Eight to Five? It's a Living.

Today's youth have nothing on me, earbuds hanging out their ears, always tuned in to something! My boss wasn't the only one in the Ag. office trying out Dictaphone equipment. Those tapes coming into the secretarial pool ended up on my desk. Jack's tapes always came with the real twangy, cowboy heart-breaker, music stuff playing in the background. He was often eating at the same time he was dictating, by the sounds of it. He'd be talking along, then, "Go back a couple of pages and add this...", he'd say. Allen, a post doc., made "Mission Impossible" tapes. With theme music playing, I'd hear, "Good morning, Mrs. South. Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is ...". I knew I was finished when I heard, "Please dispose of this recording in the usual manner!"

It was the late 70's, remember. The Pool typed everything for everyone, including graduate students. Unlike other Ag. college departments whose product involved animals, crops, or bio-chemical labs, our product was whatever could be put on paper.

Dr. Ching was a master of dictation. He provided everything a transcriber might need, even spelling unfamiliar words. But what was an AUM? What did 'ith' (rhymes with eyeth) mean? I needed to understand just enough about the complex model formulas to know how to put on paper what I heard being described on tape. A misplaced symbol, cap or lower case, a line here or there could change everything! I'm talking IBM Selectric symbol element workout, in combination with the regular keyboard characters!

It wasn't unusual to be asked to re-type the same manuscript rough draft five times, all done from hand-written copy, before the final camera-ready copy was prepared. Class work and exams had to be error-free, understandably. A new hire, (could I call her a "Poolie"?) the one who appeared to have been pulled off a bar stool during rush hour and plopped down at a desk in our office, skirt slit to upper thigh, a blouse showing heaving masses yearning to be free, received John's beautifully hand-printed pages to type. When she finished typing, she gave it back to him. He returned it to her, errors marked for correction. Again, she gave him her finished work. He brought it back, this time with new errors circled, ones she had created while trying to correct the others. He made one more attempt. She gave it back to him, saying, "That's good enough!" She had a temper, that one. She beat up the Xerox machine--yes, real kicks and punches, then used her hair brush on it! She also took on a coin operated snack machine! The three-month first evaluation for new hires? Nope, she didn't make that.

Cut-and-paste, correction fluid, gentle scraping with an X-acto knife, were all a means to an end. When a piece of paper got too thick from making corrections, those layers were cut out from the back of the page so it would lay flat again on the copier glass. Everything was two-person proofed, by a reader and a listener following the copy; Everything was proofed by the author and by the typist. Even so, there was that call from our dean. He had counted the line spacing in correspondence sent to him from our office. Where there should have been six lines of spacing, by his count, between the date and the inside address, there appeared only five. He sent the letter back!

The previous dean's focus, in his sometimes unconventional way, had more to do with bridging the gap between counties and college. His secretary, a buxom, older woman, wore ill-fitting bras that earned her a nickname I can't, in good conscience, put into print. It was rumored that the women's restroom wasn't a place to talk shop because she had a habit of hiding in a stall, her legs up out of sight, to listen and report back to her boss. Ah-h-h, we could-a-been in the movie! ("Nine to Five")

Our department was one of the first on campus to have a dedicated word processor, an improvement in some ways but in the time it took to figure out how to get the equipment to do what was needed, I could have typed a document five times on a typewriter. Even with the Linear, I think it was, I still had to hand-draw or copy symbols and notations from the author's notes and paste those into the document by hand. For Extension periodicals, an old Gestetner was still being used. Preparing those stencils was a killer! The odor of the fluid used in those machines was enough to make a person pass out. No one in the Pool liked using that old relic.

You never really know what you are getting after the interview. One young thing looked good on paper and perfectly normal during her meeting with the hiring committee but on her first day, she was almost unrecognizable, hair dyed some awful color and wigged out all over the place, dressed not for the office but maybe a wild party after work? She rearranged her space at the front desk to accommodate a BIG boom-box, first thing. The department head wanted no music and no clutter on any of those front desks--a 'work hard but show no evidence of such on or about your desk area'--kind of guy. Gordon did not ask her to remove the noise maker, immediately. She started out sort of okay first thing in the morning. Then, with a caller on the line we heard, "Huh, I can't hear you!", while turning up the volume during song parts she REALLY liked! Calls came in from people passing in the hallway, asking about our "Disco Dolly". Complaints, ya', we had quite a few and it was curtains, for her. It didn't help that she drove to San Francisco one weekend to be there when the sailors docked, and didn't contact the office until our Monday was almost complete!

