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Flashback Friday - The Job I Never Thought I'd Do

In 1980 I had moved back to Florida and the relationship I went back for ended almost as quickly as it had started.  My life took on a look I didn't recognize.  At 28, I  was living in the back bedroom of a friend's mother's house.  My own mother had remarried and her new husband wouldn't allow her to let me move back home.  Wow.  In hindsight I can understand his feelings, but at the time it was quite a shock to realize I couldn't go home.  

After a month or so my ex put me in touch with a friend who was looking for a roommate.   She was my age, so I decided to move.  That seemed one step better to me...to be in the company of a peer.  It turned out to be pretty austere though.  I was given a room, a shelf in the refrigerator, and had to smoke ( I did at the time) out on the patio.  There was little conversation.  She was miserable and grumpy most of the time. 

Oh yes, I was feeling pretty humbled. I had gone from living independently in Atlanta and New Orleans to this.

Work wasn't going much better than my personal life.  I had left my job with The Hartford Insurance Group to go to Florida and now I was doing clerical work in an insurance agency owned by the parents of a high school friend.  That job ended rather abruptly when the father made a move on me in the hallway.  Of course nobody believed me and my friendship ended when I left the job.  Then I got a job at an insurance agency near where I was living.  That agent ended up being a tyrant and I ended up being a nervous wreck. 

Yes, while others were well established in their marriage, their career, and home, I was  now  29 and feeling pretty rootless...not to mention miserable.  At about this time, my ex told me the Miami-Dade Corrections Department was hiring - it was the Mariel Boatlift time - and suggested that I apply.

At first I poo-pooed it.  I mean after all, I had graduated college.   I wasn't about to take a blue collar job, let alone one as nasty as I imagined this to be!  No, I was waiting for a position with an instructional design firm in Orlando to come through.   But that job was contingent on them getting a contract with the Navy, and I was waiting and waiting and waiting.  

More time passed and I got so miserable that I finally decided to take the job with Corrections...just until something else came through, of course!  Frankly, I wasn't sure at all I'd pass the training academy.  Here's a picture of me while in training. Notice the curls and the skinny body!

I actually ended up doing very well.  That I did well academically didn't surprise me, but what did was my ability to master defensive tactics moves and qualifying as an expert marksman. 

The job turned out to be just what the doctored ordered.  It gave me financial independence and restored my self confidence.  I ended up staying...even when the other job came through. I had enough sense to understand I needed stability and security.  Through the years I moved up in rank and had several jobs.  In addition to basic jailing assignments, I was in charge of the training academy for five years, ran the house arrest program, and through the last several years was the department's accreditation manager.  I loved my work, though not always the system I had to do it in.  Sometimes it was  oh so hard not to walk away.  But I stuck it out for the big carrot at the end of the stick.  It made all the difference. 



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Flashback Friday - Century Village

After graduation from college, I moved back to south Florida.  Not a smart career move, for certainly had I wanted to break into the broadcasting industry to pursue work using my degree, smaller markets would have been better places to go. No, this was a move of the heart...the first of many.  I suppose I could have had I opted to volunteer at a station or work for next to nothing, but those days were ones of independence and love and impetuous behavior.  Living at home with my mother was out of the question. I needed my own place and a decent salary to pay for it. I scanned the want ads for a job.

The job I got was "teller" at American Savings and Loan Association.  My first assignment: Century Village in Deerfield Beach.

It was one of the first self-contained retirement communities in Florida. Almost every need was available on site, including a bank...ours.

I had had some exposure working the public back when I was a cashier in a grocery store, but dealing with the little old ladies who insisted on double bagging and complained of high prices was scant preparation for what I was about to experience here.  I had now moved into the big league.   

In those days (1975-1976) S&Ls offered a variety of gifts for opening new accounts.  Scales, cookware, alarm clocks, decorative pieces. I used to joke that people were decorating their homes in "Early Savings & Loan". Customers left happy when they got the latest addition to their home, but things didn't always turn out so well.  Gift supplies sometimes ran out.  Then happy turned to mad.  Real mad. So it wasn't unusual to see the customers already lined up in the hallway when I arrived to work. You'd have thought we were handing out theater tickets for a Broadway show. 

Sometimes, there were even fist fights. You read that right...physical altercations over a cheap piece of junk.  I would watch in disbelief as the branch manager would go out to break it up. Then, with order restored, they'd come into the bank and acted as if nothing at all had happened.  I was quite bewildered.  By and by all these shenanigans became an ordinary part of my work day. I surmised that these seniors from NYC had fought for a seat on the subway all their lives and now, well now...they had just changed venues.

