Remember how you walked in, back in 1983, filled out that application for that second shift job so that you and your husband could work opposite shifts to eliminate paying for childcare? And when they called you in, you took the offer? And you planned to stick the innards inside mini-blind head rails long enough to pay off that new family room that you guys added to your house?
And then that one night when you got dropped off in town at midnight by Tootsie, because your car wouldn't start after your shift.
And how that guy named Sven gave you a ride home?
And then one morning you found yourself punching into the first shift time clock and you joined the tough ranks on the decorator rod line.
And then shortly after that a sheriff stopped in to deliver you some papers to sign.
How you made those good old friends, C.B and Sam, while you were rolling up roller shades in the roller shade department. And you guys would whoop it up at The Doghouse, formerly Charlie Brown's, whenever you could find the time?
And to this day you and Jill wonder why you were spared that windy afternoon on your way home from the vertical department. It was during that blinding snowstorm when you came upon the first curve there on Highway P. From what you could see, it looked like that semi was headed straight for the two of you. And then that semi was headed straight sideways for the two of you. And then it slid past your driver side door with three inches to spare.
And just like that all the screaming inside your car stopped.
You looked at each other like, WTF?
And how many times did Jill roll down her window and yell, "Hey! Get a room," to the ducks in the mornings, sitting on top of each other on the center line, right in the heart of downtown Lodi. Home of Susie the Duck.
And then there you sat.
You were at a desk.
No more steel toed boots on your feet.
You were all duded up and hanging out with a bunch of people in headsets.
Yep.
You were telling people how to fix blinds that you may have put together incorrectly yourself.
And then there were those days that you spent in the payroll department.
That is the era when you first noticed that German Shepard who lived in the white farmhouse on the right. He always liked to sit on top of the picnic table in his front yard. It was stationed next to his kiddie pool.
It was tough when he disappeared from the daily scenes.
You almost wrote that sympathy note to those people that you never knew.
But, then you didn't.
And then one Spring morning, you were climbing up the stairs to the credit department.
That was a fun crew with The Cranster at the helm. And Deb and Peggy and Ygenia and Jo and Di and her famous 6/6/6 birthday.
Not to mention the cake.
I even liked the Loser.
But never tell her that.
Nobody will ever forget Sherrie and her locks of hair as red and thick as only can be described as Sherrie's hair.
Oh, how she loved sunrises.
And how I loved her.
Then one morning, I found myself parking on the other side of the building.
I was reporting to my new job in the pricing department.
It sounds like a lot of numbers were headed my way.
They were.
And during those days of numerals I discovered,
"MMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo."
That is passing the big red milking barn on the left on Highway 113.
At 6:30 AM.
And you know what?
It seems like I have known Char and Liz forever.
They say it has only been sixteen years.
It was another red-rubber-ball-morning last Tuesday as I came around that first curve on highway P.
The orange circle was sitting on the horizon.
There was a pink sky surrounding it.
It was the kind of red-rubber-ball sun sitting on the horizon surrounded by that pink sky, that Sherrie always loved, while I was witnessing her wither away in my front passenger seat.
Not without a smile.
And not without a fight.
Remember how you walked in, back in 1983, filled out that application for that second shift job so that you and your husband could work opposite shifts to eliminate paying for childcare? And when they called you in, you took the offer? And you planned to stick the innards inside mini-blind head rails long enough to pay off that new family room that you guys added to your house?
Since then, your husband has been re-married, twice.
You, once more, to a guy named Sven.
Those kids of yours that you did not have to pay childcare for now have their own children.
Yeah.
Me too.
Mrs. Roth and her mousey brown hair, little black glasses, gray skirt and white blouse tucked in tight, stood in front of the blackboard, full of division and announced to our sixth-grade class, "Never wish away your life."
I was a serious sixth grader.
So.
I took her seriously.
And I have never wished away my life.
Not even the bad days.
Never.
"What's that Louisa?"
My sister says I am full of shit.
As you can imagine I am a little annoyed. And not just with Louisa.
I am upset that so much of my life has slipped on by, regardless of always following Mrs. Roth's rule.
Does this mean the freaking golden rule is a bunch of bullshit too?
Anyway.
March is coming.
That is when I am leaving.
It is almost time for Millie Noe to move on.
I was just gonna pay off that family room you know.
And I am not wishing away any days.
No.
I am just counting them down.
And yes.
Gol darn it.
I will miss that sunrise drive in to work.
I will miss rolling my eyes with Char and stifling our church laughs.
I will miss lunch with Bev, the last one left standing of the GREATEST LUNCH BUNCH, hearing about her latest YouTube research project, wondering if her kitchen remodel will ever end and how I will get by without her.
And.
I will miss that drive home from work.
Especially that first curve on Highway P.
And that house on the right.
The one with the two yellow labs in the yard. And all those kids jumping off the bus while it's flashers are flashing, stop sign out to the side and traffic cursing.
NO!
I am not dying.
It's called retirement.
Jesus.
But not until March.
And.
I am not wishing away the days.
"What's that Louisa?"
I am just counting them down.