One of the Pool's best was a former ballerina but she didn't stay long. She considered herself to be "Executive" material. Our office manager had been in the position awhile, despite her use of vulgar language. She loved to tell dirty jokes in the office. Another, a middle-aged woman and a graduate of a prestigious women's college, burned out as a social worker and ended up in Nevada working as a shill in a local casino.

Perhaps because of her education and social work history, Barb thought it was beneath her to type and work as a secretary. She still maintained that belief but needed work badly enough that she taught herself to type. In our office, she proved to be a top notch editor. Surely faculty realized that a PhD does not a writer make, but it took a little time for them to accept her adamant recitation of rules for proper use of English. Once they embraced her skills for writing and editing, she made them all look real good on paper! On days when she wanted company for lunch, we'd walk to a small eatery a couple of blocks from the office. She was the original, "Have it Your Way" customer, always ordering half a tuna sandwich--exactly half--, cut on the diagonal, bread toasted, and a cup of soup, winter or summer, always a cup of soup. When she returned to her desk after lunch she ate six raw almonds. Just that many. Every day. Before I knew her, she had been married, twice, to the same man, first to have a child, and then, again, to have a second child. She loved being a Mom. For Mother's Day she sent each of them a special music box each year and a card to say thank you, for making her a mother. When her former mate became terminally ill, she took care of him until his death. Everyone has a story...

The Pool changed regularly. The department's faculty mix turned over a few times, giving a different office feel to the operation. Some department heads lasted almost 10 years, others were gone in less time, one lasting not quite six months! The college seemed to be in a reorganization process regularly. During the year-long process of testing for a diagnosis and the first years of learning to live with RA, and other changes in my personal life, it was in part, support from the Pool that kept me going.  My will to overcome adversity and a sense of responsibility played a big part, as well. 

 I had kids to drop off at school and mountains to climb, literally. It was a short distance from my car to my office but some mornings, it took me 20 minutes to walk it. On days when I couldn't lift the receiver of my desk phone, someone in the pool took my calls. When copies were being made on a big, commercial machine in the Extension publication center one floor down, across the breeze-way outside, and into another wing of the building or in the Ag. Library one floor above us, someone always took my to-be-copied file to do with theirs on days when I couldn't make the climb or decent. It was more difficult to have my symptoms go unnoticed while I worked in the front office. As the Pool dynamic changed and I had a private office, my locked door meant I was either wiped out from some drug or treatment given that day but trying to make it through or I needed to work without interruption. Most respected that. Oh, there was one--there's always one--faculty member who would stand at my door, calling my name and knocking, repeatedly, as a child does the minute Mom gets on the phone! The women of the Pool helped me fight the fight in many ways. I did what I could do each day and a little more; They did what I could not.

Amazingly, I missed very little work because of RA but I woke up in bad shape one morning. I had a Master's student thesis to finish. It took me all day. The paper was filled with algebraic equations and modeling formulas. Each time I needed to change from the symbol element and back to the regular keyboard character one, I had to lift the small latch at the top of the ball, pull it all the way back in order to release the element, then reverse the process, engaging the latch until it clicked, to replace it. At this time, I was sleeping with Popsicle sticks taped to each of my fingers so they would at least be extended and not clenched into a tight fist-like ball by morning. On this day, I couldn't open or close that little latch on the element balls but under pressure to meet a deadline, I discovered that I could hold my letter opener, then use it to pry open that little latch without breaking it. I remember this as a painstaking day but a triumphant one. The deadline was met.

"Come, come ye Saints, no toil or labor fear, But with joy wend your way. ... All is well." Hymns, LDS.

In addition to secretarial help from the Pool, I acknowledge those things that sustain me, unseen. It's a part of who I am.

