MY FIRST JOB

Several of us were talking about our first jobs today. Most were fairly typical. Almost all the women began as baby sitters. One was a papergirl. The other fellow worked on the family farm and did that for several years. I had two jobs before the one I consider my first job. I never got paid for the other two.

I began “working” with my brother-in-law at his donut shop. He ran a small corner coffee shop, convenience store and made fresh donuts. He also delivered his donuts to a number of stores. This is before the days of the big donut making machines. He mixed his cake donuts by hand and I learned to hand dip them into the various frostings and top with sprinkles or nuts or candies (just one of those which I made for me). I spend the night at their place and worked for an hour or two on Saturday morning. I helped my sister run the shop while her husband was making deliveries. In retrospect I have no idea how they got me up so early. There was no money, but I could eat all the donuts I wanted. I eventually learned to hate donuts. My mother told me this is what you do to help family. That comment was meant to replace money.

The second job was going door-to-door selling Watkins and Fuller Brush products. My neighbor was the regional distributor for both products. He and my mother talked me into it. I was an exceptionally shy kid and knew I could not do the job. I hated initiating conversations; I never knew what to say. I knocked on about a dozen doors and walked on past two-dozen houses. I sold nothing and got paid nothing and no one turned me away. They didn’t want anything, and I did take no for an answer. These were the days when housewives were at home. I was petrified and no one bit me.

At the beginning of my junior year in high I decided it was time to get a paying job. I searched the paper for jobs I thought I could handle. After a few days of seeing the same ad appear everyday I walked down the hill after school for three days in a row, sat on the bus bench across the street from the shoe store trying to get up the nerve to go in and ask for a job. They were advertising for a part time salesman. I have no idea what made me think I could be a salesman; I reasoned that people were coming in to buy shoes. I was not going to their door to convince them to buy something I was already convinced they did not want.

On day four I went into the store and was a nervous wreck. I was lead to the back and up a narrow staircase to a room that ran the width of the store and had a ceiling that was only five feet high. I walked in with my head bowed and sat next the managers desk. What can I do to help you? I have come to apply for the part-time salesman’s job. He looked at me and smiled then laughed. I doubt you could sell anything. I thought the same thing, but didn’t want to admit it.

Well I do have one job where you might fit in. I need a stock boy two to three times a week. You would be responsible to run stock and unpack the arriving shoes. Are you interested? Yes, very much. I had no idea what it meant to run stock, but I assumed I would be hiding in the back some place. Come back on Monday right after school and we will see if you work out.

I did not breath easy until I got out of the store and was a block away. I was ecstatic. I arrived on Monday and there were two other boys there for the same job. He was going to try us all out before he hired only one of us. I was panic-stricken. The other two were relaxed. They were friends and seemed to handle being there with ease.

We were told to go through all the shelving and take out all the empty boxes and flatten them, then move all the full boxes closer together so there are no spaces. Keep all the remaining shoes in order by size and identification number so they can be found. That is what he meant by running the stock.

We were sent to three different parts of the store and told he would check back with us in two hours. I learned something about shoeboxes from the 50’s. They all had a string embedded around the rim of the box. Every one I tore cut into my hand. I was bleeding slightly by the time I was done. I finished my section in just a little over an hour and didn’t know what to do. I was told it would take two hours. I went back over everything to see if I missed something or moved the boxes wrong. Everything was right. I returned to the back stacks and bumped into the manager. Are you done? Yes sir. He walked through my area told me I did a good job and to come back on Thursday to begin working. I got the job.

I went out and walked a half a block away to the bus stop. I must have just missed the bus because I waited nearly twenty minutes. I saw the other two guys coming out just before I got on the bus. They were clearly unhappy. They gave me a dirty look and I jumped on the bus hoping the driver would close the doors and move immediately. You never know.

HOME OWNER FORECLOSES ON BANK

THIS IS A REPRINT OF A NEWS ARTICLE. I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO HEAR OF SOMETHING LIKE THIS!

By TARA-NICHOLLE NELSON – Mon Jun 6, 4:50 pm ET

In a modern-day evocation of David's slingshot triumph over Goliath, a couple of foreclosed homeowners in Naples, Florida reportedly foreclosed on a Bank of America branch last week, their attorney actually having moving trucks pull up in front of a Naples branch to execute a foreclosure judgment against the bank.

What must have seemed to observers like a scene out of a parallel universe was actually the fair and logical conclusion to a situation which, the court had ruled, had an unfair and illogical start. In 2009, retired police officer Warren Nyerges and his wife, Maureen Collier, paid $165,000 cash for their 2,700 square foot home in the Golden Gate Estates subdivision, and never took a mortgage out on it. So imagine their surprise when, in Februrary of 2010, Bank of America initiated foreclosure proceedings against them. The Nyerges hired an attorney, Todd Allen, to defend them against the wrongful foreclosure, and the Bank eventually abandoned the matter.

