American Picker

If you had asked me this question when I was twenty, I probably would’ve answered with a title. Something that sounded important. Something you could put on a business card and explain at a family gathering without anyone raising an eyebrow. Back then, I thought a dream job was something you became.

I’ve had plenty of titles since then. Regional Sales Manager. Store Manager. Vice President. District Manager. Owner. Landlord. House Flipper. Mentor. Art & Antique Dealer, District Recruiter. Those sound impressive when you line them up, and at the time, they mattered. They came with responsibility, pressure, long hours, and a steady sense that other people’s expectations were sitting on my shoulders.

But the titles I hold most proudly didn’t come with corner offices or polished shoes.

They came earlier.

Scrape Metal Picker, Custodian, Tile Installer, Plumber, Constructon Worker, Landscaper. Handyman. Janitor. Maintenance Man. Lifeguard. Grass cutter. Road Crew. Bike builder. Sales clerk. Stock person. Cashier and Trash Picker

That last one always makes people smile, but it probably taught me more than most. Digging through what others threw away trains your eye in a way nothing else does. It’s how I got started in the antique business when times were desperate for me. You learn fast that value and appearance rarely line up. You learn that yesterday’s trash is often tomorrow’s treasure if you’re willing to look a little harder and think a little differently.

Those early jobs taught me how the world actually works. How to show up on time. How to finish what you start. How to work with your hands, your back, and your brain all at once. How to respect every person in a workplace because you’ve probably done their job at some point. I learned dignity from those jobs long before I learned management.

Funny thing is, every “important” role I had later pulled directly from those early ones. You can’t manage people if you’ve never been one of them. You can’t lead if you don’t understand the work. And you can’t mentor if you’ve never struggled, scraped by, or figured things out the hard way.

At this stage of my life, I know something I didn’t know back then.

My dream job isn’t a title at all.

It’s exactly what I’m doing now.

It’s waking up without an alarm, not because I’m lazy, but because my time finally belongs to me. It’s writing when I have something worth saying, not because a deadline demands it. It’s choosing projects based on curiosity and purpose, not hierarchy.

Some days, my dream job looks like sitting at my desk, turning lived experience into words for my kids, my grandkids, or anyone else who stumbles onto my blog and thinks, “That sounds familiar.” Other days, it’s walking an estate sale or flea market, spotting something overlooked, undervalued, or misunderstood, and feeling that same old spark I felt as a kid fixing bikes or cutting grass—the satisfaction of knowing something has value because I can see it.

And sometimes, my dream job looks like doing nothing at all.

A walk. A quiet cup of coffee. A fishing rod in my hand with one of my grandkids beside me, learning patience without realizing that’s what’s happening. Those moments don’t come with titles, but they’re the whole point.

What I’ve learned after decades of work, stress, schedules, responsibility, and recovery is this: a dream job isn’t about escaping work. It’s about alignment. When who you are and what you do stop fighting each other, work stops draining you and starts sustaining you.

I don’t regret any title I ever held. Every one of them mattered. Every one of them led me here. But the dream was never the position. The dream was autonomy. Ownership. The freedom to say yes or no without fear.

If I had to put a name on it—just one title, no explanation needed—it would be this:

American Picker.

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