Working in America

If you've ever had to take a job you didn't particularly want just to survive, this might interest you. Back in May 1984, I walked across the stage at Stetson University Commencement and took an M. A. degree in English. I was sufficiently impressed, but after the ceremony I still had no job! I counseled with an older and definitely wiser friend, the result of which I became willing to take what I could get in order to contribute my fair share. There was no room for choosy at this point.

I don't why I applied at Yellow Cab of Orlando, Florida, but I did, and they hired me. I worked for a division of the company, Winter Park Cab, which I thought would provide a slightly higher level clientele, as Winter Park is a very upscale neighbor of Orlando (snobbish even when out of work). Thus began one of the most interesting work segments of my life. Twelve hour shifts were the norm, as one simply couldn't earn enough money to make it worthwhile if he worked fewer hours, and I arose at 3 or 4 A.M. each day so I could have a choice of cabs before everybody else on the day shift got to work.

Each driver was considered an "independent contractor," which meant a couple of important things to the worker. First of all, he rented his cab for a fixed amount of money per day, paid for the gasoline, and kept what was left. On a good day back then, it could exceed $100.00, the emphasis on "could." An "independent contractor" also received no benefits whatsoever. So the family that owned the largest taxi company in Orange County, Florida, made piles and piles of money while the drivers toiled for what was often pennies. Nothing new here.

Now here I was working out of a very well-to-do little town, expecting to receive tips that reflected the affluence all around me. I would carry suitcases up stairs, help old folks in their walkers and wheelchairs, anything I could do to not only be of assistance, but generate a decent tip. One trip I still remember which was filled with difficulty resulted in a tip of ten cents, a dime! What I learned in this job was that the people who seemed to be doing well were no better tippers than the people who weren't.

One enjoyable part of my job, however, was talking to people, drawing them out, then letting them tell me about their lives. The older people, in particular, loved having someone to whom to tell their stories. It was living history for me and a chance for them to be recognized. One couple I remember clearly had lived all their working lives in Manhattan during the '30s, '40s, and '50s. They were theatre goers and had seen all the great actors of their day. They talked of their former lives with warmth and not a little bit of nostalgia.

So, because of my work as a hack, I always tip well when I get good service. Even if the service isn't sterling, I still tip. Only when it's truly horrible will I forgo leaving a respectable amount. Once, at DuPar's Restaurant in Studio City, California, I left one cent, a penny. I'm not proud of it, but that meal was the worst instance of lousy service I had ever encountered up until that time. But I know what it is to work for tips. So I rarely forget those who do. And you shouldn't either!

Advice From A Usually Inept Consumer

Although I ordinarily wouldn't shill for a product of any kind (unless, of course, I was paid huge sums of money), I must share this with the average guy and gal who doesn't have a lot of discretionary income. An extended warranty on an automobile is a great idea!

Many products offer extended warranties, but most of them are simply cash cows for the seller. The products on which they're offered simply last, obviating the need for extended coverage. Take my vacuum cleaner as an example. We've been using it for years and years without problems, yet I was "talked into" an extended warranty by the salesman. It was money wasted, and most products fall into this category.

An automobile, however, is a different animal altogether. Years ago, in 1991, I bought a 1990 Toyota with about 16,000 miles on it. I also purchased an extended warranty. I drove that car over 120,000 miles, and my extended warranty saved me over $1000.00 when the entire radiator system had to be replaced. I know the warranty didn't cost that much.

And today I drove home from a Chrysler dealer's service department in my 2003 Chrysler PT Cruise Turbo, bought new in October 2003 and covered by an extended warranty. The repairs to the rack and pinion steering would've cost me over $900.00, but my warranty reduced that to a $50.00 deductible. Opting for extended auto warranties is one of the few consumer options in my life for which I made the right decision.

I hope this small piece of wisdom will help one of you out there as you try to navigate our sometimes overwhelming consumer culture.

All The Help I Needed

Yesterday, I accidentally deleted two posts on my blog. Being the
technological retard that I am, it wasn't surprising, just irritating. However, I
went to the Help section of this system, posted my question, and received a solution
in a very short time. Thank you, whoever you are, as I also lost your address later.

The Golden Years

As people age, the most striking and disturbing aspect of the process is, for some, the usually slow, but sometimes sudden, loss of independence. And a person simply cannot understand what that means until he or she experiences it.

In 1962, I started college as a married father of two, soon to be three. I had completed my military obligation and was working for the U. S. Postal Service. I attended college at night. My grandfather, born in Southwest Georgia just before the turn of the 20th Century, was slowly fading, approaching that long night we all face. His health would never improve, and he would die in his own bed during one of my infrequent visits with him.