Off to College at 40-WPM

In the work-a-day world, my qualifications appeared glaringly inadequate when I needed more than supplemental income.  My kids were too young to be at home alone, too old for traditional day-care. I had no way to pay for that anyway, nor could I afford summer or after-school day camps. A trucking company offered me a graveyard shift at $20,000 annual starting salary. That sounded like $millions$ to me but I couldn't leave my kids alone all night! If they went on strike, I would have no income for the duration. Western Union offered me a 4:00 p.m. to midnight shift at a good starting salary and benefits but it was not a family-friendly job.  I would be totally unavailable during the hours of my shift, even for emergency calls.  I had maxed out at the flower shop at $4/hr. with no benefits. (Please Don't Send Me Flowers Anymore) My Utah cosmetology license was not covered by the law of reciprocity because I had not worked in a salon within five years. Re-licensing meant time and money plus meager earnings while building a clientele from scratch. (Hair Today-Gone Tomorrow)

Forty words a minute? Pa-shaw! I had speeds higher than that in high school on old, rackety, clackety typewriters. Surely I could meet the Nevada State Personnel's requirement. But I hadn't used those skills much in 16 years. Reno Business School to the rescue for a short brush-up course. I was still a disaster on a 10-key. No shorthand, either. I hoped it wouldn't matter.

It was late summer. August 1979, in fact. After all my attempts at self-employment and part-time, short-time, day-time, night-time, all-the-darn-time jobs, often keeping more than one going at a time, I applied, tested, interviewed and was hired for a 'real' job with benefits for me and my kids and a regular paycheck! They were looking for a typist. I now had a little white card stating that I could type 80-WPM error free, down some from my 100-WPM in high school, but good enough to get my foot in the door! My starting salary of $4.09/hr. wasn't enough to pay my bills but there was opportunity to advance. I hoped I could keep some part-time work going at night from home, in the meantime. With a couple of weeks left until the school year began for my kids, there was still the worry about them being safe at home alone. So began more than twenty years of employment with the University of Nevada, Reno, the College of Agriculture, the Department of Agricultural and Resource Economics.

Office attire? Good grief. I had none of that. I showed up for work on my first day wearing what I had, a wrap around, crinkle cotton, navy blue (Making Peace with Blue) skirt and a plain white top, a beat up pair of shoes that a good scrubbing in the sink and polish helped some but not much. I washed my clothes out in the bathroom sink every night, ironed them every morning and wore them again, every day until I could justify spending for something more.

The first day was hectic. I was marched down the hall to meet the dean of the College. He greeted me with, "So I hear you can type?" The first of the faculty I met came through the office door, leaned on the divider separating four of the front office work stations and asked, "Well, can she type?" During that week, I had plenty of opportunity to prove that, indeed, I could!

Someone needed data entry done so they sat me down in front of a main-frame computer-center-connected drone thing-a-ma-jig, not quite a free-standing PC but as close as I'd ever been to a computer before. That was pretty monotonous. The Linear word processor was, again, something new to me. There were no PCs yet for department use, mostly Selectric's in the office plus a couple of electronic, limited-memory typewriters. One of the faculty was building the department's first PC in the back room. When that was up and running, it was a shared machine. To aid in the 'sharing', another secretary and I were writing a manual for using Word Star, I think it was called. I finished doing my little bit on the PC one day, stood up and flipped the off switch, as I'd been instructed to do. Behind me, the most awful gasp filled the room! One of our grad students sitting at another data-dog machine, connected it to the same bar plug as me and whoosh...! Two hours of data entry were lost with my one flip of the switch! Like I've always said, "Sharing is highly over-rated!"

Near the end of my first week on the job, my 7-year old called me, hysterical the minute she heard my voice on the phone. Someone was hurt at home. I did just what you don't do in the first week of a new job, unless you're a mom. Rushing the drive home, I wondered if I'd have a job to go back to the next day. Who was hurt? How bad? "How will I pay for a trip to the ER?", talking out loud to myself. Those blessed benefits I had cheered about having were not available, yet. Then the guilt settled in to mess with my mind, for not being at home with my kids. But I had to work. We wanted food served with our meals, right? And a roof over our heads? When I opened the front door, I saw blood spattered on the walls, the ceiling, down the hallway! My son, the ten-year-old, was fixing cold drinks for himself and his sister. He caught his finger in the ice crusher, panicked and ran through the house waving his blood-spurting finger in the air, leaving a spotted path as he went. Several stitches put his finger back together and I had my first class in: Mothers at the Office 101--How to Keep Your Job While Saving Your Child.

