COMMON GROUND? IT’S OVER THERE 👉

Common ground is where you stand with your people, whoever and wherever they may be.

It’s a place to relax and drop your guard.

Say the wrong thing? Impossible.

Wear the wrong clothes? Just don’t leave a stain on the furniture.

You’ll know the place when you get there; and you know you’re not there when this happens:

Everyone looks like you.

I currently live where everyone looks like me.

It’s an ’empty nest ghetto’ of fabulous houses with low interest rates, too low to responsibly downsize to a smaller house that costs more than the big one with a higher interest rate.

Call me cheap.

Call me retired.

Call me fiscally responsible.

I like responsible better than the other two, but they still work just fine.

Being responsible is a theme of common ground.

I had a guy at work ask if I thought I was responsible for everything.

Not everything, just the stuff that made my job harder.

I wasn’t responsible for the people who hurt themselves because they had a better way of doing things.

 

Me: How did you hurt yourself?

Them: I sat on the floor and pushed a heavy box with my legs and something popped.

Me: That’s why we have a hand truck, a pallet jack, a forklift, and me. Now I don’t have you.

 

We lost our common ground.

 

Other Ground?

Over time the idea of common ground shifts.

Maybe it was your church until the old minister retired and the new one had a different message to the flock.

Or you bonded with others over a favorite sports team before the owner ran it into the ground and you threw all of your gear out in shame.

What’s more sacred ground than a high school reunion where everyone had lots in common?

Some of my favorite times were when people at work left the museum for another job, or retired.

We’d have a big party with big cards signed by everyone on staff for a sendoff.

People left with their hopes and dreams still intact.

They left after a year, five years, ten years.

Everyone looked forward to the next party.

Especially me. It was a museum full of museum people each with their own specialty, their own interests.

Somehow we all found common ground.

They weren’t party people as much as doing their professional duty and going through the motions.

 

After twenty years with the company I picked up a bank box of my desk belongings at six am at the door in the parking garage.

No party, no big card, no hugs, just take your shit and leave.

Which was part of the deal I signed.

I could leave and get paid, or stay and get fired.

After twenty years I was portrayed as disgruntled. I wasn’t.

But I did report a new hire for crossing the line with their topics of conversation.

Let’s just say if it had been me with the same topics I would have been tarred and feathered and rode out on a rail.

That didn’t happen, it just felt like it as I slinked off.

One of the first things I did was join the museum as a supporter to show no hard feelings.

 

The Lonely Crowd

Television cameras have caught people leaving their jobs recently, carrying bank boxes of their desk gear.

Others, the bosses, leave in a suit with their chests out while the workers create a channel and clap them out.

It’s heart wrenching if you’ve never carried that box, more so if you have.

I felt common ground with them through the TV.

My wife likes to say I need more friends, and she could be right.

There are lots of good guys in the ENG (empty nest ghetto.)

One of them invited me to their church, which I declined, so I’m on the highway to hell with them.

I heard about the church from one of the pastors, and it was enough for me.

One of the guys has a funky kid who said my kid was the funky one.

After an exhaustive examination I found no funk and heard no apology.

Like I said, good guys, just not my guys.

 

My Guys: What are you doing?

Me: Stuff. What are you doing?

My Guys: I need help.

Me: I’ll be right over.

 

I take the short drive to my guys passing empty driveways, blank windows, and landscaping crews.

A guy down the street died a few months ago and his garage doors were up with a dumpster at the curb.

That’s how it is in the empty nest ghetto.

We keep everything after everyone moves just in case they need it later.

Get rid of a slew of suitcases? No. If a wheel breaks on one you’ve got a replacement.

Get rid of a stack of wood? No. Someone might want to build something.

What to do?

First find common ground, then get a dumpster.

Go ahead and drop your guard, be outrageous, were those go-to-hell pants.

Find common ground with your wife or husband.

It’s not a needle in a haystack, it’s being married.