Overhead Door Corporation: Fill & Download for Free

Below is a true Story of how I ended up homeless on Thanksgiving in 1998. I ended up turning it into a paper for college years ago. Took me about 10 years to get over it.Thump, thump, thump. There is a muffled knocking coming from the kitchen door. Somebody has come to visit. My sleepy mind draws the conclusion that it is probably our neighbor, Tina Murray. Yesterday Gladys Ann, my wife, had asked Tina to stop by and assist her with two apple pies she was attempting to bake.The delicious aroma of a turkey roasting in the oven saturates the air. I remember now, it is Thanksgiving, and apparently I have overslept. Why didn’t my alarm clock wake me earlier? Where is my alarm clock? It is not on the bureau, where it has sat for the last ten months.Thump, thump, thump again. This is odd, why has no one answered the door by now? There is always someone around here, you can not beg for quiet time alone. Privacy is non-existent with four people in a one-story house fifty feet long.”Honey? Can you get the door?” I ask aloud in yawning and broken voice. Silence. Perhaps the wife and her parents went out to the store for some last minute items. I ponder this as I hurriedly pull on a pair of fading Levi blue jeans and a black tee shirt.Thump, thump, thump. The knocking is louder now, almost impatient.“I’m coming, Hold on!” I shout, hopping around on one foot fighting a rebellious sock. “Just a minute!” Cursing to myself as I finally cow the sock into obedience.As I open the bedroom door, I notice rest of the house is actually clean. It is never physically dirty, but there is always some kind of clutter about. Anything from shoes and boots to video-cassettes and magazines can normally be found littering the kitchen table or tossed haphazardly against the large freezer which occupies a space near the only kitchen door. It is a losing battle to keep the place neat. The in-laws are perhaps the most unorganized people I have ever met. It is their right, however, and the disapproving looks they give me reinforce that daily. It is their house, not mine, and I am only here because they are letting me. I only reluctantly agreed to move here at my wife’s repeated requests, knowing that I would be sacrificing a large part of my independence in doing so. I wanted to make Gladys Ann happy.“Just for a couple months.” She had said, “My dad is not feeling well and I want to be near him to make sure he is ok”.I did not bother to bring up how Jack always felt bad, especially whenever she and I were about to go somewhere together alone. On our honeymoon he “got ill”, and needed Gladys Ann there at his side to take care of him. Then Jack miraculously recovered once we cancelled the trip to Canada we had planned. We never did have that honeymoon.Moving through the kitchen, I finally notice the alarm clock. It is unplugged and laying upside down on the freezer. The clock is bound loosely with it’s own power cord, as if someone had tried to wrap the cord while walking at the same time.At that moment I notice the shape of someone at the door. I can see the outline through the thin, floral-pattern curtains covering the glass windows panes. Wait a minute, the person is wearing a duster very much like a forest ranger’s or that of a …policeman..Fear and apprehension immediately grip me as I manipulate the door handle and pull open the door. The person is indeed an officer. He is the perfect image of a cop. The dark blue of his patrolman’s uniform is decorated with the yellow arm-stripes of a corporal and the shining silver badge of the Maine State Police. The silver nameplate above his left breast-pocket states simply “Smith”. Corporal Smith`s face has the wizened features of an officer who has seen at least a few harsh Maine winters. His steely expression exudes an aura of confidence in his ability to deal with a host of unsavory situations.“What is wrong? Has something happened? Where is my wife?” I rattle off, barely feeling the sharp bite of cold, late-November air invading the house.“Justin Hodgkins?” Corporal Smith asks with authority.“Hodgdon” I correct. “What is the matter?” The worried tone of my voice appears to surprise Corporal Smith, and his expression softens slightly.The officer blinks his eyes and pauses for a moment, as if contemplating a new course of action or preparing to impart some terrible, unthinkable news. “We have a report that you have been threatening people and destroying property belonging to this family.”“Oh thank god!” A wave of relief floods over me, thankful that my notions of some kind of car accident involving my wife are untrue. Then it dawns on me that I am being accused of something. Shocked, I blurt out “What? What do you mean? I live here!”.“Can we take a look inside?” The corporal asks. I hadn’t noticed the other officer behind him. A younger man without stripes on his uniform, he immediately struck me as a quiet sort. But at the moment I was more concerned with myself, and I paid no further heed to his presence.“Oh! Oh yeah. Come on in. It’s too cold to stand out here and talk all day. Anyway, it looks like we have snow coming.” I say, in the typical, add-the-weather-to-your- conversation, fashion of many Maine residents.The officers enter the warmer kitchen. Corporal Smith, with his right hand resting on his baton, stops near the kitchen table. The other officer takes a position on the other side of the room where he can look on, and intercede if I prove to be violent or something.“Please, have a seat.” I say, pulling out a couple chairs from the kitchen table.“No thanks, we prefer to stand.” The corporal states politely, at the same time using his eyes to inspect his surroundings for signs of a struggle or other damage. Finding none, he asks: “Have you had anything to drink today? Or last night?” He seems to be following a mental checklist for domestic situations.