"Moshe Suleman," he answered.
I was plotting how I was going to break the language barrier when Cook's daughter arrived. She waltzed in the back door and promptly slipped and broke her arm on the concrete floor. Broke it good, too. There was a bone sticking
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out. I screamed, Cook screamed. Cook's daughter made noises I didn't know human beings could make.
A very worried Cook pressed the list of things to do in my hand and fled out the door to be with her daughter as she was whisked away in an ambulance.
"You can handle it!" she yelled at me as she closed her car door.
I was not inspired. I walked into the kitchen and looked at my help, the non-English-speaking Moshe, and almost fled in a panic. The natives needed to be fed, however, and I heard small groups of them getting restless in the dining room already.
The first rush of people were ravenous wolves. We were quickly running out of french fries, so I left Moshe to serve while I went to drop more in the fryer. In the five minutes I was gone, Moshe had managed to really annoy one of the special dietary types. She was yelling, and he kept smiling. A smile like that should calm anybody, but it seemed to make her madder. I took over and gave her a no-salt, no-fat, no-meat, no-taste meal for the evening. She didn't thank me.
The second group of people were hungrier than the first. I decided they could help themselves while I made more french fries and had Moshe make some more cobbler. I pointed to the cobbler and pointed to the convection oven while I was lettering a sign that told the hungry people it was self-service. I was in such a rush to get it out in the dining room, I wasn't paying attention to Moshe. When I ran back into the steamy kitchen to dump in more fries, I found that Moshe had thought I had been pointing to the fryer. We were now the proud inventors of deep-fried apple cobbler.
What a mess.
The natives got really restless when I had to explain they would have to wait a half hour for more fries.
The rest of the evening was one big disaster after
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another. We ran out of forks, the dishwasher flooded and Moshe put salt instead of sugar into the iced tea. By the time the students slowed to a trickle, I felt and looked like I had been run over by a fleet of dumptrucks.
Finally, it was over. Nothing left but the dishes. Moshe and I did them in companionable silence.
"Hello," said a strangely accented voice behind us. Moshe and I both turned, and I saw a woman standing there who was as beautiful as he was. She broke into a lyrical language, and Moshe answered her. They both laughed.
She turned to me and said, "Moshe would like to apologize for being such a problem. He asks if you would like to have dinner with us."
What could I say? I accepted. With the caveat that Moshe couldn't cook it.
Turned out that klutzy old Moshe was some kind of Ethiopian dignitary's son. A dignitary who apparently had the same ideas about working for your supper as my dad. He took me not just out to dinner, but out to dinner to the best restaurant in the county.
The woman was his sister, and she came along to translate. We all went dancing afterward, and in the morning he delivered me a dozen roses.
Moshe and I didn't become an item; he was already spoken for, but he treated me like a princess all the same. When that boy apologized, he did it with flair. As his English improved, we became the best of friends. We bonded over french fries, you might say.
I'll tell you though, as wonderful as that meal with Moshe was and as much as I loved each delicious minute of it, I felt I had earned it and then some. The next day, I told my dad he was going to have to cough up another twenty-five bucks a month if he expected me to work for my supper next semester.
Arlene Green
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Catsup Soup
My father learned how to make catsup soup in college. He didn't major in culinary arts; he just learned which waitresses in which restaurants would give him a free cup of hot water and then look the other way while he stirred in their catsup to make his supper.
He was the youngest of nine children from a North Dakota prairie town. When he went to college, he found many people willing to teach him a lesson or two.
Some tried to teach him that he wasn't a first-generation American whose family had given up everything to come to our country in search of freedom. No, he was just another one of those immigrants.
Others decided that his accent didn't mean that he was probably bilingual; it just meant that he was ignorant.
Working five jobs to pay his way through college and sleeping in someone's car when he couldn't afford room and board didn't make him determined; it only made him the poor son of a coal miner.
But my father never learned these lessons. He never learned them because he just didn't hear them.
His inner voice was louder than any words they spoke.
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His dreams were so real that to live them was worth the price he paid.
His vision transcended those who would try to keep him down.
My father learned the lessons for his lifetime.
The same lessons he passed on to his students when he had achieved what he set out to do.
To be a teacher.
