The day I quit my job I went to the garage, pulled out a trash can, two wheelbarrows, and a dozen or so rakes and shovels, until I could see it: my little red wagon.

            For years I had threatened. Every time I got mad or fed-up or just too tired to do any more, I’d say that I was taking my red wagon and going home – for good.

            My little red wagon and I worked for a ten-acre non-profit botanical garden. I started there as a volunteer, moved on to become a board member, then I took over one of the three office positions while the director completed a job search, and I didn’t leave for eight years. I loved, and hated, every minute, as only someone working for an organization that is essential to the future of the planet, can. We were saving endangered plants. We were helping to prevent other plants from becoming endangered. And like most others working for such organizations, we were part of the rank of the “overs” and “unders” – over-worked and under-paid.

            The little red wagon belonged to my children who had long outgrown any use for it. At the garden, it was my strong, silent assistant. It worked plant sales, helped me with the children’s vegetable garden, carried dishes and linens for social events, and balanced folding tables on its wooden sides. It took kids for rides along the north woodland trail.

            I don’t need to explain why I quit. The underlying theme for most of these cases is the same: at some point you can’t take it any more, whatever the “it” is. In my version of the story, I wanted some tangible evidence of my worth, a bone, if you will. The powers that controlled our garden said no. My colleagues remained silent.

            The day I quit my job, my little red wagon and I walked together through the lower parking field of the botanical garden one last time. I told myself I had taken the higher moral ground. This old dog would go out wagging her tail, bone or no bone.

            The truth is, I cried -- for a year. Ok, it was a little more than a year, but after 12 months of having my family’s support, their patience wore thin. I had to lick my wounds in private.

            I never went back to the garden for any of the events that I had once been responsible for organizing. I stopped my membership. I wouldn’t even drive down the same roads I took to work every day, a decision that might seem extreme or even point to some mental imbalance, but I just couldn’t bear any reminder of what I thought had been a betrayal. I may have been right, but it didn’t make me happy.

            It was a bitter coincidence that within weeks of leaving my job, the economy tanked. There would be no new job for me. My family did what all families have had to do during this downturn – retrench. We cut cable service. There were no more dinners out. I clipped coupons. I bartered for services and stayed away from stores.

            But the story is a happy one. My wagon, at least, was able to find other useful work, this time in my garden. Instead of buying new plants -- one of my most expensive indulgences -- I now move plants from one part of the garden to another. I still get the pleasure of working in the garden, planting and designing beds, but without the expense. And the wagon seems happy to be home. I do worry, however, that if the economy doesn’t recover soon, my plants will sprout wheels and begin moving themselves.

            My exit wasn’t dramatic or funny.  It didn’t make the papers. And my absence barely made a ripple in the organization. I guess it’s true: we can all be replaced.  

            But here’s something else that’s true and something that I take some solace in: sometimes you’ve just got to take your wagon and go home.