Post Note
Some of the people at Century Village ended up becoming like family to me. One time, I even got invited over for dinner.  Of course, we ate on Savings & Loan dinner plates and drank from Savings & Loan glasses!

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Flashback Friday - A European Adventure

In the summer of 1972 I traveled to Europe with a backpack, a Eurrail Pass, and two-hundred dollars in my pocket.  I was joining  up  with a high school friend who moved to Frankfurt with her family the previous year. The plan was to use her home as a base and travel around the continent for two months.  I arrived on my 20th birthday.

After a few days of settling in, we took off for our version of a Grand Tour of the continent.  We traveled by the seat of our pants, going here and there on a whim...traveling by train and sleeping in hostels.  Here I am taking a sunbath in Austria:

By and by we...or more accurately, she...got a whim to go to England to visit a friend of hers. To get there, we had to go through Paris. That's where we would catch the train that would take us to the ferry that would cross the Channel.  As it happened, the train didn't leave until that night so we had some time to kill.  We decided to kill it by going to see the Montmartre district.

It didn't take long for two Parisians to approach us for a pick-up.  My defenses went up but for some reason we decided to go along with them. It ended up that these guys showed us a great time...and showed us the area in a way that only locals could.  Then, at the end of the day, they escorted us to the train, gave us each a rose, and said good-bye. Wow. I chastised myself for being such a distrustful American and vowed I'd be less fearful in the future.  Little did I know I'd soon be testing that conviction.

After spending a week or so in comfort and ease at her friend's home, we took the ferry back to the Continent. We landed in Dunkirk late in the afternoon having never given a thought to the fact that we had  no French currency in our pockets. The local guest houses wouldn't take foreign currency and there were no big hotels...at least none that we could afford. Things were getting desperate as daylight started to fade. Then suddenly we hear a voice from behind asking us if we needed help.  Two men.  I can't speak for Cindy's state of mind, but despite my promises of being more trustful, my defense instincts kicked in and I declined their offer. They persisted, and after a few more failed attempts to get a room, my defenses got weaker and the memory of our time in Paris got stronger...I gave in.  We accepted their assistance to help change some money for us. 

Here comes the good part:

They took us to a nearby cafe. We got dinner and while eating, the two of them were having a conversation in French (one of them couldn't speak English).  After a bit, the one who could speak English turned to us and said his friend had use of his parent's flat and that we could stay overnight there if we wanted.  By this time, we had totally lost our edge and we accepted.  I can hear your moan, but...we were young and invincible...and besides, we didn't see what else we could do. It was dark now.

We walked to the flat...and yes, it was in a seedy area at the docks.  It wasn't much more than a downstairs  living room with kitchenette and an upstairs bedroom/bath. There was an unmade sofa-bed downstairs.  We were to sleep upstairs...they would sleep on it.  Yeah, right. But I still didn't bolt.  Keep in mind I was trying to atone for my past transgression of distrust.

They left and we got settled in. A bit concerned, I asked Cindy "what will we do when they come back?" Her answer came in a rather cavalier tone: "we'll just tell them we're lesbish."  What??? This didn't sound like a good idea to me, but that was her plan.  We latched the door and went to sleep.  We just crashed in our clothes...a fortunate occurrence...because a few hours later, sure enough in they came, bottle of wine in hand. Some latch. 

Cindy saw the wine and perked up, but I feigned sleep. The guy who could speak English sat down on her side of the bed, poured some wine for he and Cindy.  While this was going on, the other guy tried to wake me, calling "Juen, Juen, Juen".  He was totally drunk.  In time and after a few drinks, Cindy and her guy started making out. I'm over on the other side still pretending to be asleep thinking this can't end well.  My guy is still pulling my arm and calling my name. Then...suddenly...Cindy decided that things were going too far. She pushes her guy away. He resists.  She blurts out THE words: "We're lesbish".  Oh no...it's time to get the hell out of there! I sit up and get up and head downstairs. I knew we were in for it now. 

Cindy's guy looked like he had just put his mouth on garbage.  He says angrily: "Why you let me kiss you if you're lesbish?" I never heard her answer. She managed to get around him and out the door behind me and we rush down the stairs only to find the front door locked. We were trapped. 

Now this one guy is really pissed. He has Cindy pinned up against the hallway wall repeating his question over and over.  While this was going on my guy was trying to pull me onto the downstairs bed. I don't remember how, but he and I eventually ended up joining them in the hallway.  He says something to me in angry French and slaps me across the face.  Holy shit. Meanwhile, Cindy's guy is threatening her with a gun.  OK, I'm sufficiently scared.  I start to dry heave and at that, my guy says something even more angrily and hits his head against the fuse box.  I'm thinking my head's next, but at that, he opened the door and let me out.  Evidently, he wasn't turned on by the heaves.  Then, in a moment, Cindy followed. Our nightmare was over.  It was 4 a.m. 

