Why is it that when things fall apart in your life, you lose interest in life? The pizazz fizzles and fades away and the stars fall out of the sky and leave the night an inkier black. Everything takes on a dull and lusterless sheen. Getting out of bed becomes a chore, getting dressed becomes the hardest thing of the day and food becomes tasteless.
Oh, don't look now, but I think a white van just pulled up to the curb and those big strapping guys getting out are all dressed in white! And they are carrying white ropes, a white jacket with long white straps and a pail of white golf balls and pulling a white wagon with a huge bottle of water.
Now that we have established that - #1 the fist paragraph defines and describes classic depression and -- # 2 - the second paragraph lines out the classic remedy and cure for that which is the loony bit and lots of medication.
Now that we have that clarified - we can move on to the serious stuff. I need - 1 - a good stiff drink, - 2 - a long vacation, - 3- a bottle of wine and - 4 - time alone!!
Well - so happens the liquor cabinet never got filled - couldn't afford it, same goes for the vacation, so that leaves 3 and 4 as viable options to be considered. The guys are walking up to the door step as we speak - they look a bit serious - as if this task is of some dire and undercover significance for the Federal Government!!
OK - where were we? Oh - lack of motivation - some of us just naturally go through slumps in life - Remember the Lynn Anderson song - I never promised you a rose garden? When a pin punctures our balloon - our bubble of life - the energy drains as surely as does the air from that punctured balloon which first shoots upwards and then comes floating to the ground, collapsing and shrinking as it descends to fall upon the earth. Much the same as our dashed hopes and dreams. I never saw one of those deflated balloons ever get up , re-inflate and rise back into the air within seconds of ground contact. Matter of fact, most of them get picked up and trashed. So what happens when our dreams come crashing down around our feet, the rug gets pulled out from underneath them and the floor collapses in our world? We 'melt' down. We pull inside of ourselves, hide from the world and try to find that little dark corner where no one can see the hurt, the heartache, the pain, the loss we are feeling. There we must rest, find the courage again to to step forward into the light and slowly but surely rise again to the surface of reality, facing the world and building new dreams, new hopes and setting new goals and new heights to reach for.
Shshshsh - I think they're trying to get in! Why don't they just knock, for crying out loud? I didn't lock the door to keep them out! I locked it to keep out the guy who wanders around the neighborhood trying to get into windows, doors, cars and anything else he finds open in order to help himself to what he didn't work to pay for.
Time - so it is said - heals all. Time - and love - and patience -
I'm not so sure it heals so much as it puts space between the event that caused the crash and your inner self preservation. The longer the space, the less the everyday expectation, touch, feel and emotion. The less of those - the more attention is turned to other people, other events, other interests. Until at some point the loss of the dream isn't noticed as sharply and painfully.
Oh! Now they get the idea!! 'Knock, knock' - softly as if they expect the noise to cause some extreme reaction!! Lets sit quiet and see how long they can be patient.............'KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK'! .Oh there's what I expected - the harsh, hard knock of authority that demands response and right of entry.
Do I open the door and let them in? I can see the slight hint of fear in their eyes - they do not think it is there - but how can it not be? They really don't know what to expect. Docility? Fierce and violent denial and fight?
Will they need the rope? The straight jacket restraint? All followed by those golf ball sized pills and lots of water or the needle?
Medication is the answer to all of humanity's ailments these days. Long term medication in order to control the natural flow of the body's own system. Oh, I will grant that these are sometimes the only means to balance a system that has failed to function as it was intended to. But in some cases, it blocks and inhibits the body's natural reaction to stress, loss and hurt. How does one face the crash after the removal of these blocks?
One still has to wake up and face the sunrise, slip the feet over the edge of the bed, find some clothes, take a shower and find something to stop that awful growling in the pit of the stomach. One still has to face the reality of a very changed life and life path - still has to struggle with the aloneness of stepping forward to recreate a path that now has a different structure - that is in need of re-direction and new goals and new hopes and dreams.
If I open the door, they will come in and begin the reprogramming sequence and God alone knows how and where that will lead and end. If I run - will they intercept me at the back door or can I make good my getaway? Can I hide and pretend they are not there and hope they will go away and give me time to walk out of the front door, head held high, so that no one can see what they think they saw?
Hiding and running from problems and fears never solved them. So it is best to open the door and face the fears and send them away -
Even from here the play can be rewritten, the cast redirected.
It is the very essence of life and hurt and loss and pain that opens the door to creativity - turns the spigot that releases the flow of words and energy. Pick up the pen and paper - lift the dusty cover from the old typewriter - push the button sending power to the computer key board and let the fingers fly across the keys - watch the words appear is if by magic - allow that which is the thread of life - the fabric of living - emotions - free flow.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Uncle Joe Comes To Visit
In 1987, my parents planned a trip to Alaska - and brought my Mother's brother who was visiting from England. Now, I had met my Uncle Joe in the early 80's when he and his wife - my Aunt Til - came to visit Mom and Dad in Washington State. My Aunt passed after her second visit over here and now Uncle Joe was on his own.
When they arrived, everyone was - of course - excited about the visit. But we had to settle down to it first. My husband didn't plan on taking any days off from work - no surprise there. I took Mom to work with me for the one day that I planned to work during their visit - a planned day of course. So the first day, Mom and I went to work, Hubby went to work, Rod went with Dad to do some work on the airstream and that left T at home with Uncle Joe.
A couple of hours passed and I decided to call and check on things at home. "Uncle Joe isn't here." My daughter said. "He went out for a walk."
"How long ago?" I asked.
"I don't know. Not long after you guys all left."
"Don't worry." My Mom said. "Joe takes walks all the time. He'll get back OK."
So an hour or so later, I called again and still he wasn't back - and neither was anyone else. I hung up, my thoughts a jumble as I talked it over with Mom. "Where could he have gone to? He doesn't know the area, he couldn't have gone far. He should have been back by now." Mom talked me out of leaving, but try as I might I kept getting this mental image.
Now, understand that my Uncle Joe had a hard English accent that I couldn't begin to understand. I had been around Mom all my life and her accent to me was not even there until after I had been away from home a few years. Aunt Til had had a lovely accent and we teased her and repeated her accent constantly. But Uncle Joe? I smiled and listened and laughed when he did, but the rest was just plain some other language that made no sense at all to any of us - except Mom of course. And I could just see Uncle Joe trying to explain to a uniformed Alaska State Trooper that he was lost and didn't know where he was. Just as plain as day I could see that trooper listening with a puzzled look on his face, reaching up to lift his hat and scratch his head wondering how in blazes he was going to fix this problem! I couldn't shake that image and I couldn't work any more. I called it a day and we left.
As we drove into the driveway, Dad and Rod were pulling up coming from the opposite way and Uncle Joe was walking calmly up the walk - totally unaware of the concerns he had raised. We talked to him and I had to laugh - he had gone down the drive, turned right and walked all the way down to the corner and turned right and then right again - making continual right turns until he had decided he had best turn around and retrace his steps. Asking questions I discovered that he had turned around about two blocks from his second right turn! He laughed.
A few nights later, we planned on going out to the Malemute Saloon show and everyone got ready to leave only to discover that Uncle Joe had once again disappeared. We piled into the car and drove the route of his first walk - no Uncle Joe. We went back out to Airport Road and drove down to Alaskaland - no Uncle Joe. Baffled, we returned home, made a pot of tea and sat down to game of cards.
A couple of hours passed and the front door opened and in walked Uncle Joe. "Uncle Joe!" I exclaimed. "Where have you been? We've been looking all over for you!!"
"Oh I'm sorry, I went for a walk, you know. I've bean out to the airport - you know where all the big jets take off?"
"Uncle Joe! Do you know how far that is??" I asked in amazement.
"Aye! I know. I've just bean there." He stated.
When they arrived, everyone was - of course - excited about the visit. But we had to settle down to it first. My husband didn't plan on taking any days off from work - no surprise there. I took Mom to work with me for the one day that I planned to work during their visit - a planned day of course. So the first day, Mom and I went to work, Hubby went to work, Rod went with Dad to do some work on the airstream and that left T at home with Uncle Joe.
A couple of hours passed and I decided to call and check on things at home. "Uncle Joe isn't here." My daughter said. "He went out for a walk."
"How long ago?" I asked.
"I don't know. Not long after you guys all left."
"Don't worry." My Mom said. "Joe takes walks all the time. He'll get back OK."
So an hour or so later, I called again and still he wasn't back - and neither was anyone else. I hung up, my thoughts a jumble as I talked it over with Mom. "Where could he have gone to? He doesn't know the area, he couldn't have gone far. He should have been back by now." Mom talked me out of leaving, but try as I might I kept getting this mental image.
Now, understand that my Uncle Joe had a hard English accent that I couldn't begin to understand. I had been around Mom all my life and her accent to me was not even there until after I had been away from home a few years. Aunt Til had had a lovely accent and we teased her and repeated her accent constantly. But Uncle Joe? I smiled and listened and laughed when he did, but the rest was just plain some other language that made no sense at all to any of us - except Mom of course. And I could just see Uncle Joe trying to explain to a uniformed Alaska State Trooper that he was lost and didn't know where he was. Just as plain as day I could see that trooper listening with a puzzled look on his face, reaching up to lift his hat and scratch his head wondering how in blazes he was going to fix this problem! I couldn't shake that image and I couldn't work any more. I called it a day and we left.
As we drove into the driveway, Dad and Rod were pulling up coming from the opposite way and Uncle Joe was walking calmly up the walk - totally unaware of the concerns he had raised. We talked to him and I had to laugh - he had gone down the drive, turned right and walked all the way down to the corner and turned right and then right again - making continual right turns until he had decided he had best turn around and retrace his steps. Asking questions I discovered that he had turned around about two blocks from his second right turn! He laughed.
A few nights later, we planned on going out to the Malemute Saloon show and everyone got ready to leave only to discover that Uncle Joe had once again disappeared. We piled into the car and drove the route of his first walk - no Uncle Joe. We went back out to Airport Road and drove down to Alaskaland - no Uncle Joe. Baffled, we returned home, made a pot of tea and sat down to game of cards.
A couple of hours passed and the front door opened and in walked Uncle Joe. "Uncle Joe!" I exclaimed. "Where have you been? We've been looking all over for you!!"
"Oh I'm sorry, I went for a walk, you know. I've bean out to the airport - you know where all the big jets take off?"
"Uncle Joe! Do you know how far that is??" I asked in amazement.
"Aye! I know. I've just bean there." He stated.
Shattered Dreams
Come, go north with me - there we'll live and happy be.
We ventured forth - to the land up north.
Got a job and bought some land - with a little cabin, we thought grand.
First came Rod, our first born son - A mother's work is never done.
Then came Tam with golden hair - No finer children anywhere.
Abuse begins in the smallest way - with angry words and accusations every day.
I cried silent tears into the night - and shook with fear at every fight.
Rod suffered most for all he had done - then came the night when you pulled the gun.
A coldness began in the depth of me - and grew til at last I knew I was free.
Breaking the ties that God had made - to face life alone and unafraid.
The abuse, the threats, the blows in the past - have left unseen scars that forever last.
I wrote that poem many years ago. I included in a book of poetry I wrote to give to my family for Christmas.
My older sister called and told me that this was not a thing you advertised to the world.
I hid the book at home. For a time I hid the shame of my brazen act. How dare I - in her words - hang my dirty laundry out for the world to see?
But even as I withdrew into myself, I knew that what I had done was not wrong. The world needed to know about these events - not just mine - but all of them that had been swept under the rug for so many years by so many women and children for fear of being shamed, ridiculed, judged and found wanting.
When my daughter went through domestic abuse, I wrote letters to the editor - one was not published so I went to the newspaper to talk to them - he was afraid of being sued. "For what?" I asked incredulously. Libel was the answer. "Let me bring you court documents and police records." I replied. "Public documents that anyone can read if they want to." The letter was published.
