As I continue to reflect on my 20+ years in the banking industry, I would be remiss if I didn’t write about some memorable individuals and the experiences I got from meeting them, interacting in conversations or merely observing. While there are many to choose from, I hope to share some of my favorites and if their personalities and the things I share may seem odd or cause discomfort, it’s only my attempt to present truthful observations with no attempt to ridicule, put down, or lay down any judgment whatsoever. On the contrary, growing up in a very loving what I thought was “normal” family, my time with the bank allowed folks from all different walks of life walk into my idealistic world and shake it up in a good way. Here we go!

Betty:  Betty was mentally ill and for most of her adult life lived in a secure home or facility. During one of her times being on the “outside” she had opened a savings account with us (before my time) By the time I met her over the telephone, she was under lock and key so to speak, but with phone privileges. With one of her allowable phone calls, she called the office I was working in as an administrative assistant. She wanted to speak with Mr. Knapp who was our vice president at the time. She wanted him to send her a check to close her account, she wanted her millions that were on deposit. Betty remembered that she had opened an account and indeed it was with Mr. Knapp back in the founding days and weeks of the bank’s start. But, Betty didn’t have millions. She had $1 in the account. 

I don’t remember how he or I resolved her “command” to send her the money. I remember feeling sad for her and learning how to tactfully get her off the phone with repetitive questions leading to nowhere but frustration for both of us.

A Man & His Dog:  When I met this man I was working in a small office along with the bank president, vice president, and Doris, another administrative assistant. When this man came through our door with his dog, we two women were alone. Asking him how we could help led to his demands to “keep an eye on his injured dog” (a lab) until his return. He explained that the dog had been hit by a car at the intersection that the bank sat on, he was going to a pool hall to shoot some games and would return for the animal. He was adamant that we not call a vet or the police regarding the dog, that he fully expected the dog to be with us upon his return and to ensure our obedience he pulled a bullet from his pocket, placed it on the corner of Doris’ desk, and walked out. Once he made it out the door we turned to look at each other with “what the heck just happened!” expressions on our faces.

Doris didn’t waste any time calling one of the guys across the hallway to the bank lobby and I didn’t waste any time telling her I was allergic to dogs! I wish I could remember clearly how we dealt with the poor injured dog, I don’t. I do remember the man returning to the bank after a few hours and going up verbally against Ken, our branch manager. Ken had called the police who did take the dog away and the bullet was in Ken’s possession as they faced off discussing “who did the most wrong”. Once again, I got to witness the unfortunate effects of mental illness.

Mrs. W.: Her first name was Louise and she was well into her 80s when I met her. At first I fell in love with this older, sweet lady who had misplaced her checkbook.” No problem Mrs. W–I can close your account and open another, order you new checks.” Do that at least four times over the span of a few months and realize something “more” is going on other than an occasional misplacement of a checkbook. This dear woman, who was widowed and no immediate family to my knowledge, was in the early stages of dementia. My concerns grew but I was tied as to how I could truly help her. Out of appreciation for my continued assistance she even invited me to her small apartment for dinner and I went, even though bank policy may have dictated that I not. But going I went, ate a simply prepared meal with her followed promptly by a social studies lesson complete with a wall map and pointer in her hand as she “taught me a lesson”…one that I now know was in the deepest remotest part of her memories, far away from the present which most likely  included the whereabouts of her checkbook.

I knew Mrs. W was Lutheran and called her church to speak with her pastor, asking for help. I truly don’t remember what happened with her after that phone call. I think she was pointed in the direction for the much needed assistance required for a person suffering with dementia. On the evening she taught me the geography lesson, I’m sure it brought her great purpose and joy. Looking back, Mrs. W’s interactions with me  would later help me begin to recognize the lapse in my own father’s memory and cognitive thought processes. Dementia is pure hell….

A Widow: I met this beautiful 50ish aged woman at our administrative offices. Though we didn’t serve a lot of foot traffic, she had come to our location in need of help. Her predicament was related to her checking account which meant I was the person to help her. I got her seated at a small table where she proceeded to lay out several monthly checking account statements and her checkbook. “I don’t know how to write a check. I don’t know how to pay my bills. My husband did all the money stuff and he died”. I sat there stunned. My mind went different directions. How do I help her? How do I fix this and get back to my stack of work? How do I teach her? Oh my goodness, MY mom pays all the bills too and does the money stuff too!…..

I took her through basic check writing skills, showed her how to balance her account….started her out fresh with the amount she had on hand on that day.

She asked me, “Can I come in here and see you when I need to pay bills? Would you help me do that?