The phone rang at my desk. My daughter was calling to report that two strange men had been parked in front of our house for some time. They were throwing empty beer bottles on our lawn. Her brother was out, delivering papers on his route. She was scared. At the risk of having a social worker pay me a visit with questions of why my child, under 12 years old, was at home alone and unsupervised, I called our local police. "We'll check it out." Time passed. Back on the phone with my daughter. No police car. And thankfully, no social worker. As soon as my neighbor came home, she rescued my child. The drunks? They had the wrong house. They had their baseball bat ready and were laying in wait for a guy in the next block--a domestic dispute.

Crime seemed far removed from our middle-class neighborhood, I would say. We lived on a dead-end street newly built in '76. Lots of families. Kids played free and safely outside, rode bikes, skated and were back and forth between houses. We knew the adults who belonged to the kids. Yet. returning from work one day, I was blocked from entering my subdivision by police cars everywhere, a bullet-riddled Volkswagen left parked in the middle of the street just a couple of blocks from my house. Another domestic dispute. Once I was given the go-ahead, I couldn't get in the house fast enough. Everyone was SAFE!

Everyone on campus knew Dr. Champney. He was 'the' advisor for all incoming freshman. He became a lifeline for many at school, a reference after graduation. His office was just a small cubicle. The records he kept had outgrown his storage space. Stacks, some piled as tall as he could reach, filled the room leaving space for a small desk, his chair and one for a student. He knew exactly where to put his finger on every piece of paper, every file. He loved cherry pie. It was always a gamble whether or not I could bake a good one. He'd chuckle, pick up a spoon and say, "Just the way I like it!" when my filling had not set up. Licking his finger, he made sure to get every crumb of crust!

Chauncey, in the office, Dr. Ching to others, was professionally prolific. He was completing a text book when I met him. He was the department chair, taught semester classes and always had a line of students waiting in the front office to talk with him. Faculty submitted work to our supervisor to be prioritized, and shared by the pool.  Our supervisor was weary of office tedium and bored so instead of including herself in the work sharing, she distributed it all to the pool. She kept up the social end of things, department, college, and campus-wide. Once Chauncey discovered I could transcribe from tape quickly with accuracy, producing a final copy on the first draft most of the time, I arrived each morning to find his stack of tapes at my desk. I'd complete those plus whatever he produced during the day, and come back to a fresh stack the next morning! I assumed the man never slept!

Dr. Ching invited me and my kids to join his family for dinner and the stage show, "Annie". I had worked hard on a special project. He had no way to compensate me financially via the State system. This was his way of acknowledging my extra effort. I had a dress I'd used to attend a function while working at the flower shop. Awful dress! I'd have to make it do. Jennifer had school dresses. There must have been something there to work with but Todd had only ragged tennis shoes and holey, high-water jeans, at the time. Then the mail came. Jean, my brother's wife, had sent us a care package--a box of returns from Sears shoe department. And miracle of miracle's, there was a size 12 EEE+ pair--a high-top work boot. Close enough! I polished them and had Todd wear his least ragged jeans, pulling them down as far as possible to cover some of the boot. We must have looked like rag-a-muffins or kin of Jed Klampet, out on the town. I was a bundle of nerves. The Chings and I had a good laugh over that night when it was over. I found out that they had been as nervous as I was, hoping we would enjoy their company and have a good time.

Michael was the kind of man who came into the office, shook your hand, looked you in the eyes and spoke to you, then waited for your response, and listened.  Not everyone we worked with or for treated secretaries with that kind of respect. Mr. Mooney was an Extension faculty member, whose office was in Las Vegas. He came to our office now and then to work on joint projects with other department faculty. One winter morning, there was a long, white box, I mean BIG, tied with a beautiful red bow sitting on my desk when I walked into the office. No card. It wasn't my birthday. I got quite a surprise when I opened it. There, folded in white tissue wrapping, was a beautiful, shades of gray and stylish, wool winter coat. He had noticed me coming and going in winter weather, without a coat on. I didn't have a coat. Thanks, to that sweet man!