During his decline, I contributed little to his comfort, ran no errands for him, took him nowhere. I did take some of my precious time to visit him during his last hospitalization at the Veteran's Administration Hospital. It was convenient, as the hospital was within walking distance of the University of Alabama Extension Center, which I attended. Later I went to the house which he built and I grew up in, and I shaved him, as he simply couldn't do it for himself. With no tone of anger or reproach, he asked me if I could visit him more often. I said yes, of course. But I didn't visit him more often. I spent more time with Chaucer and John Keats than I did with the man who had given me so much and had tried to teach me how to be a decent human being.

I look back on all that now with some added clarity, for my own world has grown smaller as my health has begun to decline. I'm in no way as sick as my grandfather was, but my degenerative spinal condition and my lung disease have definitely made me more dependent on others than I ever thought I'd be. It would be very difficult for me to live alone today, and my wife does things for me that I used to not even think about as I went about my daily life. At the time of my grandfather's death, I was healthy, robust even. I often worked 50+ hour weeks in a physically demanding job and attended college, too.

There is nothing I can do to change the way I acted in the past. I can only hope that my grandfather somehow knows how much I regret my selfish behavior. I still say to him how sorry I am.

As W. B. Yeats wrote, " 'All that's beautiful drifts away/Like the waters.' " Yes, it does.

I Still Miss Los Angeles

I know L. A. is crowded. I know that the traffic is horrible. I know that people aren't friendly, sometimes even rude. I know the city is fueled by narcissism. But I still miss Los Angeles.

My wife, Jane, and I were living a regular, mostly pleasant, life in Winter Park, Florida, in 1986. We had friends. I had a tenure-track teaching job at Valencia Community College, and my wife was employed in alcohol-drug rehabilitation. We could've easily gone on like that until retirement. But in our mid-forties, we wanted a new adventure. The place we chose to have it, after some serious consideration, was Los Angeles, California.

I had been to L. A. many times over the years, and I had enjoyed each and every visit. Without being able to explain exactly why, I always felt better there. I always enjoyed the atmosphere in every sense of the word. And I had wanted to live there for a very long time. In 1981, before we married ourselves, we were invited to an old friend's wedding, a man I had known since 1964, when we were poor college students in Alabama. He had come to L. A. to become an actor, which he did. Having just received a small inheritance, Jane agreed that we should go. So we did.

My old friend and his lovely bride were married on the beach as the Pacific Ocean gently slapped the sand. It was a lovely ceremony, and the restaurant facing the beach housed the reception. Sorry to say that this nice beachfront eatery was destroyed by one of those awful Pacific storms which occasionally threatens everything on or near the water. Anyway, on that wedding day, a good time was had by all. Jane loved Southern California, and we subsequently talked often about returning. We finally made the decision in 1986.

We drove into SoCal on January 6, 1987, under a double rainbow that arced over Indio, California. It seemed like a good omen, if you believe in stuff like that, and what followed was almost 20 years of the best and worst times of our lives. In Los Angeles, my wife's professional life simply soared. She serendipitously entered a very special field which not only paid well but was very interesting, too. I was able to experience the best years of my work life teaching at several community colleges and universities in the area. I also worked a couple of years at Paramount Pictures, where I saw things I never dreamed I'd see. The worst times need no description, as they were far outweighed by the best.

However, one very, very important reason for our going to Los Angeles had to do with our ongoing abstinence from alcohol. My wife and I have been members of a well known "self-help" group since the 1970s. Becoming a part of that group saved our lives, as it has hundreds of thousands of others since its founding in 1935. So, when we attended my friend's wedding in 1981, we, of course, attended some meetings of this group in the city, and what we found figured prominently in our decision to move there. It was the best we had seen in our many years of affiliation.

Even though the principles and guidelines for living that this group espouses are the same all over the country and in the many nations in which it is also active, some areas are simply stronger, in a word, better. We're still members of this wonderful organization as we live in Minnesota, but we both miss the way it's done in L. A. We always will.

An Apple A Day-Part I (Originally Published 3/23/07)

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I enjoyed nothing more than teaching, which I worked at for only about 20 years of my working life. I came to it late in life, at the age of 43, but I came to it with a passion. There were several reasons why I finally chose the path that I had been thinking about for years and years.

The first reason is probably the fact that I, myself, loved going to college and graduate school. I was lucky, too, in that I had almost 100% excellent professors and instructors, no matter the subject. I was an excellent student when I wanted to be, which was most of the time, and I had always been intellectually curious. Another reason is that as I worked in other fields, I missed the give and take which had always been a part of my classroom activity as a student. Finally, I wanted to continue learning in an active way. And I did learn from my students, at least as much as they learned from me.

