Each day, as I look through my windshield up the 150+ feet to the road, I feel a sense of pride. The driveway itself might not appear so inspirational, as it’s only a smooth layer of crushed stone. It IS, however, a smooth layer of crushed stone—15 tons worth, all raked out by yours truly with a garden rake.
A contractor constructed the original driveway (and the utility pole, the septic tank, and such), laying crushed limestone by driving slowly while gradually dumping the cargo, but in a few years, the stone sank into the clay soil, particularly when heavy fuel trucks hazarded the drive. So, years later, a new neighbor, also a contractor, offered to drive his small dump truck to the quarry for a load of crusher—and the problem was solved with a new layer of stone.
Sort of. Over the years, erosion chipped away until the ruts were so bad that negotiating the drive required noting high ground for the tires. My neighbor had moved, so I turned to the phone book late one afternoon.
I explained my problem, and started asking questions. “Hang on,” interrupted the woman on the other end of the phone. “I’ll get the guy you need to talk to.” OK.
When “the guy” (who turned out to be the owner of the business) came to the phone, I started again. After asking me questions about area and depth, he gave me a very reasonable price on five tons of crusher—but wasn’t sure if he could do it that day. “That’s fine,” I explained, understanding this was late in the day, and the job certainly wasn’t urgent. “No, no—I just need to find if we have a free truck” (they were out at construction sites). “Let me call you back in five minutes.” Gotta love a guy who gets business—here’s a customer, checkbook in hand, ready to deal. Get the man some stone.
He didn’t call back—he showed up 20 minutes later (impressive, since his business is 15 minutes away). We talked, I explained where I wanted the stone, he said he’d try, did an awesome spread—and noted that he’d given me a few extra tons. I could see that. Roughly, he grabbed a truck with two tons of crusher, added the five tons, and dumped what he had. From our chat, he was clearly building a new business, and I was certainly a satisfied customer.
I spent a few weeks raking out the stone with a rake—not an easy task, working on it a few hours a day (and nursing my sore muscles). But, as the sea of stone gradually settled, I realized I would need another load to finish the job.
I called the same business. This time, I got a very pleasant, witty young woman who, in the course of our conversation, revealed that she had recently been hired—the business was growing. I placed my request for another five tons of crusher, and by chance, it was again late in the afternoon. As before, my point that I didn’t need delivery that day was rebuffed, they’d find someone, and 20 minutes later, a very large dump truck arrived, driven by a polite but clearly not happy man. He surveyed the job. “I don’t like to spread uphill,” he noted, and given the size of his truck, I could see his point—we’d definitely be testing that thing’s center of gravity. “That’s fine,” I explained. “Just spread downhill and back up over it.” He agreed.
When he had done this, a significant load of crusher still lay in the dump truck’s bed. “Just leave the rest up here in a pile,” I asked, gesturing toward a depression near the road. “I expect to rake it out anyway.” He hesitated, then got into his truck, gingerly backed to the indicated spot (carefully avoiding the mailbox) and dumped the entire contents—clearly far more than the five tons I’d ordered (I estimate at least eight tons). “I gave you a little extra,” he said. “Thanks,” I answered, paid the man, and let him get home.
I’m reminded of graduate school in Cambridge. My housemates and I were struggling with difficult studies and difficult finances in an expensive corner of the world. We split up duties as best we could for mutual benefit, mine including visiting Boston’s Quincy Market at Faneuil Hall one a week for produce and seafood. This was a two day affair, Friday and Saturday, but I always went on Saturdays, around four o’clock, an hour before the end of the market. I’d walk around, buying nothing, just seeing what was available. Before long, though, merchants would realize they had unsold fish and fruit that wasn’t going to keep another week, and suddenly bananas were $1 a bunch, fresh seafood ridiculously inexpensive. Nor did I need to push my way through to the bargain table, since other merchants immediately took up the tune. I returned each week with two grocery bags full of food, $10 worth, all I could carry back home via the subway.
“Tons of work” certainly took on new meaning. Even wearing heavy work gloves, I had blisters all over both hands. I tried to use a shovel and wheelbarrow to move some of that stone pile, but I found that so unproductive that I settled for just gradually raking it down the drive. I’d work for a while and check the time—oh, just five minutes. Sigh. I hurt in places I didn’t know I had places. But every day a little more, and then every day a little adjustment, and eventually—done.
Now it’s a work of art. And now, as usual, I have a ton of work to do, and I can’t imagine how I’ll accomplish it. But I have a rake.
Showing posts with label business. Show all posts
Showing posts with label business. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Eight Days a Week
Last year, I had the luxury of working four days a week. Well, much more accurately, just going into work four days a week—I worked at home the other three days (and all the evenings). But still, it was nice. Working five days in a row is OK, but two days off just isn’t enough to recuperate. Three day weekends work well, since the first day is devoted to much needed rest, the second on head clearing, and only the third on productive activity, before feeling refreshed and ready to go back to the office.
