News
ENLARGE
The first time I had a gun pointed at my face, I nearly crapped my pants.
Before I soiled my undies, I threw the bag containing two hand-tossed supreme pizzas at the would-be robber and took off like a cockroach when the lights are flipped on.
The second and third time I was robbed weren't as frightening and my underwear were never in much danger.
Getting robbed three times as a pizza delivery driver provided me with just a few of the memories I've stockpiled over the years in my many, many, many, many, many jobs.
I would venture a guess that I've held more jobs than anyone from the Class of 1978.
Here's a quick list: Coal miner, cook, garbage man, janitor, cemetery worker, disc jockey, forklift driver, carpenter, telemarketer (three really hideous hours), busboy, waiter, bartender … to name a few. And of course pizza delivery (one of the best jobs I've ever had).
My résumé was a massive chunk of unimpressive drivel.
Seemed like every job produced dinky paychecks but a plethora of funny, interesting or scary tales.
Like the time me and a fellow coal miner turned off our lamps in the bowels of the mine, then leapt out in front of an unsuspecting co-worker … after shrieking like a Miley Cyrus concert-goer, he fell down and broke his ankle — HILARIOUS!
It didn't take long for me to see the light and realize that coal mining wasn't for me.
The next exciting stage of my life? Garbage man!
Not exactly a step up. But more great stories. Nothing gets a good belly laugh like picking up garbage in minus 15 degree weather wearing a tank top.
I must admit, it was fun turning trash cans into my own personal bowling pins, mowing them down with a trash truck. I was strongly encouraged to leave that job. Maybe it was more of a demand.
I always thought college held the answer to my future. Which was a little strange. No one in my family had ever gone to college. As a high schooler, my scholastic ability ranked right up there with Rainman except I had to count on my fingers and toes.
Yet, college was my crystal ball. My future would be determined by college. That belief kept me on the move and kept me bounding from job to job. I attended nine different institutions of higher education in three different states along the way. Dropped out of some, was moderately encouraged to leave one, I started and stopped more than a taxi in New York City.
Sometimes for a week, other times for a semester or two, but I always staggered away, talking myself out of the situation and into the next greener pasture down the road.
I was more indecisive than Brett Favre.
As I was flipping pancakes at a Denver Village Inn, I told people that I was heading back to college. But really I didn't have a plan.
As I was terrorizing my co-workers at a Denver warehouse with my mediocre and dangerous forklift driving skills, I started telling everyone that I was actually in college. But I wasn't.
Then a moment of clarity — probably during a productive happy hour. Why am I lying about going to college? Why not just go back to college?
I always knew why college intimidated me. When it came to book learning, I was rather stupid in high school. My skull was an impenetrable surface. Not much got in, there was no intellectual absorption. It was like listening to Charlie Brown's teachers — blah, blah, blah, gibberish.
One Rifle High teacher, upon seeing my college preparatory test results, strongly — very, very strongly recommended that I pursue a career in the construction trades.
Even as I convinced myself that college was my Yellowbrick Road, I had no idea what area of study I wanted to pursue.
Skinny, dumb and drunk wasn't the best way to celebrate my 28th birthday. But at least I had a job delivering pizzas and had plenty of leftovers to munch on.
Then I did it. I signed up, got the student loans and started college.
It was the strangest thing. No more gibberish. My skull was suddenly capable of absorption. I understood things, I was actually learning — book learning.
For the next three years, I went to college by day and delivered pizzas by night.
At 29 years old, I was surrounded by the typical 18 to 22 year old student. As I have grown to realize, I've been about 10 years behind the typical life path.
As I was still wafting my way through the basics of college studies I discovered journalism.
Way back in second grade — yes second grade — before my skull developed its Teflon coating, I enjoyed writing. The art of taking a creative thought and applying it to paper was fascinating to me.
It took 22 years for me to go from that wide-eyed 7-year-old writer at Riverside Elementary in New Castle to the 29-year-old college journalism student, but I made it.
As my first article was published in a campus newspaper at Metropolitan State College in Denver, I felt like that 7-year-old kid. Giggling and running across campus — my first article!
I still run into classmates that find it hard to believe that I'm in this profession. I too find it hard to comprehend. As a high school student, I was an imbecile (I had to look that up to get the correct spelling) plain and simple.
As a young adult, I was a stupefied, irresponsible dumbass.
I'm still not sure what got me focused on the path of responsibility. Of course, I'm glad that happened. I'm also dumbfounded how I wandered into the path of journalism. But I'm thrilled that I did.
Through my jobs, my travels, my struggles, my failures and my successes, I've had some amazing times leading up to my 50th birthday (on Sunday). At 50, I'm sure refection is commonplace.
And as I ponder my past, I always return to my days at Rifle High School for some of my fondest memories. And I have the Class of 1978 to thank for so many of those memories.
Part of my reflection is thinking about that irresponsible nitwit of a dunce that I was.
And there are times when I really miss that guy.
Dale Shrull is the editor of the Citizen Telegram. Yes, hard to believe but a fact nonetheless.