Working in this big office was quite a leap for me--18 professors, not quite a dozen grads on assistantship, a few post graduates--Research Associates, numbers of undergrad student workers, sometimes five or more secretaries and Extension personnel, in the field. It was exposure to the world, for me as well, having many international students on campus, hearing English as a second language and lots of varied handwriting to get use to. I had been a stay-at-home working mom for 14 years. I felt the need for something to hide behind as I acclimated to my new surroundings. Birthday cake seemed like a good idea.

Chauncey was delighted to find out I could bake. He even mentioned it in my evaluation. In full support, he insisted that everyone take a few minutes of their busy day to join together in the conference room, have a slice, and chat. His only rule was: "No shop talk." He suggested these few minutes be used to get to know one another as individuals. Cake? Pie? No one had to be asked twice. And the work still got done. Dr. Garrett asked for recipes. He was a candy maker, himself. Anything chocolate got rave reviews. Homemade ice cream was a real hit in the middle of a work day! Mr. Shane got his boob cake! Yes, you read that correctly! He was having his year-forty life crisis? What else could I do? Folks from the dean's office wandered down if there was pie. The Ag College community seemed to enjoy my commercial-sized from-scratch pound cake with cream cheese frosting and a fruit filling, served at the gathering to say goodbye to Chauncey when he returned to Hawaii.

We came together to celebrate--promotions, graduations, new arrivals, departures. The secretaries hosted themed parties, annually. Faculty played hand-ball and racket ball during lunch. The department formed a baseball team. We got to know their families at our annual 'Back to School' picnic in the fall and at orientation, held for new grads coming in on assistantship. Students came back after graduation to say hello. Dr. Champney kept track of almost everyone and knew where they were on their career paths. I think he and Dr. Garrett flipped burgers for every student function ever held on UNR's campus!

The department was very good to me in those first years. I was often invited to lunch, a real treat for me. Dr. Garrett bought me my first microwave counter top oven, a thank you for all the department baking. I took my first computer class from him in the lab he was instrumental in acquiring for the College. Jenn and I were hostesses running the kitchen for his daughter's wedding. And from Dick, I received one of my most unusual gifts--clogging shoes and classes! It was surprisingly fun!

I worked for six different department chairmen and for the Nevada State Extension Horticultural Specialist during my years on campus. I got along with most and learned to endure others. I sat in every chair and held every position. Typing was no longer the only skill I could list on a resume'.

One stormy morning on my drive to work, I stopped for a red light at an intersection. I usually drove with my car doors locked but I had just let Todd out at school and hadn't re-locked the passenger door. A little old lady in bright blue tennis shoes, waiting on the corner for a bus, flung open my car door and was inside in a flash. I was speechless! The light changed. There was no where to pull over or stop. Cars were sliding off the streets, visibility was poor. As I moved with the traffic, she began talking a mile a minute, telling how she'd once been a wealthy woman living in San Francisco. She said she was just too cold to wait any longer for the bus but when I asked her where she wanted to go, she was vague. She kept telling me that she had a job downtown but as I mentioned the major streets where I could take her, she would just say, "Oh, anywhere, just anywhere," and then go on with her story, more eccentric and mysterious by the minute. It was very cold for this little old woman to be out without gloves and only a light coat, wearing bright blue cloth shoes but finally I let her out on a corner in Reno's casino district. She offered me a quarter for my trouble and went right on with her babbling as she got out of the car. I was late to work but had a good story to tell.

Life-changing events during my stint at UNR? I became single again, got the RA diagnosis (Arthur and Ritis), was an empty nester, then the grandkids moved in, all things that became a part of who I was then and who I have become, now.

There is certainly more to tell about life in the office. There was the time that ... well, I'll save that for later.

