Chickens and their Chicks

I reek of poultry. Chicken feathers and feet, blood and guts; chicken baths, chicken chutes, chicken breasts, wings, and legs. The smell (as well as the sights and sounds) of the chicken processing plant that I visited are saturated in my skin and hair. And I can feel the Germans, en route back to Frankfurt this evening, judging the stinky American sitting in the middle of them.

Just get me home, and in a shower, as soon as possible. Please.

***

Last week, I wrapped up my Chicken Team meeting a little early. We were at a stopping point, and I had to go. It was Mary's first dance class, and I wasn't going to miss it.

I had signed Mary up a couple weeks ago; purchased teeny tiny tap and ballet shoes, a leotard and tights; told her how much she would love it all.

'Oh thank you, Mommy,' she said to me, giving me a great big hug.
'You're welcome, honey.' Gush. My cutie.

I arrived at the dance studio last Wednesday, rushing past the other moms in the waiting room to observe my baby through the window. Mary was sitting in a circle with the rest of her classmates, all pink, ponytails, and precious, listening to her teacher recite the rules. Upon her direction to stand up and start to march in place, Mary jumped up and stepped in rhythm with the instructor.

I watched her transition from tap to ballet, discover her rosy reflection in the wall of mirrors, and fall more in love with the performing arts, as I brushed away a couple uncontrollable tears of joy.

Bobby was done though. The fruit snacks were gone and he didn't want to watch Mary anymore. He squirmed out of my arms and commenced a mission of trouble making in the lobby. It was then that I got a closer look at the other Moms and the one that didn't belong. Me. Dressed in business attire, wild 18-month old flailing out of my lap, I was a stark contrast to the other women, dressed in Lululemon, petting the children nuzzled in their arms.  

Whatever. I was here. So were they. We all win.

This week though, I missed Mary's dance class. Instead, I spent the day delayed at O'Hare, then driving from Nashville to Eastern Kentucky, then at dinner with the good people who power a massive poultry processing plant.

I thought of the other moms, likely dressed in their form fitting yoga gear again, ready to greet their ballerinas at the end of class. And I thought about how much I wished I was there. Not just to see Mary spin, twirl and tap, but to prove that working moms could do it all. Be everywhere for everyone all the time.

The next day, I suited up to step into a house of 21,000 17-day old chickens roaming cage free at a family farm deep in the rolling hills of Kentucky. Then I suited up again to tour a chicken processing plant that moves about 1,250,000 birds through its facility every week. During my two hour tour, I probably saw more than 10,000 crated in (all from family farms within five counties of Kentucky) slaughtered, cleaned, butchered, and processed into the little chicken breasts we buy at retail outlets every day.

Along with a whole lot of chickens, I saw hundreds of employees who make this process work every day. Many of them women. Many of them Moms.

Their jobs ranged from shackling and slicing, to pulling and tearing, to assessing and ensuring that everything was done humanely and to USDA standards. They took their work very seriously and they showed nothing but pride in that work. Born and raised in Kentucky, they had accents to prove it. They didn't drink, but were proud of their state's Bourbon heritage. The flair on their cars expressed #IamaChristian and that they were with Trump. A couple with Clinton Kane. Despite our differences, I felt solidarity with them. I shared the determination that I saw on their faces, the reason they worked hard every day; for their kids, for their future.

In this day and age, we all want to know where our food comes from. (And this past week, I got a glimpse into the food industry that most will never see. Kill step included, nothing curbed my appetite for chicken. If anything, it reassured and encouraged it.)

But I think the most important thing we need to understand, is where people come from. The climates, circumstances, and credos that shape their position and purpose. And we need to find ways to connect with them. Because we're in this together and we all just want what's best for our chicks.

Mary and Bobby were glad when I came home. Despite the excitement of Mimi covering dance class last week and Peter being a super Dad, my business travel always takes a toll on them. But I hope some day they realize that in some small way, I made an impact.

And in dance class this week, I'm determined to connect with those other moms.

Lo.

Young and Younger

Before Peter and I walked out the door last Saturday night, I encouraged our babysitter, Camille, to watch the Olympics with the kids. I shared my love of the games with her; how I had fallen for them back in 1996.

I started rattling off the heroic names and gilded moments that exemplified the magic for me.
Kerry Walsh and Misty May winning gold in the debut of beach volleyball ...
Uh huh.
Gary Hall Jr., the shadow boxer. Amanda Beard and her teddy bear.
Uhhh ...
Michael Johnson and his gold cleats. Gail Devers and her nails. Carl Lewis and that last long jump.
Hmm ...
Kerry Strug. Kerry Strug?! The girl who landed her vault on one foot because she had sprained her ankle? Nothing ringing a bell? America's games. Atlanta, 1996. Come on!

Oh.
Oh my gosh, you weren't born yet. Right?
No.
When were you born?
1999. 

Oh wow.

I was in eighth grade during the 1996 Olympics. And I remember them like they were yesterday, particularly the gold medal night for the U.S. Women's gymnastics team. My brother and I had accidentally knocked over a lamp in the sun room hours before, and were then and there banned from watching coverage as punishment. I snuck down to the basement to watch though. I mean, come on.

I was a senior in high school when my babysitter was born; 18 years of life behind me. When she said 1999, I felt so old, aging myself in front of corporate America's talent of the future. But in that moment I also felt a little sad for her - she had missed a lot of great things in the 80s and 90s.

***

Last weekend, I also attended two birthday parties: two reminders of just how old, or young I am. One of a five year old in Hinsdale. The other of a 90 year old in Chicago.