Oh goodness, I thought to myself. I can’t do that! We aren’t in the business of THAT kind of personal banking!  I couldn’t tell her my thoughts. Instead I asked her if she had family. 

“Some,” she said. I inquired if she had anyone she trusted that would help her in the future until she felt comfortable.  “My pastor, I trust him”.  I encouraged her to talk to him about helping her.  What happened next just before she got up to leave caught me off guard but has stuck with me forever; this kind woman didn’t hesitate or skip a beat, she bowed her head and prayed “Lord, thank you for Susan. Thank you for her kindness, for helping me….” Though I don’t remember the exact prayer, those expressions of gratefulness ring inside me to this day, echoing lessons of witnessing humility and thankfulness from one stranger to another. More importantly, from one Christ follower to another.

Floyd:  This older-grumpy-rather unassuming-man had a way of making his presence known whenever he entered the bank regardless if it was the posh administrative building or a branch location. He owned a meat market, had some pretty decent wealth and was someone that the commercial lenders and bank president pursued and wooed to gain his business. After many lunches and cold calls to his market, they succeeded. By the time his accounts were landed I was working in our branch location on Bay Road which was the closest for him to conduct deposits to his accounts. Floyd had no polish. What he lacked in manners and appearance he made up with loud course language which he used for shock value. 

I was working at my teller window when he came in one afternoon. He was garbed with his butcher apron that was covered in blood. As he strolled in holding his deposit bags, he began yelling “look at the GD people working here….no wonder I pay so much in F—-g service fees, gotta pay all these GD people.” By mid outburst our branch manger Elaine was out of her office scurrying around like a mother hen trying to calm Floyd and submit to his need for big shot status..  He loved seeing the frenzy he could create and she (unknowingly?) gave him great satisfaction. Me? Not so much. I kept working while I watched and listened, much to my amusement. Whose window did Floyd choose to plop his deposit bags down? You guessed it. Mine. I looked up, greeted him “Hi, Floyd. How are you doing?” 

“You!” he said. “Why aren’t you all in a tizzy with me coming here?” (He knew full well how and why his behavior affected people) I stayed calm, got a bit bold (could I get fired for what I was about to say?) “Well,, Floyd, I’m not in a tizzy because it’s you. You’re one of our customers and I treat everyone the same.” He quieted down, stepped back a little and said “I like you. Why can’t all the other F—-g people be like you? You don’t get flustered.”

No, Floyd, I don’t get flustered, I thought quietly to myself.  In the back of my mind as I was smiling at you, speaking with you and processing your deposit, I was thinking that even though you have lots of money and bank personnel thought you were important, you are no more important or deserving of special treatment that I’d give and continue to give to customers regardless what  their checking or savings balances reflected. And being a willing laughing or scared audience member to your filthy mouth and crude treatment of women was not a game I signed up to play. Yup, Floyd, a smile and ignoring your childish needs was all I needed that day to learn a lesson of respect, kindness, and remaining calm when up against a foolish foul mouthed person.

Mental Illness. Dementia. Fear. A Crude Fool. These few are but several of the customer relationships I encountered. Each conversation revealed things I  would learn about human nature and the circumstances that come with life. They are lessons that no one except fate itself could have written. They are memories embedded in my mind, ones that helped me to broaden my horizons and gain understanding into the hurts and needs of others. Those lessons I gained then continue to offer me insight as I wake each day wondering who will cross my path today….

Obtaining a position with First State Bank in June of 1972 was my first full time place of employment, one that spanned a good 20 years plus with a short break in between. I certainly cannot write about all the memories I made during that time, however, I’d like to highlight the ones that helped shape me into the person that I am today, good and bad if I’m being honest.

During the first four years of working in the installment loan department I aged from a mere 18 to a 21 year old. I really thought I had my life figured out, plans made for my future and knew what I wanted to make me feel happy and satisfied. I was meeting many new people as co-workers and customers, all who stretched and challenged my idealistic-good girl-naive mindset as new circumstances arose to make me rethink or stand firm in my convictions. I’ll do my best to describe situations or a person that made an impact on me.