But not before the Nyerges incurred $2,534 in attorney's fees, which they requested informally from Bank of America multiple times before resorting to the courts, which ordered the bank to make the couple whole. When B of A still had not paid the judgment after five months of phone calls and letter writing by Allen and the Nyerges to the bank insisting that the court order be obeyed, Allen took the next step in the legal collection process, obtaining an order of foreclosure against the bank.

"They've ignored our calls, ignored our letters, legally this is the next step to get my clients compensated," Allen stated during an interview with CBS News.

Allen then reported to a local branch of the bank with sheriff's deputies, who he instructed to remove cash from the tellers' drawers, furniture, computers and other property. Approximately one hour later, the Naples News reports, the bank manager produced a check for $5,772.88 to satisfy Allen's fees and additional costs.

"We apologize to Mr. Nyerges that there was a delay in receiving the funds," read the bank's written statement to the Naples News. "The original request went to an outside attorney who is no longer in business."

Some might say all's well that ends well in this scenario, seeing as the Nyerges got their home, Allen got his fees and the bank got its come-uppance.

While one or even several of the Nyerges' efforts to get B of A to pay the court judgment might have gone to the defunct lawyer's office, the Nyerges say they actually submitted their pleas directly to the bank, multiple times, to no avail: "I talked to branch managers, I called anyone who would listen to me," the couple told the Naples News. "And I wrote a certified letter to the president (of the bank). No response, nothing." Enough said? We'll see.

RETURN TO NORMAL

Well everything is back to normal at The Home. I knew this quiet and apparent peace could not last forever, and it hasn’t.

Let’s start with Garden Wars. The powers that be finally enforced a statement in our lease by making everyone remove all the junk stored in front of their cars. It didn’t affect me so I really didn’t care. Some had so much stuff there was little room for their car. Two of our residents had so many garden tools they could have opened a garden supply store. They convinced the Housing Authority to install two sheds for the tools. Today, they wanted locks on the sheds (which are stored in the garage). No one doubts that they want locks so they can each have a shed just for their things. However, they were told if locks were put on they would have to distribute keys to all the gardeners. That issue is quieted for the moment but with the gardening season well underway there are still six spots not being used. Our two master gardeners want them for themselves. No one knows how this will turn out. The next fight will be the limited room in the tool sheds. Haven’t heard anything yet, but it’s coming.

Chas has already been under attack. They have four garden boxes that are raised for use by those in wheelchairs or those who cannot bend over. The dirt did not arrive when it was promised and the female master gardener demanded that he move his plants as they were in her way. I don’t know how much more out of the way they could get. They were all sitting in their pots under his box. Of course, Chas has a hair trigger mouth that snaps and bits in a slit second. I don’t know what he said, but they are not speaking. May that continue throughout the summer!

There is a small group who want the right to use the BBQ grill whenever they want. They will not come to the regular Thursday night BBQ’s. That’s because they don’t care for the people who come to that one. The powers that be struggle with allowing them that privilege as they will have to purchase more propane We may also run out of propane for the regularly scheduled times. The battle goes on.

We had a reconciliation counselor speak at the monthly meeting today. I regret missing the meeting but had no choice — the meeting interfered with my regularly schedule nap. Yes, I could have had a nap later, but I have problems with this counselors. I do not like his method (yes singular). He does not know how to bring things to an end. He does not know when to stop. I benefited by missing the meeting.

It’s so good to be back to normal. I missed the manipulation, the behind the scenes plotting, the gossip, the anger and hostility. It is so nice to see the place back to all the same old shenanigans. Life is good.

WHERE DO I PARK?

There’s a scramble for parking at The Home. While a few are finding new spots today, most will begin the search tomorrow. We have all been asked to remove our cars from the garage between 10-4 on Saturday. They plan to blow the dust and dirt out of the space.

First, I cannot imagine it taking that long. I had a larger parking lot in St, Helens and even with breaks could get it done in about three hors. Who knows, they may do a better job than I ever did.

Second, parking around and near The Home is almost impossible to find. Most cars are in the garage. We have eight outside on site parking spots. Three are taken by residents for whom there is no room inside. There is no on street parking anywhere hear The Home. There are businesses directly across the street from us that all have parking lots. Each has posted specific signs directed specific at people who may park in their lot and walk across the street to The Home. The word is “Don’t you dare park here.”

There is a parking lot we are permitted to use at the north end of our buildings. It is owned by the local public schools. It is used for a ball field that has games or practice nearly everyday after school and several games on Saturdays. When the crowds come for the games, they fill that parking lot.

