For the day - 8.31.05

By now, most of you who read this post (what few there are) know that once again, I'm out of a job. As of last Friday, I became one of many for whom "position eliminated" is the answer given to the unemployment office question: why did you leave your last job? Of course, usually that's a reason given to one in a larger company, not in a company with 15 employees. There are only so many positions you can have within that small a company, no?

Whatever the reason, or cause, or true motive, I find myself in the position of being on permanent vacation; at least, permanent until I find something else. Luckily for me, my skills are usable and marketable, and I don't generally have trouble finding positions. Finding one that will make me happy is much larger on my agenda right now, subject to monetary concerns, of course. I'm two for two on being happy (or unhappy, as the case may be) in my last two jobs, so a position where I feel challenged in a productive, growth-oriented manner has become a target of mine. I'm tired of just working a job; I want something that I can see myself doing for years.

I'd almost forgotten after last year just how much I define myself by my work. I know that men have dealt with this phenomenon for years; after all, fathers were historically the breadwinners, bringing home their paycheck to their doting, stay-at-home wives. Since I've been the primary source of support for our family for so many years, though, I've become accustomed to phrasing my sense of self-worth in the words of what I do. And when that safety blanket was pulled from beneath me? I felt less than worthless, a failure, adrift and helpless. I'm fighting that now, reminding myself that it's just a job, not who I am; my work is only what I do for some number of hours during the day to be given a few dollars to pay bills with. It's all well and good to remind oneself of that; it's another thing altogether to live it for any length of time.

Dear reader, keep me in your thoughts, or at least pass along any hot leads on employment. Maybe this next career will be the one that sticks.

For Mama

This is a story memory of a little black dog who was long-lived and frenetic, fuzzy and companionable, sometimes nuts but always loved.

Pogo came into our lives in the fall of 1987, a tiny mutt from the humane society who fit into two outstretched hands. At that point, she was regularly beaten up by the cats, but she had a fierce heart and stubborn will that never gave up. Pogo was always "Mama's dog;" I always got the feeling that she gracefully tolerated the rest of us humans, but she dearly loved my mom. I don't think a night went by without Pogo in Mama's bed.

Pogo outlived the company of three other dogs: scatterbrained and ditzy (but lovable) Danna, affable and consummately laidback Hannah, and changeable Taffy. Pogo loved her companions, and grieved sorely when they passed on. I'll never believe anyone who tries to tell me animals don't feel sadness and pain and emptiness.

Even through the physical ailments of old and older age, Pogo never stopped being happy when you came to visit; she'd drag herself up from her nap and hobble over, stiff-legged, to get a pat on the head and give a lick in return. I hope I have half the good nature and sunny outlook as Pogo when I reach the equivalent of her age.

I hope that a doggie heaven exists, because surely Pogo deserves to be able to run through the tall grass and chase chipmunks and dive for rocks once more, unencumbered by the limitations of life.

Pogo, you are and always will be tremendously missed.

Odd thought

Heard this morning (on NPR, of course) that many Iraqis are dissatisfied with the long gas lines they have to wait in to purchase gasoline. Long gas lines? Don't they make gasoline in their country? What's the deal? That would be like having a shortage of Milo's hamburgers in Birmingham (for those of you not aware of these delicious morsels, the sauce is to die for). Just doesn't quite make sense to me.

Open letter to the young - 8.12.05

Yeah, maybe I am old and bitter and jaded. At least I have a more realistic view of the world than you. Just look at you -- young and high-spirited and stupid and sure that you're going to change the world, singlehandedly. Let a few years go by, and you'll see that the more the world moves on, the more it refuses to really change. Oh, you think you're the first generation to be really interested in making a difference -- just like my generation was sure that we were going to be the ones to change everything for the better, and my parents' generation before mine, and their parents' before them. The world's a wheel, and we're just clinging to the spokes.


-- Yes, I was in a particularly bad mood during lunchtime, when I wrote this. No, I don't think today's youth are very responsible or responsive, even though they think they know everything. No, kids, you really don't.

Editorial for the day - 8.1.05

It angers me to see a homeless person begging at the entrance and exit ramps of the interstates I travel each day. Why should that be? Am I callous to their pleas for help, their need and lack of life's barest necessities? I don't think so; I've been on the receiving end of Medicaid and the WIC program in the past. I've swallowed my pride, did my time in the public health clinics, and moved on.

Nor do I begrudge those in real need the money and aid given through food stamps and housing subsidies; I feel a moral and social obligation and duty to help those whom I am able to. Yet the sight of someone panhandling for spare change can set me off. I think it's the sheer nerve of asking something for nothing in return -- there is no offer of work to be performed in exchange for cash, no bartering of services here, just wanting a simple, unfettered handout.

Perhaps I grew up in a family too proud; we never had much, but what we had, we worked for. We went without health insurance due to the cost; we wore handmade clothes and grew our own vegetables because it saved money. We never, ever, however, reduced ourselves to asking for assistance, and although my family pride might have been taken a bit far, it's the mindset I grew up with and remain in possession of to this day.

I understand there are those less fortunate; I truly do. I am not naive enough to believe that our social services programs make it easy to receive necessary help. But I do not believe that begging is the way to go about living -- I cannot begin to imagine the depths of self-loathing I would have plummeted into to allow myself to beg.

This may sound harsh and unfeeling; I do not mean to come across as though I do not care. Perhaps this issue hits a nerve because I did grow up with very little, and have been overcoming that situation for my entire adult life. Perhaps I am jealous of their refusal to work a stable, ordinary job, and instead crave the freedom from convention they exhibit. Perhaps I'm too much of a Republican at heart. Whatever the reason, it's one I feel important to explore, lest I teach my children apathy and discompassion.

Red metal toolbox

Some of my fondest memories of childhood are wrapped around my grandparents, and especially my "Grendaddy." Not that I don't love and cherish my grandmother, but since my grandfather died of cancer eight years ago, the remembering comes more bittersweet, and more suited to my usual frame of mind.

My grendaddy was a contractor; he was actually a plasterer by trade, but he could do just about anything in construction that can be done. I know he wasn't perfect, but in my young mind's eye, he was darn near omnipotent.

Grendaddy had a red metal toolbox that I remember seeing on most every jobsite I ever visited. This was the old-style toolbox, a Craftsman from Sears, heavy and solid and the universal construction worker's emblem. I tried to pick it up once or twice, not that I was actually able to; I think the box weighed more than I did. I tried, though -- my greatest desire was to "help." Looking back now, I'm sure my cousin and I were always more of a nuisance than any aid, but my grandfather was consummately patient, allowing us to "pick up" the toolbox (with his doing most of the work), so we could say at the end of the day that we, too, had "worked."