Ron: He was a co-worker in the installment loan department. The only other person in the office was our supervisor, Russ. They both wrote loans for our customers and my duties were as receptionist and performing clerical work. Ron was not a trustworthy young man. At age 25 or so he was still living at home, had a wild imagination that produced lies and he had no boundaries concerning women. Ron was always on the prowl looking for someone to take on a date. Even though I had a boyfriend at the time, he didn’t care. His unwelcome advances towards me always went ignored on his end. It was an ordinary work day for us, Russ was out of his office, I was seated at my desk working and Ron grabbed a sheet of paper, wadded it into a ball and walked over to me and threw it away in my wastebasket, grabbing the back of my right calf as he stood up. “If you ever do that again,” I said, “you’ll be singing soprano”. He didn’t laugh, but he did try to back peddle from his obvious attempt to harass me. I continued working, he returned to his desk and I never told Russ or anyone else in supervisory roles about the incident. In 1972 sexual harassment incidents were not on anyone’s radar–at least not mine. I’d never been warned about them, the subject was not discussed at home or school. My response to him came from deep instinct and the knowledge “women deserve to be treated with dignity” (thanks Dad)

Geraldine: This spunky tall slender black woman was one of our most beneficial tellers in the main lobby of the bank. She knew all the “street” people, knew how to chat about their business, their lingo, their “situations”. I think Gerry was one of the first black women I’d met, other than several co-worker friends my dad had introduced me to in younger years. Gerry was married and had two boys. Her husband was not the most likeable or reliable man according to her gut wrenching belly laughing stories told over lunch. The way she described Curits was that the ‘family dog don’t like the man!’ Her reputation with the “looked down upon”, the “questionables” of Downtown Saginaw was visible by the sometimes long line of customers waiting for her to conduct their banking needs, usually cashing a check. As I said, she knew her customers and the trust they put in her was not transferred to other tellers. Often, we’d hear “I can help you over here” answered with “No, I’ll wait for Gerry.”

Debbie: Young, only 17, tall and very pretty, Debbie came to the bank as a high school co-op student to work in the installment loan department in 1975. The department had grown to our supervisor, myself, along with two lenders and two collections officers. Our afternoon was interrupted briefly when a male customer came to the work counter asking to have the lien statement on the title to his car terminated since he had paid the loan in full. I took care of the transaction, thanked him for his business and told him to “keep us in mind when you need to finance something in the future”. After he had left the office Debbie asked me “how can you be nice to n——-s?” I was shocked. I had never experienced such a blatant example of hate based on skin color. I was furious but maintained a calm to tell her “that man is our customer. This bank has MANY customers who are black, you better get used to it because it doesn’t really matter”. I think this was the turning point in our relationship where very few conservations took place between us. 

Steve: When I met Steve I was in my late 20s, married with our first child as a baby. By now the bank had been purchased by National Bank of Detroit (NBD) and administrative offices were relocated from Downtown Saginaw to a beautiful building along the river. No longer part of the loan department, I was now an administrative assistant for an executive vice president, Elwood. Steve was an assistant vice president in charge of the installment loan department. With the exception of the upper executives, our work stations were cubicles neatly arranged on the work floor. I was struggling with some work relationships and had an opportunity to discuss the matter with Steve. Like a gentle father reassuring a child, I remember that he placed his hands gently on my shoulders, looked me square in the eyes and told me “Not everyone is going to like you and that’s ok.” It’s now about 40 years later and I can still recall how his brief instruction with me changed my mindset and allowed some freedom to be enjoyed. 

Doc: I met Doc through the mail (no, not a dating site!) Doc was in a Michigan prison where he was earning money. Because his mother lived in Saginaw, he set up a savings account for the purpose to mail checks for deposit. I opened his account. I got the checks he mailed. I made the deposit and returned the receipt to him. This back and forth went on for several months until my phone rang. “Sue, this is (our receptionist); I have a Doc U. here asking to see you.” I hung up my phone and waited for a moment. Doc? To see me? Isn’t he in prison? These were the questions that flooded my head as I made my way to the front reception counter where I was greeted by a young, tall slender black man. I escorted Doc to a small conference room where we’d have privacy, shut the door and we both sat down. I sucked in a deep breath and boldy (with some embarrassment) asked “Doc! What are you doing here!?” He knew without a doubt all what I was thinking: shock *fear *What’s going to happen now?….After polite small talk Doc broke into the chase to tell me “thank you–thank you for being so kind to me while I was in prison.” Honestly, now I was shocked again, because taking care of his banking needs, though out of the ordinary for me, was all that I knew to do regardless of the “who” or “what” that came with the person’s name. Thanks again, Dad. (By the way, I DID ask and he DID tell me…Doc was incarcerated for breaking and entering; he told me he learned his lesson…..I pray he did and is doing well in life. I never saw or heard from him after our face to face meeting.