I took part in a governors teleconference - speaking up about the issue in our state. Some of those present at the conference were from the local university campus and asked if they could use my writing in criminal justice class. I agreed, but heard nothing more. Imagine my surprise when several years later. the girl from across the street told me that she had taken a criminal justice course in which my material was used.
I have written a manuscript that I hope to see published. I have allowed others to read it - the overwhelming agreement is that the book should be published - it would help so many.
Usually I can - in a few moments of meeting a woman - know if she either is or has been the victim of domestic abuse. And I can tell - in a few moments of meeting a man - if he is an abuser. I am rarely wrong, but I have missed the clue once or twice about a woman. One I worked with - I never picked up the vibes that she had gone through anything - but she wanted to read the manuscript so I let her take it. She came back to my office a few weeks later, closed the door and set the envelope on the desk. "Can I talk to you?" She asked.
I had missed the clues - she talked for a good hour about what she had gone through. "I have never shared this with anyone." She said as she started out. "Not the police, not a counselor, not a doctor, not a pastor, not my parents. I was so ashamed of what had happened and I thought I was the only one it has ever happened to and I thought it was all my fault. Then I read your story and I knew that I was not alone, that what happened wasn't my fault." She continued with her story, telling all the details, holding back emotion, sharing. When she stopped, she looked at me. "Your story needs to be published. It will help so many people - as it has helped me. Except.....I hope you don't mind my saying this.....I don't think it's finished. You have come so far, accomplished so much and that all needs to be a part of it.
I shook my head. "Not yet. It doesn't feel done for me yet. I haven't quite reached the point where I can say that my life is complete, a success. Maybe someday there will a book two that goes from the court house steps to the present day, to where my life has gone and what I have done to overcome it all, but I don't think it is close yet."
She left and I thought about her words, her experience, her shame and hurt and the way she had buried it inside for so many years and I wondered how many more there are.
I thought I had buried all of my emotions - dealt with all of the things that happened - put them aside and locked them up. But a good twenty years after the gun incident, a situation occurred at work that broke the locks, opened the doors and let loose a flood of fear and emotions that kept me in tears to and from work and escaping work to the beach to pull back together during the day. A co-worker exhibited the same identical physical manifestations I had seen in my husband the night he pulled the gun and I was a basket case for over a month. To make matters worse, the situation at work erupted into violence. A disagreement, anger had festered and grown. I sat in my boss's office, my hands clinched tight in my lap, fear a cold knot in my stomach, a feeling of weakness spreading through my body. "Do you think he will do something here?" My boss asked, a bit surprised.
"I don't know." I answered. "But I can tell you that I have seen this physical reaction before and I can tell you that someone is going to get hurt -whether at home, at work or somewhere in between, someone will get hurt." I was not sure that he believed me, but a day or so later the human resources manager came to our office and called me for a private discussion.
"Are you afraid?" He asked.
"You bet I am." I replied.
"Do you think he will hurt you?"
"I don't know. His personality is so volatile. I believe that he is capable of hurting anyone. I don't think that they have to do anything to provoke him."
After both of these interviews, I excused myself, went to the beach a couple of miles away and fell apart, crying uncontrollably until I could cry no more. Pulled myself back together and went back to work. But as was now common, the tears flowed again as soon as I headed home after work. And again the next morning going in.
A week passed and just about time to go home one afternoon, I rounded a corner at work just in time to see my boss helping another man up off the floor outside of his office. I stopped, turned and ran because I knew it had happened. I hid in a back office, trembling and sobbing softly for some time. I was afraid to come out, afraid to see more. My boss was waiting as I approached his door. "Why don't you come in for a few moments? And close the door." He said.
I entered, closed the door and sat down, not wanting to look at him, not wanting him to see the fear, the remains of tears.
"I've let (blank) go." He said........and waited. I said nothing. I didn't look up. "You were right. Someone did get hurt. Here at work. I'm sorry that I didn't listen to you. I just didn't think this would happen. Didn't expect it to." I didn't want to know what happened, I just wanted to run, to get away - as far as I could.
It was another year before I learned that (blank) had picked the man up and thrown him into the wall - I had missed that part.
Fear didn't leave me for well over a month. But I was now more aware then ever that the past is always a part of the present. Some things just never go away, they remain under the surface until something happens to cause them to break the crust you think holds them back.
We may survive domestic abuse and violence, but we live with the scars and damages forever.
We ventured forth - to the land up north.
Got a job and bought some land - with a little cabin, we thought grand.
First came Rod, our first born son - A mother's work is never done.
Then came Tam with golden hair - No finer children anywhere.
Abuse begins in the smallest way - with angry words and accusations every day.
I cried silent tears into the night - and shook with fear at every fight.
Rod suffered most for all he had done - then came the night when you pulled the gun.
A coldness began in the depth of me - and grew til at last I knew I was free.
Breaking the ties that God had made - to face life alone and unafraid.
The abuse, the threats, the blows in the past - have left unseen scars that forever last.
I wrote that poem many years ago. I included in a book of poetry I wrote to give to my family for Christmas.
My older sister called and told me that this was not a thing you advertised to the world.
I hid the book at home. For a time I hid the shame of my brazen act. How dare I - in her words - hang my dirty laundry out for the world to see?
But even as I withdrew into myself, I knew that what I had done was not wrong. The world needed to know about these events - not just mine - but all of them that had been swept under the rug for so many years by so many women and children for fear of being shamed, ridiculed, judged and found wanting.
When my daughter went through domestic abuse, I wrote letters to the editor - one was not published so I went to the newspaper to talk to them - he was afraid of being sued. "For what?" I asked incredulously. Libel was the answer. "Let me bring you court documents and police records." I replied. "Public documents that anyone can read if they want to." The letter was published.
I took part in a governors teleconference - speaking up about the issue in our state. Some of those present at the conference were from the local university campus and asked if they could use my writing in criminal justice class. I agreed, but heard nothing more. Imagine my surprise when several years later. the girl from across the street told me that she had taken a criminal justice course in which my material was used.
I have written a manuscript that I hope to see published. I have allowed others to read it - the overwhelming agreement is that the book should be published - it would help so many.
Usually I can - in a few moments of meeting a woman - know if she either is or has been the victim of domestic abuse. And I can tell - in a few moments of meeting a man - if he is an abuser. I am rarely wrong, but I have missed the clue once or twice about a woman. One I worked with - I never picked up the vibes that she had gone through anything - but she wanted to read the manuscript so I let her take it. She came back to my office a few weeks later, closed the door and set the envelope on the desk. "Can I talk to you?" She asked.
I had missed the clues - she talked for a good hour about what she had gone through. "I have never shared this with anyone." She said as she started out. "Not the police, not a counselor, not a doctor, not a pastor, not my parents. I was so ashamed of what had happened and I thought I was the only one it has ever happened to and I thought it was all my fault. Then I read your story and I knew that I was not alone, that what happened wasn't my fault." She continued with her story, telling all the details, holding back emotion, sharing. When she stopped, she looked at me. "Your story needs to be published. It will help so many people - as it has helped me. Except.....I hope you don't mind my saying this.....I don't think it's finished. You have come so far, accomplished so much and that all needs to be a part of it.
I shook my head. "Not yet. It doesn't feel done for me yet. I haven't quite reached the point where I can say that my life is complete, a success. Maybe someday there will a book two that goes from the court house steps to the present day, to where my life has gone and what I have done to overcome it all, but I don't think it is close yet."
She left and I thought about her words, her experience, her shame and hurt and the way she had buried it inside for so many years and I wondered how many more there are.
I thought I had buried all of my emotions - dealt with all of the things that happened - put them aside and locked them up. But a good twenty years after the gun incident, a situation occurred at work that broke the locks, opened the doors and let loose a flood of fear and emotions that kept me in tears to and from work and escaping work to the beach to pull back together during the day. A co-worker exhibited the same identical physical manifestations I had seen in my husband the night he pulled the gun and I was a basket case for over a month. To make matters worse, the situation at work erupted into violence. A disagreement, anger had festered and grown. I sat in my boss's office, my hands clinched tight in my lap, fear a cold knot in my stomach, a feeling of weakness spreading through my body. "Do you think he will do something here?" My boss asked, a bit surprised.
"I don't know." I answered. "But I can tell you that I have seen this physical reaction before and I can tell you that someone is going to get hurt -whether at home, at work or somewhere in between, someone will get hurt." I was not sure that he believed me, but a day or so later the human resources manager came to our office and called me for a private discussion.
"Are you afraid?" He asked.
"You bet I am." I replied.
"Do you think he will hurt you?"
"I don't know. His personality is so volatile. I believe that he is capable of hurting anyone. I don't think that they have to do anything to provoke him."
After both of these interviews, I excused myself, went to the beach a couple of miles away and fell apart, crying uncontrollably until I could cry no more. Pulled myself back together and went back to work. But as was now common, the tears flowed again as soon as I headed home after work. And again the next morning going in.
A week passed and just about time to go home one afternoon, I rounded a corner at work just in time to see my boss helping another man up off the floor outside of his office. I stopped, turned and ran because I knew it had happened. I hid in a back office, trembling and sobbing softly for some time. I was afraid to come out, afraid to see more. My boss was waiting as I approached his door. "Why don't you come in for a few moments? And close the door." He said.
I entered, closed the door and sat down, not wanting to look at him, not wanting him to see the fear, the remains of tears.
"I've let (blank) go." He said........and waited. I said nothing. I didn't look up. "You were right. Someone did get hurt. Here at work. I'm sorry that I didn't listen to you. I just didn't think this would happen. Didn't expect it to." I didn't want to know what happened, I just wanted to run, to get away - as far as I could.
It was another year before I learned that (blank) had picked the man up and thrown him into the wall - I had missed that part.
Fear didn't leave me for well over a month. But I was now more aware then ever that the past is always a part of the present. Some things just never go away, they remain under the surface until something happens to cause them to break the crust you think holds them back.
We may survive domestic abuse and violence, but we live with the scars and damages forever.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
President's Day
When I was growing up, we celebrated George Washington's birthday and Abraham Lincoln's birthday on their respective dates. But that was too much bother, so the government combined the birthdays of these two leaders into a one day celebration.
I went to a two room country school and we put together programs for some events and invited the parents to school. For a week or two previous we worked together to make the items needed to put the program together. We read stories and poems and studied the subject or subjects that our program was going to be centered around. Sometimes the teachers found plays, skits and poems that we could learn parts for. Whatever it was, the entire school participated and eagerly looked forward to it. The entire school usually consisted of anywhere from 15 to 25 students in grades one through eight.
One year we made shadow boxes to stage a program that included the lives of both presidents. The wooden frame was made of 2x4s with white flannel stretched across the open box. We cut figures and forms out of heavy black construction paper to represent the life story of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. After lunch, on the big day, we had our last dress rehearsal, pushed all the desks to the sides and back of the room and set chairs up for visitors to sit in. Mothers and siblings arrived, usually with cakes, cookies and cupcakes and koolaide to be served later. Since both birthdays were so close to Valentine's Day, there was always a small cupcake paper of Valentine's candy.
The large shadow box was set up on a table at the front of the room and when everyone was ready, all of the window shades were pulled down and a lamp was used to illuminate the fabric. Each of us had a figure or form and a part to recite as we placed the form on the white flannel. Sometimes the older children had more than one part to play. Some of the pieces didn't want to hold by themselves, so we'd have to reach quickly to set them back in place.
After the program, we put away the stage props and the chairs and pushed the desks back in place while mothers set up the refreshments. Valentine cards made in Friday afternoon art class were given to parents and friends in a hurried exchange. It was a real treat to get store bought cards. Usually the program was held later in the afternoon so that when it was over, school could be dismissed.
We looked forward to these times and now we look back upon them, fond memories.
I went to a two room country school and we put together programs for some events and invited the parents to school. For a week or two previous we worked together to make the items needed to put the program together. We read stories and poems and studied the subject or subjects that our program was going to be centered around. Sometimes the teachers found plays, skits and poems that we could learn parts for. Whatever it was, the entire school participated and eagerly looked forward to it. The entire school usually consisted of anywhere from 15 to 25 students in grades one through eight.