There will be a game tomorrow morning and people will begin arriving between 8:30 and 8:45 for a 9:00 game. We are no required to have out cars our of the garage until 10:00. See the problem. If residents wait till close to 10:00, there will be no parking close to The Home left. They will be pushed out 2-4 blocks away.

I can hear the howling now. This will not be a happy time. I decided to get a jump on the problem and have already moved my car to one of the on site spots. I plan to spend much of the day with my family tomorrow so will be leaving, but is it unlikely I will go before 10:00. I’m glad about that. I am excited about watching the fireworks and hearing the explosions. If you can drive, you can walk, but that won’t stop the screaming.

I just love a good action scene.

IT HURTS

There is sadness at The Home tonight. The reasons are minor in light of tragedies throughout our world, but they are painful here. I’ve always said that the worst pain in the world is the one I am currently experiencing. While that’s not true, it feels like it. We are pretty self-focused. It really is all about us.

Beth got exceptionally bad news about her inability to swallow solid foods and as a result has great difficulty eating. They cannot repair the problem. I know she told me why it cannot be done, but I focused on her loss. She will function predominately on a liquid diet. They will continue to monitor her situation and I am praying for the best.

Margaret has had some seizures at night and they do not know why. She left today for a three-day stay (hopefully) in a hospital where they will induce the seizure to try and figure it out. She is very frightened. Two friends accompanied her since she must be watched all the time.

Chas went to visit his sister today. She lives about 150 miles away. Because he is wheelchair bound he finds transportation – economical transportation – a challenge. He has a buddy with a van who took him. It is a cargo van and has no windows. While the chair was strapped down, his body was rocked back and forth. He could see out the front a bit, but got nauseated and had to lay down as soon as he returned. His sister works for a nursery and he went to pick up flowers for his garden.

Anna is my upstairs neighbor. She is a dog. She was taken out at about 11:00 this morning for a regular walk and drop. However, while coming down the stairs she fell and broke one of her front legs in two places. Gail rushed her to the vet where she was given the sad news and asked what she wanted to do. Anna is sixteen-years-old. Her bones are brittle. He could cast the leg but with her problems the vet could not promise the leg would heal. Gail asked if it was time to make the difficult decision. He said it was. Anna went to doggie heaven. Gail had Anna all sixteen-years. She was a wonderful companion and a terrific dog. She enjoyed people and she was very friendly always looking forward to seeing the other residents. I will miss her running up to see me when we are in the hall. She has suffered from something the past three weeks. This normally quiet dog began barking the minute Gail left and would not stop until her returned.

All these pains are very real to the ones experiencing them. They are not the worse pains one can face, but they are the present pains. We all share in their sense of loss. Beth will struggle, but she will function. We still do not know about Margaret and will not know for a few days. Many are frightened with her. Chas, well, he’ll get over his tiredness. Gail and her family will heal. Anna is out of her pain.

Rejoice with those who rejoice. Weep with those who weep. We care. That is we care about everyone except Chas. I have one thing to say to him: GET OVER IT!

WHY IS IT SO DIFFICULT TO CARE

One of the great mysteries in life is why we treat some people the way we do. I for one think I treat people reasonably well. Of course, what I think and what I do is not necessarily the same thing. That makes it easy to assume I do it right. I’m fair, considerate and understanding — most of the time — I think.

Because we are all human (don’t you hate that expression) we screw up. I do it far to often. So the subject I plan to discuss today cannot be directed at others, but at myself as well.

We have two gentlemen and two women that are the butt of many jokes. The are mocked, made fun of, and generally rejected.

The men I’ll call A and B. The women will be C and D. “A” has been here the longest. He is mentally challenged. He has been hit by cars twice and walks with pain. As he ages he gets more confused and extremely repetitious. He spends a great deal of time talking about his high school and college education. His late teens and early 20’s seem the strongest in his mind. The ridicule “A” suffers is usually anger. Many cannot stand his repetitious stories. It’s true. Most of us could tell his stories for him. What we miss is that his does feel the pain of rejection.

Mr. “B” is also mentally challenged but in a different way. He does not seem to take offense or even seem to be aware that he is the joke. He does not understand the basics of daily living. While he is clean, he is sloppy. His clothes need repair, ironing, hemming. We do not offer to help. He has a caregiver who should care for these things. She does not. He cannot remember to care for routine daily items like taking his medication, remembering his appointments. He is more fun than Mr. “A” because he seem to go along with the jokes made about him. He comes to potlucks and fills his plate 3-4 times. This offends many. He reminds me of the kind of person who has suffered many days without sufficient food and eats as much as he can when it is available just in case there is no next time. He also takes as much as he can to his rooms after the dinner. He has been harangued by several to not just come and eat, but also bring something to share. He now does that, but shouldn’t. He cannot cook and does not keep food stored properly. Most of what he brings is thrown away. Any woman who is kind to Mr. “B” is in danger of being perceived as his girlfriend. It’s scary.

