When I was a kid, our toilets backed up. The block where we lived in Elmhurst had a lot of big trees and their roots would get into the sewer pipes and cause our plumbing to clog.
My dad never called a plumber during my entire childhood—EVER.
He’d head off to rent a Roto Rooter so he could clean the pipes out himself.
Well, not exactly himself. My brother and sister and I were his helpers.
The access to the pipe that connected from our house to the sewer system on the street was located in the crawl space of our house, a dingy space illuminated by one bare light bulb on a pull string.
One of us would crawl on hands and knees helping to get the Roto Rooter attached. Then you’d have to put the snake through the pipe over and over again until the blockage was removed.
This was not a job I enjoyed helping with. Once, when I complained about getting poop on my hands, my dad said to me, “Jennifer, never be afraid to put your hands in shit.”
It would not be the first or last time my dad said that to me or my siblings.
In fact, it became our family mantra because Dad meant that statement literally and figuratively.
When Dad wasn’t cleaning out clogged sewer pipes, he made a classroom of our kitchen table. In addition to learning to spell the 500 most frequently misspelled words (recommend–one c two m’s) and reciting poetry, he shared life lessons.
When he said never be afraid to put your hands in poop, he was helping us see that to live a big, bold life meant challenging yourself, grappling with difficult ideas, working hard, and making mistakes.
Because to live a courageous life full of possibility meant you had to be willing to “put your hands in shit.”
Every Thanksgiving, we gather with family and friends in our house, most recently, a house that we built on the lot where I grew up. Yep, that same lot where the tree roots used to clog the sewer pipes. A new house my husband and I built with my mom and sister after my dad died in 2019. We affectionately call it The Compound. (Read more about the compound here.)
Dad’s influence is still felt. While we don’t clean out our own sewers, we do continue to repeat his mantra, along with his love for reciting poetry.
So, at our Thanksgiving table, guests have to come prepared with a poem for our annual Turkey Day poetry slam. My friend Maureen always brings a raspberry beret which each person dons when it’s their turn. One of our regular guests has yet to bring a poem. We only allow this because he instead brings his guitar and sings his poem via a song.
This year, I’m adding another element that might be of interest around YOUR Thanksgiving table.
If poetry isn’t your jam, you could ask people to share a mantra that was passed down to them or that they coined for themselves or one that they create on the spot.
During this week of Thanksgiving, I also want to express my gratitude for all of you who support me in the work I do whether on the stage, in workshops and trainings, or through my blog and newsletter.
As I always say, I have the best job in the world.
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