One year we made shadow boxes to stage a program that included the lives of both presidents. The wooden frame was made of 2x4s with white flannel stretched across the open box. We cut figures and forms out of heavy black construction paper to represent the life story of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. After lunch, on the big day, we had our last dress rehearsal, pushed all the desks to the sides and back of the room and set chairs up for visitors to sit in. Mothers and siblings arrived, usually with cakes, cookies and cupcakes and koolaide to be served later. Since both birthdays were so close to Valentine's Day, there was always a small cupcake paper of Valentine's candy.
The large shadow box was set up on a table at the front of the room and when everyone was ready, all of the window shades were pulled down and a lamp was used to illuminate the fabric. Each of us had a figure or form and a part to recite as we placed the form on the white flannel. Sometimes the older children had more than one part to play. Some of the pieces didn't want to hold by themselves, so we'd have to reach quickly to set them back in place.
After the program, we put away the stage props and the chairs and pushed the desks back in place while mothers set up the refreshments. Valentine cards made in Friday afternoon art class were given to parents and friends in a hurried exchange. It was a real treat to get store bought cards. Usually the program was held later in the afternoon so that when it was over, school could be dismissed.
We looked forward to these times and now we look back upon them, fond memories.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Job Interviews
I hate job interviews.
I was working summers in Alaska in the tourism industry. When winter came, I worked when I could, made crafts and stayed out of the bitter cold. One year, my older sister told me that it was time to grow up and get a real job and I thought about that and decided she may have a good point. About the end of Sept, I got serious about the job hunt, signed up at the unemployment office and made regular trips down town to look over the job board. I read the paper faithfully and scanned the classifieds looking for a job I thought I was qualified to do. I went out to do a few interviews, then I went home to do the wage math. I could keep my 'playing' summer job or take a full time 365 day a year solid job along with a 15 to 20 thousand dollar a year wage drop. It didn't take me long to figure out that regular steady employment didn't offer me any stability, economic assurance or incentive to change over.
After a month of this I discovered something else. I hated interviews. And now that I knew that, I wanted to understand what I hated about them. I continued to go to interviews, now having fun analyzing them. I listened to the questions and watched the interviewer's body language.
Interview questions are pretty standard. Time and again I heard the same questions over and over and over. I began to play with the answers, watching the interviewers reaction to each. I could soon tell when the person had made their decision about whether the interview was over or when they had concluded that I was not their new hire. Now it was entertaining and I often left smiling wishing I could write a book about my experiences.
There came a day on one of my part time winter jobs when I was told that one of my responsibilities was interviewing and hiring new employees. I sat down and put together some questions that I felt were pertinent to the job. But there was a lot I didn't know about interviews. What did all those endless stupid questions I'd been asked in the past mean? What was I really looking for?
At the time, I was dating a fellow who worked in the oil industry and he was a manager, so I asked him what he looked for, what questions he asked. I was surprised to learn that his company had sent him to an interview class, so he dug out some of his notes and loaned them to me. Then I went to my summer boss and asked him. He was uninclined to be of assistance - as if giving me any help were akin to handing out national secrets. So I schmoosed him - I told him I wasn't looking for his questions, I'd been to enough interviews I pretty much knew them by heart. What I wanted was what he looked for in a good candidate and that loosed his tongue only slightly.
I went home and made notes from that boss, then took all my notes and went over them. I decided what I was looking for in an employee, what things were important and specific to the job, and to the working relationship between the person, other employees and myself and then I put together my own set of interview questions. When I was finished, I set up my first interview. I was, as I expected, a bit uncomfortable to be sitting on the other side of the table. The first thing I became aware of, was the discomfort of the prospective employee. My first job, then, was to get that person comfortable enough to talk easily with me.
After all this time, I still don't know the rationale behind the standard questions - which by the way haven't changed in twenty years. And in all honesty, I don't believe that most interviewers know. They just ask the time honored, age old questions. I find it truely humorous to be interviewed for a position where the interviewer is from the human resource department and tells me they know nothing about the job they are trying to fill. That tells me that the interview has nothing to do with my knowledge and qualifications, it has to do more with what kind of person I am. If that person can find one thing that doesn't blend well with their own personality, it is all over before it even begins. What kind of person one is cannot be determined in a short, uncomfortable interrogation about likes and dislikes, weaknesses and strengths, relationship with fellow employees and past bosses. Specifically when the reviewer is not relaxed and friendly and the questions are fired staccato as if I am on trial before the prosecuting attorney. Body language tells me when they have decided I am not a good fit and inside I smile knowing that when I leave, I don't have to stew about whether I got the job or not.
Unemployed for the past few months, I am back on the interview circuit. Last week I went to yet another in an endless round of interogations of my character. When the interview was over, I called the lady who had set it up.
"I know this is an odd call." I said. "But whether I get the job or not, I have to tell you that I was super impressed with the interview. If I were going to rate it, it would be the best I have ever been to in my life. The two gentlemen who conducted it were phenomenal. It was the most relaxed and relevant interview I have ever been involved in."
This company made every other one I had been to look like kindergartners masquarading as college seniors. There was immediately a sense of open honesty. Both were relaxed and friendly. The lead manager looked over at me. "I have your resume here and it speaks for itself. You are, according to what I saw, very qualified for the job. What I want to know is what kind of person are you. I want a sense of who you are."
I did not hear one single moss covered question from the time honored, age old list. I was at ease and relaxed. I felt like these people were really interested in whether I was worth hiring. If I were to rate this interview on a scale of one to ten - it would rate an easy twenty. Oh, if only they would teach interview classes to the rest of the business world!!
I was working summers in Alaska in the tourism industry. When winter came, I worked when I could, made crafts and stayed out of the bitter cold. One year, my older sister told me that it was time to grow up and get a real job and I thought about that and decided she may have a good point. About the end of Sept, I got serious about the job hunt, signed up at the unemployment office and made regular trips down town to look over the job board. I read the paper faithfully and scanned the classifieds looking for a job I thought I was qualified to do. I went out to do a few interviews, then I went home to do the wage math. I could keep my 'playing' summer job or take a full time 365 day a year solid job along with a 15 to 20 thousand dollar a year wage drop. It didn't take me long to figure out that regular steady employment didn't offer me any stability, economic assurance or incentive to change over.
After a month of this I discovered something else. I hated interviews. And now that I knew that, I wanted to understand what I hated about them. I continued to go to interviews, now having fun analyzing them. I listened to the questions and watched the interviewer's body language.
Interview questions are pretty standard. Time and again I heard the same questions over and over and over. I began to play with the answers, watching the interviewers reaction to each. I could soon tell when the person had made their decision about whether the interview was over or when they had concluded that I was not their new hire. Now it was entertaining and I often left smiling wishing I could write a book about my experiences.
There came a day on one of my part time winter jobs when I was told that one of my responsibilities was interviewing and hiring new employees. I sat down and put together some questions that I felt were pertinent to the job. But there was a lot I didn't know about interviews. What did all those endless stupid questions I'd been asked in the past mean? What was I really looking for?
At the time, I was dating a fellow who worked in the oil industry and he was a manager, so I asked him what he looked for, what questions he asked. I was surprised to learn that his company had sent him to an interview class, so he dug out some of his notes and loaned them to me. Then I went to my summer boss and asked him. He was uninclined to be of assistance - as if giving me any help were akin to handing out national secrets. So I schmoosed him - I told him I wasn't looking for his questions, I'd been to enough interviews I pretty much knew them by heart. What I wanted was what he looked for in a good candidate and that loosed his tongue only slightly.
I went home and made notes from that boss, then took all my notes and went over them. I decided what I was looking for in an employee, what things were important and specific to the job, and to the working relationship between the person, other employees and myself and then I put together my own set of interview questions. When I was finished, I set up my first interview. I was, as I expected, a bit uncomfortable to be sitting on the other side of the table. The first thing I became aware of, was the discomfort of the prospective employee. My first job, then, was to get that person comfortable enough to talk easily with me.
After all this time, I still don't know the rationale behind the standard questions - which by the way haven't changed in twenty years. And in all honesty, I don't believe that most interviewers know. They just ask the time honored, age old questions. I find it truely humorous to be interviewed for a position where the interviewer is from the human resource department and tells me they know nothing about the job they are trying to fill. That tells me that the interview has nothing to do with my knowledge and qualifications, it has to do more with what kind of person I am. If that person can find one thing that doesn't blend well with their own personality, it is all over before it even begins. What kind of person one is cannot be determined in a short, uncomfortable interrogation about likes and dislikes, weaknesses and strengths, relationship with fellow employees and past bosses. Specifically when the reviewer is not relaxed and friendly and the questions are fired staccato as if I am on trial before the prosecuting attorney. Body language tells me when they have decided I am not a good fit and inside I smile knowing that when I leave, I don't have to stew about whether I got the job or not.
Unemployed for the past few months, I am back on the interview circuit. Last week I went to yet another in an endless round of interogations of my character. When the interview was over, I called the lady who had set it up.
"I know this is an odd call." I said. "But whether I get the job or not, I have to tell you that I was super impressed with the interview. If I were going to rate it, it would be the best I have ever been to in my life. The two gentlemen who conducted it were phenomenal. It was the most relaxed and relevant interview I have ever been involved in."
This company made every other one I had been to look like kindergartners masquarading as college seniors. There was immediately a sense of open honesty. Both were relaxed and friendly. The lead manager looked over at me. "I have your resume here and it speaks for itself. You are, according to what I saw, very qualified for the job. What I want to know is what kind of person are you. I want a sense of who you are."
I did not hear one single moss covered question from the time honored, age old list. I was at ease and relaxed. I felt like these people were really interested in whether I was worth hiring. If I were to rate this interview on a scale of one to ten - it would rate an easy twenty. Oh, if only they would teach interview classes to the rest of the business world!!
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Raymond, Washington
There are countless little towns along the coast of Washington. If you have a destination in mind, these are only places to pass through on the way to somewhere else. I was half way through town when the art caught my attention. It wasn't that I missed it all to begin with. I had noticed it, but then became aware that it was all over and I really looked at it and on the way back I wanted photos. I wanted to know more about this little town. What was its history? Who was the artist? But what I discovered when I arrived home was pretty much what I have come to expect after a few on line explorations. Some places seem only to have an advertisement page with no real meat to the story. So I started digging to learn about this little coastal town.
Raymond, Washington is the Gateway to the Willipa River and Willipa Bay. Willipa Harbor was once the heart of a huge stand of cedar, fir, hemlock and spruce. Some 30 billion board feet according to one source. It was a matter of time before the harvesters would become aware of that fortune. And a matter of time before little was left - of the original treasure and the town it spawned.
One of the first settlers in the area was Captain John Vail. After his ship, the Willimanticc, wrecked off Gray's Harbor in 1853, he settled on a Donation Land Claim on the Willipa River. Captain George Johnson, came to Oregon from Norway in 1861 and got the contract to deliver mail between Astoria and Olympia.. He moved to Oysterville and got the contract to deliver mail from there across the bay and up the Willipa to Giesy's Crossing. On one trip up river in 1870, Johnson noticed land for sale and purchased 178 acres. The following year he bought an adjacent 116 acres from the Northern Pacific Railroad. The largest part of his land was muddy tidelands, but the high land where Johnson built a home was known as Johnson Island. Captain George Johnson married Lucy Paulding and moved to the new home where Stella was born in 1875. The family didn't stay long however, they moved back to Oysterville. Stella returned to the island home with her husband, Leslie Raymond, in 1889.