That’s why we should change to an eight day week.
Think about it, then contact your legislators. I propose an additional day, Labor Day, between Sunday and Monday each week, to institutionalize the five day work week, three day weekend, and each month with exactly four weeks—32 days, all the same. This would also simplify the calendar in several ways—each day would always be the same day of the month, for example--no more "What date? What day of the week is that?". Originally I thought the week (and month) should start on Monday, clearly separating the work week from the weekend, rather than splitting the weekend along calendar rows as we do now, but then I realized every month would have a Friday the Thirteenth. Let’s leave the week starting on Sunday, then—a bow to conservatives who won’t like having a Labor Day every week.
The months will need adjustments, since twelve months of 32 days each would give each year nineteen extra days (twenty on leap years)—but the weeks and months have supposedly been designed to follow the moon, and they don’t do that well at all anyway, so let’s combine June and July, creating a new month—Junly (pronounced June-LIE). This will ensure that children are still in school sufficient time to learn the curriculum (the same number of months), or at least as well as they do now—and cut the time they have to forget material over summer break, as well as save single working parents money on day care. Families wouild also have more regular weekend time together, and children more time to complete weekend homework.
Eleven months of 32 days each leaves thirteen days. I propose these be devoted to holidays—one national day off for Election Day, encouraging people to vote, and the other twelve for a national holiday at the end of the year (these “twelve days of Christmas” should mollify wealthy conservatives upset that Election Day will make it easier for the working poor to vote). And once every four years, the New Year will start with Leap Day!
Some critics will complain that this calendar sacrifices 40 business days over the course of a year, hurting the economy, but this is not the case. First, it will cut costs at financial institutions and for the Postal Service. Second, rested workers will be ready to return to work each week refreshed, with better attitudes, and hence be more productive. Additionally, those workers will have parties and barbeques far more often, go out to concerts and restaurants more, shop more, and so forth, all adding to gross domestic production, increasing tax revenue, and creating jobs. And finally, many, many people already work on weekends, whether required or at home, and this won’t change with a three day weekend. (The Beatles were prescient on this one: “Love you ev’ry day, girl, always on my mind.”) The manufacturing sector and similar industries will have much more flexibility in organizing dovetailed schedules for continuous operations.
Just imagine the commercial possibilities! Instead of a twelfth month, each calendar will have only a twelve day holiday season—leaving lots of extra space for holiday advertising. Department stores could have a Labor Day sale every week!
Perhaps best of all—you’ll only spend 1/8th of your life on Monday, instead of 1/7th!
"Eight days a week...I loaloalove you...."
It's almost enough to show I care...!
A new day for America and the world.
That’s why we should change to an eight day week.
Think about it, then contact your legislators. I propose an additional day, Labor Day, between Sunday and Monday each week, to institutionalize the five day work week, three day weekend, and each month with exactly four weeks—32 days, all the same. This would also simplify the calendar in several ways—each day would always be the same day of the month, for example--no more "What date? What day of the week is that?". Originally I thought the week (and month) should start on Monday, clearly separating the work week from the weekend, rather than splitting the weekend along calendar rows as we do now, but then I realized every month would have a Friday the Thirteenth. Let’s leave the week starting on Sunday, then—a bow to conservatives who won’t like having a Labor Day every week.
The months will need adjustments, since twelve months of 32 days each would give each year nineteen extra days (twenty on leap years)—but the weeks and months have supposedly been designed to follow the moon, and they don’t do that well at all anyway, so let’s combine June and July, creating a new month—Junly (pronounced June-LIE). This will ensure that children are still in school sufficient time to learn the curriculum (the same number of months), or at least as well as they do now—and cut the time they have to forget material over summer break, as well as save single working parents money on day care. Families wouild also have more regular weekend time together, and children more time to complete weekend homework.
Eleven months of 32 days each leaves thirteen days. I propose these be devoted to holidays—one national day off for Election Day, encouraging people to vote, and the other twelve for a national holiday at the end of the year (these “twelve days of Christmas” should mollify wealthy conservatives upset that Election Day will make it easier for the working poor to vote). And once every four years, the New Year will start with Leap Day!
Some critics will complain that this calendar sacrifices 40 business days over the course of a year, hurting the economy, but this is not the case. First, it will cut costs at financial institutions and for the Postal Service. Second, rested workers will be ready to return to work each week refreshed, with better attitudes, and hence be more productive. Additionally, those workers will have parties and barbeques far more often, go out to concerts and restaurants more, shop more, and so forth, all adding to gross domestic production, increasing tax revenue, and creating jobs. And finally, many, many people already work on weekends, whether required or at home, and this won’t change with a three day weekend. (The Beatles were prescient on this one: “Love you ev’ry day, girl, always on my mind.”) The manufacturing sector and similar industries will have much more flexibility in organizing dovetailed schedules for continuous operations.