“Drinking?” I say, perplexed. “I haven’t had anything to drink in at least six months.”“Hmm. Ok, I think I see what is happening here.” Corporal Smith scratches his chin with his right hand and then continues: “Alright. Unfortunately the owners have stated a desire to have you removed from their` home.” He pauses, processing my reaction to his words. ”You will have to come with us. Do you have any friends or relatives you can stay with until you sort this out?”I am stunned. “Whaa… How can they do this? It’s Thanksgiving! I haven’t done anything wrong!” As I speak, the other officer is shaking his head slightly, a regretful look on his face. “Where is my wife?” I ask finally.“She is with her parents.” Corporal Smith replies, sympathy showing in his voice. “I am sorry. There is nothing else we can do. In a domestic situation our job is to neutralize the situation and prevent any immediate conflict. Unfortunately, this means that we are mandated to remove you, as this is their home.”His words hit home within me. I reasoned “So basically they can just take what they want of me and then toss me out on the street.” I went on to explain my version of the situation: “I am only here because my wife wanted us to move in and help her parents for a couple of months. It hasn’t been easy on our marriage, but every time I tried to convince her we should move out it turned into an argument.” I continued, trying to justify my feelings to the officers. “I kind of felt that she was being influenced by her parents, but this?” I could feel the tears beginning to dampen the corners of my eyes.Not wanting to reveal my sadness to the officers, I went into my bedroom.“Let me get a few things then, I will only take a minute.” As I picked up my wallet I could feel the tears running down my face. A great pressure welled up inside me, tightening my throat and chest. I asked myself: Why did things have to get this bad? Were they really this bad? What should I have done to prevent this? What could I have? I reached for my jacket as I tried to gather in my emotions. Now is not the time for this, I will reason this out later.When I returned to the kitchen, I was sure they knew I had been crying. I sat down to pull a pair of sneakers and asked: “So where will I be taken now, Jail?” My voice was still restricted, as if I was being slowly strangled by some great invisible Boa.“We will bring you down to the Bangor Area Shelter, you can stay there until you get your bearings” Corporal Smith replied. “You will have to contact someone from there, I do think you should get a lawyer very soon. I have seen this before and I think you will need one before this is all said and done.”The officers escort me out the door and to the police cruiser. Approaching the car, I suddenly notice Jack and his wife Ethel, the in-laws, standing across the street. The family Chevy Blazer is parked behind them and facing away from me. There is a shadowy figure sitting in the truck. I reason that this is my wife, not wanting to witness the actions her parents have taken with or without her consent.Corporal Smith opens the car door and states.” For what it is worth, I believe you”I nod my head in acknowledgement but, inside me, emotions of fear, anger, and sorrow are struggling in an epic battle. “Thank you.” I say, distracted by my thoughts.As the police cruiser pulls onto the roadway I notice a single large snowflake fall from the gray clouds overhead, the silent journey of the flake providing little clue to the impending chaos of the coming storm.I found out later from a friend that the main contributor to this was her finding out that our unborn twins (it was a touch and go pregnancy) were given the okay by the doctor that they should be alright from then on. I guess the ex decided she didnt need me in the picture anymore, after the urging of her over controlling parents.

In 2010, I was scheduled to fly home from Minneapolis on a business, trip. This was my first trip to visit this customer [and Minneapolis], so it was 5 days of back to back meetings, dinners, etc., and I was exhausted. As the account was being transitioned to me from someone else, who had just received a promotion, we had actually made the trip together. Once we reached MSP Airport, my colleague and good friend turned to me and told me I looked like $hit. As I’m a smart ass by nature, my snarky response was “Gee, thanks. I must feel better than I look.” I guess I had looked bad enough for her to strongly suggest I not take the flight to Chicago (our first stop). I brushed it off politely, explaining that I must be extraordinarily tired and boarded the American Airlines flight.So I landed in Chicago, still feeling fine and made my way to the connection back to the Bay Area. For whatever reason, this was a 3 class plane - first, business and cattle car. I made my way to my seat in the cattle car, and arranged myself for the cramped flight home. No sooner than the flight started to taxi down the runway, my colleagues premonition came true. First I started struggling to breath, then the sweat and ultimately nausea. I was quite far from the bathroom, but I ran down the hallway to the bathroom - while flight attendants ran behind me screaming, sir please take your seat. As I got into the bathroom and locked the door, the panicked knocking started and then I don’t remember much of the next 15 or so minutes. Once I regained my “composure” I realized I was literally laying on the floor of a disgusting plane bathroom, had vomited several times and could barely stand up, still struggling to breath.I pushed the call button to request help from the crew, actually believing that it would be ignored as this was a BOOKED flight (or so I thought). Well, I was wrong and 2–3 crew members (can’t remember clearly) showed up, unlocked the door and helped me back to my seat. I’m quite certain that with how I looked, no one wanted to sit next to me and I did, of