We walked towards the only place we could think of to go: the train station. As we did, Cindy proclaimed: "I could have handled them". I glared, but  didn't bother to respond.

We slept on the sidewalk until the train station opened and then, took the first train to anywhere.  Anywhere ended up being Brussels. We crashed for 24 hours in a hostel and then went on to Amsterdam where Cindy immediately got her pockets picked.  She decided that was enough. She went back home to Frankfurt.  Me?  I went on. 

More Flashback Fridays can be found here.

Flashback Friday - Door To Door Sales

This job in my long list of jobs stands out as being the worst. I once made reference to it in a Sunday Scribblings post that called to write about our First Job/Worst Job. For those who might have missed it, here it is again in the form of a Flashback Friday.

Shortly after moving to Atlanta in the 70s, I got a job selling a photo development and photo album package door to door. I surely must have been delusional when I took the job.

My friend and I (the same one who moved with me to Greensboro) decided Atlanta was where we'd be able to fulfill both personal and professional needs.  Moving to "Hot-lanta" as it was called back then, was like moving to the Emerald City. C got a job in the mortgage industry again, but rather than go back to being a teller, I decided to try something more exciting with more potential.  Like I said...delusional.

I don't recall who the company was but I do know that the target audience for my product was newlyweds and couples who were expecting a baby.  After all, who more than they would want to take pictures and have a mighty fine album to display them in!?  I memorized a long sales pitch to deliver and went out to make my fortune. 

I never, ever had a problem getting in the door.  I was non-threatening looking, and now as I think about it, I was probably pathetic looking too. In I'd go and after going through a few moments of niceties, I started. I'm sure my little schpeel sounded mechanical, but back then, I thought it went  without a hitch...that is, until I got to the point of closing the deal. Invariably, I would hear the words:  "that sounds very nice, but we really can't afford it right now" or something to that effect. And of course, they couldn't!  They either had amassed a mountain of bills from their recent wedding or they were expecting a mountain of them from the birthing of their soon to be child.  Duh!!  Here's how I came to know I wasn't cut out for sales:  instead of working these people over and convincing them to ignore reason, I would look around their living room and say to myself "your right, you can't afford it and you shouldn't buy it".  I almost apologized as I left.

I'd leave empty handed...over and over and over again. In two months, I never made a single sale, I used up money I didn't have on gasoline, and I was miserable. When I could no longer fill the tank, I quit. I quit and I moved on.   

Post Note
I tried once more to sell door to door...this time, selling advertising in the "Interstate News" to businesses along the highways in the area. I was sure that this was going to be different. After all, all businesses needed advertising, no? This little free paper would be a wealth of information to travelers about what they could find at the exits in front of them. It was sort of a AAA trip-tik.  But alas, not many were interested in it.  The paper went bust and I was out of work. Thank goodness my job with The Hartford Insurance Group came along...but that's another story!

More Flashback Fridays here.

Flashback Friday - First Snow

The year I moved out of Florida it snowed in Miami. I missed seeing that, but I did see snow...my first snow...up in Greensboro, North Carolina.  The year was 1977. 

I had moved to Greensboro with a friend in late 1976 without job or a place to go. We had a dog, our clothes, and some record albums, but nothing else.  In keeping with the good luck of my life, we landed on our feet.  We found jobs and a place to live and I found myself loving everything about my new life.

I became a teller at Gate City Savings and Loan and worked at its Guilford College Branch...a house converted...complete with fireplace.  Working with me was middle-aged woman country woman Nola, young filly Carolyn, and good-old boy manager Mike.

It was Nola who took me under her wing. She taught me about the local ways, brought me home-made pies, and loved having me around to talk about Carolyn. It was she who taught me how to build a fire, and come winter, I joyously got the fireplace going each morning. 

Then, one winter night the same system that brought snow to Florida came through Greensboro and I woke up to a wonderland of ice and snow. After a   few minutes of admiration and pleasure, I dressed for work. I was especially looking forward to getting the fire going that morning!

Driving in was precarious, but I managed. I was actually quite pleased with myself being my first time and all.  I got to work anxious to boast...but nobody was there.  I started a pot of coffee, got the fire going and waited. Nobody showed up.  At 9 a.m. I unlocked the doors...nobody showed up...not even customers.  Finally, Nola did.  When I told her I had been in since 8 o'clock or so, her eyes popped out and she proceeded to give me quite a scolding for having driven in before roads had had a chance to be cleared...for not knowing enough to stay put.