Just imagine the commercial possibilities! Instead of a twelfth month, each calendar will have only a twelve day holiday season—leaving lots of extra space for holiday advertising. Department stores could have a Labor Day sale every week!
Perhaps best of all—you’ll only spend 1/8th of your life on Monday, instead of 1/7th!
"Eight days a week...I loaloalove you...."
It's almost enough to show I care...!
A new day for America and the world.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Calls for a Chicken Parm
As usual, my day had dragged on longer than I expected, and late in the afternoon, doing laundry at the laundromat, I still hadn't eaten.
Although I should be eating fruits and vegetables, avoiding salt, I figured "What the hell" and headed across the street for the New York Pizza shop. This calls for a chicken parm.
The pizzeria is staffed primarily with college students, mostly men, and they have never excelled at customer service. This time, I stood at the unmanned counter, waiting for quite a few minutes, with no results, although I could hear voices from the kitchen. Finally I leaned over the counter and saw three college age kids standing in a circle, talking. One of them caught my eye for a fraction of a second and quickly turned to pretend he hadn't. I waited some more, still with no results. I thought about leaving, but I was hungry, and in a small town, options are limited.
Then I had an idea. Looking around, I found a flyer with a menu and a phone number. While the few customers in the booths watched with interest, I reached for the phone on the counter and dialed the number. One of the guys in the back room came flying out when it rang, picking up another phone on the second ring. "New York Pizza--can I help you?"
"Yes," I replied, standing just four feet away. "I'd like to order a chicken parm." He hurriedly hung up the phone and took my order, while the gentleman in the booth to my right laughed his ass off.
About fifteen minutes later, as I enjoyed my parm while reading the newspaper, the boss arrived. He's a medium height, early middle age Italian man, quiet and reserved. He moves with the sure but understated mastery of someone who has done something for years and years. He rarely speaks, and then just a few words of instruction, unheard to anyone else. He seems like a nice enough guy, but I've never seen him smile. He seems detached, yet not disinterested either.
The place was all business now, the staff bustling about. It's usually this way--not friendly, but not cold either. Turnover seems high, probably not surprising given a staff of mostly college students. The walls feature photos of Italy and presumably family, giving a touch of warmth immediately dispelled by the stark decor and the not too dirty, not particularly clean balance common in the booths. The staff rarely talks to customers, even to acknowledge them. They don't smile either. The food is good, and consistent, but not extraordinary to the point that customers would seek it out. Phone orders clearly get priority. I wonder if the boss checks in by phone sometimes.
Although I should be eating fruits and vegetables, avoiding salt, I figured "What the hell" and headed across the street for the New York Pizza shop. This calls for a chicken parm.
The pizzeria is staffed primarily with college students, mostly men, and they have never excelled at customer service. This time, I stood at the unmanned counter, waiting for quite a few minutes, with no results, although I could hear voices from the kitchen. Finally I leaned over the counter and saw three college age kids standing in a circle, talking. One of them caught my eye for a fraction of a second and quickly turned to pretend he hadn't. I waited some more, still with no results. I thought about leaving, but I was hungry, and in a small town, options are limited.
Then I had an idea. Looking around, I found a flyer with a menu and a phone number. While the few customers in the booths watched with interest, I reached for the phone on the counter and dialed the number. One of the guys in the back room came flying out when it rang, picking up another phone on the second ring. "New York Pizza--can I help you?"
"Yes," I replied, standing just four feet away. "I'd like to order a chicken parm." He hurriedly hung up the phone and took my order, while the gentleman in the booth to my right laughed his ass off.
About fifteen minutes later, as I enjoyed my parm while reading the newspaper, the boss arrived. He's a medium height, early middle age Italian man, quiet and reserved. He moves with the sure but understated mastery of someone who has done something for years and years. He rarely speaks, and then just a few words of instruction, unheard to anyone else. He seems like a nice enough guy, but I've never seen him smile. He seems detached, yet not disinterested either.
The place was all business now, the staff bustling about. It's usually this way--not friendly, but not cold either. Turnover seems high, probably not surprising given a staff of mostly college students. The walls feature photos of Italy and presumably family, giving a touch of warmth immediately dispelled by the stark decor and the not too dirty, not particularly clean balance common in the booths. The staff rarely talks to customers, even to acknowledge them. They don't smile either. The food is good, and consistent, but not extraordinary to the point that customers would seek it out. Phone orders clearly get priority. I wonder if the boss checks in by phone sometimes.
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