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ENLARGE
A friend of the family is one of those salty country newspaper editors. She was once quoted by the New York Times as saying something like, “Behind every decent farmer is a harried wife trying to keep in the hitch pin.” I never really knew what that meant (is it about tractors?), but I’m sure it was at least true: that any painless-looking effort usually is the result of lots of folks working hard at it in order to make it look painless — which it clearly is not. Meanwhile, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.
Please allow the following case in point. Two weeks ago yesterday I was waaay past my deadline with the Post Independent for Friday placement. Having shared a little time in my life on the other side of the editorial desk, and knowing how profoundly unfair it is to send in copy past the time it’s been asked for, this isn’t a boundary I generally try to flirt with. I rang up the editor around noon begging for clemency — it’s coming, it’s coming.
(Oh, the piece was written all right, and was parked on my laptop. I’d just been up against the wall with other things.)
Then — oh, Bessie! A last-minute need arose upvalley, and could I have lunch in Basalt. No problem, my watch said: I could sup at the bistro and still have the piece in the editor’s electronic in-box by, say, 2 o’clock. That’d be skirting the paper’s goodwill without ruining it outright.
After a hurried lunch and halfway back to Glenwood, I realized I’d left my computer at the restaurant in Basalt, but meanwhile I’ve got this appointment. Ring, ring. “Yessir, we can hold it. See you in a while.” Fabbbo.
Out of the car and onto the sidewalk, into my next appointment with a half-minute to spare. Ooof — the column!
Ring, ring. “Do you have a WiFi zone in your restaurant or anywhere nearby?”
“No, sir, just the library, but I can run over there and you can talk me through sending the file.” Great.
Five minutes later, and the phone rings again. “Just talk me through it and we’ll get your piece to the paper. Only thing, there’s, like, almost no power left on your computer so you better talk fast.” And the power cord was at home, but we managed to muddle our way through the task.
With great gratitude I continued my appointment and then headed back to Basalt in order to have a plate of crow at the bistro. Salutations and thanks, guys, and so much for all the $4 gas it took to make it happen.
Thinking everyone was set, I landed at the church for the last hour of my day with a list of phone calls to make. But when I popped open the laptop, there was the e-mail with the column attached — still sitting in the “Out” box, not the “Sent” box.
Apparently there was still a dessert portion remaining in this endless meal of crow.
Ring, ring. “Sorry, guys. I’m sure it’s too late for publication.”
“Not if you send it in the next four minutes.”
And somehow the great grinding wheels of technology kept it together long enough for that to happen. After which, all in the space of 15 minutes, the laptop died, the phone went out, and the copier decided to get in the game by emitting pig-like squeals before stopping altogether.
Even so, the piece ran the next day. It ran because of the flexibility and character of at least four or five people I could see and hear, plus the usual array of people in the background that put the newspaper into your hands every day for free.
It’s easy to take a cynical attitude with regard to customer service these days. Perhaps the preponderance of franchise operations and chain stores has lessened our expectations about what people are willing to do to actually be helpful. (Sometimes it’s all you can do just to call attention to the fact that Yes, you are a customer and Yes, you have real money on your person and you are willing to spend it and Yes, you actually know what you want and are capable of asking for it.) But then you have an experience of people clearly acting outside of their own interests, of people stretching great distances to benefit you — not for profit, but because it’s the right and sensible thing to do. When that happens you want to mark and remember it. It’s a joy to behold, and you long to sustain it.
So here is my challenge to each of you. Pass this on.
The very next person you meet after finishing this column, I want you to treat with more respect and deference than you think you can muster. Listen hard as that person speaks, and try to respond with your very best self. Remember as you listen, speak and act that kindness is a rare commodity, in short universal supply, and that every small instance of generosity adds to considerably to the effort. Remember, too, that by making such stretches you can see the way to becoming a better person yourself.
When you’re there — when you’re making that happen — it isn’t just you being better. The whole enterprise is lifted by your actions.
Or at least the hitch pin stays in a while longer.