My "antics" became the talk of the town...and I became the silly girl from Florida.  Here's the picture she took later to commemorate the day:

Recently I had the occasion to travel through Greensboro. I was dropping off some wares for a Floyd potter on my way down to Florida.  I decided to take a small detour and go find the place where this photo was taken. Gate City Savings & Loan was long gone, but perhaps the building would be there in another form.

I found the area so changed that I didn't recognize anything.  Had it not been for the Guilford College campus, I'd never have known I was even at the right place. I found myself repeating my oft repeated poem:

The time is gone
It isn't there anymore
The place it stays
Different than before.

Flashback Friday home is here.

 

Flashback Friday - In The Army

In 1972 a woman I knew talked up the idea of joining the Army for a couple of years in return for the terrific benefits that would come from it.  She evidently convinced me and my friend since we signed up...for something called "The College Junior Program".  Here's how it worked:  you signed up the summer before your senior year of college.  You'd go spend that summer with them at Fort McClellan, Alabama. Then, if selected, the Army would pay your senior year college expenses in return for two years of service upon graduation. Entry rank: Second Lieutenant.  It sounded pretty good to me. I figured "what's two years! I'd likely have plenty of jobs that lasted only two years." 

So off I went...my friend too. We joined a group of two-hundred women with the same idea and spent two months in uniform. Here's my friend and I posing in our new duds. I'm on the right.

Here's another. This time we're in our fatigues.  Now don't we look like we're ready for war!

Most of our time was spent either in school learning how war was waged, at PT (physical training), or drilling/marching.  Here I am donning my gas mask...from the looks of it, BEFORE getting gassed. If you've never had the pleasure, trust me, it's not much fun.  Little did I realize then that I'd end up being gassed again ten years down the road as part of my training to become a correctional officer.

It was total immersion into their culture and it didn't take long to become indoctrinated and to feel part of the team.  Heck, I actually found myself thriving on the whole experience.  To me, it felt like the summer camp I never went to and the group I had never been accepted into. I didn't even mind that I had to spend the entire time sleeping on the floor in the room next to mine.  My roommate snored like an elephant and sleeping through it was out of the question. My young body managed fine...and it had a bonus: it eliminated my need to ever make my bed.  Consequently, I never got gigged on my bed for not being up to snuff. My friend, on the other hand, was not so enamored with all this lock-step stuff. I don't recall that she ever liked it.  She had more sense than I!

By the end of the summer I was feeling pretty sure that I'd be one of the chosen ones.  My grades were good and I was doing everything right.  But alas, it wasn't to be.   

It was a shock: despite having placed 15th in the class, I wasn't selected.  I don't recall how many they took, but certainly more than fifteen. It was sobering, and it was my first taste of failure.  Never before had I set out to do something and not succeeded. I was so very disappointed.  I really wanted to be selected...and needed to be too since spending my summer with them meant I hadn't earned any money for school. 

The Army never told me why, but I later pieced together that they had selected those who were "Army brats" or those who could speak a second language. Of course, they encouraged me to join whenever I liked...as a private.  I never did.  My friend wasn't selected either.

Our lives went on. I managed to get a college loan, finish school, and then proceeded to have that series of those short-term jobs I spoke about...all of which had nothing at all to do with my degree.

I sometimes wonder what my life might have been like had they selected me.  Who's to say. Twists and turns...twists and turns...

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Flashback Friday - Nova High

In 1960 the Broward County Public Schools and Ford Foundation entered into a joint project that became known as the Nova Educational Experiment. The project's goal was to create a cluster of schools on one site that would span from elementary to university level education. They had just the place for it too: Forman Field. Forman Field was a vacated WWII naval aviation facility which was located in the then rural and mostly unpopulated areas of Broward County. Perfect. The first school opened was Nova High...my alma mater. 

It opened just as I was entering Junior High (as it was then called). Nova High was actually a six year Junior-Senior High School combination. I began attending in 7th grade and stayed there through graduation in 1970...just the fourth class to graduate at the school. If you didn't know my age before, now you do!

Nova was a special place indeed. 

Thanks to its connection with the Ford Foundation, it had an experimental approach to learning backed by lots of funding to do it. A student would be associated to a particular grade level, but s/he progressed academically at their own pace. In other words, an 8th grade student could be taking a 10th grade level science class, a 9th grade level math class, and an 8th grade level English class all at the same time. Nobody had to be bored waiting for the least able student to "get it". They just moved on.  I'm not involved with schools at all, so I don't know if this sort of thing is commonplace by now, but it was revolutionary then...and it worked.