Before I soiled my undies, I threw the bag containing two hand-tossed supreme pizzas at the would-be robber and took off like a cockroach when the lights are flipped on.
The second and third time I was robbed weren't as frightening and my underwear were never in much danger.
Getting robbed three times as a pizza delivery driver provided me with just a few of the memories I've stockpiled over the years in my many, many, many, many, many jobs.
I would venture a guess that I've held more jobs than anyone from the Class of 1978.
Here's a quick list: Coal miner, cook, garbage man, janitor, cemetery worker, disc jockey, forklift driver, carpenter, telemarketer (three really hideous hours), busboy, waiter, bartender … to name a few. And of course pizza delivery (one of the best jobs I've ever had).
My résumé was a massive chunk of unimpressive drivel.
Seemed like every job produced dinky paychecks but a plethora of funny, interesting or scary tales.
Like the time me and a fellow coal miner turned off our lamps in the bowels of the mine, then leapt out in front of an unsuspecting co-worker … after shrieking like a Miley Cyrus concert-goer, he fell down and broke his ankle — HILARIOUS!
It didn't take long for me to see the light and realize that coal mining wasn't for me.
The next exciting stage of my life? Garbage man!
Not exactly a step up. But more great stories. Nothing gets a good belly laugh like picking up garbage in minus 15 degree weather wearing a tank top.
I must admit, it was fun turning trash cans into my own personal bowling pins, mowing them down with a trash truck. I was strongly encouraged to leave that job. Maybe it was more of a demand.
I always thought college held the answer to my future. Which was a little strange. No one in my family had ever gone to college. As a high schooler, my scholastic ability ranked right up there with Rainman except I had to count on my fingers and toes.
Yet, college was my crystal ball. My future would be determined by college. That belief kept me on the move and kept me bounding from job to job. I attended nine different institutions of higher education in three different states along the way. Dropped out of some, was moderately encouraged to leave one, I started and stopped more than a taxi in New York City.
Sometimes for a week, other times for a semester or two, but I always staggered away, talking myself out of the situation and into the next greener pasture down the road.
I was more indecisive than Brett Favre.
As I was flipping pancakes at a Denver Village Inn, I told people that I was heading back to college. But really I didn't have a plan.
As I was terrorizing my co-workers at a Denver warehouse with my mediocre and dangerous forklift driving skills, I started telling everyone that I was actually in college. But I wasn't.
Then a moment of clarity — probably during a productive happy hour. Why am I lying about going to college? Why not just go back to college?
I always knew why college intimidated me. When it came to book learning, I was rather stupid in high school. My skull was an impenetrable surface. Not much got in, there was no intellectual absorption. It was like listening to Charlie Brown's teachers — blah, blah, blah, gibberish.
One Rifle High teacher, upon seeing my college preparatory test results, strongly — very, very strongly recommended that I pursue a career in the construction trades.
Even as I convinced myself that college was my Yellowbrick Road, I had no idea what area of study I wanted to pursue.
Skinny, dumb and drunk wasn't the best way to celebrate my 28th birthday. But at least I had a job delivering pizzas and had plenty of leftovers to munch on.
Then I did it. I signed up, got the student loans and started college.
It was the strangest thing. No more gibberish. My skull was suddenly capable of absorption. I understood things, I was actually learning — book learning.
For the next three years, I went to college by day and delivered pizzas by night.
At 29 years old, I was surrounded by the typical 18 to 22 year old student. As I have grown to realize, I've been about 10 years behind the typical life path.
As I was still wafting my way through the basics of college studies I discovered journalism.
Way back in second grade — yes second grade — before my skull developed its Teflon coating, I enjoyed writing. The art of taking a creative thought and applying it to paper was fascinating to me.
It took 22 years for me to go from that wide-eyed 7-year-old writer at Riverside Elementary in New Castle to the 29-year-old college journalism student, but I made it.
As my first article was published in a campus newspaper at Metropolitan State College in Denver, I felt like that 7-year-old kid. Giggling and running across campus — my first article!
I still run into classmates that find it hard to believe that I'm in this profession. I too find it hard to comprehend. As a high school student, I was an imbecile (I had to look that up to get the correct spelling) plain and simple.
As a young adult, I was a stupefied, irresponsible dumbass.
I'm still not sure what got me focused on the path of responsibility. Of course, I'm glad that happened. I'm also dumbfounded how I wandered into the path of journalism. But I'm thrilled that I did.
Through my jobs, my travels, my struggles, my failures and my successes, I've had some amazing times leading up to my 50th birthday (on Sunday). At 50, I'm sure refection is commonplace.
And as I ponder my past, I always return to my days at Rifle High School for some of my fondest memories. And I have the Class of 1978 to thank for so many of those memories.
Part of my reflection is thinking about that irresponsible nitwit of a dunce that I was.
And there are times when I really miss that guy.
Dale Shrull is the editor of the Citizen Telegram. Yes, hard to believe but a fact nonetheless.
