I’m continuing the weekly exercise, intending to keep this up for 52 weeks, as I recount a wee piece of the story of my life.
This week’s prompt: Write about a time when you had to adapt to a major life change.
Perhaps the biggest life change, and one of my life’s single darkest times, occurred in Autumn 1988.
My work history to this point had been less than linear. In high school (Lee’s Summit High School ’79) I worked at Zarda Dairy (oder a local version of a gas station/ice cream counter/convenience store), at Hardee’s, and as a self-employed piano teacher. After college, I was a music and youth minister in a small Baptist church in south central Missouri, then a college admissions officer at my undergrad alma mater, and then in 1987 a public relations manager for a McDonald’s franchise owner with five stores.
In that last employment, I was out of my element.
I realize now that Art Phillips, the franchise owner, was being benevolent in taking me on. I had no experience in PR. But I needed a job, since doors were closing, through actions of my own instigation, at Southwest Baptist where I was then Director of Admissions. And Art, one of the kindest men in the world, walked the walk in his quiet Christian witness. I had been his daughter’s admissions rep, and I knew him and his family from the Baptist church we all attended. He took pity on me and found work for me in his franchise office.
But Art had rapidly expanded his franchise, and in Autumn 1988 he found his controllable expenses out of whack as the ranks of store management were not as deeply experienced as they had been in his smaller-franchise days.
He needed to claw back my salary.
The conversation one October morning went something like this:
“I can’t continue you in the PR position, and want you to think about store management.”
“Thanks, Art. May I have some time to think about this?”
And I went home. And cried. That night when my roommate, Mike, came home from work, I was balled up in a corner, listening in the dark to sad Russian songs sung by Dimitri Hvorostovsky, wallowing in my tears and wondering if I should even go on. (Looking back, I’m fairly certain I staged my sorrow for maximum effect as Mike arrived home.)
I’d purchased a home less than a year earlier. I had no technical skill set, and no training for anything other than people work. I was living hand-to-mouth. I had a company car, and would need to think about finding not only income but also a car.
(As I write this, I am suddenly mindful of how many people in this current world are in this very state of being.)
I asked for the next day off. And then less than 48 hours after our initial conversation, I gave my notice. Store management was not for me; store management was so far off of any career path I could envision that I simply said “thank you, but no.”
“What are you going to do?”
Art’s employment opportunity in Blue Springs had included active participation with the Chamber of Commerce. And I’d gotten involved with the Blue Springs City Theatre, and through that group had started teaching a few voice lessons (not realizing then how little I knew about teaching voice).
During the day between Art’s announcement and my notice, I’d talked with people at the Chamber of Commerce, of and actually joined as a sole proprietor of Jeffrey Richard Carter Studios. I’d talked with people from the city theatre. And I’d approached a local music store, Meyer Music, about recommending me when they had inquiries about voice lessons. (I later purchased my Kawai grand from the store too.)
The darkness of that first night had turned into a kindling of light, and hope for a path forward as I made a huge pivot from a public relations hack (who knew nothing about what he was doing!) to private studio voice and piano teacher (who knew only slightly more about what he was doing).
Roommate Mike provided a boost on that first night when he said to me pretty bluntly “get up off the floor, stop crying, and figure out what you can do.” I wanted pity. He gave me tough love.
While I don’t think I would have done it in the actual event, that first October evening in 1988 was the closest I think I ever came to taking my own life. Despair was real. I had the means. The motive. And sad Russian songs to fuel the darkness.
These events occurred 35 years ago. This one huge life change set me on the path that has led to such happiness and joy with so many students and so much wonderful music making over these decades.
And so it was in October 1988 that I hung out a shingle, so to speak, and set myself up as a music teacher. Within a few months I had a mix of voice and piano students, young and older, totaling 50 or more lessons weekly. And I started raising my rates, which led to a more manageable load. I networked with the local high school and nearby schools. I said “yes” to any inquiry that came along and paid. In short order the local community choir came calling. I started a grad degree not long after that.
I never looked back, and now rarely even mention those dark couple of days in 1988.
I’m now in my 36th year of teaching voice.
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