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!!

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!

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.

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.

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!!!

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.

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.