In 1892, The Northern Pacific Railroad laid tracks over the mudflats below the island. Eight years later, Alexander C. Little rowed a boat to the tide flats and decided the Willipa Forks was an ideal location for a town. He talked to Leslie about selling a portion of his father-in-law's old homestead. Leslie formed the Raymond Land and Development Company to survey a townsite, sell property, build sawmills and encourage other business and industry to the area. The first buildings were erected on stilts five to six feet above the tidelands. Elevated sidewalks and streets connected most of the buildings. Raymond was founded in one of the most fertile tree growing regions in the world and the lumber industry became one of the leading economic means for support.
The big boom is over, the lumber barons gone, the forrests recovering. Raymond could be my home town - off the beaten path, small, relaxed and homey. At least that is the feeling I got in my brief drive through. I noticed those rusted deer and eagles and they were nice, but what really caught my attention were the wagon teams by the museum. Who had done this? Such detail! But when I got home and when on line to learn about Raymond and the artist, the article appeared to indicate that there was not one, but several artists and no names, no credit that I could find.
I couldn't do justice to list only a few of the sculptures nor to show only a few photos. The pioneer ladies, the eagles on a stump that I nearly missed in the tall grasses, the bicyle rider and the busy artist at the intersection, The team of oxen with a load of logs, the family gathered around a campfire and many, many more.
Deer crazing on grassy wooded slopes, a cougar approaching the road and the two lumberman cutting a log were the only photos I got. I have got to say that this was much more pleasant to look at than the overs sized ancient typewriter eraser that towers next to the road in down town Seattle!!!! These life size figures caught in rusty steel exude much more peace and tranquility and hint at a way of life that was rugged and a past that holds interest if one but sees what is before them. The next generation will look at that ugly Seattle atrocity and wonder what is was used for and maybe in some way distant future archeologists will find it and consider the idea that it was the representation of a God that these ancient people worshiped!
In 1892, The Northern Pacific Railroad laid tracks over the mudflats below the island. Eight years later, Alexander C. Little rowed a boat to the tide flats and decided the Willipa Forks was an ideal location for a town. He talked to Leslie about selling a portion of his father-in-law's old homestead. Leslie formed the Raymond Land and Development Company to survey a townsite, sell property, build sawmills and encourage other business and industry to the area. The first buildings were erected on stilts five to six feet above the tidelands. Elevated sidewalks and streets connected most of the buildings. Raymond was founded in one of the most fertile tree growing regions in the world and the lumber industry became one of the leading economic means for support.
The big boom is over, the lumber barons gone, the forrests recovering. Raymond could be my home town - off the beaten path, small, relaxed and homey. At least that is the feeling I got in my brief drive through. I noticed those rusted deer and eagles and they were nice, but what really caught my attention were the wagon teams by the museum. Who had done this? Such detail! But when I got home and when on line to learn about Raymond and the artist, the article appeared to indicate that there was not one, but several artists and no names, no credit that I could find.
I couldn't do justice to list only a few of the sculptures nor to show only a few photos. The pioneer ladies, the eagles on a stump that I nearly missed in the tall grasses, the bicyle rider and the busy artist at the intersection, The team of oxen with a load of logs, the family gathered around a campfire and many, many more.
Deer crazing on grassy wooded slopes, a cougar approaching the road and the two lumberman cutting a log were the only photos I got. I have got to say that this was much more pleasant to look at than the overs sized ancient typewriter eraser that towers next to the road in down town Seattle!!!! These life size figures caught in rusty steel exude much more peace and tranquility and hint at a way of life that was rugged and a past that holds interest if one but sees what is before them. The next generation will look at that ugly Seattle atrocity and wonder what is was used for and maybe in some way distant future archeologists will find it and consider the idea that it was the representation of a God that these ancient people worshiped!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
God's Cathedral
It was Sunday and we were visiting the coast, driving down a highway bordered on both sides by towering trees. We pulled off onto a short access and walked about thirty steps in a narrow clearing that looked as if it had once been a road. Early morning sunlight slanted broken radiant beams of light through the branches overhead and highlighted the mist behind them. I stood transfixed by the beauty above and around me. This was something I had seen in photos, but had never witnessed. The forrest was silent except for an occasional car that swept by on the main highway, oblivious to the stunning scene in the woods.
I had not attended church this morning, but I felt as if I were standing at the alter in God's Cathedral. Towards the top of one of the tallest trees, sun glinted on two dew covered strands of a spider web. I knew that from this distance those slender tendrils would never show in my camera lens. But if I could capture those beams of light streaming from heaven, I would be happy.
One other time I had felt as if touched by heaven's hand. I was the lead coach driving across Alaska's Broad Pass just south of Cantwell late one summer afternoon. The sky was clear and blue except for one or two small clouds. Ahead of me, I watched a car moving past a narrow band of color and as I approached the same site, I watched the bands of color expand down into the ditch on the right side of the road. I was amazed that I could see the end of the rainbow so close. I slowed and allowed my eyes to follow the arc as it rose from the right side of the road, over the road and into the ditch on the left. A perfect narrow rainbow arch over the road. As I approached, it seemed to fade away to the sides. But I grabbed the radio to call the coach behind me.
"Jeff!" I exclaimed. "Please tell me I went under that rainbow arch!"
"I wish I had had a camera, Karen! It was awesome to watch the rainbow bus drive directly under a perfect rainbow!"
The motor coach I was driving was white with a slash of rainbow colors across the upper panel on the back.
I felt as if I had been touched by the hand of heaven.
Now, I stood in the woods and felt a sense of awe, touched by emotions I could find no words for. I didn't want to move. Here, only hushed voices seemed appropriate, but there was also a sense that I wanted to share this. But who would see what I saw? Who would sense what I sensed? And who would feel what I felt? It was one of those moments in life, that you can find no words to explain, take no pictures to show and find no paints to recreate. You had to stand where I stood, see what I saw to know the experience inside. I wanted to stand and absorb the beauty, the peace, the majesty and revel in the sense of awe and wonder that held me spellbound. To walk away seemed almost irreverant, as if walking out of the church before the sermon was finished.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Shipwreck on the Washington Coast
The awesome power of the ocean hammers the coast of Washington with relentless energy, carving a continually changing shoreline at a place appropriately named Washaway Beach. It has been labeled the fastest eroding beach on the west coast. But as the waves batter the sandy shoreline, they expose the remains of the past long buried.
In 1921, a ship grounded at the mouth of Willipa Bay, broke apart, washed ashore and was soon buried in the sands. A year ago, the ocean began taking away what it had deposited in the past and slowly wooden beams began to appear in the shoreline bank. By December of last year 125 feet of a wooden deck and frame lay horizontal to the water. A late January storm slammed the coast with winds up to 70 miles per hour. Waves pounded the beach and the remains of the ship were freed from the bank that had held her for nearly a hundred years.
I wanted away for the weekend and the ocean seemed to be the perfect place to get away to. I called a friend who agreed to wander with me. After some discussion about which way to go, we ended up at Westport until we found a spot where we could go out on the beach. The storm that had lashed the coast a few weeks earlier had driven wood right up to the edge of the shore leaving the sand barren. We turned around and headed back in the opposite direction until the beach became narrower and soon the shore was lined with evergreens lying uprooted and left against the bank. Then our way was blocked by something lying across the beach. At first we thought it was a huge tree, but as we drew closer we found it was something much more fascinating. We stopped and joined those who had walked down to see the form lying in the sand and learned that we were looking at what was left of an old ship wreck. As I listened to the story being related by a local resident, I surveyed the scene before me.
'How appropriate.' I thought. 'Born to ride the waves. Hidden by sand and time for nearly a hundred years and now it seemed, she was attempting to return to the sea.'
When first discovered she was lying side to the ocean. Now she lay with her bow facing the sea from which she had come. Long spikes that once held decking in place rise from beams that once supported that deck. More spikes rise from the sand giving testimony to more beams and decking still buried below the surface. I wondered what it would look like if it were all visible. How big would be? How much was left?
What was the name of this ship? What happened to put her here? What did she carry? Where was she going? What happened to those aboard?
A little research upon arriving home did not really answer all of the questions. Most probably she was the Canadian Exporter, outbound with a load of lumber and other cargo that went aground and then broke up. Everyone got off safely before she broke in half. But there isn't really enough to make positive identification easy - just the wooden skeleton of a ship that gave in to the fury of the ocean waves.
Time, the ocean and human scavengers are all against her now. No one knows who owns whats left and time, the ocean and scavengers are striving to remove what is left.
I suppose every child hopes to find a shipwreck - always with the thought of buried pirate's treasure. But as I stood upon the waterlogged decking of this old ship, it was not treasure I thought of so much as the appearance of a ship that wanted to go back to sea, it was the lure of the unknown, a story untold.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Lost in Cyberspace
I was at the copy store today waiting for a fax to go through. The fax machine was not cooperating - one job was failing and mine didn't want to go through. I engaged in conversation with the other fellow waiting.
My son got his driver license at 16. I remember taking him in and waiting while he took the written exam. He was so excited when he passed and could learn to drive the car. Then came the day for him to take the driver's test. I shuddered when his tester came up - she was stern and had a tough reputation and I felt a bit apprehensive as she went over her rules and they left. I sat and tried to read a book and time slipped by so slowly. They were gone so long that I was sure he had failed by the time they walked back in. He seemed now as somber and quiet as she - I couldn't tell from his expression or body language how the test had gone. I waited until she finished talking and filling out paperwork and he moved toward the counter. I walked over and stood aside as he sat for his driver license photo. He was so proud of his accomplishment when we walked out.
Two months later, he came in from riding the three wheeler to tell me that he had lost his drivers license while out and couldn't find it.
"Not a problem." I told him. "Just go back down to DMV and get a new one." Next day he came in to tell me that he couldn't get a new one. "Why not?" I asked.
"They told me that I don't have a driver's license." That was all I could get. So next day I went down with him. The lady behind the counter repeated the words.
"He doesn't have a driver's license."
"What do you mean by that?" I asked.
"He doesn't have a driver's license. He does have a state ID."
For the next two weeks I went in. They searched all the data systems in the state and came up with the same result.
Now the director and I got into words. "He has a state ID. That's all he has ever had."
"That's not true!" I countered. "I came in and sat while he took the written exam. I sat here while he took the driver portion and I can even show you which tester took him out. I watched them take his photo, I saw the license and he drove my car for six months with it!"
"Then you let him drive illegally!" He shot back.
"He has a driver license." I stated.
"You don't know the difference between a state ID and a driver license, ma'am." The director said coldly.
We were standing at the counter and for the second time in two days our voices raised to draw attention from those around.
"I have worked security where I had to check both!" I shot back. "I am very well aware of the difference between a driver license and a state ID and I am telling you that he has a driver license!" I was at a loss about what to do now, other than start all over again. But just before I gave up, I turned back to the girl behind the counter. "Do me one favor." I said.
"What?" She asked.
"Type in this spelling of his last name." I spelled it out slowly as she typed.
"I found him!" She exclaimed.
"No! You didn't! I did. Now tell me. Does he have a driver license?"
"Yes, he does." I was watching the director as she spoke.
"He spelled his name wrong." She went on.
"I think if you look at the paperwork, you will find out that he spelled his name correctly. But everyone else manages to switch the second and third letters." I told her.
A month later, I got the registration for our big truck in the mail and noticed that the name was misspelled in the same exact manner. I went back to DMV and we went through the same game again. They wanted to charge me $25.00 for a new title and paperwork. "You probably misspelled your name on the original paperwork." The clerk told me. I refused to pay or accept paperwork with the incorrect spelling.
"I think if you check that, you will find that I do know how to spell my name!" I told her.
Two weeks later, they called to tell me that they had gone back through state records, "You spelled your name correctly on the original paperwork." She now said.
"No kidding!" I exclaimed. "So you are issuing new paperwork with the correct spelling and not charging me?"
I took back my maiden name when I divorced and that name is far more simple than my married name. However, I have found that no one knows how to spell it. When I am asked for my name I spell it first, so that it goes into the computer right the first time. One letter out of order, taken out or added in and you cease to exist or records disappear.