course, get some “please sit somewhere else looks” from a few people (even though I was in a suit, I must have been a terrible mess). The crew used gloves (as they should), to help me back, but within 5 minutes, the feeling started to return.I slowly, and carefully made my way up to first class to talk to the FA handling first class, who is usually the supervisor on the flight. I stood far from him, near the emergency exit and politely tried to get his attention while he was cutting steaks for the first class passengers. All I was asking for was to switch seats with someone closer to a bathroom as I knew this wasn’t flight sickness (never had that) and knew this was like to be a pattern on this flight. The smell of the steak was making me sicker, so my urgency to speak with him increased. Without even turning around, he shouted “Sir, please return to your seat.”In his defense, he did glance over his shoulder quickly to assess me and reconcile my request. He turned back around to the meal prep and then - 15 seconds passed in silence - he turned back around and authoritatively said “Stay right there, please.”A few minutes went by, but in my memory it felt like forever. He returned, and said, “I have cleared a row for you in business class up against the bathroom, and I’ve found a nurse on board who has agreed to help you. We also have a doctor on board should things turn worse.” I was in utter shock. I had never felt this sick in my life, and never expected any response like this. It was amazing. I thanked him profusely, wheezing through my words and tears… must have thanked him and the crew 100 times. They had already moved my carry-on and other things from my old seat to the overhead above my new, introduced me to the nurse and she did a quick check… I don’t quite remember what she said before I needed to run to the bathroom again.This bathroom was much cleaner, but still an airplane bathroom. I don’t remember leaving the bathroom once, for the remainder of the 4.5 hour flight home to SFO. I did hear the flight crew and nurse knocking to check on me so many times it went from annoying to a blessing, because I was so sick I was actually hallucinating at times. They allowed me to remain in the cramped bathroom through the landing. Once all the passengers had deplaned, the nurse and crew open the door and helped me to my seat. Wheel chair waiting and they took me to an exit towards parking.While rolling me through the airport, I realized that I must have looked like death from all the stares, but REALLY didn’t care at that point. The nurse and crew staff asked me [more of a strong suggestion] several times if they could take me to the airports medical facility. I politely declined, saying I was feeling a little better and just wanted to get home. The nurse looked me over one last time and agreed that I could travel home (it wasn’t a very long distance, but firmly told me to go straight home. I wanted to hug each and every one of them, but found myself in tears and didn’t want to expose them to whatever this was…. They understood and watched me “hobble away” until I was out of sight. I knew they were reviewing their decision to let me go by myself, but I was thankful for the second thoughts and all their extraordinary attention.I don’t remember a single thing about the drive home. I do remember that the person I was seeing at the time looked at me as I walked into the bedroom, and she said I looked like hell and just sat there [a foreshadow for the rest of our relationship].The next day, I went to the doctor, at his insistence, to be diagnosed with a very severe case of pneumonia. I was also exhibiting some unlikely symptoms and wanted to hospitalize me immediately. I refused, thinking I was stronger than I was, but he sent me home with some horse pills called antibiotics and I slowly started to show improvement.Within 3 days of that flight, however, I knew things weren’t right and started to dig further into this. Without an exaggeration, for the next 10+ months, I was in/out of doctors, was diagnosed with everything known to man, but things unusual for my age… It wasn’t until an accidental find indicated lymphoma that I realized how serious this was. The oncologist I saw at the tail end of that said I could have actually died on that flight based on my immune system and my test results at the time. The constant knocking, keeping me awake, by the staff and nurse on that flight, I credit for saving my life that night. I later learned just how bad that initial situation was….I’ve spent the last 11+ years, fighting this, and while my health has been deteriorating over the last year, I am still above ground and actually think of that crew often. It’s no exaggeration - they gave me a fighting chance - through that annoying, knocking on the door of that bathroom, making sure I wasn’t unconscious, a few blood pressure checks, etc.I wrote to American Airlines, with the names I could remember (don’t even know if they were correct), but I did have records of the flight number and times which I hoped would help corporate to find the crew. The letter was long - and gave the detailed account of the inconvenience I placed on them, but how they really never showed they were annoyed, they showed compassion and humanity.Thanks again, AA and to that crew and nurse, who’s names I cannot recall - I send my love.

In my experience in corporate and as a small business owner, the short answer is yes. My reasonings are as follows:Corporate wants you to know everything when you walk in the door, and having that credential shows you have what it takes on a technical level to give them the results they are looking for.As a small business owner, you are going to stuggle to find the time to get things done. The tools you learn while studying for your PMP can help you identify and work out the kinks in your operations. Which we all know leads to reduced overhead costs.