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!!!
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