Deb Rhinoceros

When Joseph and I moved to Vashon Island, we had a dream of living in a small town again, like each of us had before we moved to Seattle.  And the first year we lived there we struggled to commute, leaving the house two hours or more before we had to be at work to ensure we would make it on time.  A year into our new chapter, I had the privilege of getting a job at the Deli, and if you live on Vashon, or know Vashon, you know THE Deli. 

The people I worked with ranged in ages from kids still in school and dreaming of what life would be when they grew up to grandparents looking forward to hearing from their children to see how the first day of school went for their grandchildren.  These people quickly became friends.  It felt so strange how much I LOVED going to work.  I looked forward to it every day, and even though the work was hard and the days were challenging, I always came home feeling like I had had fun. 

I was making a burrito for a customer one day (THE Deli has a burrito bar which is arguably the best in the Puget Sound area) and all of us workers were talking and laughing and bantering like we always did.  My customer looked at us while I was wrapping his enormous burrito up, smiled, and told me, “It’s like Thanksgiving in there; you guys are all talking and cooking.”  And that’s when it hit me: these people weren’t just friends.  They were my family.  I enjoyed coming to work every single day because I loved cooking and talking with these people like it was Thanksgiving. 

I had my sisters who I could tell anything to (Angela, Judy, and Angela).  I had my wild aunts (Debbie, Shelly, and Deb).  I had my sweet uncles (Chris and Unkie Jeff).  And I had my wayward brothers who always seemed to be in trouble (the Ryans).  And of course I had a whole cast of cousins and characters that all fell under Norm who was our Grandpa and the owner of our little Thanksgiving kitchen. 

As I said, there were two Debbies, who were both called Deb, but never Deborah.  And one of those Debs had a last name that sounded a lot like rhinoceros.  One day, when I had a little more time on my hands than I should admit seeing as how I will now have to answer to Grandpa Norm and my Deli crew, I drew a picture of Deb as a rhinoceros and wrote under it “Deb Rhinoceros.”  Deb loved it dearly.  In fact, after I had made an anthropomorphic animal caricature of all the Deli workers, Deb had hers laminated and said that she took it home and treasured it forever, which made me smile. 

Deb Rhinoceros, the woman not the caricature, loved pink, and used to thrill the customers with her daring combinations of matching earrings, necklaces, and ponytail holders, not just in pink, but every shade of the rainbow.  I remember a four year old girl who used to get just as excited to see Deb as other kids would get to meet Mickey Mouse.  And Deb was a hard worker, who took control of the hot case and the comfort bar with a zeal that astounded the rest of us some times.  You always hear about those police officers, or firefighters, or EMT’s who should be lauded as heroes.  I don’t dispute that they are heroes, but people never stop to think how much of a hero someone like Deb was.  She kept the food temperatures hot and safe for consumption.  She made sure her sanitized water was always fresh and ready to go.  And if something came to her that didn't meet her quality standards, Deb had no problem sending it back.  Sure, EMT’s are the first ones on the scenes to save someone who collapsed, but people like Deb save others from food poisoning every day without a big fuss being made of it.  How many people have touched the last meal you ate at a restaurant?  I guarantee you, if they were half the workers Deb was, you had yourself a safe and sanitary meal. 

Whenever power went out at the island (and once my neighborhood was without power for nine days) Deb was at the front of the line feeding the masses hot meals.  The island can go from affluent, well-to-do people living in a scenic place to a refugee camp with one flick of the generator switch.  Those days were always demanding, with lines going out the door.  We were all exhausted and simply flooded with people who were grateful for a hot meal, and people who were outraged we didn't have more food to offer, and you never knew which person would be which type.  Deb served them all with grace and poise like any of us would do. 

Deb had me knit two hats for her granddaughters once.  She loved those little girls so much.  I remember, one hat was pink and one hat was lavender.  Both were made with stripes and ear flaps attached.  I made the pink one first, but waited a month or so before I knit the lavender one.  I was sad to discover that I made the lavender one too big; my gauge had slipped a little.  Deb was so sweet.  She assured me it would be okay, and gave the hats to her granddaughters anyway.  I was told the big hat is now used as a purse to carry dolls around.  Thank goodness it had ear flaps that could easily be made into a purse handle! 

Debs health began to fail her while she was working at the Deli.  Her heart or her lungs just couldn’t keep up with the job anymore.  And it was a crisis for all of us at the Deli.  Deb was having trouble keeping up with the demands of lunch rushes and customers.  It was a very hard and emotional thing for the management and those of us who had to talk to her about it to do to convince her it was time to put her own health first and retire.  And she took the advice.  When she left, there was a hole in our little world.  The corner where the hot cases were was never quite the same.  Many times I have heard one crew-member or another lament the fact that no one owned that part of the Deli like Deb did. 

But Deb was still with us.  She still came in to buy sliced meats and talk to us.  She still came by to show us pictures of her grandchildren.  And glory be to Facebook, through which, Deb was able to communicate with us whenever she pleased.  She read each and every one of my blog entries and commented on them all the time.  Even blogs that received very few hits had a comment from Deb, my biggest fan.  So, last night, when I was in a grumpy mood and arguing with Joseph, I went to look at Facebook and saw that Deb Rhinoceros was no longer with us.  Her sweet spirit has left us and all we have now are memories of her and an empty corner in a deli. 

Deb, I miss you.  I haven’t seen your face in a while, and I haven’t been on Vashon Island since May, but knowing you are not there fills me with such a void.  I love you. 

The Deli is still my family.  Those people are still my brothers and my uncles and my sisters.  But like every family, it grows and it changes.  Nothing can stop time.  Somehow I always think that the things I leave behind will stay the same, and they never do.  I wish so desperately I could hold those years in a bottle, keep them fresh and the same forever.  Deb wasn't just my friend.  She was a part of my life.  And my blogs will never be the same without her doting little notes on the Facebook links.