Elwood: The Bear. That’s what everyone called him. He was 6’4”, well over 250 pounds, with a voice that shook the building whether he was angry or laughing. As rough as he could be when supervising branch offices or commercial lenders and their business clients, his gentleness came in a close second for top personality traits. He was well liked and he was my “boss” as we called supervisors back then for the remaining years of my employment with NBD. I loved working for him. He had a charismatic way about him, one that allowed me to arrive to work early, get us each a cup of coffee from the machine (always his two quarters!) and sit in his office for about 15 minutes chatting up the start of our day….family….what needed to be worked on for the day or plan a future meeting. No two days working for him were the same thus boredom is not a word I’d use in the same sentence with his name. 

There are SO many good memories I have working for and alongside El. He never made me feel “less than” since I was younger, a woman, a mom, his assistant. On the contrary, I was always treated with respect, was given so many opportunities to serve above my normal job description and education background, to the point of being placed in management training upon the return from giving birth to our second child. (those months are another entry) 

I left NBD in December 1988. I went from full-time management trainee to full-time wife and mom (more future entries) Leaving NBD was a very bittersweet departure in my life. When I made trips back to Saginaw from our present home. I always made a point to visit my former co-workers. At first, it felt very comfortable to return. Slowly, faces changed. New people were now in those cubicles. A few “old timers” still lingered. Along with the fading of faces, I lost track of “The Bear” after he retired, became seriously ill, and much to my sadness, learned he passed away several years ago. His later years were not all healthy physically or emotionally. As I fondly recall all that he taught me as a “boss” who also became a good friend, I hope he knew that even among his trials, he was of great value which was transferred to me by our rare working relationship with each other. 

The years 1972 to 1988 at First State Bank, then to National Bank of Detroit, are filled with countless memories. Perhaps I will expand and write about more of those in the coming weeks. For today, as I described Ron, Debbie, Steve, Elwood please know this. Times change. Times develop. Times allow us to reflect and learn. Sexual harassment is no longer under the radar. Using the “N” word is STILL forbidden in my vocabulary and I’ll call anyone out who uses it….how we form work relationships is under much scrutiny now–I’m MOST certain that a supervisor would be instructed to NEVER place his or her hands gently on someone’s shoulders in order to speak a word of encouragement….I DO wonder if there is any working relationship today that mirrors the integrity, value, worth, and teachable moments I had with “The Bear”….for the sake of all that is good and wholesome, I hope so.

High School Years

One of the first memories that popped into my head quickly as I sat down this morning to write about high school was a warning my older brother Mark gave me: “Never ask an upperclassman for directions if you get lost in the building….” there were tales and laughter associated with misguided freshmen wandering the halls looking for a class during the first few days of school. This beloved high school is shaped like an H and boasts two floors with the choir and band rooms lofting above them in the center of the building along with the cafeteria which also served as a study hall. So, I was smart and heeded my brother’s warning but without asking in return “how will I know who is a senior!?”….I can confess to you I did get turned around one time and was late for a class after my lunch period and a couple times after being on spring or Christmas break I forgot my locker combination. Other than those minor situations, I loved high school. Let me tell you a few reasons why.

As a freshman I continued adding choir as an elective into my schedule. My vocal teacher was Mrs. Leis and she was wonderful! The school had added a girls ensemble to its offerings of girls choir and Honors Choir. I was placed in the ensemble class which meant it was a smaller number of students and there were no boys in the class (they were in Honors Choir) I loved to sing and easily picked up learning the melody of any song; it’s here where I was taught how to read music, acquired the ability to learn intervals audibly along with rhythm, counting, determining what key a song was written in…all the technical aspects of not merely singing. Most importantly we were taught proper breathing techniques for supporting our voices and how to sneak a catch breath for long phrases. Being part of the ensemble was also my first experience “going to vocal competitions”, usually at a school in the Flint area, where vocal students in our area came to perform and be judged for a coveted “1” performance. 

In the summer between my freshman and sophomore year I auditioned with Mrs. Leis to be considered for the Honors Choir. This was my first experience singing alone with her, listening to her play intervals on the piano and telling her the answer for each one, sight reading a portion of music, all so she could determine if I was qualified to be in the school’s prestigious choir which mainly performed acapella–no accompaniment–requiring perfect pitches in it’s four sections, soprano, alto, tenor and bass. My audition went well but I didn’t know until picking up by class schedule just before the start of school if I had “made it in”. I had all summer to wonder. To worry. To anticipate. Imagine my apprehension as I tore the cover off my class schedule. I didn’t look to see what my class load was….my eyes went searching for the choral class I was assigned. And there it was–Honors Choir. I was in! That sophomore year with Mrs. Leis was another amazing year of learning and expanding my love to sing. She made music come alive and she was incredible at forming relationships with us as individuals. She liked a good practical joke and took advantage of playing them whenever possible. She had a habit of swinging her foot with crossed legs as she sat on her stool in front of us. Occasionally her heeled shoe became an unintended projectile, landing somewhere near the front row of us girls in the soprano or alto section. 