And teach he did. In the classroom and on the basketball court. His children and then his grandchildren. Executives, CEOs and convention rooms filled with hundreds of people.
He taught what he himself had lived.
That your dreams must come from your heart's deepest desires. Only then will the barriers come down before you.
To know your heart, you must know yourself.
You are who you decide to be, not who other people decide for you to be.
You were created and intended for greatness.
Be noble. Stand on the higher ground.
He taught them to see their possibilities.
And he taught them to see the soup in a hot cup of water and a bottle of catsup.
Cynthia Hamond
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Student Super-Saverä
The highest reward for a person's toil is not what they get for it, but what they become by it.
John Rushkin
I still remember my dream car, a 1976 Special Edition Trans Am. It was deep black with gold accents, the same model Burt Reynolds drove in the movie Smoky and the Bandit. I'd worked hard during high school to buy it.
Thousands of miles later, while driving down a lonesome country road, I would gladly have traded it for a decent apartment with some basic furniture. Struggling to finish my freshman year at college, I had recently thrown all caution to the wind and proposed to the girl of my dreams. She said yes.
Then reality struck. Flat broke with the wedding just months away, I was beginning to get a taste of that dreaded adult word ''responsibility.'' My goal to finish college seemed to fly out the window. If there was a way to stay in school, marry and still earn a living, I couldn't see it. I took inventory of my few career skills. I could wait tables. I had spent one summer installing sprinkler
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systems, but winter was coming, so that didn't make much sense. Was there anything else?
A couple of weeks later, driving down the same country road to pick up my fiancée, a brilliant idea sprang from the recesses of my mind. I'd start a publication for local businesses to advertise to my fellow college students, and I'd call it the Student Super-Saver. Sure, why not? I once had a journalism teacher tell me that I was one of the best salespeople he'd ever known. I was going to do it. Before you could blink, I was off to the races. And what a race it was.
I contracted with the local newspaper to be my printer and hired a typesetter. That evening I laid out the advertising on my makeshift light tablea large cigar box with a glass-covered hole and a light bulb underneath. During the day, between classes, I'd head down to Main Street to sell ads to the shop owners there. I was so enthusiastic about my plan that I could barely sleep. I knew Main
Street wasn't a good target spot, but I thought it would be a good place to start. I could practice my sales pitch and perfect it before going after the businesses I had earmarked as top prioritythose places where I knew the college crowd would hang out.
Even though some of those Main Street shop owners said no with comments like, "I got a son your age. He mows lawns. What's the matter, boy? You too good to mow lawns?" I persevered, and it paid off. I spent extra money to have an artsy graphic design made in full color for the front and back covers. My life was on the line. And I felt that I was ready.
The big day for distribution on campus came, and I rented space in the student union for fall registration. My fiancée and I were met by a tidal wave of students. The more copies of the publication we unbundled, the more we gave away. The minutes turned into hours, and before
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we knew it, the day was over. We were exhausted, yet thrilled by our sense of accomplishment.
When we left the student union for the first time that evening, we were horrified by what we saw. Student Super-Saver papers were strewn from one end of the campus to the other, and none too gracefully. The wind had scattered them over lawns, bushes and sidewalks. Of the 5,000 copies we distributed that day, it seemed like 4,999 had been tossed. We spent the rest of that evening cleaning up the campus and licking our wounds.
With each paper I threw into the Dumpster, my vision of the good life as an entrepreneur vanished. My brief career as a business owner was over. A few months later, the little pot of profit that I did make ran out. Needless to say, my advertisers were not eager to renew. I had to quit school.
Some months passed, and I got married. We managed to rent a little place and even buy some used furniture. But there was no money to finish college, and I needed to work to support my family. My brief publishing career landed me a day job as an advertising rep at a new local radio station, and at night I waited tables.
But I wanted more. I knew that if I tried again, I could make my idea work. I wanted to be a success and finish college and get my degree. The sobering words of one of my college professors haunted my thoughts daily: "The true education of college is to teach you to finish what you start."
My wife and I scrimped and saved and by the summer of 1984, we had enough money to cover the start-up costs for another issue of the Student Super-Saver. I was determined to learn from my mistakes. This time I went after businesses who offered something to the students and I hit the favorites first. I approached every pizza place, hamburger joint and brew pub in town, the places most
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often frequented by starving college students. I didn't step a foot onto Main Street. The cover said it all: "Over $589 of valuable coupons and discounts valid all semester long."
