As I had suspected, my sales declined rapidly once I ventured outside of the neighborhood, and my bravery and spirit departed "en masse." I had detested trying to sell Girl Scout cookies, and I strained to find a reason why I felt that selling cards would prove to be any different. It was different, however, because it was worse; no one recognized the company whose cards I was attempting to sell, and furthermore, I had to collect the money and make the necessary change (which horrified me) at the time of the order, rather than the delivery of the cards. I soon had more than enough refusals to warrant my dismissal of any idea of making further sales.
June 25, 1976… Got dressed and went out on 53rd St. selling (or trying to sell) my cards. No one bought a thing. A lot of 'em gave excuses like, "I just got home from the hospital" and "I buy from a girl down the block and don't want to hurt her feelings" ETC. !! What do they think they're doing to me?
July 1, 1976… This week has seemed endless. I wake up and Mom says, "You'd better start selling your cards, hadn't you?" and so I do and I come back half zonked and then I do some chores around the house and then write letters. I feel real depressed… I didn't sell any cards today. . . didn't feel like it. After some persuading I went to (the mall ) with Mom. Ate supper. Did dishes, piano, wrote letters… the same old grind! I'm taking a bath and I wish someone would buy me some bath oil… I think I deserve it after this week!
July 3, 1976… Counted my money for Xmas cards and I came out $17.00 short. After all that work! I cried for at least a half hour. I was really broke up. I did a lot of change making wrong.
Salesmanship was definitely not my station in life, and not understanding how to make change supported that belief. If, for each sale of a $4.95 box of cards, I was given a five dollar bill, my notion of making change concluded that, since it was under five dollars, the person should receive one dollar, plus five cents to bring the 95 cents to a dollar. My only salvation came by way of checks or a patron telling me the amount of change he was due; otherwise, my blunders rampaged unnoticed, or at least, unrevealed.
Had I been of stout health, my disappointment would not have settled so deeply on my heart, but the embarrassment and mental fatigue doubled with the recollection of the energy I had expended… I felt used and humiliated "after all that work!…" and the tears flowed unrestrained.
Unasked, Mom and Dad made up the difference in the end, thus rescuing me from the depths of self-wrought despair. My work had not been in vain after all.
July 29th was my dad's last day of work as a tool and die maker at John Deere Industrial Equipment after 17 years of service. The following day, a Friday, he appeared at the shop for a final farewell.
Retirement for my dad was a rather melancholy affair; it was the end to an age, and the commencement of a new and different lifestyle. He had worked since he was 18 years old with the idea that work… productiveness… paralleled one's self-worth, which, in a society that is inter-dependent upon each other's conscientiousness, is quite useful… until a good worker retires and considers himself to be of no more importance than a bald tire. A full life of integrity on the job is all that society requires of anyone; retirement viewed in this scope is justly earned.
Dad's party was an acknowledgement of his worth to us, which grew only greater with the passing of one year to the next. His labors around the house amplified his presence, and it seemed that all he did for us were reflections of his love. Dad most certainly did not waste away in front of the television or newspaper in his retirement; work was more than ethical… it was a welcomed pastime.