My first job out of high school was a part time gig at a nursing home as a Tray Aide. My main duties were to make beds, exchange linens, fill ice and water pitchers in residents' rooms and help the Nurse Aides as needed. It wasn't long before I realized that the most important duty was one that was not a featured bullet in my position description, and that was to smile and greet each resident as I entered their home. Think for a moment, how it must feel to sit day after day in a "home" while being treated as a "patient." If taking a little extra care while making beds and chatting a bit with the residents brought them a little closer to home, well, it was the least I could do.
One such resident was quite close to my heart. Agnes was a petite lady, with gray, thick hair and eyes that had long since retired, having lived a life of paying close attention to detail. Although Agnes could not see very well, she had a sixth sense in knowing who had entered the room. I tried not to wear any strong scents to work, as I knew that could be irritating to those feeling under the weather, so I do not think it was my scent she picked up. Perhaps it was the sound of my feet as I entered her room. We all have a characteristic gait, after all. I don't know what her trick was. All I know is that Agnes seemed to know I was present before I even had a chance to speak.
As I went about my task of changing the linens and making the bed, we passed the time with small talk. She would ask me about school. Are my classes hard? I would ask her about her family. Will your son be coming this Sunday? Through these exchanges, Agnes slipped in subtle directions on how she liked her bed made. Sheets pulled taut, corners tucked in, covers folded down, but not too far and pillows arranged just so. Agnes liked a well-made bed and through her instruction, I learned to make what was, in her eyes, the perfectly made bed.
On Saturdays, there were two Tray Aides on duty and I sometimes found myself working on another wing besides the one where Agnes resided. About an hour into my shift, my colleague would come trudging down the hallway of my wing. "Agnes wants you to make her bed," she'd say. And we would trade assignments for the remainder of the shift. "That girl is nice, but she just doesn't make the bed like you do," Agnes would say. "Feel how loose that is." And throughout the next few minutes, I would assure my friend that she would be quite pleased with her well-made bed when it came time to lie down that afternoon. I'd also relate my latest assignment in English class and she would show me the latest picture of her grandkids, which I am sure she could barely see. And to each other we would impart a simple, basic need that makes life worth living. Without definition or explanation or demonstration, we each gained a little bit of dignity.
As Thanksgiving approaches, take a moment to say thanks to those who toil day in and day out, doing what is in their "job description." That quiet housekeeper who picks up your trash; the waitress who keeps your coffee warm; the clerk who sets your groceries in your cart carefully, without smashing the bread. Whatever the occasion may be, think for a moment what would be lacking if these folks were not there to do what is in their job description. Something as simple as tucking in the sheets just so may have been just a job to me, but to my friend, it was a little bit of home and a whole lot of respect.
One such resident was quite close to my heart. Agnes was a petite lady, with gray, thick hair and eyes that had long since retired, having lived a life of paying close attention to detail. Although Agnes could not see very well, she had a sixth sense in knowing who had entered the room. I tried not to wear any strong scents to work, as I knew that could be irritating to those feeling under the weather, so I do not think it was my scent she picked up. Perhaps it was the sound of my feet as I entered her room. We all have a characteristic gait, after all. I don't know what her trick was. All I know is that Agnes seemed to know I was present before I even had a chance to speak.
As I went about my task of changing the linens and making the bed, we passed the time with small talk. She would ask me about school. Are my classes hard? I would ask her about her family. Will your son be coming this Sunday? Through these exchanges, Agnes slipped in subtle directions on how she liked her bed made. Sheets pulled taut, corners tucked in, covers folded down, but not too far and pillows arranged just so. Agnes liked a well-made bed and through her instruction, I learned to make what was, in her eyes, the perfectly made bed.
On Saturdays, there were two Tray Aides on duty and I sometimes found myself working on another wing besides the one where Agnes resided. About an hour into my shift, my colleague would come trudging down the hallway of my wing. "Agnes wants you to make her bed," she'd say. And we would trade assignments for the remainder of the shift. "That girl is nice, but she just doesn't make the bed like you do," Agnes would say. "Feel how loose that is." And throughout the next few minutes, I would assure my friend that she would be quite pleased with her well-made bed when it came time to lie down that afternoon. I'd also relate my latest assignment in English class and she would show me the latest picture of her grandkids, which I am sure she could barely see. And to each other we would impart a simple, basic need that makes life worth living. Without definition or explanation or demonstration, we each gained a little bit of dignity.
As Thanksgiving approaches, take a moment to say thanks to those who toil day in and day out, doing what is in their "job description." That quiet housekeeper who picks up your trash; the waitress who keeps your coffee warm; the clerk who sets your groceries in your cart carefully, without smashing the bread. Whatever the occasion may be, think for a moment what would be lacking if these folks were not there to do what is in their job description. Something as simple as tucking in the sheets just so may have been just a job to me, but to my friend, it was a little bit of home and a whole lot of respect.
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