Green Lights

Long Beach, New York. New Year's Day, 1 January 2015, 12:30 a.m.

Beating Against The Current

The above photo is from a recent job fair I attended. The opportunities offered were mostly sales positions at communications, life insurance, and health club companies; NYPD and NYFD recruitment; and temp agencies shilling for resumes.

The end of the year 2014 still finds me, brain atrophying, working as a part time law firm receptionist, where the phone is often an inarticulate instrument. My hours, recently cut, have been rearranged and pasted on to additional days, necessitating an increase in the gasoline budget. Bills from the two colleges my youngest children attend arrive every month like proverbial Swiss clockwork. Our post-Hurricane Sandy bank account remains as empty and infertile as the drought-stricken California farmland; replenishment from my end looks to be as unlikely as a forecast for a steady, gentle months-long West Coast rain.

The past year’s efforts at finding full time employment in the midst of the stagnating recession simmered occasionally, and then iced up, because of what I can only perceive to be the unwillingness of the ironically named human resources departments to see beyond the middle-aged face to the value inherent in an older worker.  What I can offer is a fabulous work ethic; kick-ass writing, editing, and proofreading abilities; professionalism and a dedication to client satisfaction; a good working knowledge of Microsoft Office Suite; insatiable curiosity; and a desire to add to my knowledge base by any training that might be offered.

My half-a-dozen interviews for executive support, office management, and administrative assistant positions culminated in nothing except despair; several expressed interest in a second meeting but led in every case to radio silence and an occasional regretful e-mail relaying the fact that someone else was a better fit. What might lie ahead in 2015? More of the same, I’d wager. But still, to paraphrase Fitzgerald, I beat on against the current of the modern, job-seeking reality and persevere with an optimism that becomes harder to maintain.

For more on the subject of the pervasive ageism rampant in the American job market, read Ann Brenoff's article, highlighted by Huffington Post editor Shelley Emling as 14 Blog Posts from 2014 That Everyone Over 50 Must Read.

 "5 Years After I Lost My Job:What's Changed?
"http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ann-brenoff/being-laid-off_b_4949989.html

Nurture and Nature

Well, she might not have empty pockets, but she surely has an empty nest. This is how one woman filled that ineffable need-to-nurture void. Julie Salamon, from the New York Times.

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/09/05/filling-the-empty-nest-with-animals/?module=Search&mabReward=relbias%3As%2C%7B%221%22%3A%22RI%3A10%22%7D

A Child of Air

To Any Reader

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

As from the house your mother sees

You playing round the garden trees,

So you may see, if you will look

Through the windows of this book,

Another child, far, far away,

And in another garden, play.

But do not think you can at all,

By knocking on the window, call

That child to hear you. He intent

Is all on his play-business bent.

He does not hear; he will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of this book.

For, long ago, the truth to say,

He has grown up and gone away,

And it is but a child of air

That lingers in the garden there.

Empty Nest/Empty Pockets, Indeed.

Before college costs are considered, rearing a middle-class child in the northeast U.S. is estimated to be about $300,000. Check out the latest, from the Associated Press, via the New York Times:

http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2014/08/18/business/ap-us-parenting-cost.html?ref=business

Jobs I Have Known

The first job I ever had of course, being a female who came of age in the 1970s, was as a babysitter.  In those days, the going rate was a buck an hour regardless of how many kids you were saddled with; discussing this once with my sister-in-law, we agreed that maybe if the couple was generous, they threw in an extra quarter on New Year’s Eve. Twenty years later, I was astonished to discover that a good babysitter was a treasure to be hoarded at the rate of ten dollars an hour. I have four children, and let me tell you, I was grateful to pony up the dough every single time. Today my youngest daughter babysits for two kids and she makes fifteen dollars an hour. That is more money than I am making now, with a B.A. in History (and let’s not forget the minor in Middle Eastern Studies) as a part-time law firm receptionist, where I answer the occasional phone call, copy endless legal documents, and get giddy with joy when I have to use 21^st century technology like the scanner.

In my late teens I worked at McDonald’s, wearing the obligatory polyester uniform, but that was fun, because it was a snowy winter that year, and my boyfriend would wait for my shift to end out in the parking lot, car heater on full blast, chilling a 6 pack of beer in a snowbank. We later moved to North Carolina, where I was a very bad waitress – indeed, I still suffer from the occasional waitress nightmare wherein the joint gets slammed and I am all alone in a packed restaurant and everyone is yelling at me. 