Recently, I ordered a new birth certificate and when I got the new and improved version from my home state, one name was missing and when I took the birth certificate to a state office to apply for a job, I was told that it was an illegal document. Because of the omission of one name, a new person had been created. So I started through the process of correcting it.
"Oder on line." I was told.
So I tried - when I completed the state form, I got a message stating - "We can not confirm your identity. Please send a copy of your driver license to this address with $22.00 to cover the cost of one copy of your birthy certificate."
I had to laugh at that! My driver license doesn't have all the names on it! So I called the county seat and talked to a girl who was able to find the correct documents in her computer. So I sent them $10. and got two copies!
And I thought computers were suppose to make our life easier!!!
My son got his driver license at 16. I remember taking him in and waiting while he took the written exam. He was so excited when he passed and could learn to drive the car. Then came the day for him to take the driver's test. I shuddered when his tester came up - she was stern and had a tough reputation and I felt a bit apprehensive as she went over her rules and they left. I sat and tried to read a book and time slipped by so slowly. They were gone so long that I was sure he had failed by the time they walked back in. He seemed now as somber and quiet as she - I couldn't tell from his expression or body language how the test had gone. I waited until she finished talking and filling out paperwork and he moved toward the counter. I walked over and stood aside as he sat for his driver license photo. He was so proud of his accomplishment when we walked out.
Two months later, he came in from riding the three wheeler to tell me that he had lost his drivers license while out and couldn't find it.
"Not a problem." I told him. "Just go back down to DMV and get a new one." Next day he came in to tell me that he couldn't get a new one. "Why not?" I asked.
"They told me that I don't have a driver's license." That was all I could get. So next day I went down with him. The lady behind the counter repeated the words.
"He doesn't have a driver's license."
"What do you mean by that?" I asked.
"He doesn't have a driver's license. He does have a state ID."
For the next two weeks I went in. They searched all the data systems in the state and came up with the same result.
Now the director and I got into words. "He has a state ID. That's all he has ever had."
"That's not true!" I countered. "I came in and sat while he took the written exam. I sat here while he took the driver portion and I can even show you which tester took him out. I watched them take his photo, I saw the license and he drove my car for six months with it!"
"Then you let him drive illegally!" He shot back.
"He has a driver license." I stated.
"You don't know the difference between a state ID and a driver license, ma'am." The director said coldly.
We were standing at the counter and for the second time in two days our voices raised to draw attention from those around.
"I have worked security where I had to check both!" I shot back. "I am very well aware of the difference between a driver license and a state ID and I am telling you that he has a driver license!" I was at a loss about what to do now, other than start all over again. But just before I gave up, I turned back to the girl behind the counter. "Do me one favor." I said.
"What?" She asked.
"Type in this spelling of his last name." I spelled it out slowly as she typed.
"I found him!" She exclaimed.
"No! You didn't! I did. Now tell me. Does he have a driver license?"
"Yes, he does." I was watching the director as she spoke.
"He spelled his name wrong." She went on.
"I think if you look at the paperwork, you will find out that he spelled his name correctly. But everyone else manages to switch the second and third letters." I told her.
A month later, I got the registration for our big truck in the mail and noticed that the name was misspelled in the same exact manner. I went back to DMV and we went through the same game again. They wanted to charge me $25.00 for a new title and paperwork. "You probably misspelled your name on the original paperwork." The clerk told me. I refused to pay or accept paperwork with the incorrect spelling.
"I think if you check that, you will find that I do know how to spell my name!" I told her.
Two weeks later, they called to tell me that they had gone back through state records, "You spelled your name correctly on the original paperwork." She now said.
"No kidding!" I exclaimed. "So you are issuing new paperwork with the correct spelling and not charging me?"
I took back my maiden name when I divorced and that name is far more simple than my married name. However, I have found that no one knows how to spell it. When I am asked for my name I spell it first, so that it goes into the computer right the first time. One letter out of order, taken out or added in and you cease to exist or records disappear.
Recently, I ordered a new birth certificate and when I got the new and improved version from my home state, one name was missing and when I took the birth certificate to a state office to apply for a job, I was told that it was an illegal document. Because of the omission of one name, a new person had been created. So I started through the process of correcting it.
"Oder on line." I was told.
So I tried - when I completed the state form, I got a message stating - "We can not confirm your identity. Please send a copy of your driver license to this address with $22.00 to cover the cost of one copy of your birthy certificate."
I had to laugh at that! My driver license doesn't have all the names on it! So I called the county seat and talked to a girl who was able to find the correct documents in her computer. So I sent them $10. and got two copies!
And I thought computers were suppose to make our life easier!!!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Birthday
Birthdays have never been big celebrations in my life. During my growing up years, there was always chocolate cake - my favorite - and ice cream. A gift from Mom and Dad, one from my Godmother and one from a family friend and sometimes one from Grandma. When I was married, I made my own cake, bought my own ice cream and more often than not had to remind my husband that it was my birthday. I made a list of four or five things that I wanted or would like to have - and usually got something useful - for the kitchen. In 22 years, I recieved 2 gifts that were not tools and work related. One was a pearl necklace and one was a small blue bird in a frosted white plastic and silver chain cage to hang in the window. We went out to dinner a few times. Not that I didn't appreciate the gifts I recieved from I him, but it would have been great not to know what I was getting every year. Useful items for the house and kitchen can be purchased any time of the year. Birthdays, Christmas, Valentines, Mothers Day, anniversary - those should be fanciful days - well at least to my way of thinking! Days just to say - "I love you." "You are special."
In the years that I have been on my own, birthdays have been just another day. But this year, I decided that I wanted it different. If no one was going to celebrate with me, I'd make my own celebration. And I did.
My daughter called when I was at the store. I answered the phone to hear her begin singing - "Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Mo -om. I wish I was there with you! Happy Birthday to you."
"Hey you!" I answered. "I wish you were here, too. We'd have a drink and dance around the room a time or two!"
"Whatcha doin?" She asked.
"Well, I'm at the store buying junk." I replied.
"Junk?" She asked, a tone of surprise and puzzlement in her voice.
"Yeah, junk food to celebrate my birthday. You know - crackers, cheese, candy and wine to go with my whining." I flipped back. "I've never done this before and this year I decided to do things different. It's my day and I'm going to treat myself! Probably shouldn't, but what the heck. I've never had a party, so I'm makin my own!"
"Well, Mom it's your birthday. You celebrate it anyway you want!"
The next morning, I started out by getting my hair done. Then I met a friend, we ran some errands, got a cup of Starbucks mocha and headed for Duke's on the beach. It was my day and I wanted one of Duke's cucumber mojhitos. I had two and the folks at Dukes treated me well with birthday treats.
I didn't really have any plans, I just wanted to flow with whatever. The ferry to Vashon sounded like a good place to start. It wasn't dark yet and I love being on the ferry anyway, watching the waves, the sun across the water. Today, there was lots of debris in the water from heavy storms a few days earlier. Large logs, some with root systems - all dark shadows riding the waves.
I called a bed and breakfast and made a reservation. The Quartermaster Inn turned out to be a homey, friendly place. Troy apologized that the room wasn't ready and poured wine for the wait. A fire in the fireplace of the small lounge gave out a welcome warmth from the damp air outside.
The room was clean and I felt as if I was stepping back into the past with the furnishings and aura. I felt at home with an immediate sense of peace.
Next morning, the place was quiet and peaceful, not a soul moving. Troy came in and offered breakfast choices and built a fire. Scrambled eggs and bacon in front of a crackling fire. What a way to start the day!
A leisurely drive home and my birthday celebration was over. I think I'll do this again next year.
The room was clean and I felt as if I was stepping back into the past with the furnishings and aura. I felt at home with an immediate sense of peace.
Next morning, the place was quiet and peaceful, not a soul moving. Troy came in and offered breakfast choices and built a fire. Scrambled eggs and bacon in front of a crackling fire. What a way to start the day!
A leisurely drive home and my birthday celebration was over. I think I'll do this again next year.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Ford Tempo Fixes
The first car that I ever bought off a lot by and for myself was a 1989 Ford Tempo. I liked my car and I took 'granny' care of it. I got the fluids checked and changed on schedule, babied it, pampered it. One of the first things I looked at when I bought it was that cheap spare doughnut tire. I didn't even like the idea of that, so I bought a full size spare and threw out the doughnut. When I had to replace a tire, I put two new ones on the front since it was front wheel drive, put the best of the remainder on the rear and compared what was left to my spare.
I was driving down the road one day when the car just died. I had it towed home to be looked at. On start, it took right off. A week or so later, going down the road, it died again. This time I had it towed to a repair shop. They had it for a day and couldn't find a thing wrong with it. A week or so later, it died going down the road and once again I had it towed to the shop. They called me next day saying they could find nothing wrong.
"I don't want it back until it's fixed! Something is wrong! The stupid thing keeps shutting off while I am driving down the road! I don't care what you do with the thing! Give it to one of your mechanics so that he can drive it back and forth home. But I don't want it back to break down on me again!" I said emphatically.
Two days later, the shop called me. The car was fixed. The mechanic had taken it home and on his way back to work, it shut down on him just as he was turning into the shop so they were able to get the diagnostic equipment on it immediately. The fuel pump, which is located in the fuel tank, was going out and acting up intermittently so it had not showed up on earlier tests.
Another time it needed a wheel job and my son did the left rear and then decided I should take it to the shop. I took it in and explained to the mechanic that all the wheels needed done except the left rear. It was already done and I didn't want to be charged twice, but I'd like to have the work done so that I could get to work that evening.
It wasn't ready so the shop gave me a ride to work. The mechanic brought the car to work for me late that evening and told me that I needed to bring it back because it was making a noise he hadn't had time to check out.
I got off work at one in the morning, got in my car and started out of the parking lot, but noise caught my attention and I stopped, then started slowly again. I stopped, got out and walked all around checking tires, but in the dark could spot nothing out of order. Out on the highway, the howling increased, so I pulled over to the side of the road and walked around again and again found nothing. I got in and once again started down the road, but the howling was grating. I slowed down, speeded up, but the howling remained constant. I rolled the window down, moving slowly to see if I could tell where the sound was coming from. I couldn't isolate it. It was an unnerving 15 miles home and then thinking of the sound kept me awake.
Next morning, I got up early to go into town and back to the shop. Before leaving home, I walked all around the car and still could see nothing amiss. The howling started as soon as the car moved. I couldn't figure it out, it didn't make any sense to me. It hadn't made that sound before it went into the shop, so it had to be something they had done. I was determined that they were going to fix it.
I drove slowly because I didn't understand the sound and its cause. Eleven miles into town and at the first red light, a pick up pulled up on my right side, the horn going incessantly. I looked over and the driver made a wavey motion with his hand and pointed down to my right rear wheel. I nodded and when the light turned green, I made a left turn and pulled immediately over to the side of the road. This time when I walked around and checked, I noted instantly that all of the lug nuts on the left rear wheel were nearly off. I shook as I first hand tightened them and then got out my tire tools to tighten as best I could. I stopped at the first service station to have them lock the lugs harder and I kept shaking until the moment I reached out to open the door of the repair shop. The door opened as I placed my hand on the knob and the mechanic who had worked on my car the day before stood startled in front of me.
I raised my hand, pointing my finger at him and began telling him exactly what I thought of him and his mechanical ability. He kept looking down at me and backing up as I kept advancing. When I finished, I turned, still shaking and left vowing never to return to that shop again. I don't recall ever having been so publically angry, nor had I ever told anyone off before, but his negligence could have resulted in an accident. He had put safety and lives at risk and I was furious at his slipshod work.
At noon, the owner called me and asked what had transpired that morning. I told him and he replied. "That explains it."
"What?" I asked.
"He cleaned out the till and walked out and no one knows where he is."
When I bought my truck, I gave the car to my son, but he is tall and lanky and it didn't work for him, so I gave it to my daughter. She drove it for a year before calling to ask me if she could sell it. "How much are you asking?" I asked.
"Well, I checked Blue Book and and the paper and came up with a price." She replied.
