Nothing is easy...

“When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be
Will I be pretty, will I be rich
Here's what she said to me.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera”

Livingston, J., Evans, R., lyrics and music

Doris Day, singer

She had on a black baseball hat, a black tee shirt and was wearing a dark apron. 

It had been a long week.  The grant was due on Thursday…due in the offices of the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid by 3:00PM (15.00) – not a minute later.  Writing grants is somewhat of a cottage industry in this country.  There are people who make a living doing nothing but writing them or editing them or advising people that do write them.  A lot of people make their livelihood on ‘soft money’ (meaning funding sources other than direct salary)…for them the stakes are high.

She was working the grill in the back…it was hot and she was breaking a sweat.

Our team had none of that.  We were writing on our own.  I had been on grant teams before when I was an academic, in what seems like a different century…Wait!!! It was a different century!  At any rate, as a junior investigator, I had worked on a grant application or two.  So, while it had been some time, the process was not completely new.

There were two grants, one for which I wrote content (a group out of New Orleans) and the other I was quarterback (written locally) - encouraging everyone who ‘knew the business’ to write his or her part.  I contributed a small amount of content on this one, but more than anything I was the cheerleader.  It was a big deal as we were asking for a little over two million dollars.  We made the deadline with a couple of hours to spare, everyone pulling together in the end as we sprinted toward the finish line.

I watched her for a few minutes.  She never took her eyes off the grill.

When I got the word the grant had been submitted, accepted and validated, I breathed a small prayer…we were done!  Now it was out of the bubble and back to the reality of other things to do.  Errands left undone…laundry and dishes (Molly was in Tucson working on our new home).  First, however, I took an hour’s break and went for a swim.

By dinnertime I wandered over to one of our favorite little places to grab some fish tacos - the sun, by now, beginning to tuck itself away into the western horizon and I was tired.  As I ordered I saw her in the kitchen.

She looked exhausted, but she just stayed focused.

We had something in common that grill lady and me…we were fairly close to the same age. 

As I saw her working away, I wondered what in her life had led her to this place, at this age, working for little more than minimum wage.  She worked hard every day…there was no discretionary time at the end when the grant was submitted.  Her ‘grant’ writing never finished.  She was like Sisyphus…arriving at work she pushed the rock up the mountain, and every night it fell to the bottom…the next day she put on her apron, took over that grill and pushed the rock again.  Dinner didn’t sit so well in my stomach that evening.

I knew I would drive home and sleep in a bed more comfortable than that of any Emperors of the Roman or Ottoman Turk or Greek Empires.  I would take some time to read and think and meditate and appreciate all of the things I have been given.  For truly my life has been and is…

                Privileged – beyond measure. 

                Fortunate – of no doubt

                Loved – more than I deserve.

From there to here...

I have done many things on this journey from factory work to radio broadcasting to teaching to working behind a damn hot grill cooking food for folks with more leisure time or discretionary income than I.  While all of that provided me much life experience, for which I am grateful, I am not doing those things now and I am uncertain that I could. 

What about her...

I am certain when she was a little girl, she had aspirations of what she might become…I am certain she saw some sort of future, you know, the way most children do.  Of all those things, however, I am equally certain that frying chicken and beef in a taco shop in her late 50s or early 60s was NOT one of them.  Yet there she was…somebody’s wife or grandmother...perhaps widowed or simply down on her luck barely getting by, working behind a hot grill and knowing – the hard part for me – knowing tomorrow for her would NOT be a better day…

I didn’t leave my heart in San Francisco…it was in a taco shop on the corner of Zion and Mission Gorge roads in San Diego, California…

- ted