A family legacy, a silver coin and an aha moment have Edie Weinstein putting the puzzle pieces together to figure out how she became a workaholic.
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The Urban Dictionary could have my picture next to this definition of the term Solopreneur:
“An entrepreneur who works alone, “solo,” running their business single-handedly. They might have contractors for hire, yet have full responsibility for the running of their business. Â
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The typical solopreneur is easily tempted to become a work-a-holic, not feeling their work is ever done! They do the administrative tasks, marketing, customer service and service delivery typically by themselves.”
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Add to that the entrenched belief that I will never be enough, do enough or have enough (financial security), and there lies the perfect breeding ground for burning the candle at both ends until there is no more wax left. There are times when I can hear strains of Donna Summer singing  She Works Hard For the Money.
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Where did my wheel spinning, frenetic activity in an effort to bring in the green stuff come from?
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This past weekend, I was sitting with a group of women friends in our monthly Empowerment Circle. Each time we do ‘work’ around certain challenging areas of our lives. Mine touched on this feeling of inadequacy and fear of not being able to support myself, despite doing so for the past 15 years since my husband died. I put myself out there in all areas, desiring the spotlight; not simply for ego gratification, but as a means of providing more than adequate income. One of my friends asked a laser sharp question that cut through the bullshit answers I might have given had I not so desperately wanted to resolve this forever issue. She queried as to how I had love and money so intermingled. It took but a flash of thought. My father, of course.
He was raised as the 3rd of 4 children in Depression era South Philadelphia (think Rocky’s ‘hood), whose parents were Russian Jewish immigrants. Needing to go on welfare, an embarrassment, but necessary. Even though my grandfather who worked as a presser in the garment industry, brought home a weekly paycheck, it wasn’t sufficient. One by one, as they were old enough, my father, his brothers and sister took jobs to help support the family as well. My dad worked as a milkman, delivering to stores. He continued to do that through my childhood and in my teens, he switched careers and sat behind the wheel of a SEPTA (Southeastern Transportation Authority) bus and drove through the streets of Philadelphia for another 30 years, retiring at 65. He worked, as my mother described it “crazy hours to support us.” Although when he was home, he was a solid presence, I still wanted more time with him, but somehow grasped the idea that when you love someone, you work hard for them.
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My parents paid their bills on time, had one credit card (Sears, since that was where my mother worked as a switchboard operator), used coupons and S & H Green stamps. A tall, mulberry hued glass vase was the repository for coins that would accumulate for months and then be dumped out on the living room floor and placed in paper sleeves and taken to the bank to be redeemed. They were thrifty, but not cheap, generous, but not extravagant. They saved and invested. When my dad died, he left my mother well taken care of. On my mother’s side of the family was my grandmother who was described by my parents as “having a money tree in the backyard,” with funds for all eventualities. So, I pondered, where did my wheel spinning, frenetic activity in an effort to bring in the green stuff come from?
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My inheritance goes beyond money in the bank. It is overflowing with memories of a man who showered the people he loved with love.
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It was then that I remembered a story that my sister validated when we spoke this week. My father used to wear a quarter around his neck with a hole punched in it so, that it hung on a chain, along with a gold ‘chai’ which is a Hebrew letter that means ‘life’. Think Tevye in Fiddler On The Roof singing “To life, to life, L’Chaim”
It was a symbol of his strong Jewish faith and his everlasting connection to his grandmother Goldie. She was a diminutive women, likely 4 foot nuthin’. He used to carry her around; his ‘little Bubbe’ (Yiddish for grandmother) and she would laugh. Family legend has it that she fell down the stairs and broke her neck, dying instantly. Not sure if my father found her, but we had heard that she had a quarter in her hand at the time. He kept it and thus it became the aforementioned pendant. My sister claimed it when he died. What never occurred to me was that if indeed he was the one who came upon his beloved grandmother at the foot of the stairs, how must it have effected him? In that one sorrowful moment, love and money became twisted together.
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My father also collected silver dollars and when my cousins would visit, he would present them with a shiny coin. It was another symbol of affection. My inheritance goes beyond money in the bank. It is overflowing with memories of a man who showered the people he loved with love.
What it comes down to for me, as I gaze backward into my time line, is the reminder that I need not sell my heart and soul for love or money.
Photo credit:Â Edie Weinstein
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