"Is that what you want for it?" I asked.
"I think that is all I can get, Mom."
"Fine, but if that is your top figure, advertise it for more and let them take you down to that price."
She sold it to the first caller who looked at it for the price she was asking in the ad. It was still clean, no body damage and well taken care of and the man wanted it for his son's first car.
I was driving down the road one day when the car just died. I had it towed home to be looked at. On start, it took right off. A week or so later, going down the road, it died again. This time I had it towed to a repair shop. They had it for a day and couldn't find a thing wrong with it. A week or so later, it died going down the road and once again I had it towed to the shop. They called me next day saying they could find nothing wrong.
"I don't want it back until it's fixed! Something is wrong! The stupid thing keeps shutting off while I am driving down the road! I don't care what you do with the thing! Give it to one of your mechanics so that he can drive it back and forth home. But I don't want it back to break down on me again!" I said emphatically.
Two days later, the shop called me. The car was fixed. The mechanic had taken it home and on his way back to work, it shut down on him just as he was turning into the shop so they were able to get the diagnostic equipment on it immediately. The fuel pump, which is located in the fuel tank, was going out and acting up intermittently so it had not showed up on earlier tests.
Another time it needed a wheel job and my son did the left rear and then decided I should take it to the shop. I took it in and explained to the mechanic that all the wheels needed done except the left rear. It was already done and I didn't want to be charged twice, but I'd like to have the work done so that I could get to work that evening.
It wasn't ready so the shop gave me a ride to work. The mechanic brought the car to work for me late that evening and told me that I needed to bring it back because it was making a noise he hadn't had time to check out.
I got off work at one in the morning, got in my car and started out of the parking lot, but noise caught my attention and I stopped, then started slowly again. I stopped, got out and walked all around checking tires, but in the dark could spot nothing out of order. Out on the highway, the howling increased, so I pulled over to the side of the road and walked around again and again found nothing. I got in and once again started down the road, but the howling was grating. I slowed down, speeded up, but the howling remained constant. I rolled the window down, moving slowly to see if I could tell where the sound was coming from. I couldn't isolate it. It was an unnerving 15 miles home and then thinking of the sound kept me awake.
Next morning, I got up early to go into town and back to the shop. Before leaving home, I walked all around the car and still could see nothing amiss. The howling started as soon as the car moved. I couldn't figure it out, it didn't make any sense to me. It hadn't made that sound before it went into the shop, so it had to be something they had done. I was determined that they were going to fix it.
I drove slowly because I didn't understand the sound and its cause. Eleven miles into town and at the first red light, a pick up pulled up on my right side, the horn going incessantly. I looked over and the driver made a wavey motion with his hand and pointed down to my right rear wheel. I nodded and when the light turned green, I made a left turn and pulled immediately over to the side of the road. This time when I walked around and checked, I noted instantly that all of the lug nuts on the left rear wheel were nearly off. I shook as I first hand tightened them and then got out my tire tools to tighten as best I could. I stopped at the first service station to have them lock the lugs harder and I kept shaking until the moment I reached out to open the door of the repair shop. The door opened as I placed my hand on the knob and the mechanic who had worked on my car the day before stood startled in front of me.
I raised my hand, pointing my finger at him and began telling him exactly what I thought of him and his mechanical ability. He kept looking down at me and backing up as I kept advancing. When I finished, I turned, still shaking and left vowing never to return to that shop again. I don't recall ever having been so publically angry, nor had I ever told anyone off before, but his negligence could have resulted in an accident. He had put safety and lives at risk and I was furious at his slipshod work.
At noon, the owner called me and asked what had transpired that morning. I told him and he replied. "That explains it."
"What?" I asked.
"He cleaned out the till and walked out and no one knows where he is."
When I bought my truck, I gave the car to my son, but he is tall and lanky and it didn't work for him, so I gave it to my daughter. She drove it for a year before calling to ask me if she could sell it. "How much are you asking?" I asked.
"Well, I checked Blue Book and and the paper and came up with a price." She replied.
"Is that what you want for it?" I asked.
"I think that is all I can get, Mom."
"Fine, but if that is your top figure, advertise it for more and let them take you down to that price."
She sold it to the first caller who looked at it for the price she was asking in the ad. It was still clean, no body damage and well taken care of and the man wanted it for his son's first car.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Vehicle Maintenance
For the past two years I have had my brakes inspected since my truck is 8 years old. Two years ago, the servicemen said, "Still good."
Last year they said, "Time for new front brakes, the back are good for another year."
A week ago, those rear brakes started to let me know they were there, so today I took it to the shop. It was time for an oil change and the windshield wipers needed replaced. I wasn't going to mention the wipers, but the mechanic did and I decided I might just as well go for that repair while I was there.
I retired to the waiting room to work on an afghan I am making or read my book or just sit - I wasn't quite sure what. I got out the bag of yarn, hook and project and started to work. The door opened and another mechanic came in holding the air filter. "Do you want to replace the air filter?" He asked.
"Does it need it?" I returned.
"Well, it is getting pretty dirty."
"And how much for that?" I asked. When he told me how much I said, "Go ahead." Hoping it might help the slight hesitation I was beginning to notice.
I turned my attention back to my project. The fellow behind the counter spoke up next. "Your truck is gonna need a transmission flush soon, the oil is getting a bit dirty. And both the front and rear differential need serviced."
I got up and walked over to the service window. "What are we talkin here?" I asked. He got out his book and sarted looking up figures.
"Depends on what kind of fluid they put in to begin with. Uh oh."
"What?"
"They put the most expensive in yours. Now lets see how much its gonna need."
Turned out that transmission and differential service would add another two to three hundred to my bill which was already at five. "Can it wait?" I asked.
"I don't know. I did not look at it."
"Well look at it as if it were your vehicle and be honest with me." I said.
He left and returned in a few moments. "If you are looking at a long trip, I'd say do it. But if you're not planning on anything, it can hold off two to three months. It's not really bad. The color is just beginning to change." He went on to explain what that meant and together we decided that it would wait a month.
I like a mechanic and a shop that is willing to talk to me, explain and work with me.
I had a Ford Tempo before I got the truck. One winter, the heater quit working. I was working for a taxi company at the time and the shop mechanic looked at it. "Let's see if it is the motor or the switch." He said. He wired around the switch and the heater motor came to life. As soon as I got a chance I called the Ford dealership and made an appointment to get the car in.
"What's the problem?" The service tech asked when I arrived. I explained that the heater didn't work because the switch was bad.
"It's the motor." He said and began looking up the cost.
"It is not the motor." I replied.
"How do you know?" He asked.
"Because I had a mechanic friend check it out. He wired around the sitch and the motor works."
"It's probably the motor." He went on.
"I am not a mechanic, but if the motor works when you bypass the switch with power, then the motor is still good and the problem is in the switch. Am I right?"
"I don't know. I am not a mechanic. We'll have to pull it in and have a mechanic look at it."
My car was dutifully pulled in and a mechanic came over. "Need a new heater motor?" He asked.
I walked back to the car with him. "No. The motor works. Right now power to it is provided around the sitch and it works just fine. But if you reconnect the switch, the heater doesn't work."
"You need a new heater motor." He replied. "I really don't think it is the switch. But if it turns out to be, it is a major repair."
"What do you mean a major repair?"
"Well, the steering wheel has to come off and the whole dash has to be taken out to get at the switch. We'll have the car a few days."
"To replace the heater switch?" I asked.
"Yes. The whole dash has to be taken out and it takes time to disconnect all the wires and make sure they are connected right again." He explained. I went with him to check with the service tech to see what this would cost. I found out that the bill would be close to a thousand dollars mostly in shop time to replace a piece that cost just a few dollars.
I opted out of the deal and drove away deciding to call another friend whose son had a shop. "Bring it up and let's take a look." He said.
I drove the car into his shop and told him the story. He sat behind the wheel and looked closely at the dash set up. "This panel looks like it is set up just like the radio. I bet I can get it out with the same tools as I would to take that out. Let me see." He left and a few minutes later came back with small tools and in less time than it took to tell me, he had the panel off and the switch in his hand.
"We'll have to call Ford for a new switch." He said as he dialed their number.
"Is that a white Ford Tempo?" The dealership serviceman asked.
"Yup." My mechanic replied.
"She was just here less than half an hour ago. How do you know the switch is bad?"
"Because I am holding it in my hand."
"You need to take the dash out to get at that switch! You can't be holding it."
"Want to come over and I'll show you how this is done?" My young mechanic returned. "That switch panel comes out just like the radio and with the same tool. I can show you and your mechanics how to do it."
An hour later, I paid thirty five dollars for a job that took about ten mintues total for panel removal, new switch slipped in as easily as a fuse and panel replaced.
Last year they said, "Time for new front brakes, the back are good for another year."
A week ago, those rear brakes started to let me know they were there, so today I took it to the shop. It was time for an oil change and the windshield wipers needed replaced. I wasn't going to mention the wipers, but the mechanic did and I decided I might just as well go for that repair while I was there.
I retired to the waiting room to work on an afghan I am making or read my book or just sit - I wasn't quite sure what. I got out the bag of yarn, hook and project and started to work. The door opened and another mechanic came in holding the air filter. "Do you want to replace the air filter?" He asked.
"Does it need it?" I returned.
"Well, it is getting pretty dirty."
"And how much for that?" I asked. When he told me how much I said, "Go ahead." Hoping it might help the slight hesitation I was beginning to notice.
I turned my attention back to my project. The fellow behind the counter spoke up next. "Your truck is gonna need a transmission flush soon, the oil is getting a bit dirty. And both the front and rear differential need serviced."
I got up and walked over to the service window. "What are we talkin here?" I asked. He got out his book and sarted looking up figures.
"Depends on what kind of fluid they put in to begin with. Uh oh."
"What?"
"They put the most expensive in yours. Now lets see how much its gonna need."
Turned out that transmission and differential service would add another two to three hundred to my bill which was already at five. "Can it wait?" I asked.
"I don't know. I did not look at it."
"Well look at it as if it were your vehicle and be honest with me." I said.
He left and returned in a few moments. "If you are looking at a long trip, I'd say do it. But if you're not planning on anything, it can hold off two to three months. It's not really bad. The color is just beginning to change." He went on to explain what that meant and together we decided that it would wait a month.
I like a mechanic and a shop that is willing to talk to me, explain and work with me.
I had a Ford Tempo before I got the truck. One winter, the heater quit working. I was working for a taxi company at the time and the shop mechanic looked at it. "Let's see if it is the motor or the switch." He said. He wired around the switch and the heater motor came to life. As soon as I got a chance I called the Ford dealership and made an appointment to get the car in.
"What's the problem?" The service tech asked when I arrived. I explained that the heater didn't work because the switch was bad.
"It's the motor." He said and began looking up the cost.
"It is not the motor." I replied.
"How do you know?" He asked.
"Because I had a mechanic friend check it out. He wired around the sitch and the motor works."
"It's probably the motor." He went on.
"I am not a mechanic, but if the motor works when you bypass the switch with power, then the motor is still good and the problem is in the switch. Am I right?"
"I don't know. I am not a mechanic. We'll have to pull it in and have a mechanic look at it."
My car was dutifully pulled in and a mechanic came over. "Need a new heater motor?" He asked.
I walked back to the car with him. "No. The motor works. Right now power to it is provided around the sitch and it works just fine. But if you reconnect the switch, the heater doesn't work."
"You need a new heater motor." He replied. "I really don't think it is the switch. But if it turns out to be, it is a major repair."
"What do you mean a major repair?"
"Well, the steering wheel has to come off and the whole dash has to be taken out to get at the switch. We'll have the car a few days."
"To replace the heater switch?" I asked.
"Yes. The whole dash has to be taken out and it takes time to disconnect all the wires and make sure they are connected right again." He explained. I went with him to check with the service tech to see what this would cost. I found out that the bill would be close to a thousand dollars mostly in shop time to replace a piece that cost just a few dollars.