Specialist for Hire...Any Job Will Do

My grandmother, Edna, was a skilled seamstress, and my mother, too. I've heard stories about the skirt Mother made for my sister using men's ties and how it became the talk of the town! Except for some mending, her treadle sewing machine, an old Singer, hadn't been used in a long time until I joined a 4-H club in summer 1955 to learn to sew, myself. When my brother, Keith, heard I was making my own clothes, he gave me a Morse electric. By my third summer of 4-H, having completed several learn-to-sew-a-straight-stitch projects and a dress and slip, Mother taught me to crochet so I could make slippers to go with the duster and PJ's I'd constructed--set-in sleeves, attached collar, buttonholes, pipping trim, the works! Mother was right-handed but she crocheted left-handed. Despite this oddity, she was able to show me how to hold the hook and thread right-handed. I won blue ribbons in sewing and styling at the Franklin County Fair. Some red ones, too. At the Idaho State Fair in Blackfoot, number 157 in line, with many more 4-Hers behind me, it was a long wait to model, standing on cold cement. Another blue ribbon! Al-right!

As a young mother, looking for some way to be at home with my kids and still earn a little 'pin' money, a home sewing business seemed like the thing to do. With 4-H and high school home economics training under my belt, I could be a 'Sewing Specialist for Hire'. I learned early on that customers viewed home sewing as a 'cheap' way to go. The notion that personal tailoring could cost more than off-the-rack was not popular. Still, I pursued my little home-based business while we lived in Ogden, and again, in Salt Lake City. I was spending too much time hand sewing. That meant I was making next to nothing. What little I made, I saved, hoping to upgrade to a machine with finishing features that could save me some time. The day I retired my beloved Morse for a new Viking was a time of mixed feelings. It had seen me through countless projects--bridesmaid dresses, back-to-school clothes, problem projects that came in from other less-skilled home sewers, and much more.

Ever shop at ZCMI in Salt Lake City? An entire top floor the size of a city block with nothing but fabric. What's not to love about that if you're a specialist for hire!  One of my customers loved Vogue patterns.  She had made her selection from my stash of books, and described to me the fabrics and colors she envisioned for the item(s) on her list.  So, with her credit card in my hand, I was off to ZCMI, two kids in tow.  My young daughter could be confined in a stroller. Her older brother presented more of a challenge.  I was aware that he was no longer beside me at about the same time the announcement of a missing child crackled over the store's loud speaker. The announcer gave an unusual amount of detail about this 'missing' kid. As I looked across the store's field of cloth bolts, I could see him sitting on a counter, happily eating something sweet he'd been given and spilling the beans about every detail of his own and the entire family's story. Lost? Hardly! He loved hearing his name being spoken over a microphone.

For someone who found drawing stick figures a challenge, Tole painting was a specialty perfect for me. I fell in love! I took some classes, taught a few beginning sessions by request, sold a few pieces on consignment--SLC department store and a specialty shop in the Park City Ski Resort shopping district. I was relieved to retrieve unsold pieces when we moved. The paintings had become like my children.  I wasn't likely to make much money from this specialty if I couldn't part with the finished work.

Sparks, Nevada was a huge disappointment in the late 70's compared to what I had been use to so far as arts and crafts were concerned but I found a Tole class offered in a beautiful, old Victorian home in what was once the railroad district. It was being restored. What a divine place to paint. It was like hitting a jackpot, finding a small local shop and a Hallmark Card and Gift willing to sell consignment pieces. It was at Tink's that I learned of the weekend painting seminar in Oakland, California. Some of the best Tole specialists were there, conducting classes and painting with us nearly 'round the clock.

Still looking for my personal specialty and a way to earn cash while raising kids, I typed manuscripts, term papers, thesis rough drafts and final, camera-ready copy. Remember, office computers were just coming onto the scene and PC's were still very expensive. IBM Selectric's ruled. There was still a market for a fast and accurate typist. An older man approached me about typing for a book he was writing--a murder mystery. I agreed to do a couple of chapters but found him odd, his writing becoming too graphic. So I raised my price high enough to be beyond his reach. Cre-e-epy! My name was dropped as someone who could do transcription from tape, final copy ready. An insurance adjuster hired me to transcribe depositions for admission in court cases. He supplied me with everything I needed, including supplies and equipment. I was working a full-time job already, so I transcribed late into the night and in my spare time. The adjuster had a partner, his college-aged son. I had spoken with the son several times on the phone scheduling drop-off and pick-up times for his dad. One day he came in person to pick up the transcription, never having done so before. What a surprise he got! I could tell by the expression on his face and his hasty departure that he was expecting someone younger, a pick-up or date prospect but found instead a middle-aged woman with a good phone voice, able to make conversation, and with more padding than just being a little curvy! Poor guy!

