There are benefits and downfalls to reading every comment. Email, that’s different.
Many social media professionals advise me to avoid reading comments; I can’t do that. I also read all of my emails, which makes me one of a tiny percentage of people who don’t delete things immediately.
As expected, I got a nasty message from an individual who probably doesn’t read my writing every day (nor should they, because I have better things to do than to answer terrorizing emails from people who don’t know any better or should have had the sense that God gave a goose to pick a better audience for their vitriol).
I digress.
Without giving you too much detail, there was anger about my mention of Goodwill over some other charitable organizations. Sure, some of you kindly commented, lauding one thing over another, and that’s good. I like information, but not nasty eye fodder in the inbox (much of it misspelled).
A couple of things come to mind this morning. We all do things for different reasons; my experiences are not yours, and vice versa.
When I mentioned taking a pile of clothes to Goodwill, I was not trying to elevate myself or seem like a good person; I was looking to offload a pile of things from my closet under pressure from the co-homeowner. And, yes, I know that Goodwill Industries has taken some hits regarding the salary of their CEO. I’m not getting into that because CEOs sometimes earn money because they run a tight ship, and their board decides; I don’t know what the board knows. I don’t even want to know.
But I have seen success in some of the company’s employees. I see them happy in their jobs, doing something that they feel is meaningful. We all base our lives on the information we gather but process it differently because of our past experiences.
Once upon a time, I needed a suit quickly. I bought one at Goodwill, and it fit perfectly and cost twenty-five bucks. I keep that in mind when I turn over my suits. There may be a guy out there who, like me, can’t afford a new suit right now, and I can help him out, regardless of who runs the company.
Once, during a particularly heinous murder investigation, the suspect dumped his sneakers (size 12, by the way) into a Goodwill bin.
I didn’t learn of this until a week later. Being of sound mind and knowing the backroom workers can be overwhelmed with donations, I crossed my fingers and searched. I found them.
There they sat, with a few other pairs in the size 12 rack. A lady was perusing them, contemplating buying them for her son.
I could see the red/brown staining on the toe, and I had to point it out to her (and show her my badge) to pry her value-shopping hands off the sneakers. Finally, I explained what I firmly believed created the staining, and she dropped them like they burned her fingers. And yes, the staining was precisely what you might think it was. The lab confirmed it.
Goodwill employees were invaluable to me when I explained that I wasn’t paying, but I could get a warrant if need be. They turned the sneakers over to me, and I gave them a receipt and placed the sneakers in evidence.
You see, life’s experiences imprint on our brains. Yours are not the same as mine, nor the same as the nasty person who sent me the email demanding I go somewhere else with my donations of quality but unfashionable, clean clothing choices.
I also know that four or five years ago, everyone told me to buy a Tesla. I didn’t listen.
“Get rid of that truck; you don’t need it.”
I plow, haul things, and need a four-wheel drive to get home. I pull people out of ditches when they appear in Maine unprepared for third-world-level roads and muddy thoroughfares. I drive what I drive based on my needs. My wants and needs are never based on the other three hundred and some odd million Americans. They do not shovel for me, nor should they. But they also don’t buy my cars and trucks.
I’d rather drive something more economical, but my needs are different than theirs/yours. I certainly wouldn’t buy an electric car. Being from Maine, with distances and infrastructure far removed from the average electric car owner’s Nirvana, I cannot. And no matter who makes it, being honest with you, I’d buy the best one I could, no matter who built it.
I do not try to be virtuous to please others. Sometimes, I fly right in the face of that nonsense and do what I please. I am a human. I am stubborn.
Currently, some think that damaging someone’s personal property (Teslas) is an appropriate rage technique to get back at someone who bought something from someone they now hate but didn’t before. Isn’t that the darndest thing you ever heard?
Here’s my point. You do you; I’ll do me, and never the twain shall meet.
Your email, Sherman (not his real name), was not the deciding factor in my taking my huge bag of clean, unfashionable clothing to the Salvation Army instead of Goodwill.
Several folks in the comments mentioned the Salvation Army. They are kindly sharing what they believe would be a better choice. According to a friend who commented, 83% of the money gets funneled into local causes. But, nope, that wasn’t the deciding factor.
I walked to the bedroom to do a cursory check, making sure to clear out what no longer would be worn, and I saw my grandfather’s Salvation Army War College portrait sitting, waiting for framing. My S.O. leaned the photo against my Dad and Mom’s wedding photo.
Gramps and my Grandmother were both Majors in the Salvation Army, serving in the slums of some gritty places during the Great Depression and beyond. They served soup, opened food pantries, and they both played brass instruments, my grandfather marching—once—under the direction of John Phillip Sousa.
How’s that for a bit of color in a piece? And Gramp Miller played the Sousaphone. How ironic.
During the move, I went through hundreds of old photos and pulled this one out to show my son how much he looked like the great-grandfather he never met.
So, it’s not the kind notes or the nasty emails that changed my donation destination. My life experiences, prior knowledge, wonderful people, and their impact on my life form my decisions.
It certainly wasn’t Sherman; he didn’t even suggest the Salvation Army.
Keep that in mind as we all move forward.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
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