The Student Super-Saver Volume II was an overwhelming success. My company grew and allowed me to maintain my status as a full-time student. In 1988, my senior year, the Association of Collegiate Entrepreneurs awarded me the "Outstanding Student Entrepreneur of the Year." I had graduated college, and I had fulfilled my dream of making my paper a success.
Fifteen years later the Student Super-Saver continues to dominate its market and has never had a semester that didn't surpass the last in revenues and profits. It has truly been the cornerstone upon which my business empire has been built.
Since then I've started dozens of companies, most successful, a few not. I've traveled the world teaching people how to be entrepreneurial. Teaching them what I learned: Believe in yourself, follow your dreams and don't ever give up.
Kevin Van Gundy
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Dare to Take Risks!
The world of tomorrow belongs to the person who has the vision today.
Robert Schuller
We all have a very special purpose in life, regardless of who we are or where we come from. I truly believe each of us has a special calling in life even though it took me over thirty years to find mine!
Looking back, I realize my parents unwittingly shaped me to be the person I am today. For example, adopting my mother's streak of independence gave me the room I needed to take daring risks later in life. After ten years of working for a major Wall Street bank and slamming into a brick wall, I vehemently said "Enough!" I knew in my heart I could produce results far more outstanding than a clock-punching, nine-to-five position would ever allow.
One day I was scanning through the papers in search of new and challenging Wall Street opportunities. My eyes were immediately drawn to a Merrill Lynch advertisement. They were looking to hire more stockbrokers, and the qualifications listed were clearly those that I possessed.
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With great excitement, I made some phone calls and arranged to meet with one of the New York City branch vice presidents. Unfortunately, on the day of my appointment, I was ghastly sick with a cold and 101-degree fever that threatened to topple me physically. Yet I knew a golden opportunity when I saw one and was determined to meet with the vice president. We ended up talking nonstop for three and half hours!
Based on our conversation and the length of the interview, I was surprised and disappointed when, instead of making me an offer on the spot, he instructed me to meet with twelve of his top stockbrokers for further interviews. Well, maybe that is a good sign, I thought.
Over the next five months, I met with these twelve people, each of whom invariably tried to discourage me by saying, "You are better off in a safe nine-to-five bank job," "You won't make it," "Eighty percent of newcomers fail within their first year" and "You have no investment experience.'' Deep down, I felt like a scared dog with its tail between its legs, but I didn't let it show.
The final interview was scheduled on a cold, blustery winter day in January of the following year. Five minutes into the interview, it was obvious the vice president did not know what to do with me. Apparently, it did not matter that I had written a well-researched twenty-five-page marketing plan that exceeded his expectations. It did not matter that his top salespeople were impressed with me, despite the discouraging things they had said to me privately.
In a moment of daring risk and courage that forever changed my future, I looked at him straight in the eye and seized the moment. "Sir, if you don't hire me, you'll never know how well I can do for this firm."
When I realized what I had just said to him, a chill went up my spine and I thought, My God what have I done? The
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next thing he said was like music to me: "Okay, you've got the job!" But before I could shake his hand and rush home to spread the good news, he added: ". . . on one condition." My heart sank. "You must first resign from the bank effective two weeks from today, enroll in our three-month training program and then take a stockbroker exam which must be passed on the first try. If you fail even by one point, you're out!''
Inside, I shook like a leaf. I gulped at the prospect of taking a huge leap of faith into the unknown. My mouth suddenly went dry. There was never a time in my life when I so desperately needed a glass of water! I remember thinking that I stood to lose everything if I failed that exam, which I had heard was as difficult as the examination for attorneys. I swallowed hard and croaked, "I'll take it." My future was instantly changed from that moment forward!
After passing the exam and receiving my stockbroker's license, I struggled for several months, living solely on commission and eating pasta, peanut butter sandwiches and cereal. Night after night, I burned the midnight oil in search of new clients. I often left the office weary and fatigued, ready to give up, yet somehow returning the next morning to start a new day. It was a grueling beginning during which I had no social life.