For some reason, the change in seasons has me thinking of the various jobs I’ve held. Maybe because each job represents a season in my life. But looking back, I see a pattern.
My real first job—meaning with pay—was when I was twelve. My dad hired me to paint the ladies’ room at his office. It took a whole weekend with Mom as my taxi. I was alone in this creaky old two-story brick building and was packed full of my older brothers’ ghost stories about the place. From the closet filled with cleaning products and paint cans, I chose the colors, then proceeded to paint walls, trim, and myself as I sang along with my transistor radio. At the end of the second day, with aching shoulders, I stood back and pronounced it gorgeous. Nothing wrong with bright lemon yellow and deep peach trim.
Turns out, I was alone in that opinion, but I learned two things: Perseverance is fulfilling, and rejection isn’t lethal.
Several employment experiences followed, each with their own proffered wisdom. With my shiny new driver’s license in hand, I put in some applications and was hired as a salesclerk in the young men’s department of a clothing store. Back then, mothers accompanied their sons and insisted on them being measured by a clerk for their dress pants. After measuring boys not much younger than I, crotch to ankle and waists, I asked for a transfer. One more mortified, red-faced customer and I would explode.
There, I learned I had limits, and I should speak up if I am to move on.
During summer breaks, I landed a series of interesting jobs. An upscale women’s clothing store was one. Those older salesladies were barracudas! No coffee break camaraderie there. One even elbowed me away from a well-heeled woman shopping for evening wear. She pretended to know the customer, who was clearly baffled. A huge lesson in who I never wanted to become.
On the other hand, a summer stint as the Xerox copy machine “key operator” in a local hospital showed me how lovely and helpful fellow workers could be. I had no idea how to change the ink or sort out a paper jam. With help, I learned quickly and knew I would never turn my back on someone who needed help. A precursor to my ultimate destination as a teacher.
I worked for a dental laboratory. The techs made dentures, crowns, and bridges prescribed for patients of local dentists. From delivery person to office manager, it paid well, and I worked with great people, but dentistry became a rule-out. Frankly, I didn’t care about teeth.
I earned a real estate license and sold five properties before that became another rule-out, which brought me to a lightbulb moment. I needed to find a career not just a job. I needed not just income, but a position in a field that fit me and what I cared about.
Next, was my favorite summer job of all. I was a card-carrying Teamster and drove a forklift to load coils of steel on flatbed trucks from a dock connecting four Quonset huts in a former war time ammunition storage area. There were seven of us, all women, with one male overseer. One of the huts was all mine. I’d race down to the end of the hut, setting the forks as I flew, slam down the clutch and brake to slow as I jerked the wheel to turn in and scoop up an eight-thousand-pound roll of steel. As the forks lifted the load, I backed up, then zoomed out to the dock where flatbed big rigs waited to be loaded.
One day, a driver asked if I wanted to try driving his big rig. Wow, did I! He gave careful instructions and sat beside me as I punched the clutch, ground the gears, and crawled along while I tried to guess the gear pattern. There were about a million “sticks.” The rig moved about twenty yards in thirty minutes while the truck driver tried to hold back his laughter.
I learned that I loved trying new things to see what I was capable of. Careers, jobs, tasks should all have an element of fun.
Yes, Connie Jackson, I see what you mean. Life is one persistent and custom-fit university.
Marriage and two children came along, and I was determined to stay home with the kids until they reached kindergarten. During that time, from our back room, I transcribed reports for three psychiatrists and did their insurance billing. This was way before first computers, and before the pandemic made working from home possible, and in some cases a necessity.
Using a manual typewriter, I worked after the kids were in bed. The recorded stories of mental illness were fascinating but most compelling were the strategies used to help people get well. A few years went by before I could see the lessons. Many of those strategies became useful when working with troubled kids in the classroom.
Also, with handling worried parents. I was being well taught during those years. What a gift.
With a multi-subject teaching credential in hand, I landed a position teaching 3rd grade in a local elementary school. This is where I wanted to be. Spending my days with kids, watching when the light in their eyes brightened as a lesson sunk in, and having fun teaching with games, art and music. Next came charter school, teaching as a homeschool advisor. I was thrilled to be able to choose curriculum and testing strategies to fit each student.
Every life lesson I have been offered led directly to who I am now. My hope is that readers will take time to think about their own experiences and see the lessons offered in their lives. After retirement from teaching, I turned toward my next goal, which was writing. This has become a beautifully fulfilling coda to a career filled with rhythm and texture. Cut Open the Sky was my introduction to writing with the intent to publish.
I am so excited about my second book, Geode: The Inside Story of a Small Town, a novel, which debuts in April. A geode is a terrific metaphor for looking beyond the outer crust, for looking toward our center, toward what has made us.
I am grateful to Black Rose Writing for publishing these two stories that mean so much to me and for all of you readers, current and future.
All the Best,
Corliss
P.S. Photo below of the entire gang at my forklift job!
Yorumlar