Driving Lessons

When I was four years old, I narrowly avoided being guilty of vehicular manslaughter.

Wait. Maybe we should go back to the beginning.

As a child, I emulated my mom. As a stay-at-home mother, she was the central adult figure in my life during my childhood. I followed her around everywhere and loved it when she gave me attention. Being the middle of five children, this cherished attention was something I basically had to fight tooth and nail for.

One afternoon, I devised a plan to get it.

Mom chose a hot summer day to wash the family car, including the interior. I really wanted to help out, but she shooed me away and called upon my sister to help, since she was older and had meticulous cleaning and organizing skills (something that is evident today in her Martha Stewart-esque home). So for the rest of the afternoon, my hurt pride and I sat on the back step, watching while they got to have all of the ‘fun’.

After the cleaning supplies were put away and the sun began to dry up all of the soapy water from the driveway, I decided to take it upon myself to inspect the quality of the cleaning job on the old family car. I opened the door and crawled into the car, hot from sitting in the sun all day. The pine-fresh smell and cushioned driver’s seat were so inviting, a great place to sit and relax. Then I saw it - the gleam of the silver key hanging from the ignition, which my mom foolishly forgot to take back inside the house. What a perfect opportunity to play “mommy”.

This was going to be easy-after all, I had seen her do it countless times. I reached to the dashboard for her sunglasses and put them on. I wiggled around the rearview mirror-I had no idea the function of it at the time, I just remember it’s something that Mom always did. I pushed the key forward and could feel the engine come alive. A pull of the gear shift jolted the car forward.

Oh shit. What have I done?

The car very slowly started driving down the front lawn. I could hear yelling to my left, but I was too frozen with fear to even move. Suddenly my dad appeared and jumped into the driver’s side door which I had left swinging open, ending my high-speed chase.

Finally! I’m going to get some attention from my mom. She’s going to be so impressed with what a big girl I am.

My fantasy was crushed when I saw my parents hugging my brother, who I had narrowly avoided hitting while he played on the lawn.

Seriously, what does a kid have to do to get some attention around here?

This job stinks. Literally.

A road next to one of my dad's fields. Love it. 

Biting cold air. My hands aching as another callous began developing on my hands. The pungent smell of cow manure filling my nostrils. These are the things I remember from my first job- working on my father’s dairy farm.

During my junior high years, when I was desperate to make some spending money yet too young to get a typical part-time job, I made an unfortunate deal with my father that would actually make me dread Saturday mornings. I would do some chores around the farm and receive a modest payment. Sounded like a pretty sweet deal. My older brother, a long-time employee of our dad’s, shot me a look of “you’re going to regret this.”

And so my first day on the job began when I was 13 years old on a beautiful fall morning. As I lay curled up in my bed, I could hear my dad yelling at me from downstairs to eat some breakfast and come down to the barn. As I wiped the sleep from my eyes to look at the ridiculously early time on the alarm clock, the pangs of regret began to set in.

My weekly chore was filling up giant bins with sawdust and laying them in stalls for cows to lay in-just screams glamorous, right? And so this ordeal went on for hours: shovel sawdust in a giant bin; lift the bin over the metal stalls; lay the sawdust out; repeat. A pretty mindless task accompanied by a sore back and blistered hands. When this was finished, my elation of being free from ‘slave labor’ was cut short when I ran into my dad holding a giant brush. Pretty soon I found myself scrubbing the walls of the giant milking parlor. Another back-busting chore that made me strongly reconsider this whole arrangement.

And so this went on every Saturday morning for the next three years. Definitely not a thrilling job and certainly not my favorite job. But whether I knew it then or not, it was this job where I learned important values I carried into other jobs, such as responsibility, dedication and a hard work ethic. All these great lessons aside, I’m really glad that none of my recent jobs have required me to wade through cow manure. 

It's All About Me

(L-R) Me, my cousin and my older sister. Paying attention has never been my forte.

Although our PR class has been together for four years (more or less), this personal writing assignment seems to be a nauseating task. My life is pretty uneventful, but in the most fulfilling way. Like everyone else, it has had its ups and downs (with more to come), but I consider myself to be quite blessed.

I grew up in a very nuclear environment-the middle of five children in a Catholic family, living in rural Nova Scotia with a stay at home mother and a father who is a second-generation dairy farmer. The value of hard work and tough love was always made known in my house, which could sometimes feel suffocating. These values are ones that I will always carry with me. However, there are many things I was exposed to that taught me what I don’t want in life. My parents started their family at a very young age and it was assumed that my mother was to quit her career to raise the children. Although she is very thankful that she had the option to be a stay at home mom, the strain of raising five children on one income (which fluctuated frequently) is something that I know weighed heavily on her. I cannot fathom giving up my career to stay at home, so for that I admire her, yet know this is not what I want for myself.

With school taking up the majority of my time, it is no wonder that it has also been an influence. The past four years have taught me that an education is not necessarily contained to a classroom and textbooks. Two “milestone” moments for me occurred during my first and final co-ops. My first co-op was in Ottawa, Ontario, and as embarrassing as it is to admit, it was the first time I was ever on an airplane (my dad being tied down to his job sort of cut out any big family vacations). Talk about being outside your comfort zone. Being in a new city was such an amazing experience, and it is a time in my life I will always remember. It was the literal manifestation of the right opportunities taking you to places you’ve never been. My third co-op, which was also in Ottawa, is where I found my “mentors”. My third co-op got off to a rocky start. A lack of confidence put me in a shell and was starting to affect my work performance. Rather than let it slide, my manager confronted me about it with some constructive criticism. This kick in the butt was exactly what I needed to put my priorities in order and become more confident in my work. Another co-worker of mine, and a fellow PR grad, always took the time to teach me new things, and therefore I also consider her a mentor. These two women are very special to me on both a professional and personal level, and these relationships are ones that I hope will continue into my career.