It's an Anytime, Rhyme Time Syndrome

How did I ever find the time
To go to work each day?
And often, I worked extra hours,
Plus traveled miles each way.

Twelve ho-urs on my feet, sometimes,
Not quite a fairy tale.
Roll a perm, twist a curl or paint
Some locks or fingernails.

Married? Me? That's a full-time job,
What with birth-in' babies,
Cooking, cleaning, washing, and more,
There's sewing, fix-it pleas.

Tole painting, arts, and handicrafts,
Hosting family and friends,
Turn in the road led to Simmy's,
And Washoe High, end-to-end

Moving along, hit the big-time,
U N of R hired me? !
First prof I met asked the question,
"Can she type? Let me see!"

Typing, transcription, and phone calls,
Contracts, travel, textbooks,
Job searches and office parties,
I signed for the check book!

Twenty-some years passed by quickly,
One more fork in the road,
TMCC came a-calling,
Still had kids--my zip code.

Me, be an office Girl-Friday?
'Course! I'd done it before.
So many students, at my desk,
Always more coming, in the door.

They came with the darnedest questions,
And all wanted an answer,
I'd say, "I'm the new girl in town",
"So just ask him or her!"

It's been more than thirty some years,
Retirement? Too soon!
Can't possibly be that ag-ed.
Mirrored face, Me? Or a prune!
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I have these 'Anytime, Sing-song Rhyme Time Syndrome' symptoms come over me, when I sit in my new computer chair. I thought they might subside, given that frontal lobe deterioration, yours and mine, begins after age thirty, but sitting here, my every thought begins like, "What rhymes with ...?" Do you think my chair is defective?

Number of years worked: Almost 32 . That's what my retirement papers listed. I got to thinking about all the jobs I've done, salaried or not, over the last 67 years and decided there was more to my work history story.

My first job from birth and one I took seriously, was just being so darn cute! My mother wrote about all the fine stuff folks brought to me when I arrived. Keith introduced me to teddy bears. Burns brought a 'baby book'. Being forward thinking, Mother filled it with notes and a few pictures from the earliest years. She understood the difficulty of my job--being cute, knew it couldn't last forever and would need documentation. Aunt Vera crocheted a tiny doll with clothes, a treasure I take out to marvel at the making, now and then. Marion brought slippers from the Philippines, MerLyn, a soft, blue shawl. My job duties included smiling a lot and looking at the world with big, brown eyes so everyone would notice them. According to Mother, everyone did. Dr. Wheeler is credited with saying, "Christie's eyes know all the answers." Being cute's a tough job! I had to learn to talk early to say things that got attention, like: "Oh, a mighty, that hurts!" Or, "Charley Bye Bye? Why?" MerLyn was sure she heard me say, "Oh, dear!", before my first birthday.

Mother was right. A job like that doesn't last forever. When 'Being Cute' ended, I had farm chores to do like everyone else. There was the hair-raising, risking life and limb, nightly chicken coop assignment ( Doolittle's Farm? ). And that quarter acre of beets I thinned ( In Praise of Fathers ). Mother and I picked beans one summer, at a nickle (or less) per pound. We earned about $6, ... total. The both of us. Green string beans don't weigh much.

I worked during one fall potato harvest--must have been at the Tingey farm. I'm unsure if I was paid by number of sacks filled or by sack weight or whether I did enough to be paid at all. A big, ole' 50-pound gunny sack filled with Idaho Russets was tough to manage. Once a sack was full, I had to drag or carry it to a designated space between rows, a sort of staging area where a truck would drive through the field to be loaded with sacks of potatoes from both sides. I'm sure the process has been modernized, using equipment to complete the harvest. So what do farm kids do now, to work off steam and raging hormones, to learn to put in a full day of labor, starting at the bottom and make a few bucks?

As a high school grad, and after months of specialized training, I was licensed to work in Utah hair salons ( Hair Today-Gone Tomorrow ). I married and spent a summer traveling. I didn't return to salon work. I would soon take on the hardest, nonsalaried job I'd ever loved--being a mom.

In retrospect, I didn't always love the job or the title, 'Mom'. Long hours, poor working conditions, a real overworked and under appreciated kind of a job, I thought. I felt at times that I'd lost my individual identity. I had 'Momitis'. Surely, I'm not the only one to have wished for someone to just call me by my given name, 'Christie', instead of the endless cries of, "Mom, where's my...?" "Mom, I want..." "Mom, I can't..." "Mom, I need..." "MOM!". Instead, I was always Mom, or M-o-t-h-e-r, used for effect if the child was angry, frustrated or whatever. My job, as I understood it, was to take care of family needs, wants, and comforts even if it meant putting my own--putting ME--aside. I was introduced and referred to as Frank's wife or Mrs. South, a daughter or sister-in-law (better than an outlaw, I guess), mother-in-law ("If it's not one thing, it's your mother!") someone's aunt, somebody's daughter, Grandma or Grandmother, if drama was on the play list.  I'd been called 'Chris', at some salaried jobs, and it took me awhile to answer, never having been nicknamed before. My name was a nickname already, my grandmother Christina Morgan's.

As my rough edges have been smoothed a bit with time, experience, the learned art of appreciation and a little wisdom, I've come to love all the titles I can claim including the most recent one, Oomah, with one exception. That one is, EX-. From my perspective, I have never been, and am not an Ex- anything. Yes, once married, once divorced, but never an Ex. The term to me is demeaning. It devalues--invalidates--what came before. In reference, I've preferred, "Former Roommate."

Washoe High School was an experiment, an alternative for students unable to attend a traditional high school. As an aide working for one teacher, I continued my own 'Education by Degrees'. These were some pretty tough kids to deal with, at times, some with learning disabilities, poor or no family life or support, teen pregnancy, their idea of life and a good time based on addictive and often illegal substances. The instructor was an interesting sort, herself. A former show girl/dancer, she had performed in local and LasVegas casinos. Interesting woman, she was, who worked well with these kids. So many couldn't read. Working with non-readers one-on-one was my main assignment. While classroom studies, without the distraction of regular high school activities, were the emphasis, 'she' (I've lost her name in the passing of time) felt field trips were essential. Just she and I and a bus driver with this bunch of unpredictables. Steamboat Springs, its mineral baths and geothermal energy possibilities caught everyone's attention. And the pig farm! S-t-i-n-k-y! Those off-track teens relaxed. I always hoped the thought had been planted in their minds that a good time could be had without being drunk or high, and that they could be some body if they wanted to invest the time and effort in themselves and help each other. I spent the last couple of weeks of that semester in Washoe's office. Except for running copies off on an old mimeograph machine at my brother's fabric and sewing machine store in Oregon one summer, I had no actual office experience, just high school typing and bookkeeping classes. Thinking back to that rickety, clickety typewriter at my desk, the best I could manage was to waste a lot of paper trying to produce a flier template. The worst thing I did was to waste a lot of paper trying to make fliers. But bless my boss, John. That semester at Washoe and a few weeks in the office ensured my kids food with their meals and gave me more experience than I had when I walked in the door!

Simmy and I met in a floral arranging class at the community college. I had to develop an ear for her heavy accent in order to understand her. She opened a shop in Sparks when classes ended and offered me a job. To learn more about this workplace adventure, watch for the blog:  Please Don't Send Me Flowers Anymore .