So I realized a restaurant career was not in my stars and turned towards yet another typically pink-collar way to earn a living and became a secretary, and excelled at this, because I was much better at typing and organizing and wearing cute outfits sitting in a cushy office than I was at slinging hash wearing a knee length navy blue dress and a pair of sturdy white shoes.  But as I moved up the corporate ladder to ultimately become a partner’s secretary at what was then called a Big-8 accounting firm, my soul shrank at this altar of the worship of Ronald Reagan, and when I got pregnant I happily fled salaried employment for the joys of raising children in suburbia. Supported by a husband who made a comfortable salary and was quite happy to come home every night to a house full of screaming children and a hot meal, I joked that I now worked for room and board and an occasional topaz necklace.

But I was uneasy. Didn’t feminists warn against the trap of a career in homemaking, from which so many women couldn’t extricate themselves when marriages turned sour? Luckily my husband is a good guy, and proved it by putting me through college, one class a semester, starting when my youngest entered kindergarten. Ten years later the economy imploded.  Of course it was then that I graduated.

People complain all the time about how hard it is to find a good job.  They are not lying. I’ve researched companies both profit and non, corporate and government, tailored enough cover letters and sent off enough resumes and writing samples to line the walls of a small house, which, for all I know is where they remain, for it is very seldom that I hear anything again from these places, and your guess is as good as mine as to how - or if - once discarded, they are used. Perhaps they are downloaded and printed, and serve as entertainment at holiday parties, or used as decorative displays in the offices of Human Resources all over New York City, or are folded into paper airplanes and flown across cubicles during those stressful times before the end of the third quarter, when a demand for levity becomes a necessity. I’d like to think they are put to some good use, instead of floating endlessly in a virtual trash bin in the netherworld of the Cloud. I suspect, though, that I think this in vain.

So I soldier on, beating against the tide, in the hope that one day I will have the ability to amend this amusing little diatribe with a footnote stating that yes, I managed at last to find ennobling employment. I can only hope that this happens before my husband decides to retire.

History. Everywhere.

Twice a week I pass these Bryant Park beauties on my way to the New York Genealogical & Biographical Society, where I am currently having lots of fun doing historical research using J.H. French's 1860 Gazetteer of the State of New York (which you can access for free at archive.org, if you're into that kind of stuff.) The first time I saw these horses rearing their heads by the 6th Avenue park entrance, I thought of Hector, the Tamer of Horses - or Breaker of Horses, it depends upon which translation of The Iliad you hold close to your heart - but it turns out these are scaled-down models of a hundred foot Falkirk, Scotland sculpture entitled "The Kelpies." Mythological, water-borne horses, Kelpies were said to haunt the loch and river waterways, transforming into lovely women to lure men to their deaths. But the sculptor, Andy Fox, by using native work horses as his models, and Scottish iron in tribute to the glory of its industrial past, created these images to pay homage to Scotland's history and resilience, which in light of the vote for Scottish independence in September, holds great resonance within the UK right about now.

History binds us, ties us, to the past and the present.  Look up.  It's everywhere.

For more information on "The Kelpies" follow this link:
http://www.thekelpies.co.uk/

Money. That Clinking Clanking Sound.

Too many of us have not yet received the promised financial assistance from New York State via the New York Rising program, and this demonstration in Island Park, NY  protesting the snail's pace of recovery, was held two weeks ago, concurrently with our counterparts in Brooklyn. It was bad enough that FEMA's help in the direct aftermath of Hurricane Sandy was arbitrary and inconsistent; the wounds have only multiplied 18 months later as debt increases, hope wanes, and government incompetence has driven so many of us to the brink of despair. We soldier on, wading through snarls of red tape and the complaisance of our elected officials to force action for those homeless with a mortgage, or for those seeking some sort of reimbursement for home repairs that drained bank accounts dry.