The Rev. Torey Lightcap is priest-in-charge of St. Barnabas Episcopal Church in Glenwood Springs (www.saint-barnabas.info). Torey and his wife have two children and live in New Castle.
Please allow the following case in point. Two weeks ago yesterday I was waaay past my deadline with the Post Independent for Friday placement. Having shared a little time in my life on the other side of the editorial desk, and knowing how profoundly unfair it is to send in copy past the time it’s been asked for, this isn’t a boundary I generally try to flirt with. I rang up the editor around noon begging for clemency — it’s coming, it’s coming.
(Oh, the piece was written all right, and was parked on my laptop. I’d just been up against the wall with other things.)
Then — oh, Bessie! A last-minute need arose upvalley, and could I have lunch in Basalt. No problem, my watch said: I could sup at the bistro and still have the piece in the editor’s electronic in-box by, say, 2 o’clock. That’d be skirting the paper’s goodwill without ruining it outright.
After a hurried lunch and halfway back to Glenwood, I realized I’d left my computer at the restaurant in Basalt, but meanwhile I’ve got this appointment. Ring, ring. “Yessir, we can hold it. See you in a while.” Fabbbo.
Out of the car and onto the sidewalk, into my next appointment with a half-minute to spare. Ooof — the column!
Ring, ring. “Do you have a WiFi zone in your restaurant or anywhere nearby?”
“No, sir, just the library, but I can run over there and you can talk me through sending the file.” Great.
Five minutes later, and the phone rings again. “Just talk me through it and we’ll get your piece to the paper. Only thing, there’s, like, almost no power left on your computer so you better talk fast.” And the power cord was at home, but we managed to muddle our way through the task.
With great gratitude I continued my appointment and then headed back to Basalt in order to have a plate of crow at the bistro. Salutations and thanks, guys, and so much for all the $4 gas it took to make it happen.
Thinking everyone was set, I landed at the church for the last hour of my day with a list of phone calls to make. But when I popped open the laptop, there was the e-mail with the column attached — still sitting in the “Out” box, not the “Sent” box.
Apparently there was still a dessert portion remaining in this endless meal of crow.
Ring, ring. “Sorry, guys. I’m sure it’s too late for publication.”
“Not if you send it in the next four minutes.”
And somehow the great grinding wheels of technology kept it together long enough for that to happen. After which, all in the space of 15 minutes, the laptop died, the phone went out, and the copier decided to get in the game by emitting pig-like squeals before stopping altogether.
Even so, the piece ran the next day. It ran because of the flexibility and character of at least four or five people I could see and hear, plus the usual array of people in the background that put the newspaper into your hands every day for free.
It’s easy to take a cynical attitude with regard to customer service these days. Perhaps the preponderance of franchise operations and chain stores has lessened our expectations about what people are willing to do to actually be helpful. (Sometimes it’s all you can do just to call attention to the fact that Yes, you are a customer and Yes, you have real money on your person and you are willing to spend it and Yes, you actually know what you want and are capable of asking for it.) But then you have an experience of people clearly acting outside of their own interests, of people stretching great distances to benefit you — not for profit, but because it’s the right and sensible thing to do. When that happens you want to mark and remember it. It’s a joy to behold, and you long to sustain it.
So here is my challenge to each of you. Pass this on.
The very next person you meet after finishing this column, I want you to treat with more respect and deference than you think you can muster. Listen hard as that person speaks, and try to respond with your very best self. Remember as you listen, speak and act that kindness is a rare commodity, in short universal supply, and that every small instance of generosity adds to considerably to the effort. Remember, too, that by making such stretches you can see the way to becoming a better person yourself.
When you’re there — when you’re making that happen — it isn’t just you being better. The whole enterprise is lifted by your actions.
Or at least the hitch pin stays in a while longer.
The Rev. Torey Lightcap is priest-in-charge of St. Barnabas Episcopal Church in Glenwood Springs (www.saint-barnabas.info). Torey and his wife have two children and live in New Castle.
