Jerking my finger back before the blood would drip onto the paper bag, I kicked myself for being so sloppy.
I was 15 years old. And I bagged feed into 50-pound sacks at the local family-owned feed and tack store. That was my job.
Looking out over the busy highway that ran alongside the feed warehouse that morning, I saw hundreds of cars heading off into the horizon. Those folks were going places, making dreams come true.
Meanwhile, I was under a tin warehouse on an industrial machine with a pallet of feed to bag by lunch time.
In the middle of my daydream, my finger got sucked under the needle of the sewing machine. It reminded me – painfully – that I had a job to do.
My job was simple. I loaded sweet feed by a conveyor belt into a massive holder that I reached by climbing a shaky ladder. With a broken broom handle, I stirred the sweet feed, pushing it off the sides of the metal container because it tends to stick.
Then I would climb down to another conveyor belt that held 50-pound bags. Lifting a latch, the bag would fill with the sweet feed before I jerked the latch up again to stop the motion.
And finally I ran the bag under a sewing machine to close it off before carrying it over to a pallet. Then a forklift would carry the pallet full of sweet goodness to the warehouse where farmers, ranchers and others would load it up on their trucks.
It wasn’t glamorous. I wore jeans and a ballcap. And I usually ended my day with bloody fingers, a sweaty shirt and a ink-covered face from the bags.
But it was a job. And it landed cash in my hands every week.
Sure, I sulked when my friends would go fishing or on trips over the weekends or during the summer. But I never, never skipped out on my job.
I was proud of what I did. I knew that I would go on to better things, to college and such. But I knew that I would have to get my hands dirty first, put in more work.
I never felt that I was entitled to anything. My first job was in a dusty feed mill. And it was one of the best things that ever happened to me.
It taught me to do a good job, do it well. And in the end, you will get paid and a pat on the back for a day’s hard work.
It taught me to be tough, yes, even for a girl. I wasn’t afraid to get dirty. I wasn’t afraid to get sweaty. I could handle the jabs from the fellow boy workers and hold my own against them.
And I earned the respect of others through a honest day of work.
Flash forward almost two decades later...
I have traded the sewing machine for a printing machine. And the ink I have on my hands is from this newspaper, not a feed bag.
But I still have to put in a hard day’s work. I am not going to be just given something I didn’t earn.
Even though I haven’t stepped foot in that feed mill of my youth in years, I an reminded of the lessons I learned there daily.
You arrive at work on time. You do the job that is expected of you. You take pride in what you are doing because the product reflects on you. Don’t burn bridges. Respect your fellow workers. You can reach for the stars, but you’ve got to get off the ground first.
And at the end of the day when I put my money in the bank, I hold my head up high.
Sure, times get tough and living gets lean. But embrace that one penny you made because you earned it with the sweat off your back. It wasn’t just handed to you.
I am only 34 years old, and I still don’t have all the answers. I still have a lot to learn.
But one thing I do know is that if you want results, the Golden Egg or the stars...you work for it, put in the extra effort and earn it fair and square.
If your last name isn’t Vanderbilt or Rockefeller don’t expect to be handed an empire. You have to build it.
I smile whenever I pass that old feed mill when I visit my hometown.
I sometimes want to drive back to that old feed machine and see what kid is there today. But I don’t want to distract them. I know how bloody it can get when your finger gets caught in that needle because you weren’t paying attention.
It hurts. But a little blood and sweat is a small price to pay for the satisfaction of a job well done.
