First jobs are often the best teachers

Labor Day is not my favorite holiday. There is no guarantee of turkey and dressing. There is no promise of presents under the Christmas tree.

There are no traditions like there are on Valentine’s Day (flowers), Halloween (candy) and the Fourth of July (fireworks).

On Labor Day, we acknowledge the contributions of the American worker by doing what?

We take the day off.

We barbecue in the backyard.

We head to the beach for the last hurrah of summer. (Planning for hurricanes is advisable.)

When I was a sportswriter for The Telegraph, I worked a lot of first Mondays in September. There was always the Labor Day Road Race or a ballgame to cover.

I have punched clocks more than two-thirds of my life. I have never been married to my jobs, but I do consider them sweethearts. Labor Day is a reflection and a celebration.

I grew up first wanting to be a fireman, then an astronaut and then a pro quarterback. On career days, I changed my mind as often as I changed socks. Eventually I figured out I didn’t have the skills or the smarts to make the cut in many occupations.

Some folks assumed I might follow in my dad’s footsteps and study to be a doctor. My dad encouraged me to follow my heart instead. Besides, if he had any aspirations of his oldest son becoming a physician, I cured him when I was in the fifth grade.

We were studying the human body in science. I asked if I could take one of his plastic models for show and tell. I went to his office to get an ear and came back with a part of the anatomy I was unfamiliar with at the time. He stopped me before I could get out the door. I was prepared to point out the hammer, anvil and stirrup. My teacher would have been mortified.

The saints in my life were those who recognized my passion for writing and encouraged me. I filled reams of Blue Horse notebook paper with my words. Acres of trees died for my calling.

My first paying job was delivering stories to people’s doorsteps. When I was 14 years old, I was a paperboy in Sandy Springs. Every afternoon, a bundle of 50 copies of The Atlanta Journal newspaper was dropped in our driveway. I put rubber bands around them. On weekends, I inserted all the circular ads by hand.

I didn’t have my driver’s license, so I pedaled my bike up and down the hills in the neighborhood. (I later got a minibike.) My mother — bless her heart — drove me on my route on Sunday mornings when it was dark and cold and the papers were heavy. I worked every day for more than a year. It taught me discipline and responsibility.

I owe the next five years of my life to the “Special K’s’’ — KFC and Kmart.

I was hired as a cook at Kentucky Fried Chicken when I was 16. I fried so many thighs, wings, legs and breasts I came home clucking every night. I could have changed my name from Grisamore to Grease-amore.

It was so hot in that kitchen we often would take our breaks by cooling off in the big, walk-in freezer. When my father found out, he was not happy. He warned that I could end up with arthritis one day. I probably should have been more obedient, now that I have stiffness and pain in three of my fingers.

The KFC gig paid minimum wage but I was grateful to have a job. I was willing to work night shifts and weekends. I saved enough money to take out an installment loan at the C&S Bank and buy my first car.

In college, I worked at Kmart in the summer and helped out during the Christmas holidays. I stocked shelves with toothpaste and ran price checks at the registers. I spent most of my time in the rear of the store in the home improvement department.

My time card was No. 198. I am amazed I can still remember that.

I sold Sherwin-Williams paint, dropcloths and caulk guns and walked around with a semigloss smile. I learned that duct tape really does hold the world together. And that WD-40 takes care of most everything that should move but doesn’t. Whenever a woman in a tennis dress would come up and asked what kind of varnish she should use, I didn’t always know the answer. But I talked a good game.

I have spent most of my career sitting at typewriters and computer keyboards, filling spaces with my thoughts. I have chased around millions of words on thousands of pages. I have erased as many as I have pinned down.

I didn’t learn to write a story lead by frying drumsticks. I didn’t learn what to teach young minds in the classroom by mixing latex paint.

We all have to start somewhere. Those jobs were my somewhere.

They instilled in me a strong work ethic and pride in a job well done.

They taught me how to make a living, then build a life.

This story was originally published September 2, 2016 at 11:38 AM with the headline "First jobs are often the best teachers."