Long Ago and Far Away

Last week I started a part-time volunteering gig at the New York Genealogical and Biographical Society in Manhattan, an organization partnered with the New York Public Library to help people research their ancestry. I’ve assisted in indexing a section of the 1855 New York State Census (Manhattan’s 17^th Ward)  which is partially damaged from a long-ago fire, but with portions still intact I came across the name of a George W. Matsell while idly perusing the types of mid-19^th century occupations. He is listed as the Chief of Police, and my interest was piqued because my father-in-law was a 40 year veteran of the New York City Police Force retiring with the rank of Captain in 1986. Matsell was actually the first police commissioner of New York City, and in 1849 helped protect lower Manhattan from the violence of the Astor Place Riots which pitted nativists against immigrants in what has always been the ongoing quest for cultural and political supremacy in New York. But he also was a sort of Renaissance Man – prior to joining and helping to revamp the police force, he was merchant sailor, owned a popular bookstore on Chatham Street (now called Park Row, near City Hall) specializing in freethinking philosophy and spiritualism, and upon his retirement as Chief of Police published a book of criminal slang entitled The Secret Language of Crime: Vocabulum or The Rogues Lexicon which is still in print.

Great riot at the Astor Place Opera House, New York: On Thursday Evening May 10th 1849

Creator(s): N. Currier (Firm),

Date Created/Published: New York : Published by N. Currier, c1849.

Retrieved, Library of Congress Website, January 15, 2014. http://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/2002695805/

The 17^th Ward was located in today’s East Village, and although the street address is not recorded, it is noted that Mastell lived in a brick dwelling that was worth $7,000 and there were 10 members in his household including his wife, Ellen, 4 children, 3 boarders and a 20 year old Irish servant named Catharine Murther. By the time of his death in 1877 he was residing on East 58^th Street. He left behind no descendants, but a hell of an obituary in the New York Times. http://query.nytimes.com/mem/archive-free/pdf?res=F70E15FD3D5A1A7B93C4AB178CD85F438784F9. He is buried in the graveyard of Trinity Church.

If you are interested in reading more about the Astor Place Riots, I highly recommend The Shakespeare Riots: Revenge, Drama, and Death in Nineteenth-Century America by Nigel Cliff.

Sandy: The "Gift" That Just Keeps On Giving

Above, The Interfaith Nutrition Network (INN) locations. 

According to the Department of Agriculture, in 2011 there were 320,000 Long Islanders - more than 11% of the population - that were termed "food insecure."  Government cuts to the food stamp program and the continuing economic impact of the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy has exponentially increased the need for social service aid on Long Island in 2014. One organization helping the hungry and homeless in Nassau and Suffolk Counties since 1983 - Interfaith Nutrition Network (INN) - has responded to the increased need for support by expanding their operations to include 19 soup kitchens. Among them is the Long Beach Food & Frienship INN, sorely needed, because in addition to the region’s tepid recovery from the Great Recession, here in Long Beach the Long Beach Medical Center, which pre-Sandy was the city’s largest employer (1,200 workers), remains shuttered.

In today's Newsday, there was an interesting article:

“Stressed-Out Safety Net”

LI Charities provide more help for the hungry as food-stamp grants are cut

By Carol Polsky

Newsday, January 6, 2014

“Although the reduction of benefits has been painful for some families, the larger issues are unemployment, or under-employment, and low-wage jobs as well as the financial impacts of superstorm Sandy, pantry workers said.”

If you’re interested in learning more about Interfaith Nutrition Network, check out the video below.

http://www.the-inn.org/home/the-inn-agency-video.html

Adventures in Editing

The Advent calendar on the laundry room door, circa 2001. My youngest daughter and her cousin play with post-Christmas plunder.

This was my first experience with what is termed "the editing process." The first iteration of this post-Sandy Christmas story was a blog post in early December.  I re-worked the piece and submitted it to the New York Times for their consideration and wonder of wonders it was accepted. The editors (there were several) were wonderful, especially Mike Winerip, the editor of the Booming blog to which it was sent. Mike made it clear from the get-go that the essay - with my input and approval - would have to be edited because of time constraints.  Which was fine with me  - who am I to argue with the New York Times?  The result is a better linear narrative, and I have to say I have rarely been as thrilled as I was when I saw the essay in print this morning in the Metropolitan section of the Sunday Times.

