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.