Work

"I dreamed of my grandmother last night," I tell Stan. "I was so happy to see her."

"I know she is watching over you," he says. "You had a hard week at work. Did she have any advice for you?"

She didn't.

We never talked about my work anyway. She was proud of my achievements, would tell neighbors and visitors that I had "a good position" with a university. What I did was a mystery to her.

She had completed the fifth grade and gone to work at age 12, ironing clothes and sheets in the back of a laundry operation. A year later, she had found a position as an apprentice hat-maker and had worked for the hat shop until my mother was born in 1940. She had stayed home then and had worked on keeping a home, raising children, making clothes and tending to the garden. When my grandfather retired from his job as an accountant in the mid 70's, she complained that she would never get to retire from her endless house chores.

She never understood office politics, never suspected the existence of such things as performance evaluations, mission statements, financial reports or strategic plans. She was only concerned that I should have a stable job - preferrably the same until retirement.

"Are they treating you well?" she'd ask.

"Yes"

"Do you work long hours?"

"Sometimes."

"You are too skinny: skin on bones. You need to eat more."

"I eat fine."

"Do you have a hot meal everyday?"

"I prefer salads."

"That's not real food. How can you live on salads? Do you sleep well?"

"I sleep fine."

"You look tired."

I was always too skinny and tired for Margo, too involved with work, too busy, too hurried.

"It's not good to work so much," she'd say.

Perhaps she was right.