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/22/nyregion/after-hurricane-sandy-reclaiming-christmas.html?ref=booming

Advent

We had an Advent calendar, purchased when the children were young that I never liked very much.  A wall hanging of a gold-knobbed Christmas tree above 25 tiny pockets stuffed with festive items like toys or candy canes or reindeer heads or Santa’s disembodied face, it was hauled out every December 1^st   (when I remembered) from the attic eave where it had been gathering dust since the previous January. The calendar was soft, and made of cloth, because in those fraught days of rearing four children under the age of five, I had learned the hard way, many times over, of the perils of having fragility within the easy reach of small, curious hands. So I passed over lovely advent medieval styled structures made of wood with hinged doors, and I passed over cardboard Gothic churches with stained glass windows, and there was even something from the Metropolitan Museum of Art that I had my eye on, but ultimately Lillian Vernon won the day and so began eighteen years of something I didn't even know was a sacred and cherished family tradition, until this year, when the calendar went missing. I had, of course, forgotten that I had thrown it out with the rest of the post-Christmas detritus two years ago, until inquiries were made by my eldest daughter and my eldest son hazily recollected my perceived betrayal. It must be understood that the calendar was discarded because it was broken; nevertheless, howls of outrage emanated from upstate New York, and western Massachusetts, and Hell’s Kitchen, and Bushwick, where the children are now scattered, in college, or starting their independent lives.

The reason it took two years for this lack of my foresight to come to light was that last year, at this time, our family was still displaced by the after-affects of Hurricane Sandy and the holiday I managed to hobble together after the devastation of the region, our neighborhood, and our home, was rather meager compared to previous bacchanals. Bereft of well-loved and remembered decorations, because frankly, there was not an inch to spare as the six of us were crammed into two upstairs rooms, I remember how grateful I was for the invention of etiquette, for that thin veneer of politeness was what prevented us from killing each other. And so we lived to see another Christmas.

I question the value of an Advent Calendar now - especially because, for our family, it is purely secular.  Is it time to declare a moratorium on childhood pursuits such as countdowns to presents? Or is there something else at work here, a kind of seasonal alchemy that revisits the magic - and surely there is no greater magic in this world than happily remembered childhood Christmases - and solidifies the grace and love of family?

The 15-Second Elevator Pitch Fail

Perusing the items displayed at a private sale I attended yesterday, I came across this beauty.  Perfect for the smart, metropolitan career woman, I couldn't justify even my fashion lust for this bag, because I am not a career woman - smart, metropolitan, or otherwise.

It is said that a 15 second elevator pitch is necessary to brand oneself, and even that I can’t do, as evidenced by my conversation with a woman I’m pretty sure writes for the New York Times, as we pondered the merits of the satchel’s python leather. When asked, “What do you do?” I was spontaneously, spectacularly inarticulate.

Note to self:  Work On This.

Musing About Second Acts

This book, O My America! by Sara Wheeler seems like essential reading for me right now at the age of 54; my children still evolving but essentially grown, my formal education complete, and a recession-driven drought of applicable jobs for this mid-life, math-phobic, technologically rusty woman. Wheeler profiles six 19th century English women who fled to the U.S. after rejecting the belief in the culturally ingrained idea - still so prevalent today - that once you hit the age of 50, life remains static, its usefulness gone. I am besotted by these women, this author, this seizing of life. Because I am still boiling, still seething, with the mad desire to create, to experience, to teach, to do.

Read this kick-ass review, by Caroline Moorehead, in today's Wall Street Journal:

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424127887324747104579024960285940366.html

Life's Lemons into Limoncello

Dr. Norman Rosenthal, author, The Gift of Adversity. “Look within to gauge your worth rather than depending on institutions or the opinions of others, for institutions rise and fall and fashions come and go, but a good sense of your own value will see you through life’s ups and downs.” Read Jane Brody's column in the New York Times.

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/09/09/lifes-hard-lessons/

Ten Months On

The gutted downstairs of our home, late November, 2012:

Today:

They Call It Hurricane Sandy. October 28, 2012.

 

Where I live: the south shore of Long Island. Pondering Hurricane Sandy and the media hysteria.  To evacuate, or not to evacuate? Too soon to tell whether the chattering heads are on the money or not, and in the meantime, I'm getting ready for my first day as an "Associate" at an upscale housewares store at the local mall. Haven't worked holiday retail since a stint at Toys R Us in 1977.  Despite the fact that myriad submissions of resumes, cover letters, writing samples, and multi-page on-line applications to government, corporate, and non-profit entities have yielded no responses whatsoever in the almost two years since I've graduated, my motto remains "Onward and Upward!"