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Well, it just happened again. A middle age man appeared at my door with the typical blue shirt of the employee and a small tools equipment pouch hanging from his belt. His question was if I knew the combination of the Smith 263 computer lab, for he needed entrance and had left his keys at home. I felt secure with his story, so I agreed to open the door for him. It was obvious once inside that the man knew what he needed to do and was able to complete it quickly. As we left, I asked his name and introduced myself. He asked how long I had worked here, and upon my reply of "Since 1989," he commented, “Funny, I thought I knew everyone who worked here.”
Yes, Woodwork Welch--for some reason I fade right into the woodwork just about any place I go. I learned at an early age that I could walk into and out of a room, and no one would know I had been there. Does this sound like a fantasy? It's not. It is a strange phenomena indeed – almost mystical – but true. I remember once, when I worked for District 91 in Idaho Falls under a coordinator for special programs, we were discussing the fact that I hadn't visited this school or that school, etc. for a long time.
"Oh, but I have been there just yesterday." I would say.
"Well, you never spoke to anyone. They didn’t see you," the supervisor commented. "Oh, yes they did. They just don't remember speaking to me or seeing me," I insisted.
I then went on to explain that I had this mystical quality about me which blocks the memory of the onlooker to which my boss laughed and said, "I can't believe that." "Okay," I said. "Let's put it to the test. Upstairs are all the district office workers, right? Let's go upstairs and walk from the front door to the back door together. We will both speak to the people there. Then we will return down here where I will wait. You go back up and walk through again asking any of them if they have seen me. They will tell you no even though I was right by your side and spoke to them within the hour."
"Impossible! That is totally impossible," he said.
I convinced my superior to try this little experiment, and it went just exactly as I had said. He returned to where I was waiting with his head nodding. He was in complete awe. "I simply can't believe what just happened. It is impossible you could walk right by my side, speak to the same people I spoke to not more than an hour ago, and nobody can remember you being there. I can’t believe that really happened," he shook his head again in unbelief. "It happens all the time," I laughed. "Just call me Woodwork Welch. My presence just fades into the woodwork. I have no idea how this happens, but it does."
“It certainly does,” my superior agreed.
I wondered if part of “Woodwork Welch” is the fact that I don't like to call attention to myself, so I have learned to walk and speak in a very calming subtle way that doesn't force attention. I have a sort of subtle aura about me.
After this experience with my superior, I ran across a company in Salt Lake that makes salt water taffy with initials or short words in the middle. I made a special order to them with the initials LEP standing for Limited English Perception which was the focus of my job. Then as I visited schools, I would give a single piece of my autographed candy or leave a single piece on the desk of the principle in the school where I visited. My superior reported back to me that even on days when I told him I had greeted certain individuals, they couldn’t remember speaking to me, but told him they must have because they ate a piece of LEP candy that day. My superior was mystified by this whole thing, as I have been through the years.
Years ago, my mother – who knew me better than anyone – wrote me a letter making reference to the fact that I led people without them knowing it. She knew of my invisibility. I have bolded these words in her following quote:
“Yes, Mary, I am remembering a girl called “Snooky” who can swim like a beautiful goldfish, a girl who can ride a horse like any Rodeo Queen and a girl who loves people and can lead them although they never know, and a girl who loves animals and is most kind to a dog called Butch, a girl who loved her grandmother and is kind and respectful to old age, a girl who has honored and revered her church, who has received an individual award every year. A girl who I am sure will always be an honor to her family, her church, and her community and country.”
Mother’s letter was written to me when I was attending Girl’s State in Logan, Utah. She gave the letter to me when I returned home because she didn’t have enough days in the week left before I returned home to mail it. In her letter, she reminisced of the things that I seemed to be or seemed to do in my life. Mother’s letter is very precious to me because it showed me the love through which she viewed me as an individual. Her remarks in the letter showed me she knew of my efforts and time given to others without their ever knowing it. In fact, Girl’s State was a result of community work with others. Mother knew of the many, many people I helped who never acknowledged my effort nor even recognized it. I was Woodwork Whitehouse before I married became Woodwork Welch.
Now as strange as all this sounds, I have a daughter, Lori, who looks much like me and with similar experience. She is much prettier with a crowning head of beautiful hair, but she has a similar body build and many similar mannerisms. She too is a teacher. One time we were discussing the things that kind of gouged us in self esteem. Her words went like this. "Mom, I don't want to be a complainer, but there is one thing that really pulls me down. I never seem to get credit for what I do. I will attend meetings and supply strong leadership guidance which is followed, but the credit always goes to someone else because no one can remember me even being there.”
I smiled and said, “Do you often feel you are just blending into the woodwork?”
“I sure do.”
“And do you give constant effort and care to others who never notice and valuable suggestions to others who eventually claim your idea as theirs.”
“Yes, that happens to me regularly,” Lori replied.
I related my supervisor story, and Lori marveled that her world was the same as mine. Whatever aura it is that we carry, I have no idea. I just know that I have a supervisor, a mother, and a daughter who believe me.