Finding life’s silver linings

Ever have a random memory pop up of something you did that you really, really wish you hadn’t? Happens to me now and then, too. Heck, guess it happens to everybody.

Even if it was years ago, I have that moment of, “Sheesh, if only I could go back in time and re-do that!” And, like everybody, I tell myself, “Oh well, nothing I can do about it now” and that’s that.

Lately, though — perhaps because I’m starting to feel old — I’ve been going over some things with a different perspective.

Even though it wasn’t really something I had any control over, I nevertheless spent a considerable portion of my life wishing my step-dad had never come along. He showed up when I was somewhere around 3 and, well, let’s just say he wasn’t the nicest guy in the world. Life was often pretty rocky growing up and I was anxious to run far, far from the house just as soon as I could after graduating high school.

But you know what? Regardless of whatever else he may have been, my step-dad was one of the most amazing men I’ve ever known when it came to repairing and restoring old cars. He had me help him do a head gasket on a 1949 Plymouth after I got home from half-day Kindergarten not too long after he’d married my mother. From then on, my days were spent helping him work on whatever cars he was collecting at the time; vintage Fords, Chevrolets, Chrysler products, Volkswagens, Datsuns, Jeeps — you name it, I had to work on it at some point.

And since he had grown up in the ’50s and ’60s, he was of that old-school hot-rodder generation that knew how to make even the crappiest old car look cool with the right wheel color, beauty rings, lowering the front, shaving the deck lid and such. I grew up a car nut (still am) and I can thank my step-dad for teaching me how to wrench. I can thank him for teaching me to appreciate an old car for how it was built rather than just how much horsepower it had, like my classmates did.

Later in life I met a gal who I really should have spent more time getting to know before we made the foolish decision to get married. What a train wreck. After seven years — about six years and 11 months too many — we finally had the good sense to split. But even then, she continued to be a pain in my … neck … for far too long. Oh yes, there were several times I very deeply regretted the day I met that gal. But, if I had never met her I wouldn’t have my now 16-year-old son, Austin. Great kid. I get compliments on his courtesy and manners all the time. Great sense of humor, too.

This same gal had a family dynasty working at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, a place I had vowed I would never, ever work.

Growing up in Kitsap County, Wash., meant that sooner or later you would have the opportunity to drive through Bremerton after they blew the afternoon whistle at the shipyard. It was like a warning for the city that the walking dead were about to be released. And sure enough, this herd of groaning, shuffling, filthy people would come lurching and stumbling out from the gates. No way was I ever going to work there. But all of my ex-wife’s uncles worked there and the decision was made that I would too, like it or not (I didn’t).

As time counted down to my first day, several older people I knew who had retired from PSNS all said the same thing: “Well, it’ll suck the life out of you, but you’ll earn a decent retirement. Congratulations! Don’t worry … you’ll go numb and get used to it.”

Oh, joy. That sounded pleasant. “Well,” I told myself, “It can’t really be all that bad.”

It was worse. To this day I have never seen junior high politics like PSNS. A federal government job where the real heavy-hitters could brag if they did two hours of honest work that day. There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t regret allowing myself to be shoved into that job. But, if I hadn’t, I never would have met Glenny shortly after splitting with my ex (Glenny was a machinist there). I never would have had AJ, Justin and Devin come into my life. There would be no Portia or Benjy.

Flash forward a few more years. The marketing job I had taken for a local home health company was crumbling as the small, local company began struggling against the huge, national companies that had moved in virtually overnight and started taking away business. A friend of ours worked for the local Sportsman’s Warehouse and said, “Hey, I know it’s just a silly retail job, but if you want to make some extra money, I’ll bring you on.”

Well, for me pride meant doing whatever it takes to make money for the family, and so it was that I found myself walking around Sportsman’s Warehouse wearing a colored shirt and a nametag — a dang nametag. Yes, I was a bit depressed.

“Good Lord, what am I doing here at this age working somewhere I have to wear a nametag?” I thought to myself. Looking back, I think I needed to be humbled. I learned a valuable lesson from that job. First off all, I came to love it and made great friends there. And within a few months I was promoted, and then promoted again and within short order I was running the Hunting Department, which wasn’t bad pay, to be honest.

And if I had never taken that “silly retail job” I never would have received the offer from corporate to return to Wasilla — a place I had been wanting to return to for decades — and take over the hunting department in their new store. I never would have come home to Alaska and eventually found myself a state job.

Mean step-dad. Crazy ex-wife. Soulless shipyard job. Silly retail job. Just a few examples of things I initially regretted. I’m sure you see the point; if none of them had happened, the great things I got out of them never would have happened.

Next time something comes along that seems less-than-ideal, something unexpected and unwanted, keep your eyes open. Be ready for when something comes along that otherwise wouldn’t have if you hadn’t lost that job, lost that guy/girl, made that stupid mistake, etc. Karma, fate, God’s will — call it what you want but, I’m a firm believer in it.

Ben Compton is a Palmer resident and publishes his column as “Compton’s Corner,” the same title used by his grandmother, Phyllis Compton, a longtime Frontiersman columnist. Contact him at bcompton1971@yahoo.com.