So many odd jobs, a specialist for hire using what skills I had.  Those experiences became a part of me.

Coming soon: Off to College at 40-WPM

Please Don't Send Me Flowers Anymore

My love for baking bread came in handy with our move from Utah to Nevada. Friends, Smoky and Dee, opened a little diner on Kietzke Lane in Reno. Serving small loaves of bread with soup or salad was all the rage and they wanted to add that to their menu. They supplied the ingredients. I supplied the labor, mixing dough enough for 100 small loaves at a time, all by hand, in my kitchen. With the first rise complete, the dough shaped and resting in small, individual foil pans, the batch was transported to the diner to be stored in the freezer, proofed and baked a few at a time. Divorce fouled the friendship that began as a couple. My bread baking career was short-lived.

Simmy and I met in a floral arranging class at the community college. She opened a shop in Sparks when classes ended and offered me a job. Foreign born, she was a woman once caught in an abusive, arranged marriage. Children born of such a union became the property of the husband, as was custom. Escaping meant leaving alone. Once in the states, she fought for her daughter tirelessly and finally won the battle. She re-married and built a new life for her family. She worked hard. In the shop, she worked me hard. She wanted her money's worth, and a little more. I was officially on her payroll; my kids worked for McDonald's food, a real treat to them at that time.

We piled into Simmy's truck one weekend. "Where did this woman learn to drive?"  She brought us along to collect as many pine cones as possible to use in the shop. She taught my kids how to wrap wires with floral tape and how to make ribbon bows. The kids, mine and her's, camped out in the back room with snacks and TV if we were working during high production times--holidays, proms, graduations. With just we two, in the beginning, it was a challenge to keep up with orders and if the truck carrying fresh flowers from the California markets was held at Donnor pass, we were finished when we were finished, if and when the flowers showed up no matter what time of the day or night it might be.

During my first week as a florist, Simmy left me in charge while she went to California to buy a few gift items for the shop. I had little experience using a cash register during my salon days. By mid-morning, the register locked, quickly making that an 'exact change only' day. Among the 'treasures' from her trip was the most horrible, gruesome looking, teeth-bared-monkey hanging planter. "That will never sell!" I blurted out as she unpacked her wares. She just smiled. With more customers every day, shoplifting was an issue so she used my son as her security person. He could make conversation, walk among prospective customers, point out merchandise, and keep an eye on the sales floor. Then one day, the unthinkable happened. She and I saw him talking with a woman, browsing as she waited for her flower order. Before leaving the shop, she purchased that hideous planter. Simmy just smiled.

Bessie, another student from our original floral class, came on board as Simmy's partner. The business was growing. I learned to use Tele-Flora and FTD. Through these services, a gentleman located somewhere in the US was a happy customer when I was able to have several dozen red roses delivered to a leading lady as she finished her performance on a stage in Paris, France. We often received orders from men, a bouquet for the wife, one for the mistress. Simmy and Bessie joked about switching the gift cards.

I loved doing detailed work--wedding and corsage pieces, especially. Perhaps it was the influence of her Asian background that gave Simmy such a good eye for big pieces or simple, Oriental designs. We made a good team. Harrah's Casino in Reno hosted a show for florists and designers. She jumped at the chance to show what a small shop could do so we made several designs for display. There was a banquet, convention-like speakers and entertainment. She insisted I attend with her. Panic attack! I felt my kids were at that in-between stage--too young to be at home alone at night, yet too old for a sitter. I had been making do with the same few pieces of clothing forever, none of it anything I could wear to an event of this kind. I knew she would show up in elegant, full-length brocade, maybe a short fur cape, and jewelry. Penney's Outlet to my rescue so I could "Fake it 'til you make it!", as a friend use to tell me. I remember walking through my front door after mid-night, totally drained by the experience and with a headache so bad I wished I could just die right there on the couch, and then was afraid I might. But I couldn't die just yet. I had Valentine cookies still to bake and decorate and make ready for the morning, enough for two school classes--complete with a classmate's name written on each of them.

