Thomas Gray (1716-1771) was also the name of an English poet and Cambridge scholar who is best known for his “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.”
I’ve been re-reading Gray’s famous “Elegy” lately partly because the poet has a similar name to a teammate of mine — a member of my night crew at the Big Box who has worked with me for the past three years.
Our work is not glamorous or high-status. And because it appears so simple and straightforward — unload trucks, pack out freight, fill the shelves and organize the overstock — it isn’t accorded much dignity in terms of either prestige or pay. But it is a craft and, like any craft, it provides its own dignity for those who strive to learn to do it well.
Our TG was good at this craft. He came to the Big Box after years elsewhere in retail and brought years of experience with him. So he understood, for example, steps and touches — something that takes five minutes to teach and five years to learn.
“Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,” Gray’s “Elegy” says, but ignorant Ambition still tends to mock the useful toil of the overnight freight crews that make retail possible. “Anybody could do that job,” people imagine. But no. No they can’t. The difference between an experienced member of a freight team and even the sharpest, most dedicated newbie is vast and measurable. Those who have learned and worked at this craft are simply capable of getting a lot more done, more accurately, and in less time than those who haven’t put in the time and work to learn all of that. It is, in fact, a form of skilled labor. It is “useful toil” — honorable work not only because it is necessary but because, when observed and understood, it is an impressive sight.
Our TG was an impressive worker. He could, in other words, do things that most people cannot do. Everybody on my crew can do things that most people cannot do, but he could do more of it in one shift than most of them.
Our TG passed away last week, suddenly.
We don’t yet know exactly what happened. One night he worked his regular shift and seemed fine. The next night he didn’t show up, or call out, so we called him and then, when we couldn’t reach him, called his emergency contact number.
I didn’t know him well outside of work. I know he had two sons he was proud of. The older one is getting married in the spring. The younger one, who lives with his ex-wife, is a senior in high school. He had family who loved him and friends who knew his story and his stories and who knew about the larger parts of his life that didn’t involve his work here with me and the rest of our crew.
But I knew him mainly from work, and from his work. And because of that, what I can tell you about him is this: He was good at his job. He did good work. Let not Ambition mock his useful toil.
Anyway, there’s suddenly a big hole in our crew and I think some of them were hoping I’d have something to say to them that would change that somehow. But I don’t. All I know to say to them is this: “I miss Tom. And I am sad.” Saying that doesn’t fix anything, but it at least has the virtue of being true.
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