Everyday. Blam! The noise of my Grandfather Edgar, my Dad's Father, using the gray swingline stapler will forever be burned into my brain. He sat at what later I would consider my desk and did paperwork, paid bills and dictated stock notations for my Grandmother to record in giant ledgers. And stapled. Loudly. You could not fully prepare yourself for the sound of him using that stapler. Blam! You could be looking right at him and still jump from surprise. It was possibly because Papa was very soft spoken, and really only spoke at the volume the rest of my family speaks at when he was upset. I never heard him yell. But, he was loud with that stapler binding together things for eternity. On Sundays, presumably because my parents needed some time alone my sister and I were sent across the gravel parking lot behind our store from our house to Granny Alice and Papa's house. From there we would go to the store after Papa took a nap to watch them do paperwork. Papa sat at the first desk, and Granny sat at the second one that was further into the small office, and we would sit on the floor in front of the ancient safe at the back of the room. We had nothing to occupy ourselves so that we would leave them alone, but we knew better then to disturb their work. They would discuss stocks, rent houses, land leases, cattle sales, and more family business matters at great length. We had no choice but to listen. And to learn. When we were older, we were taught how to record transactions in the ledgers. It was terrifying. In many cases, transactions had been recorded in these ledgers for decades. Perfectly, and in pen. Mistakes were not expected, this was understood when you took the pen in hand and went to work. Daunting to say the least. Not that our Grandparents were mean or demanding, quite the opposite. They were loving, understanding and patient. The urge to please them was the overwhelming issue. It wasn't difficult, as they were very proud of us already and generously rewarded grades and other good behavior. Often without our parents knowledge, because its hard to imagine our Dad would let them give us money for our report cards: $20 for each A, $10 for B's and $5 for C's. No way would Dad have encouraged B's and C's! Papa would just take out his worn black wallet and reward us with a twinkle from his pale blue eyes.
Looking back now, I think the urge to make them proud was because it seemingly didn't matter to them either way just how successful we were. Not that they didn't expect us to excel, but that they didn't show disappointment when we failed.
Now that I own my own business, I understand this lesson. The sky is the limit, there is no ceiling. Nothing is stopping me from going just as far as I can go. And if I should choose to only be average, there is still a reward, though it is not even close to what it could be. So, I will write in pen in my own ledgers, and not expect mistakes.