Sadly for us kids, she left teaching after my sophomore year in order to return to college and pursue a degree in counseling. Our hearts were broken and we were determined there was no one who could replace her. Mr. Sarri was hired as her replacement and those of us very loyal to Mrs. Leis didn’t accept him for quite some time. In my junior year he took us to a choir festival as was the norm and we received a “2” for our performance…and quickly blamed him for breaking the long held reputation of never getting a rating other than a “1”. But, in my senior year with him, back to festival we went and something powerful happened. In the portion of our sight reading piece for the judges, we got our allowed instructions from Mr. Sarri, performed the number and upon ending stood in utter silence watching the judges making their notes, heads bowed down looking down at their paper. Breaking the silence and the dread surrounding us, one of the judges began to speak. He said “That was a difficult arrangement and you performed it without error. Now, please sing it again for us, but this time, relax and have fun. Enjoy it!” And we did! The real change, the real miracle was our heart change towards Mr. Sarri. He was no longer the “bad guy”. He, indeed, was capable of picking up where Mrs. Leis left us, and my time in the Honors Choir was filled with numerous performances and oh yes–ample “1s” at competition.

Mr. Matlock. Ah, this quirky rather young teacher was one of my favorites. As Mrs. Leis and Mr. Sarri honed my skills for vocals, this man taught me about writing, marketing, journalism, photography. In my senior year I was named as editor of our high school yearbook and Mr. Matlock was our “advisor”. He oversaw our teams that sold advertising for the book, took photos (we had our own darkroom to develop the negatives) , wrote articles about activities, captioned those photos, and built our pages that went to the publisher–all under strict deadlines that were never allowed to be missed. I can still hear him telling us “I don’t care how late we have to stay to meet a deadline. If it’s midnight, we will be here, and I’ll order pizza.” I don’t remember ever having to stay into the late evening hours but we certainly did work after the school day had ended. His discipline and hard work paid off for us; our bright lime green covered yearbook won a national award! I was inducted into the national Quill Society (other than that memory I really don’t know what membership gave me except pride in response to hard work that was not without its challenges.  If memory serves me correctly, I wrote about pubs and how they fit into the culture of their time….we were required to turn in a draft which was returned with red markings where and what to correct for our final submission. I truly don’t recall my final grade but I do know it was a good one, well above a C.

Final exams were part of our senior year, too, and Mrs. Cappells were not for the faint of heart. I was the kind of student who studied, wasn’t sure if my study skills were adequate, always studied up until the moment of picking up my pencil to begin a test. I also was the type of kid that seemed to finish a test first, causing me anxiety if I had rushed…did I answer all the questions correctly? So, when I took her final exam and went out into the hallway as allowed by her upon completion, she followed me out and asked “So,Susan, how do you think you did on the exam?” It was just her and me in the long quiet hall by a set of lockers. “I don’t know Mrs. Cappell. Your tests are pretty hard sometimes.” She assured me that I had most likely done very well and in that moment I felt relief. But more than a peace flooding over me was the sense of a firm, sometimes strict, well seasoned teacher taking an interest in a shy, sometimes fearful girl finding her way through challenging required classes and assignments. Again, I don’t remember my exact grade, but it was well above a C.

Graduation. We got our caps, our gowns, our gold tassel. We rehearsed several times and on the much anticipated evening of commencement over 600 of us filled the chairs that were on the football field. Our parents sat in the bleachers. Our administrators and guest speakers were in front of us on a temporary stage. Our graduation evening was beautiful. There was no rain; the sun shone from the western skies as we listened to each speaker, as we lined up as rehearsed to receive our diploma which actually was only the holder for it. We received our diploma when we returned our rented gown. Walking into the school office to do just that was my last time to enter this huge H shaped two story building that housed so many humorous and serious memories for three years. I was the last of us three kids to graduate high school but not alone to begin pondering “what’s next?” My “what’s next” actually began as I was seated in my chair on the football field. I was anticipating senior lockin that night, hanging out with my boyfriend and other kids…listening as each classmate’s name was announced receiving the “diploma”…actually having a moment of complete fear in the reality that the next morning I was faced with “what will I do now…..” Thankfully, answers came…..that’s another entry. For now, as part of the class of 1971, one of 600 plus kids….more life, more lessons to learn, more challenges to face were waiting around the corner.