Nova was also special for its social atmosphere. It was the first school in the area to integrate. Integrate racially...but too, geographically and economically. Since Nova didn't belong to one school district, kids came to it from all over the County, and as a result, I was exposed to and interacting with kids who were different than me on all of these demographics. Amazingly, for all this diversity, there wasn't much ostracizing that went on. Of course there were cliques...what group of teens didn't have them...but for the most part people got along and were friendly toward one another.  It didn't matter who you were or what your background was.

And finally, Nova was a special place for me personally. It provided the common space for me to meet two dear friends there who are still a big part of my life: Meg, whose family became my surrogate family...and Jana, who is a soul-mate and has been by my side now for close to forty years.

Attending Nova wasn't automatic.  You had to apply. There was a waiting list to get in and many kids waited years to be accepted, if they were accepted at all. My brother and I got in because our mother worked for the attorneys that helped with getting the school set up.  They liked Mom and moved us to the top part of the list. Contacts do make a difference. But of course, had Mom not had the resolve to get us in, none of that would have mattered.  Our going meant her paying tuition instead of paying nothing to attend a free public school. The tuition wasn't much, but any amount made a difference to a single mom on a budget.

I'm forever grateful for having had the opportunity to go there when I did. It made me into someone different than who I would have been had I gone to the neighborhood school. I learned so much on so many levels. Thanks mom!  You did so many things right and this was sure one of them. I wonder if I told you enough that I thought so.   

For others' Flashbacks, click here. .

Post Note
The original dream of having a cluster of schools on one site was achieved. The site and immediate surroundings now has two elementary schools, a middle school, a high school, a community college, a university (Nova Southeastern) regional campuses of two other universities (Florida Atlantic and University of Florida), and a technical school. 

The Nova Educational Experiment ended in the 1970s and the Ford Foundation departed. At that time, total control of the Nova schools reverted to the Broward County Public School system. The extra funding stopped and entrance requirements were relaxed, but it maintained its dedication to progressive teaching techniques. Students still have to apply to attend and are selected at random each year. There's no waiting list anymore.  If you don't get in you have to reapply each year.

Flashback Friday - Dodgertown

In 1948 the Los Angeles Dodgers...then the Brooklyn Dodgers...made  Vero Beach, Florida their Spring Training home for the first time. Dodgertown was born.

Now sixty years later, Dodgertown as we know it will cease to exist. Tradition be hanged, the Dodgers are following the trend and are moving to Arizona. It's a sad time for the area, and for me. You see, Dodgertown is part of my history. 

My family has Brooklyn roots. They lived on Glenwood Avenue, which is just off Bedford Avenue, which of course, is the street that Ebbet's Field  used to be on. 

Gramp was a huge baseball fan and would go to Dodger games whenever he could. Usually, he'd take my mom along.  They watched greats like Pee Wee Reese, Jackie Robinson, and Roy Campanella.  Oh how I wish I could have been there! 

Their game day outings went on for years until finally, our family moved to Florida. And of course as luck would have it, the Dodgers beat the Yankees in the World Series the very next year. Oh My God! It was huge. Here's Gramp, Mom, and Dad having a good time celebrating while in Miami. I'm sure it was killing them...especially Gramp... not to be in Brooklyn to see it first-hand.

Back when I was a young girl, a trip to Vero Beach was a big deal.  There were no interstates and a ride up from Ft. Lauderdale took a lot longer than the 2 1/2 hours it takes today. Consequently, while we continued to be Dodger fans, we mostly went to Yankee games since they played in Ft. Lauderdale. That wasn't too much of a hardship. After all, those were the days of Maris and Mantle. What more could a kid ask for! 

But at least twice each spring season, we'd go see our Dodgers.  We'd all pile into the car and take the trip up to Vero Beach.  My brother and I would gather our autograph books and off we'd go.  We didn't have Jackie and Pee Wee and Roy anymore, but we did have Sandy Koufax, Don Drysdale, and Maury Wills . Win or lose, it was always a wonderful time.

Time passed and life went on. I grew up and moved away.  Gramp and Mom died.  By the time I finally returned to Florida, my interest in baseball had  waned.  But last week when I read in the paper that the Dodgers were leaving, something inside me stirred and I knew I had to go see them one more time for old times' sake. 

I got tickets to see the final game.  The very last one.  And today's the day. I'm piling into the car and taking a sentimental journey up to see Dodgertown for the last time.  Judy's coming along, and I have a feeling Gramp and Mom will be with me too!

More Flashback Fridays

Post Note
For those who may be wondering, "Friday Facts" hasn't disappeared for good.  I've just decided to mix it up a bit.