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Gus Swiggerton didn't appreciate its significance at the time. He thought it was hokey, so he threw it into the dump one day with yellowed notebooks, old TIME magazines and broken pencils as he cleaned his home office in a fit of tidiness. It was old, crude and falling apart -- a relic of the past.
But, now - 40 years later - he wishes he had kept it.
It was a four-by-eight wooden plaque which had been on his office wall at Holman Milk Cooperative for 13 years. A cheap dinner fork, flattened at the tip of the handle and attached to the plaque by a single rivet, rested horizontally across the piece of wood without a pin for its tine end.
The handle, on the other hand, was bent into a bow-like configuration and abruptly popped out of the plaque. Below the fork, a golden rectangular plate, glued crooked onto the wood, read, "Dunn's Supper Club, Clayton, Wis, October, 1981."
Seven of Gus's coworkers in corporate communications, member relations and field work sat around a dining table that night, emotionally drained from long days of preparation but excited about the merger plans they were going to present to the employees and members of the Clayton plant the next day.
Gus had ordered steak and immediately began to carve the meat into small pieces so he could chew and swallow them without choking - a cautionary task he always took as an individual with lifelong cerebral palsy.
His steak was tough and his fork was weak. As he continued to cut his meat, Gus could feel the fork bend under his full grip. When he finished cutting, Gus held his fork up for everyone to see, and the group broke into laughter. Its handle was bowed into what reminded him of a two-year-old's first table utensil.
"Damn fork," Gus said softly, pretending to put the blame on the eating establishment but failing to keep a straight face.
"I think they need new tableware," Sharon offered as an alibi, "but, what the heck, it's northern Wisconsin."
"Swiggerton, you're just too rough with your stuff," chided Phil. "You're the only guy I know who can murder a fork like that."
Mike chuckled.
For Gus, it was fun to have a group of co-workers share in the discovery of a little amusing incident, feel no embarrassment and enjoy the resulting camaraderie that spills into everyday work life.
The waitress flitted by Mike, and he asked for another fork.
Gus had lost track of the damaged fork during the meal and forgotten about it until Mike showed up in Gus's office a couple of months later with the plaque. He had swiped the fork from the restaurant and had it mounted.
At the time, Gus was truly grateful to Mike – mostly because it was funny and fun to talk about. The plaque showed how much the incident, which Gus had forgotten, meant to Mike.
Gus had it hung on the wall across from his woodcut, and an occasional visitor would remark about the odd fork on the wall in back of his desk. Gus would explain about the tough steak, but its significance never really surfaced.
Yes, the fork was funny and brought back memories. But the fork's odd curvature began to mean more than that to Gus after he left Holman Milk at 51 to form his home-based business.
Mike, maybe without realizing it, had retrieved a piece of corporate life that showed Gus he was more than a person with a disability. With mumbled speech, crooked back, clanking crutches and all, Gus was physically different, sure. He was always the odd one in the silverware drawer. But the plaque from Mike said that didn't matter.
40 years later, Gus now sees the message Mike sent to the entire organization through a simple, hand-made plaque in a new light. It was unique for those pre-ADA years when diversity training was not as prevalent as it is today (or was in the 1990s), and Gus is grateful for that.
Remembering what is good with gratitude, after all, is beneficial for everyone – even after a 40-year lapse. For Gus, that means looking back at the past with precision and discernment.
Gus's takeaway tip from his story: Bask in the past by recalling -- with new gratitude -- what is good.
Here’s to mature-adult living!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “52 Shades of Graying”
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I remember having a Saturday morning free from work in lower Manhattan just a year before 911. With new batteries in my Amigo mobility scooter and the look of a new visitor in town, I left my hotel, passed the Trump building at 40 Wall Street, noted the Stock Exchange was much smaller than I had imagined and then meandered over to the Towers.
I had to backtrack a couple of blocks to get to the Tower 1 entrance because some of the streets didn’t have curb cuts.
But it was still early (no Saturday crowd of tourists yet), and a security guard at Tower 1 helped me with the entrance door.
“Where do I get a ticket to go to the top?” I asked.
“Take the escalator to the second floor,” the security guy replied. “You all alone?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
I gave him twenty bucks, and he returned with a ten dollar bill and my ticket. He then escorted me to one of the express elevators which took me to the top of Tower 1.
Tower I did not have the most breathing-taking architecture. It lacked a “I’m-at-home feeling,” but I did see Central Park and the Statue of Liberty through the vertical windows.
As I was about to go down on the same express elevator, the now-on-duty elevator operator ushered me into a much smaller elevator to avoid the growing crowd.
Doormen, security guards and service people have been most helpful for me over the years.
* What favorite memory is helping you honor your past with gratitude?