THIS WEEK I REACH THE END OF MY TRILOGY. I shared two stories last week musing over those experiences we all have where someone can say one simple sentence and it resonates deep within and alters our life paradigm. If your receptors are active and you’re looking for answers, an off-handed remark on a random Tuesday can bring enlightenment and rival the impact of an Ivy League lecture.

To prompt these essays, I created a topic for myself. “What three childhood experiences have influenced me the most?” Last week I told the stories of how I learned to stop and smell the roses and pick up any trash lying around. This week I’d like to tell you about Dickie Olson and the lessons I learned from him, though I doubt he knows it ever happened. It wasn’t anything he said. It was what he did.

Dick Olson was one year ahead of me in high school, so we weren’t close friends, just friendly acquaintances. We were both part of the long-haired counter-culture of the ’60s and ’70s, fighting for peace. We met up at many parties and concerts and had the same wide circle of friends. He was in there with the rest of us, rebellious, resistant, indulgent, sticking it to the man over Viet Nam.

During my high school years, I confess I had little regard for good attendance and punctuality. I was known to cut a few classes, fake a few illnesses, miss a few Mondays. I figured that was what counter-culture people did — disregard the establishment. Hey, why dissect worms in biology class when I can go fishing and gut something bigger?

Then the annual spring scholarship awards assembly was called in our auditorium in my junior year and the student body filed in. I sat in the back, of course, twiddling. This was mostly a senior graduation event. School clubs and social organizations gave plaques and cash to kids who had outstanding achievements.

I was only half paying attention when Principal Donovan took the microphone and announced he was about to award something special, one-of-a-kind, never-before-seen. OK, he had my attention.

He proceeded to call Dickie Olson to the stage. Now he had my complete attention. Wow. One of ours, a counter-culture paisley hippie dude with long hair and pink-tinted wire-rim glasses and a mischievous grin came strutting down the aisle to accept a super special award. What the heck did Dickie do now? Couldn’t imagine.

Dickie accepted two certificates and shook Mr. Donovan’s hand. Back at the microphone, the principal told us that our own Mr. Richard Olson had two accomplishments. He earned straight A grades from kindergarten through high school, and he never missed a single day of school.

I was flabbergasted. One of ours with straight A’s and no absences — the incongruity tangled up my mind. I thought counter-culture meant …

Suddenly, I came to a great revelation: It is possible to do both. One can be a rebel and wild spirit and still have good attendance and a work ethic. That Olson Award changed for the better my whole outlook on life choices.

Unfortunately, not right away. It took a double-whammy for me to learn good attendance for good. Olson’s award was remarkable, but it didn’t sink deep into my psyche immediately like the other two experiences. I acknowledged it as remarkable and possible, and then it went dormant, lodging itself somewhere behind my left ear.

It wasn’t until two years later, after I had graduated and taken a job sanding soles at Howe’s Leather Company, that a significant catalyst triggered Dickie’s lesson to blossom like a spring daffodil. I got fired.

My second lesson from Frank Addeo, “Never wish your life away,” was good advice, but it did play hell with my attendance at work. In trying to live my life fully as a rebellious free spirit, I missed a lot of work, mostly Mondays.

Dickie’s lesson blossomed in my head on a Tuesday. The previous Friday I had purchased my first car ever, a Simca, for $1,700. Naturally, I drove around all weekend and decided to blow off Monday at the leather factory and go for another long drive. I couldn’t get enough of driving my own car. I was so happy to have it. It set me free.

On Tuesday when I reported for work, the boss met me at the door. “You’re fired. Get off the property. You’ve missed too many days. Read your contract.”

“But,” I protested. “I just bought a car. I have payments.”

“That’s your problem,” he said. He went inside and shut the door.

It was at that moment that the Dickie experience burst from its seed pod behind my left ear and grew into a fully grown paradigm shift. I realized I had screwed up royally.

My next job was in a carbon mill, dirty, grimy, hot, noisy. I worked there for 15 months without missing a day.

I enrolled at Penn State and got my bachelor’s degree without missing a single class in four years. I drove 80 miles in a road-closing blizzard once.

At AT&T sales and service division I worked six years and missed only two days back to back because I was truly sick.
As a teacher I have banked 150 sick days that will go toward my retirement pension. Thanks to Dickie Olson, I will make an extra $80 every month for the rest of my life. Thanks, Dickie. Come visit and get your commission.

Steve Gibbs teaches at Benicia High School and has written a column for The Herald since 1985.