First, Mary's friend Audrey turned five in fairy tale fashion. Butterflies decorated trees around a table set with pink china, hydrangeas and grassy place mats. The little girls, with wings fastened to the back of their party dresses, sipped pink tea at the fairy tea party, ate butterfly cookies and licked the icing off their slices of cake. They made magic potions, gathered around to hear fairy stories, and of course opened presents.

It was the cutest birthday party I had ever seen and I thought how awesome it was to be a little girl in the age of fairies, Pinterest, and Amazon.com. When I was little, we dressed in smock dresses, played pin the tail on the donkey and drank liter cola at birthday parties. I aged myself again.

The next day, we celebrated Shirley's 90th birthday party at the Chicago Yacht Club, right off of Lake Shore Drive. Always a boater, it was the perfect place to bring together her family and friends. As we toasted this special woman, ate, drank, cut the massive cake and ate some more, I thought of all the things Shirley could say that would unveil her age, and remind me of my lack of experience in this world.

Say ...  

I went to the movies during the Great Depression, when they only cost a quarter.
I went to college and became a nurse just as World War Two ended.
I saw the healing tranquility and elegance in the white capped Zermott, which I painted while visiting post-war Europe.
During the Cold War and Civil Rights movement, I found my inner peace through yoga. And have been practicing it ever since.
I hosted parties on our boat in Burnham harbor when there were just a few boats docked in the Lake.
I've lived in Western Springs since it was a dry town, and it was cooler than it is now back then.
I went on a world tour when air travel was still elegant, when cities were less crowded, and when time moved a little slower.
I have seen the world change and then change some more. I have watched kids and grand kids and now great kids grow. And despite some of the terrible pains along the way, I have found beauty and joy in it all. And if the world is going to keep accelerating, than I'm going to keep moving and shaking along with it. Because in her words, 'age is only a number. You can all get older, but I won't.' 

The next day, I texted her some of the photos I had taken, and she responded immediately.
Thx.

  
      
     

Sometimes, the world (or maybe its just corporate America) positions aging as a bad thing. And with it, we don't want to reveal that we saw something live, before it was well known, first. But I think age should be a pride point, and the experiences that we have collected over years should not only be celebrated, but tapped into.  

And Shirley's life to date, at ninety, is certainly something to listen to, learn from, and revere. 

Lo. 

And to my Dad, whose special day I'm missing this weekend; a very Happy Birthday! We love you! 

The Boat

On the first day of MBA school, I met a boy. One that I sensed was special.

The scene was CJ's, South Bend, Indiana. I walked into the beloved bar and burger joint wearing my new blue collared shirt from Banana Republic, blue jeans, and stilettos. I ordered a Vodka and Soda. Not five minutes later, a good looking guy came up to me and said 'hello.'
'Peter.'
'Lo.'
I lit up. Theory confirmed - a single girl walks into a bar by herself, she's bound to attract company. He ordered a Guinness. I tried to mask my giddy smile, but I knew I was breaking. We started talking about good sushi, ND connections (the corners of my mouth started to feel the strain, don't break, don't break) Cape Cod, science, fishing, flip flops (breaking, breaking more), banking, banking, banking, (ding, ding, ding, smiling) and a yacht. (done, this was my guy.)

'A yacht?' I questioned him like I had never heard the term before, but I was humming 'I'm on a Boat' in the back of my head. 

'Yeah, my family has a boat; it's parked in New Buffalo; we should go up there some time.' 

We should go up there sometime? Well, of course we should. 

Our first date was on the boat. After stopping at an Amish farm stand to buy mealy watermelon, mushy grapes, and summer sausage,  he took me aboard. I wore my little black bikini and laid out on the roof of the boat in my best I'm in a rap video pose. As he steered us into the deep blue of Lake Michigan, I pinched myself at the unbelievable reality I had just fallen into. I texted home to tell my girlfriends that I was dating someone. Someone that I really liked. And he has a boat. 

*** 

That first outing was the start of shared boat memories that Peter and I have collected over the years: more dates, schooner parties, Fourth of July celebrations, Chicago River dance parties, swims in icy cold water. Peter asked my Dad for my hand in marriage on the boat. My kids swam in Lake Michigan for the first time after jumping off the bow. We've celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, Mother's Days and Father's Days on the boat. Years and years of good food, fun cocktails, and most importantly a cast of the best characters.  

   

            

    

Eight years later, the boat continues to be a place of magic as witnessed over the past two weekends and the Chicagoland visitors we welcomed aboard. And I'm so thankful that Peter and his family not only welcomed me into their lives, but onto the Peggy O. 

But what I've learned over the years is that it isn't so much the boat that is so attractive, it's the people on it; the friends and family members who have made every day spent on the Great Lakes a party. And most of the times, a dance party at that.  

It's a lesson that I've been evaluating at work recently. I initially joined my company because of its golden brand. Big deal company. Big deal job. And I landed it. Finally, a role in corporate America that I wanted to tell everyone about. 

But after working here for seven years, I've discovered that it's not so much the brand that provides all the luster, it's the people who work for it. All the relationships I've collected and nurtured over the years; the diverse body of employees and experiences that have enabled a massive system to evolve and succeed over time, they have provided the polish and are some of the reasons I love my job so much.

At this juncture of our 'forward' thinking plan, I'm left wondering what we're leaving behind. What happens when you let so many of the good people who have shaped the brand over the years go? When you let them jump ship and swim out to sea, can the people left on board keep the dance party going? 

My hope is yes. But from my cube and the others left filled, their presence will surely be missed across the floor.

Lo.