57? 57?
In my numb-from-cold hand, I claw-gripped a paper cup that was filled to almost overflowing with mint chip milkshake and other festive garnishes. Expecting someone to step forward and relieve me of this frosty burden, I just stood there and blinked my disappointed before trying again.
57?
Not one of the dozens of souls who had gathered in the picnic area of the 4-H Milk Bar, waiting for someone to scream out their ice cream order, even bothered to look up.
As a parent and volunteer, I had never felt more invisible.
Just then, my daughter gripped me at the elbows and craned her neck past my shoulder.
"FIFTY-SEVEN!!!" She yelled in a clear and calm voice. "ORDER UP!"
A smiling woman in a summer dress stood and headed our way.
"Thank you, and enjoy!" my loudspeaker said as I handed over the milkshake.
My daughter patted my back, and applied my own patented "there-there, feel better?" salve.
Oddly enough, I did feel better.
The kids are the stars of this show. They take orders, make change, scoop and blend the sometimes complicated recipes to a frothy perfection. The few complaints received illustrated the level of expectation well beyond the workforce's median age of 12.
"How come my order number - 53 - came out after 56?" Demanded one disgruntled patron."
"I'm sorry for the wait, sir," came the chocolate-spattered preteen's measured reply. "But you ordered seven shakes. They ordered single cones."
"Not to mention THEY'RE 12," silently screamed the angry mom in my head.
Anyone could see we were busy, and yet the wait wasn't overwhelming. The kids still wore smiles as they rotated stainless steel shake cups around on the blender spindles, a glaze of ice forming on the outside.
They helped each other with big orders, and took over small jobs without being asked.
No one questioned the customer who said he'd ordered two. They didn't confirm with the cashier. They simply apologized and made another.
Happy workers beget happy customers.
I was a volunteer, but I couldn't help but think about the minimum wage fight, and how so many people think food service workers don't deserve more.
This was no cakewalk, despite the occasional lull in business when singing and dancing broke out.
Knowing when to put one's nose to the grindstone and when to cut loose is good for morale on both sides of the counter.
Three-hour shifts occasionally morphed into six- and nine-hour bundles before the crowds, or our supplies, dwindled or fresh recruits came to relieve us. We all managed to tackle six days of non-stop service.
This was the hardest work I had ever done. The most standing. The most lifting, and bending, and constant motion. After a single day everyone was bone tired. It felt ... Good.
The kids slept like the dead, and yet were eager to get started again once the sun rose on another day.
Of course this is out of the ordinary. It's Fair, a literal carnival of lights and excitement for six days only. A working vacation from the real world they are used to.
Soon enough a big yellow bus -- #20 -- will grind to a halt in front of our house. The familiar mass transit system for their usual daily grind.
I hope they remember the lessons summers' end taught us: smile when things get tough, and dance when things get slow.
You won't regret it when your number comes up.
In my numb-from-cold hand, I claw-gripped a paper cup that was filled to almost overflowing with mint chip milkshake and other festive garnishes. Expecting someone to step forward and relieve me of this frosty burden, I just stood there and blinked my disappointed before trying again.
57?
Not one of the dozens of souls who had gathered in the picnic area of the 4-H Milk Bar, waiting for someone to scream out their ice cream order, even bothered to look up.
As a parent and volunteer, I had never felt more invisible.
Just then, my daughter gripped me at the elbows and craned her neck past my shoulder.
"FIFTY-SEVEN!!!" She yelled in a clear and calm voice. "ORDER UP!"
A smiling woman in a summer dress stood and headed our way.
"Thank you, and enjoy!" my loudspeaker said as I handed over the milkshake.
My daughter patted my back, and applied my own patented "there-there, feel better?" salve.
Oddly enough, I did feel better.
The kids are the stars of this show. They take orders, make change, scoop and blend the sometimes complicated recipes to a frothy perfection. The few complaints received illustrated the level of expectation well beyond the workforce's median age of 12.
"How come my order number - 53 - came out after 56?" Demanded one disgruntled patron."
"I'm sorry for the wait, sir," came the chocolate-spattered preteen's measured reply. "But you ordered seven shakes. They ordered single cones."
"Not to mention THEY'RE 12," silently screamed the angry mom in my head.
Anyone could see we were busy, and yet the wait wasn't overwhelming. The kids still wore smiles as they rotated stainless steel shake cups around on the blender spindles, a glaze of ice forming on the outside.
They helped each other with big orders, and took over small jobs without being asked.
No one questioned the customer who said he'd ordered two. They didn't confirm with the cashier. They simply apologized and made another.
Happy workers beget happy customers.
I was a volunteer, but I couldn't help but think about the minimum wage fight, and how so many people think food service workers don't deserve more.
This was no cakewalk, despite the occasional lull in business when singing and dancing broke out.
Knowing when to put one's nose to the grindstone and when to cut loose is good for morale on both sides of the counter.
Three-hour shifts occasionally morphed into six- and nine-hour bundles before the crowds, or our supplies, dwindled or fresh recruits came to relieve us. We all managed to tackle six days of non-stop service.
This was the hardest work I had ever done. The most standing. The most lifting, and bending, and constant motion. After a single day everyone was bone tired. It felt ... Good.
The kids slept like the dead, and yet were eager to get started again once the sun rose on another day.
Of course this is out of the ordinary. It's Fair, a literal carnival of lights and excitement for six days only. A working vacation from the real world they are used to.
Soon enough a big yellow bus -- #20 -- will grind to a halt in front of our house. The familiar mass transit system for their usual daily grind.
I hope they remember the lessons summers' end taught us: smile when things get tough, and dance when things get slow.
You won't regret it when your number comes up.
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