A lot of my current OS reading bumps against employment, lack of employment, new employment, lost employment.  Thankfully, I have found my niche.  In it I will stay until I wear nothing but the rattiest of clothes and the wooliest of socks roaming at will and undisturbed in some cabin of the mind.  In this blog, I  look back over my employment history, which I share more as a stream of consciousness than naught:

My father, paralyzed for over a year after triggering a mine in a field, drug a fellow soldier to safety.  He received recognition for valor, and proudly wore  his shrapnel with every limping ache for the remainder of his life.  During these years I distribute poppies in honor of my father and others who have served.  My teacher publishes one of my poems.

Age 1o, Greeting Card Sales.  

Without parental discussion, I order a salesbook from the back of some household magazine.  I earn my first commission check selling cards door to door among track row houses in Santa Maria, California.

 Age 14, Hostess in a steak house.

Greeting guests is half the fun.  The completing half is the time I  spend with the bus boy in the back, age 16.  He is my constant companion for the next six years.  He teaches me to shoot a gun, drive a car, swim across a lake, dive into bottomless pools,change a tire, make pottery, siphon gas, put newspaper in shoes when hiking in snow, fillet a fish, pitch a tent, drink a cold one, and sleep under the stars.

Age 16, Cosmetics Clerk

Cosmetics is a mere fraction of this job.  The local drugstore.  Photography, gifts, milkshakes,  pharmaceuticals, candy, and yes, occasionally cosmetics are all part of the package.

Age 17, Child Attendant in a Nursery

One year of keeping infants after school, and I know I am in no hurry to mother a crying babe.  I receive 2nd place in a poetry contest in a national magazine.

Age 18, Steak House Hostess

A Different location from the previous role, this spot opens my eyes to what really happens when some customers come through the door.  I learn immediately the politics of seating, and the do's and don'ts of observing who has tipped whom and for what.  I also learn that some managers are sleazy, and some are not.

Age 18, Hostess, an Exclusive Club on the Links

I can't serve the drinks, but the big guy wants me to wear a cocktail dress each night to seat the gents.  The job requires little more than greeting and seating, and swiping a card.  The satin and heels: pre-requesite.  I win a regional poetry contest.

Age 18, Waitress in a Pizza Hut

Off to college, I am now a regular high tip earner.  It isn't long before I am asked to become assistant manager in the place.  No thanks!  I only want to work long enough to flee in search of (all places) Hallmark!

Age 19, Ice Cream Parlor Server

Both parents are now disabled and I am paying my own way.  I take the job because it presents hours that I can squeeze in before the nightly waitress shift. Lots of customers. The wrists get tired, and the mopping at the night is a bitch, but the music is loud and the tip glass fills.

Age 19, Reader 

This "as needed"  job requires a regular reading to a gentleman who is blind.  We become friends, and the pay from the government is like manna.  I think I can add reading to the mix, and I do for the next year.

Age 20, Typesetter, press operator

A fast typist. Before I know it I am "heading" up the art department.  I can't paint or draw a stick figure, but I can design a brochure.  Copy is creative.  Slicing and dicing is tedious.  Printing requires a trained eye.

Age 20, Carpool assistant

What can I say?  My parents are ill.  I need more money, and the boss needs someone to take her children to the private school each morning.

 Age 23, Publisher's Assistant, Chief of Design

WTF.  Back in design again.  This time I am creating book designs on a third floor.  Writing catalogs, writing blurbs, scheduling junkets for the boss.  Occasionally I publish a poem.

Age 27, Teaching.

 How did I get here?  I've had the coursework completed for the degree since 21.  Why now? From here out, I learn my trade.  I earn a second degree, and then a third.  I teach English, Journalism, and Photography.  I take first place in poetry and first place in photography in a literary magazine.  I earn a top score in the Asheville Poetry Slam.

Age 39, School Administrator.

Divorced. My parents are deceased. The children are growing.  Principal.  Director. The next years are a whirlwind of sweat and skill.  I complete the coursework for my last degree.  My position changes and promotions follow.  I've published a few more poems, a few more pictures.

Age 42, The Columnist.

In addition to administrative work, I begin to publish regularly in an area newspaper.  My articles are mostly about the characters and places I've come to love in the foothills and back-roads of country life.  Occasionally I publish a poem.  My readers write and call the editor, asking for more.  I am happy with this work. 

At 47: Then, The Contemplator.

I quit.  Resign.   Adiós.  I fly to Alaska.  I seek nature.  I meditate.  I begin writing again.  I stay home for a year, loving my own nest.  My own space.  My own quest. I knit bad socks. I paste poems on brown paper and paper entry walls.

 Today, Somewhat the Virtual Worker.

I return to the world of work, though slightly different in concept and pace.  Although I  work day work, I also work night work.  I write contracts, and grants, and  grade long into the night.  The money allows me to take care of life.  I write on Open Salon.  I write elsewhere on the net.  Occasionally I publish a poem.

Tomorrow,  Being.

When I am in the stage of the being, I write more if I am observing.  I  write more if I am breathing.  I write more if I am living.  I write more if I am being.  I wear warm Merino socks.  I write poems.