Mrs. “C” as some mental disorder, but it is combined with rocking, invading personal space and coming from behind you and leaning over your shoulder to look you in the face. That is startling. She tends to make people nervous. She is extremely active: involved in square dancing and assisting in a local kindergarten and daycare. She cannot seem to sit still very long. It is her social skills that draw attention and annoyance.

Lady “D” seems to be just socially inept. She struggles with deep depression. It shows and hurts her and others. People stay away from her and speak to her in angry tones. She sat next to me at a recent potluck and can really put the food away. She is hated for this. She started with three dinner plates piled high with food. One is main dishes, the second is salads and the third is desserts. She repeats this for seconds. I worked hard to get to know her. She knows she is a misfit and does not make getting to know her easy. He gives little and feels alone.

The men should be in care facilities. However, unless they become a danger to others, no one here as the right to remove them. They may be a danger to themselves (as Mr. “B” is) but nothing can be done until they hurt themselves, or so we are told.

The women both function at a higher level. They get their share of ridicule, but not like the men.

These four are pretty much despised and rejected. Three of them can do very little to change what they are and how they act. They need compassion and understanding. Why is it so hard to give them a little respect, a little compassion, and a little understanding?

There are a handful of residents who try. Most wish they were out of sight to be out of mind. We might all want the world peopled with only “our kind of people.” It will never happen. Lord teach me to care for the least of these.

I DID IT MY WAY

It is hard to let go. I think it is difficult for all of us. I know my mother struggled letting go of all her children. I left home with the greatest of ease — compared to my siblings that is. Mother never really believed I could leave for long. But of the seven kinds I was the only one who never again lived close to my parents.

It’s not just parents struggling to let go, although that is a big one, Releasing control is often a difficult human process requiring self confidence and personal restraint. While living in Saskatoon (Canada, my dear friends) my youth group and I were organizing a very large regional weekend event including housing about 350 youth who would stay in the homes of various church members. It was a big deal. Several key youth had responsibility for various elements of the organization and program.

On a decorating day, my leader in the arts and decorations approached me with a red face and steam coming out of her ears. She was an energetic, enthusiastic and talented young lady. Why are you redoing everything I do? Good question. I wasn’t redoing everything, but I was certainly redoing some of her work. I just didn’t believe it measured up to the standards I wanted to present and believed should represent me personally.

Dorothy caught me off guard and put me in my place. Why give someone a responsibility of you are not going to let them have some freedom to do it their way. In most things in life, there is not a right a wrong way of doing things. There is only my way and your way (even if we don’t like those options). I backed off. Dorothy did a great job and the event was a wonderful success.

My daughter had to teach me the same lesson again after my wife passed away. There were just the two of us and we were still living in Canby, OR. I was commuting to Salem for work and she was commuting to Portland. I thought we had an agreement. Each of us would put our dishes in the dishwasher when finished. It seemed to be going fine when she stopped doing what I considered to be a simple task. I finally asked her why she stopped. Well, why should I put them in the dishwasher? You’re just going to rearrange them anyway. Good point. I believed I get more dishes in if things were done my way. I have no idea why I even thought that was important.

I know there are some tasks that must be done a certain way. But there seem to be millions that can be approached from multiple angles. My mother tried to teach me to peal an apple pulling a paring knife toward me. I don’t know if it is my left hand or what, but I could not do that. I could get it pealed and it tasted the same, but was not the “right” way to do it.

The big BBQ was Monday and I did not go. I was calm and had no problem living with the consequences of several of my appointments — that was until the stores started coming back to me yesterday. Apparently they began barbequing at 9:00 a.m. for a 4:00 meal. Immediately I was sure they were cooking from rare and the correct way in my mind was to boil the ribs until they were about to fall off the bone, soak them in sauce overnight and then warm them on the BBQ. That way it doesn’t take very long and you can keep the ribs coming without long waits. Apparently more than half the ribs were cooked in the oven.

I had an emotional fit. That explained why the ribs brought to me were tough. I was internally frustrated (a nice word for furious). That is not the way it is done.

Fortunately I kept those thoughts inside my head and my mouth shut. When I calmed down I was reminded there is more than one way to skin a cat (wait it was ribs?). The ribs were cooked. People were fed. They were happy. What difference did it make if those in change did it their way? I’m not real sure why it mattered, but I’m sure they screwed up.