I opted out of the deal and drove away deciding to call another friend whose son had a shop. "Bring it up and let's take a look." He said.
I drove the car into his shop and told him the story. He sat behind the wheel and looked closely at the dash set up. "This panel looks like it is set up just like the radio. I bet I can get it out with the same tools as I would to take that out. Let me see." He left and a few minutes later came back with small tools and in less time than it took to tell me, he had the panel off and the switch in his hand.
"We'll have to call Ford for a new switch." He said as he dialed their number.
"Is that a white Ford Tempo?" The dealership serviceman asked.
"Yup." My mechanic replied.
"She was just here less than half an hour ago. How do you know the switch is bad?"
"Because I am holding it in my hand."
"You need to take the dash out to get at that switch! You can't be holding it."
"Want to come over and I'll show you how this is done?" My young mechanic returned. "That switch panel comes out just like the radio and with the same tool. I can show you and your mechanics how to do it."
An hour later, I paid thirty five dollars for a job that took about ten mintues total for panel removal, new switch slipped in as easily as a fuse and panel replaced.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Sharing Memories
I got a call from my daughter today that touched me deeply. I hadn't mentioned to her that I was writing a blog, but last night, alone for while, she went on line and found a link to this blog site. She sounded a bit tearful as she said, "I learned things about my Mom that I never knew."
"And what was that?" I asked thinking about 'Railroader's Daughter.'
"You never talked about your childhood." She said. "About living along the tracks. I learned things about my Grandfather and your life with him. And it touched me, Mom. You know I don't really read a lot, but I read that and it touched me."
"What made you read it, then?" I asked.
"The way you write, Mom. You should really be writing. You are good. The way you write caught and held my attention."
I hung up thinking more about what she had said about not knowing much about my childhood. While we are busy raising children we often set aside the memories of our own childhood. And while they are young, they are too busy learning, growing up and having fun to be curious about it or ask questions. It is not, sadly, until many years later that we turn our attention to our heritage and history and often it is too late to learn much of it.
Many times, we talked of writing the story of our parent's lives, but somehow we were always too busy to take the time. I am fortunate to have this precious time with my father to listen and write. How I wish I could turn back the hands of time and do the same with my Mother. Most of her stories are gone with her.
I remember coming home to visit while I was pregnant with my daughter. My son was six years old and before we arrived, I warned him that his Grandmother liked to talk about her past. "Be patient with her. Listen politely or tell her you are tired, but be respectful."
The first night, I came into the livingroom where the couch was made out for a bed for him. Mom sat on the edge of the bed telling stories about World War II. "Son, don't you think it's a little late?" I asked.
He looked at me, a bit irritated, I noted. "Shshsh, Mom! Gramma's telling me stories!" He exclaimed and I realized that he was genuinely interested. It was the last time I interupted their bedtime story time. But it also brought back memories of other nights and night time stories.
Dad was gone a lot during the summer months on some railroad gang. Eastern Montana summers were often hot and generated violent thunder storms that struck in the night. Large windows were set in either end of the long combined dining/living room. When a storm drew near, lightening lit up the night sky like daylight and thunder rattled windows and woke us all up. We children would get up and stand momentarily in the doorway from our rooms until darkness took over between lightening flashes and then make a mad dash for the kitchen and then rush to the haven of Mom and Dad's bedroom. There we all piled onto the bed, Mom turned on a lamp and sat up to regale us with stories of her childhood in England, meeting Dad there during World War II and her own war stories living through bomb raids and working in a factory. When the storm abated, the thunder had faded into the distance and the lightening was back on the distant horizon, we reluctantly crawled off the bed and went back to our own.
How often I have thought that I should sit down and write my own stories, in my own words. What will I do with them and who cares, I wonder. When I look back over the years, I don't see much that would hold anyone's interest, but then I listen to Dad and know how many of us care and want to know more. My daughter's words gave me food for thought about my own past. Then I smile to recall the words I had heard so many times over the years driving a tour bus through Alaska and the Yukon - "You have led such an interesting life, you should write a book!"
Maybe some day I will
"And what was that?" I asked thinking about 'Railroader's Daughter.'
"You never talked about your childhood." She said. "About living along the tracks. I learned things about my Grandfather and your life with him. And it touched me, Mom. You know I don't really read a lot, but I read that and it touched me."
"What made you read it, then?" I asked.
"The way you write, Mom. You should really be writing. You are good. The way you write caught and held my attention."
I hung up thinking more about what she had said about not knowing much about my childhood. While we are busy raising children we often set aside the memories of our own childhood. And while they are young, they are too busy learning, growing up and having fun to be curious about it or ask questions. It is not, sadly, until many years later that we turn our attention to our heritage and history and often it is too late to learn much of it.
Many times, we talked of writing the story of our parent's lives, but somehow we were always too busy to take the time. I am fortunate to have this precious time with my father to listen and write. How I wish I could turn back the hands of time and do the same with my Mother. Most of her stories are gone with her.
I remember coming home to visit while I was pregnant with my daughter. My son was six years old and before we arrived, I warned him that his Grandmother liked to talk about her past. "Be patient with her. Listen politely or tell her you are tired, but be respectful."
The first night, I came into the livingroom where the couch was made out for a bed for him. Mom sat on the edge of the bed telling stories about World War II. "Son, don't you think it's a little late?" I asked.
He looked at me, a bit irritated, I noted. "Shshsh, Mom! Gramma's telling me stories!" He exclaimed and I realized that he was genuinely interested. It was the last time I interupted their bedtime story time. But it also brought back memories of other nights and night time stories.
Dad was gone a lot during the summer months on some railroad gang. Eastern Montana summers were often hot and generated violent thunder storms that struck in the night. Large windows were set in either end of the long combined dining/living room. When a storm drew near, lightening lit up the night sky like daylight and thunder rattled windows and woke us all up. We children would get up and stand momentarily in the doorway from our rooms until darkness took over between lightening flashes and then make a mad dash for the kitchen and then rush to the haven of Mom and Dad's bedroom. There we all piled onto the bed, Mom turned on a lamp and sat up to regale us with stories of her childhood in England, meeting Dad there during World War II and her own war stories living through bomb raids and working in a factory. When the storm abated, the thunder had faded into the distance and the lightening was back on the distant horizon, we reluctantly crawled off the bed and went back to our own.
How often I have thought that I should sit down and write my own stories, in my own words. What will I do with them and who cares, I wonder. When I look back over the years, I don't see much that would hold anyone's interest, but then I listen to Dad and know how many of us care and want to know more. My daughter's words gave me food for thought about my own past. Then I smile to recall the words I had heard so many times over the years driving a tour bus through Alaska and the Yukon - "You have led such an interesting life, you should write a book!"
Maybe some day I will
Friday, January 22, 2010
Railroader's Daughter
My father had a series of mild heart attacks this summer and since I had time off work, I spent some time with him. We had talked about writing the story of his life and this seemed the perfect opportunity. So I spent hours at his bedside in the hospital and taking care of him at home listening and writing.
We started - you might say - in the middle - with World War II. I can recall sitting beside him in the hospital as he recounted a story about Patton and a bridge on the Rhine River. My father was a motorized courier attached to General Omar Bradley's Headquarters. The bridge over the Rhine River had been blown up, Dad picked up mail going to Hiedleberg, Germany and was assured before he left Bradley's Headquarter's that a temporary pontoon bridge would be completed across the river by the time he arrived. They were still working on it when he arrived. He parked his jeep and waited. Patton arrived by jeep with a voice - according to my Dad - that could be heard for blocks. Patton jumped out of his jeep and walked over to the bank of the river.
"What happened then?" I asked.
With a twinkle in his eye, my Dad looked at me for a moment before speaking. "You can't write it." He said.
"What do you mean, 'I can't write it'?" I asked again, watching his facial expressions. That smile, that expression of mischief.
"You just can't!" He replied.
"Well! What happened, Dad, that I can't write?" I asked again.
Dad laughed softly and began hesitantly in order to find the right words. "Well, Patton turned to look at the troops and said loudly, "Just what I've always wanted to do!" P--- in the Rhine River!" And with that he turned back to the river, unzipped his pants and did just that. Then he turned back to holler, "Now lets get these #@*#@ tanks across the Rhine!"
I looked at my father and the expression on his face. I had already heard about his landing on Omaha Beach. Now I watched him closely. "But remembering how you came off the barge on Omaha Beach, you were already waiting and gunning your jeep motor, weren't you Dad?" It was more a statement than a question.
"Yup." He said softly and slowly. I knew before he spoke the words, what he was going to tell me and I had to laugh.
When we finished the story of World War II, we went on to his return to civilian life, his marriage, his struggles as a rancher and then the opportunity to work on the railroad. I had the opportunity to go back to my childhood days growing up along side the railroad tracks of Eastern Montana as I listened to my father recount his days working on the old Great Northern Railroad. I have sat for hours writing his memories of those days while he recovers from heart problems. His first day of work on the Great Northern was my sixth birthday.
I don't remember moving in - I was only about 6 1/2 years old when we did - but just like it was yesterday, I can see the two houses our family lived in. The railroad crew houses were two room buildings - not quite big enough to accommodate a family with two adults and five children, so we moved into two of them. One building had a long front room which served as kitchen, dining and living room. The small room in back was Mom and Dad's bedroom. Next door, the long front room was the boys bedroom while my older sister and I shared the small bedroom. There were no indoor facilities - that little building was out back - on the bank of the irrigation ditch which ran behind the railroad houses.
A roadway separated the houses from the railroad track, so we learned safety first early. The station master's house was next to the 'bedroom building' and across the drive from that was the depot. I loved going into the depot and listening to the sound of the telegraph keys. On cold winter days, a big pot bellied stove in the center of the room was warm and welcoming. The depot had a unique aroma that to me smelled like the railroad.
Across the tracks was a stock yard, an old beet dump and a grain elevator. The stock yards was a good place to play Cowboys and Indians and hide and seek when it wasn't full of cattle or sheep waiting to be shipped out. During the winter, the beet dump ramps became a sledding hill. I was never in the grain elevator, but I can recall the sounds it made when it was operating.
The school and the general store were on the hill above. Whenever we children crossed the tracks, we took the opportunity to walk the siding rail as far as we could. We stayed off the main line, that was no place to play.
The work locomotives came through often. An engine and caboose and a few cars. The engineers knew the children along the track. We watched for them eagerly because often the engineer would throw a handful of candy as they passed by slowly. When the train had passed, we ran to collect the goodies.
I remember one Christmas, Mom and Dad bought a set of yellow play phones - one for the main house and one for our bedrooms. Dad strung the line between the houses. When they wanted lights out or quiet, the phone was put to good use. They didn't have to bundle up and go out in the cold winter weather.
I can still remember lying in bed on cold winter nights and listening to the wailing of a distant train whistle. It was a lonely sound that hung in the air long before the rumble of wheels could be heard and then the house shook as the train rushed past.
There was an empty lot between the main house and the section foreman's house. How I envied them that big house. A huge rambling two story building with large rooms and a big fenced yard with trees. When I grew up, I was going to have a house just like that.
We lived along the tracks for about five years before Dad bought property up on the hill, bought the two houses from the rail road and moved them to sit side by side on a foundation. The space between the buildings was closed in and became a long room - combined dining and living room. But still no indoor facilities - we didn't get that luxury for a few more years and no real phone until I was in high school. The family grew to include eight children and we certainly needed a bigger house.
Dad's story goes far beyond that small area - he worked on the section gang there and later was often gone most of the summers working on steel gangs or tie gangs all over Eastern Montana. He went on to become a track inspector working into North Dakota and the was promoted to road master and transferred to Washington state where he eventually retired after 30+ years of service.
Listening to and writing his stories down gave me a unique opportunity to relive my early years growing up as a railroader's daughter. It also gave me an insight to a side of my father's life I would otherwise never have known. The time I have spent with him in this task is a treasure of immeasurable value.
