One of the joys of volunteering is, it’s never the same experience twice.
I arrived early for my final festival shift, hustling to get out of the rain before the sandy track turned muddy. My driver wore a fresh white track suit, sparkly sunglasses, chic boots and a crisp hat. She had drinks and snacks close at hand (my misophonia brain quailed) and as we joined the queue, proceeded to give me a PhD-level class in people management.
Direct report #1 was me. When I said hi to an acquaintance and offered to stow their bag, she scolded me (never touch their things). After I took pity on a rain-drenched trio and asked if they were headed to a stage, she scolded me again (that’s not our job).
We chauffeured little kids and brass bands, tipsy hangers-on, a handsome bass player late for the stage and a host of beautifully-costumed singers and performers. I saw her deftly manage thirsty men, bossy folks, and head off inappropriateness with a comment or a smile. In between we developed a running commentary on life, men, travel, jobs and the festival. By the end of my shift, she was gently ribbing me, grabbing my elbow. Don’t leave me, both of us cracking up.
In the end, we said affectionate goodbyes, and as I signed out, the supervisor handed me extra snacks, dished about online shopping and their Barbie obsession, even gave me a hug. And I made peace with a frenemy from the spring.
It’s interesting how you go somewhere for one thing (volunteering! free music!) and end up with new and mended relationships, a cool t-shirt, and hope for next year.
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