

© Ann Tracy Mueller 2012

(Image via)