After a tour in the U. S. Marine Corps, I returned to Birmingham, Alabama, and went to work for the U. S. Postal Service. I was 21 years old, and it was the best job I'd ever had. But early on I knew that a career in the post office wasn't for me. So I took the requisite tests to enter the University of Alabama Extension Center on the southside of the city. This was several years before it all became The University of Alabama at Birmingham (U. A. B.), which was to become my alma mater. I entered the Extension in September 1962. I graduated in the second graduating class at U. A. B. in 1971 with a B. A. in English.

When I entered that first English class in the Fall Quarter 1962, I met a woman who would change my life, Elizabeth Brock, PhD. Dr. Brock was a formidable intellect, a great teacher, and the first truly liberated woman I had ever seen. Any student could see that she believed without qualification in what she was doing, so it was easy for me to believe in it. She encouraged me in my writing, pushed me to keep polishing it. Things she said to the class I still remember clearly, and I decided that if majoring in English could develop such a person as she, then it was for me. Someone once asked me what I was going to do with a major in English. My reply was simple, "Enjoy it." I was able to contact Dr. Brock a few years ago at her retirement home and tell her what she had meant to me. We both enjoyed the conversation very much.

In the summer of 1964, I transferred to a well-respected, private, liberal-arts college, Birmingham-Southern C0llege. Once I adjusted to the pace of the place, I even made the Dean's List while working full-time and trying to support a family. However, I also partied too much, lost my job, and left school. In the Fall of 1969, I returned to U. A. B. with a resolve to finish, which I did. In June 1971, with my wife, 3 children, and grandmother present, I walked across the stage and took my degree. I was worth every late night study session and every sleepy day.

After getting a job in the federal service, I began graduate school at U. A. B. on a part-time basis in the Fall of 1972. Again, I loved the study, and I loved the academic atmosphere. I studied on a graduate level until I transferred in my work to Florida in December 1975. Of course, my graduate study was interrupted -- until September 1976, when I began a course of study at Stetson University in DeLand, Florida, another well-respected, private, liberal-arts university. I finished my course work in 1979, but due to family problems, didn't submit my thesis until November 1983. It was quite well received, and I was quite relieved. My grandmother attended that graduation, too. And the M. A. led to my first teaching job in September 1984 at Valencia Community College, Orlando, Florida. I walked into that first class scared out of my mind, but a few sentences later, I was right at home, happily at home, feeling that I should've been there all my working life.

Help!

My total technological ineptitude resulted in the deletion of two posts to this blog: "I Still Miss Los Angeles" and "The Golden Years." Although I know that my blog is read by few people, if anybody made a copy of either or both, please leave me a note in Comments. These two posts were pretty good, I thought, and I don't know what else to do but ask for help.

Pain

I can't remember when I lived without pain, daily pain. It was just a few years ago, I'm sure, but it's difficult to be clear when your every day is begun and ended in pain. I have a degenerative spinal condition, probably genetically passed on, and arthritis, but the pain used to come and go. When it decided to stay, I opted for surgery. Although the specific kind of pain I had before surgery was relieved, another kind has taken its place and restricts my life immeasurably.

There was a time when I didn't understand why anybody would want to take his own life. I no longer feel that way. Although I don't want to check out right now, I'm beginning to understand why people would. As one's world gets smaller and smaller, it's not much of a life. Add almost seven decades of living to it, and looking ahead seems almost ridiculous. So, if you're young and healthy, stop a moment and savor it. You will surely age, and you may break down.

Have a good weekend. If only I could get rid of this damned pain!

Minnesota

Even though I live in Minnesota now, I've blogged about nothing but Southern California. After 20 years in Los Angeles, it's hard to shake the dust off and clear the lungs from foul air. So, let me tell you about the most noticeable thing in this area -- it's called "Minnesota nice." It's an actual, living phenomenon, such that newspaper columnists here use it on a regular basis to describe local behavior. It's not that there aren't gangsters and other assorted bad apples, but the majority of people here are so nice that I would almost love to hear someone honk his horn and hurl epithets at me as I cut him off on the freeway!

Actually, after my two decades in L. A., I was taken aback by the politeness here. I hadn't experienced it in years, since I left the Deep South. I was raised to be polite, to say, "Yes, ma'm," "please," and "thank you." But after all that time in La La Land, I almost forgot what manners are really all about. The people here are truly well-mannered and polite. But they're also rather reticent emotionally and one has to reach to find a real sense of humour. Yes, they're much too earnest. But if I had to choose this attitude over the one prevalent in SoCal, I'd take this one every time. If I could only bring the L. A. weather here! It snowed April 3, 2007, my 25th wedding anniversary. And we're expecting 2-4" of snow tonight on April 10.

If you're looking for a nice place to live, full of very nice people, Minnesota is the place to come. But bring some sunshine with you.