I don’t pack well under pressure.
As Mister Rogers would say, I like to take my time.
Time was not on my side almost two weeks ago when the 30-something editor who’d been in that position for just four months told me I no longer worked for the Record Searchlight.
He booted me from my 10-year-position as the Record Searchlight’s first, full-time designated opinion columnist and, for almost two years, its first local food writer.
If I’d known a little sooner that Oct. 24 would be my last day, I would have gotten a head start on collecting boxes and cleaning my desk. Like in July or January.
It’s not just that my desk was cluttered (OK, but it was), but I’m a nester.
I personalize my surroundings. I’m such a dedicated nester that I do it even if I’m staying in a hotel, or going camping for a few days. Leave me in a grocery store line too long and I’m apt to start hanging family photos from the gum displays and straightening magazine racks.
My sentimental workplace touches included a large tray stacked with a sample of my heart-shaped rock collection, many of which were finds from friends, family and readers. (Yes, it’s taboo for journalists to accept gifts, but I’ve never heard of a reporter being bribed with a rock, have you?)
My desk also had one of those towering photo trees with a bunch of circular metal clips upon which I displayed a picture of Joe when he had braces and when Bazooka was a puppy; and Josh standing in front of his boat shop at Camp Pendleton; and Bruce, all dressed up, throwing his head back in a laugh, and lots of other photos that I’d use as my focal point after a difficult phone call, or when a word escaped me.
My desk had some weird stuff, too, like a piece of ARC welding torch, made into a giant paper holder. The maintenance guys, Ralph and Mike, gave it to me after I wrote the column about my welding classes at Shasta College. And of course, one of my most prized possessions was a glue-stick reindeer with jingle bell “balls” and a metal plaque that said: Doni Greenberg, 1999 Balls of the Year Award. It was a gift from a great guy and Vietnam veteran, Paul Meredith, who passed away a few years ago.
My desk had a small fan, perfect for hot flashes and winter, when the building’s thermostat blasted tropical heat. My desk contained food files about everything from asparagus (roasted in a 450-degree oven, drizzled with a little olive oil and topped with Parmesan shavings) to Zen Buddhist monk baker (Lee Riggs, my gosh can that man bake).
Those files were scrunched beside 10 years’ worth of column topics: The Mall in downtown Redding, Shasta Speedway trophy girls, a nightclub’s Itty Bitty Titty contest, gay marriage, war in Iraq, teen suicide, the young man who drove drunk and woke up a quadriplegic, American flag-flying etiquette, and the column that generated the most feedback of any column: Gloria Tope, the elderly woman who couldn’t lift her groceries on Winco’s self-service checkout counters.
My desk had one of those clipboard gadgets attached to the monitor to hold papers while I typed. But mostly it displayed favorite quotes that surrounded a snapshot of a smiling little Chad Whitmore who held a sign that said, “Thank You!” (for the column about a fundraiser to benefit his family) before he died. Chad’s photo gave me perspective whenever I found myself getting overwrought about something that wasn’t a life-or-death matter.
My top desk drawer was stuffed with Post-it Notes, Splenda, paperclips, pennies, receipts, Tylenol, tea bags, stamps, stationary and a box of business cards imprinted with: Doni Greenberg, Reporter/Columnist, Record Searchlight.
I have a lot of those cards now. They’re in my garage, tucked in one of the many boxes of stuff my twin and I emptied from my desk the day after I left the Searchlight.
All those boxes await me.
I don’t unpack well under pressure. As Mister Rogers would say, I like to take my time.
Now, I’ve got the time.
And it’s on our side.
