Hats, Where to Begin
I’ve worn a lot of hats in my life. The first hat I wore was the blue and yellow cap of a Cub Scout. Scouting wasn’t necessarily something I needed growing up on a farm, but mom thought her boys needed the interaction associated with scouting. I also wore the farmer’s hat and had the farmer’s tan. Most of the time I was shirtless, and whenever possible, shoeless. I loved the feel of freshly turned soil between my toes. We farmed 100 aces of Tennessee fields, cotton, soybeans and our regular garden foods that Mom canned for winter.
As a teenager, I wore the black cap needed to keep loose hairs from falling into the food I made as a pizza chef. I ate a lot of pizza in the short 2 years I worked stuffing pizza ovens. I was really good at this, the stuffing ovens part, and became a night manager.
After high school graduation, I wore the hat (metaphysically) of a missionary. This grounded me more in the compassion for others that has been a standard for the rest of my life. At this time, I also learned Spanish. I still speak it over 30 years later. Working with the Latin culture taught me a little about the differences and similarities of people, beyond skin color, income and (Dare I say it?) religion. I learned in my early 20’s that we are more alike than different and this has garnered me friends around the world.
Within six months of returning from my mission, I gained my next hat, the white Dixie Cup hat of the US Navy. I wore it for 6 years. This is where I learned that, although I was really good at being a sailor, the military lifestyle was not for me. On my last ship, I was sailor of the month for my department 8 months running and I made Sailor of the Quarter for the ship. Needless to say, my Chief, the Division Officer, Department Head and Executive Officer were upset when, after Desert Storm, I decided I wanted to pursue the civilian life with my wife and have kids.
My next hat was that of an unemployed spouse to a wife who got hired before I did. It took half a year to find my civilian job. No matter how good my Navy electronics training and management skills were, most businesses were looking first for a warm body with “at the minimum” a bachelor’s degree. I didn’t have one. During a New Year’s Eve party at a friend’s home, we discussed my difficulty finding work. I had known Tim since before kindergarten. He promised to keep me in mind as he worked around the Memphis, Tennessee area. He serviced and repaired sterilizers in hospitals. The very next week he called to tell me of a company looking for someone like me. He gave me the time and address and I went.
Upon arrival, I introduced myself to the receptionists and told her I was there to interview for the advertised Biomedical Technician position. That conversation went something like this:
Her: Are you Tim.
Me: No, I’m David. Tim sent me.
Her: We can’t interview you for his job.
Me: I’m here to interview for MY job. Tim thought I’d be a great fit with your company.
Her: Wait right here.
She left and returned with someone a little younger than me, who repeated the previous conversation almost verbatim. When we got to the part where I said, “He thought I’d be a great fit with your company,” he invited me to follow him into the workshop.
My interview consisted of looking through tech manuals for anesthesia equipment and patient monitors. This was to see if I could read them and explain what would happen if this or that component broke, followed by, “How would you repair this?” After 45 minutes of Geek Speak, he decided it was time for me to meet with someone higher up the food chain.
I was taken to the office a middle-aged man who had a huge desk. As I stopped to admire a wooden golf putter mounted to a plaque on his wall, he asked, “Are you a golfing man, David?” Golf! I couldn’t tell him “I’m a 10-putt man,” but shared golf stories from my navy days. I got to play golf in Puerto Rico, Cuba, the Philippines and Florida. Yarns of carrying turf squares on the Guantanamo course, of monkeys stealing golf balls from the Subic Bay greens, and alligators in Florida water traps, kept me in the interview seat for another 30 minutes.
At this point he asked, “David, where do you see yourself in 20 years?” I think my answer of, “Sitting in your seat” was exactly what he wanted to hear. He got up and took me to yet another office to meet the owner of the company. This man looked like he could have been the age of all of us combined, including the receptionist.
The interview with him was simple. “Do you have any letters of recommendation?” In a bygone day, letters of recommendation carried the weight of the person doing the recommending to the recipient of the letter. Those letters would’ve meant I was of value to someone important.
I replied, “No sir, but I have Letters of Commendation from my military service.” He took them and took the time to read each one. Two of the Commendations were from service in Desert Storm, one from the Group Admiral and one from my Captain. The third Commendation was from my Captain for making Sailor of the Quarter. He read them again and said, “As long as you are willing to work, you will have a job here.” I got my next hat, the chance to wear medical scrubs really, from that ancient man.
I began working as a biomedical field service engineer, in-servicing and repairing medical equipment in surgery centers and hospitals from Nashville, Tennessee to Fayetteville, Arkansas. I even found opportunities to interpret for Spanish patients in surgery and labor and delivery. I loved that work. I loved the help I provided in hospitals. I loved that old man who gave me an opportunity when no one else would even let me sit an interview. When he died, things changed. My job and his promise disappeared as my department was sold to our biggest competitor.
Nowadays, the hat I wear is a yellow ballcap that says, “The Bartlett Bee Whisperer” and “Gimme a Buzzzz.” Being self-employed is almost unbelievable. It is also scary. It is always hard. If it’s raining, I don’t have to work if I don’t want to. Bees don’t like the rain. It makes them irritable. Rain makes me a little irritable also, but I love working with honey bees. I also enjoy helping people who find themselves in the crazy position of having thousands of honey bees living in their home, with no apparent remedy, shy of killing the bees (and one can of wasp spray won’t do it).