We had a big order for a wedding, for the daughter of a prominent, local, Italian Catholic family. Bridal bouquets had become something of a specialty for me. I loved designing these and was good at it. "Dress comfortably. You'll be on the floor tacking down white paper carpet for the bride to walk over." The camper shell was again put into service. Simmy situated me where I could balance the big, chapel baskets with outstretched legs, steady pew trims with one hand and hold onto the bouquet and other wedding party flowers, with the other. Again, she drove like something you'd see in a movie, the camper leaning this way and that, driving too fast I thought, then stopping on a dime when she didn't quite make the light! The business could not yet support a delivery van purchase, but after this trip, I prayed she'd give this more thought.

The chapel looked beautiful. Dressed in our 'work' clothes, we were out of there before guests began to arrive. Simmy was tutoring the bride's father on the finer points of walking his daughter down the aisle. It was time to pin flowers on the wedding party and give the bride her bouquet. There was drama brewing between Momma and her daughter. "You've had several fittings, adjustments each time, the last one just last week so why won't your dress zip? Let me try..." Oops! Broken zipper. Time was running short, now. The bride was pinned into her dress. Now Momma insisted that we had forgotten a flower for one groomsman. Guess who made the long walk down the chapel isle, totally under dressed for this occasion, to pluck a carnation from the back of a basket, turn to face the seated guests in the now full-to-capacity room and make that long walk back to the staging area, as though this had been planned all along. In the meantime, what was thought to be lost had been found. Simmy held onto the father's arm until just that perfect moment when the door opened, oohs and aahs were heard from the crowd, then step one, toe pointed to the front, a little kick of the dress... "So after the ceremony, did the bride break the news to her momma?"

Finally, Simmy hired someone to make deliveries, a young guy--long stringy, blond hair, waif-like, thin.  Not finding most residents at home, he simply left each order on a doorstep. Next day, we replaced about a dozen frozen bouquets that had been sent out the previous day. Gave the guy one more chance. Flowers could still be delivered right to a hospital room. Our guy delivered, took a few steps back, then burst into song. Think Tiny Tim. No worse than that. Think Lisa Kudrow of Friends,  no real guitar cords, no tune, made-up words. Worse than that! Our delivery boy had forgotten to mention his intent of using flower delivery to break into show biz! The patient called the shop. "PLEASE, ... don't send me flowers anymore!"

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!
----------

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 .

Sanchez

Ever ride in a rattle-y truck...
All dented and old and dusty?
Outfitted with sand bags,
A big tool box in back,
Paint missing or worn, and rusty?


He was once the new truck on the block,
Now sputters and coughs...turns over.
Wears snow tires in summer,
The roof leaks when it's wet,
True work of art in the mirror.


What great tale has he, could he tell us?
Where has he been-kind of story?
A drive with the older,
Or quick spin with a youth
At work, for a college degree?


Could last night's ride home have been better,
Than most he has given before?
Gram parked the ole' Caddy,
Said, "No need!", to the Dodge,
"I choose Sanchez, Si', Si', Senor!"

Happy Birthday, Jennifer--July 7, 2012

Dear daughter mine...

I've searched Internet archives and have found that nothing remarkable happened in the world on July 7, 1971, ...  until you were born!

On the day you were born,
In the month of July,
Wednesday, an early morn,
Heard the tiniest cry.

All were as excited as
if the Fourth of July.
Was day seven, instead,
Simply to clarify.

Many boy births, surely...
Word quickly spread.
"It's a beautiful girlie!"
Pink bow on your head.

Big brother, awaiting
News of the arrival,
A sister?  No plaything?
Where's the monkey?  How dull!

"She's a keeper," we said.
"She'll grow and get bigger,
And have hair on her head,
Laugh, play and have vigor."

So keep her, we chose to,
And so glad that we did.
Birthday wishes for you,
My Remarkable Kid!.

Love, Mom--July 7, 2012