We started - you might say - in the middle - with World War II. I can recall sitting beside him in the hospital as he recounted a story about Patton and a bridge on the Rhine River. My father was a motorized courier attached to General Omar Bradley's Headquarters. The bridge over the Rhine River had been blown up, Dad picked up mail going to Hiedleberg, Germany and was assured before he left Bradley's Headquarter's that a temporary pontoon bridge would be completed across the river by the time he arrived. They were still working on it when he arrived. He parked his jeep and waited. Patton arrived by jeep with a voice - according to my Dad - that could be heard for blocks. Patton jumped out of his jeep and walked over to the bank of the river.
"What happened then?" I asked.
With a twinkle in his eye, my Dad looked at me for a moment before speaking. "You can't write it." He said.
"What do you mean, 'I can't write it'?" I asked again, watching his facial expressions. That smile, that expression of mischief.
"You just can't!" He replied.
"Well! What happened, Dad, that I can't write?" I asked again.
Dad laughed softly and began hesitantly in order to find the right words. "Well, Patton turned to look at the troops and said loudly, "Just what I've always wanted to do!" P--- in the Rhine River!" And with that he turned back to the river, unzipped his pants and did just that. Then he turned back to holler, "Now lets get these #@*#@ tanks across the Rhine!"
I looked at my father and the expression on his face. I had already heard about his landing on Omaha Beach. Now I watched him closely. "But remembering how you came off the barge on Omaha Beach, you were already waiting and gunning your jeep motor, weren't you Dad?" It was more a statement than a question.
"Yup." He said softly and slowly. I knew before he spoke the words, what he was going to tell me and I had to laugh.
When we finished the story of World War II, we went on to his return to civilian life, his marriage, his struggles as a rancher and then the opportunity to work on the railroad. I had the opportunity to go back to my childhood days growing up along side the railroad tracks of Eastern Montana as I listened to my father recount his days working on the old Great Northern Railroad. I have sat for hours writing his memories of those days while he recovers from heart problems. His first day of work on the Great Northern was my sixth birthday.
I don't remember moving in - I was only about 6 1/2 years old when we did - but just like it was yesterday, I can see the two houses our family lived in. The railroad crew houses were two room buildings - not quite big enough to accommodate a family with two adults and five children, so we moved into two of them. One building had a long front room which served as kitchen, dining and living room. The small room in back was Mom and Dad's bedroom. Next door, the long front room was the boys bedroom while my older sister and I shared the small bedroom. There were no indoor facilities - that little building was out back - on the bank of the irrigation ditch which ran behind the railroad houses.
A roadway separated the houses from the railroad track, so we learned safety first early. The station master's house was next to the 'bedroom building' and across the drive from that was the depot. I loved going into the depot and listening to the sound of the telegraph keys. On cold winter days, a big pot bellied stove in the center of the room was warm and welcoming. The depot had a unique aroma that to me smelled like the railroad.
Across the tracks was a stock yard, an old beet dump and a grain elevator. The stock yards was a good place to play Cowboys and Indians and hide and seek when it wasn't full of cattle or sheep waiting to be shipped out. During the winter, the beet dump ramps became a sledding hill. I was never in the grain elevator, but I can recall the sounds it made when it was operating.
The school and the general store were on the hill above. Whenever we children crossed the tracks, we took the opportunity to walk the siding rail as far as we could. We stayed off the main line, that was no place to play.
The work locomotives came through often. An engine and caboose and a few cars. The engineers knew the children along the track. We watched for them eagerly because often the engineer would throw a handful of candy as they passed by slowly. When the train had passed, we ran to collect the goodies.
I remember one Christmas, Mom and Dad bought a set of yellow play phones - one for the main house and one for our bedrooms. Dad strung the line between the houses. When they wanted lights out or quiet, the phone was put to good use. They didn't have to bundle up and go out in the cold winter weather.
I can still remember lying in bed on cold winter nights and listening to the wailing of a distant train whistle. It was a lonely sound that hung in the air long before the rumble of wheels could be heard and then the house shook as the train rushed past.
There was an empty lot between the main house and the section foreman's house. How I envied them that big house. A huge rambling two story building with large rooms and a big fenced yard with trees. When I grew up, I was going to have a house just like that.
We lived along the tracks for about five years before Dad bought property up on the hill, bought the two houses from the rail road and moved them to sit side by side on a foundation. The space between the buildings was closed in and became a long room - combined dining and living room. But still no indoor facilities - we didn't get that luxury for a few more years and no real phone until I was in high school. The family grew to include eight children and we certainly needed a bigger house.
Dad's story goes far beyond that small area - he worked on the section gang there and later was often gone most of the summers working on steel gangs or tie gangs all over Eastern Montana. He went on to become a track inspector working into North Dakota and the was promoted to road master and transferred to Washington state where he eventually retired after 30+ years of service.
Listening to and writing his stories down gave me a unique opportunity to relive my early years growing up as a railroader's daughter. It also gave me an insight to a side of my father's life I would otherwise never have known. The time I have spent with him in this task is a treasure of immeasurable value.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Background Music
Once it was called elevator music, maybe because the only place you heard it was on an elevator. But it has migrated to every corner of the public now. I have noticed that recently, it is no longer a soft, soothing background music. In the rest room of shopping centers and chain stores, the volume is high enough that you could not hold a conversation without raising your voice to be heard and when a sales announcement interupts, forget the conversation. your voice has been drowned out by the announcer.
A few months ago I went into a huge shopping mall and exited a major store into the mall itself and was bombarded by a cacophony of babbling from overhead speakers as well as the swell of voices in the mall itself. I approached a small snack stand to order a hot dog and had to wait for a moment for the end of an announcement and then raise my voice to nearly a shout to speak to the attendant across the counter.
"How do you deal with this all day long?" I asked
He shrugged nonchalantly and said, "You learn to tune it out."
"It makes me want to leave and never come back." I replied.
The major store I had just exited had its own background music, which I could still hear. In the last clothing department near the mall doors was a TV facing the mall. A major sports figure was giving a continual dissertation about an item of clothing and I could hear his voice. (Remind me not to shop in that department or buy whatever he was pushing!!) Back ground music from adjacent stores, the sounds from a rain forest cafe and the overhead mall's background music added to the jumbled mess of indistinguishable gibberish. Add to that the voices of people trying to talk to each other and be heard over the din and the sound was nothing that would encourage me to spend any time here window shopping or any other type of shopping. I only wanted out as quickly as possible in order to hear some semblance of order and find peace and quiet.
I use to like being at the airport prior to a flight. I always bring a book or two and curl up in a quiet corner to get lost in the world between the covers. Even that is no longer possible. Several TV screens have been added to the waiting rooms, each on different channels and each blaring volume to be heard over the others. Airport loud speakers have never been loud and flight announcements are lost in the din of a sports game or news replayed endlessly. I tucked my book away and let my thoughts drift back to a book I'd read years before about how the public would some day in the future be bombarded by propaganda at every turn, never to escape the unending sounds. Then I had thought it would never happen, that people valued peace and quiet. How wrong I was!!
Hospital waiting rooms and doctors offices offer no peace either. A television hangs suspended from a wall usually tuned to a channel I would never watch and now cannot escape. Whether I am waiting for a loved one undergoing some procedure or in pain and not feeling well myself, I am now forced to endure sounds when I'd rather have silence and peace. If I was stressed when I came in, I leave far more so.
Even at home there is no peace. Everyone likes something different and must have the volume turned high enough to damage their own hearing as well as those within the structure. A television in the livingroom plays and replays the same news stories every fifteen minutes 12 hours a day. From the family rooms comes the thrum of sounds from video games or movies played on high def speakers. In a back bedroom, the voice of a country music singer tries in vain to be heard over his own background music.
If you think that peace and quiet can be found in the woods, think again. I have driven back country roads and then hiked to the peak of a mountain, sat down on a protruding rock and watched the world in mineature below and whether I am facing the freeway or on the backside looking down at a tiny lake, the roar of traffic fills the air.
I went to Alaska after a year in the states and laid down in a bed that first night for only a moment before sitting up, listening intently - to the sound of silence. Not a siren, no rumble of wheels on cocrete, no roar or thrum of aircraft overhead, no thudding and bumping of heavily loaded trucks, no squeeling tires, no TV, no loud stereos, no voices. Just blessed silence - the absence of sound.
A few months ago I went into a huge shopping mall and exited a major store into the mall itself and was bombarded by a cacophony of babbling from overhead speakers as well as the swell of voices in the mall itself. I approached a small snack stand to order a hot dog and had to wait for a moment for the end of an announcement and then raise my voice to nearly a shout to speak to the attendant across the counter.
"How do you deal with this all day long?" I asked
He shrugged nonchalantly and said, "You learn to tune it out."
"It makes me want to leave and never come back." I replied.
The major store I had just exited had its own background music, which I could still hear. In the last clothing department near the mall doors was a TV facing the mall. A major sports figure was giving a continual dissertation about an item of clothing and I could hear his voice. (Remind me not to shop in that department or buy whatever he was pushing!!) Back ground music from adjacent stores, the sounds from a rain forest cafe and the overhead mall's background music added to the jumbled mess of indistinguishable gibberish. Add to that the voices of people trying to talk to each other and be heard over the din and the sound was nothing that would encourage me to spend any time here window shopping or any other type of shopping. I only wanted out as quickly as possible in order to hear some semblance of order and find peace and quiet.
I use to like being at the airport prior to a flight. I always bring a book or two and curl up in a quiet corner to get lost in the world between the covers. Even that is no longer possible. Several TV screens have been added to the waiting rooms, each on different channels and each blaring volume to be heard over the others. Airport loud speakers have never been loud and flight announcements are lost in the din of a sports game or news replayed endlessly. I tucked my book away and let my thoughts drift back to a book I'd read years before about how the public would some day in the future be bombarded by propaganda at every turn, never to escape the unending sounds. Then I had thought it would never happen, that people valued peace and quiet. How wrong I was!!
Hospital waiting rooms and doctors offices offer no peace either. A television hangs suspended from a wall usually tuned to a channel I would never watch and now cannot escape. Whether I am waiting for a loved one undergoing some procedure or in pain and not feeling well myself, I am now forced to endure sounds when I'd rather have silence and peace. If I was stressed when I came in, I leave far more so.
Even at home there is no peace. Everyone likes something different and must have the volume turned high enough to damage their own hearing as well as those within the structure. A television in the livingroom plays and replays the same news stories every fifteen minutes 12 hours a day. From the family rooms comes the thrum of sounds from video games or movies played on high def speakers. In a back bedroom, the voice of a country music singer tries in vain to be heard over his own background music.
If you think that peace and quiet can be found in the woods, think again. I have driven back country roads and then hiked to the peak of a mountain, sat down on a protruding rock and watched the world in mineature below and whether I am facing the freeway or on the backside looking down at a tiny lake, the roar of traffic fills the air.
I went to Alaska after a year in the states and laid down in a bed that first night for only a moment before sitting up, listening intently - to the sound of silence. Not a siren, no rumble of wheels on cocrete, no roar or thrum of aircraft overhead, no thudding and bumping of heavily loaded trucks, no squeeling tires, no TV, no loud stereos, no voices. Just blessed silence - the absence of sound.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Surviving Disaster
I awoke this morning and again the news is filled with the situation in Haiti. Two weeks ago, I pulled the door closed on a storage unit that held nearly all of my worldly goods. I had kept the barest minimum to load into the back of the truck and I turned to face the world - no job, no home, no place to go. Depending on unemployment benefits to pay for gas, insurance, food and truck payment. I look at the world around me. I look at my options and though I feel as if the world has fallen apart around me, I know that it is nothing compared to the loss of those who went through the quake in Haiti. There are times when I feel my situation is completely hopeless, but I look at the scenes on TV and I know that those people who have lost so much more have far more hope than I feel. Out of the dust and debris of every disaster has come hope and heroism and the determination to survive and move on, creating a better world for those who have made it through.
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