Recently, I was engaged in a little reminiscing about my work history.
It was for some exercise, but I don’t recall what.
Looking back over one’s work years can be an interesting trip down memory lane.
In my case, it called to mind many different stages of my life and brought to vivid recollection the faces of former employers and fellow employees, as well as incidents and accidents from those past experiences.
Aside from performing chores and other odd tasks around the house, yard and garden of my parents, I used to dabble in various, shall we say, “enterprises.”
Starting probably when I was in middle school, I responded to various published ads and signed up with mail-order companies galore, selling Christmas cards, GRIT newspapers — remember those? — spices and other general household items, Mason shoes, a so-called “Fantastic” pen that would allow you to write a message using one end of the pen and make the message disappear by tracing over it with the other, and the list goes on.
Once, I even answered an ad for stuffing mail at home. Another time, I paid good money to sign up for a sales program that sounded promising — don’t they all! — but turned out to be a bust. Then there was the time I became an independent Amway agent, distributor or whatever the position is called. I did not enjoy the level of success that I was led to believe was possible, but maybe that was my own fault.
Admittedly, I was about as naive as they come, but, to my credit, it was all harmless activity that showed a certain amount of initiative and a willingness to work.
My parents, other family members, fellow churchgoers and people in my own little neighborhood in Charleston were the major purchasers of my wares. Their kindness and support at least created the illusion that I was a successful “businessman.”
I like to think that my parents, both factory workers, on some level admired my persistence. Perhaps they were amazed that I even tried, given how quiet-natured, shy and reserved I was at the time. It's also possible that they were just too busy and tired to take much notice.
Over the years, I held down quite a few summer jobs.
The first unofficial one was mowing a few yards, mostly on my own street, to put a little jingle in my pockets.
If memory serves, my first “official” job was working as a sack boy at the local Piggly Wiggly under the watchful eye of Mr. Brunson — I see his face plainly but his name escapes me — and Edgar Fox.
I later worked at the Sonic Drive-In here in Charleston. For those not old enough to remember, the present-day Bumpers first opened as a Sonic. My job description was cook, and I manned the big griddle and deep fryers.
During another summer, I worked at Newsom’s Pic Pac, a family grocery store located at the corner of West Main and Clay streets. There, I stocked shelves, sacked groceries and occasionally operated the cash register. That was before barcode scanners found their way to Charleston, Mississippi, and every price had to be manually keyed into the machine. Speaking of Newsom’s, I still remember the humongous fried potato logs I could purchase there to complement my lunch, which often included a can of vienna sausages or a sandwich from home.
From peddling wares, mowing yards, sacking groceries, flipping burgers and stocking shelves, I moved on to working at the Sunflower Food Store in Charleston, where I had to wear a white button-up shirt and one of those little black bow ties. Clip-on, of course. Arnold Stanford was the owner and Chester Hamilton managed the store. My official title — unearned, I assure you — was that of produce manager. It was at Sunflower that I first recall encountering the wretched smell of rotting potatoes. Occasionally, I had to cull bad potatoes from retail sacks. The other potatoes were then washed and repackaged. On at least one occasion, fellow worker Bill Powell and I had a little pitching competition involving, I think, some fruit. I don’t recall Chester being amused.
After the Sunflower gig came high school graduation, and then beckoned college, where I studied journalism.
In mid-December of my first college semester, in 1982, The Sun-Sentinel advertised on front page an opening for a staff writer. I applied. John Oliver Emmerich Jr., the owner, personally interviewed the applicants and gave us a little impromptu writing assignment that we had to complete on the spot. I guess I did well enough to get the job.
I began working part-time at the newspaper so that I could finish my college studies. I scheduled classes around the job and it all worked out nicely.
Forty-two years later, The Sun-Sentinel is my home away from home.
Mr. Emmerich passed away in the mid-nineties and his son and hand-picked successor, John Wyatt Emmerich, assumed control of the family company now known as Emmerich Newspapers. The industry has seen many changes and encountered increasing challenges over four-plus decades, but with God’s grace and your support, we remain.
I, and wife Krista, who has worked alongside me at the newspaper office for over 37 years, love what we do. We are blessed to be able to do it at home. God is good.
