Say My Name!

 

 Many children go through a phase where they like to write their name on EVERYTHING.

With all due apologies to my sister for calling her out, she went through a phase where she did it. CAROL on her toys, CAROL written down on all her papers and books, CAROL on her clothes, CAROL written on paper in different forms and styles, CAROL inked on her body (not permanently, of course, - this was the 60s, and she was early elementary).

I didn't go through that. I looked at what she was doing and thought it was silly, borderline obsessive, and a bit narcissistic. But, heck, she was just a child. I was probably the weird one for not doing it.

And, yes, she did grow out of it.

Once in a while, however, we do run across someone who never grows out of it. Someone who insists on slapping their name on everything. 

Guess who that is?

They have 'branding' as their number one asset.

And it's getting as obnoxious as all get out.

Can there be anything more narcissistic and borderline evil than wanting to slap your name alongside a beloved assassinated president's on a performing arts center that you really have nothing to do with?

Imagine wanting to change the planned renaming of an aircraft carrier from black Naval World War II hero Doris Miller to Trump.

Sticking your face on money, passports, airports. Is there anyone who doesn't think the ballroom will be called the Trump Ballroom? The Trump Arch?  

He hates Obamacare. If he could eliminate that program, and recreate it exactly as it was, but call it Trumpcare, he would be the happiest camper on Earth.

Trump Accounts. Trump tariffs. Trump Steaks. Trump casinos. Trump University. Trump Tower. Trump, Trump, Trump.

He honestly thinks the more he sees his name, the more popular he is. The longer his legacy will endure.

But he's just a child. An 80-year-old man-baby.

There is very little left from my sister's name-writing stage. The toys and notebooks are gone. The name on her skin has washed away. But that is okay. Because that phase has long been over, and she knows who she is, and doesn't have to have her name everywhere for those who love her to know what a special woman, mother, and grandmother she is.

Give it time.

All this coloring his name on everything will quickly wash away once he is gone. Because, unlike my sister, he has not built a mature legacy- very few will love or remember him. And no matter how much he tries to scrawl his name over everything, that fact won't change.

I can't wait.

Until next time,

T. M. Strait

AOC '28

Suddenly Seventy

 

What? How did this happen?

I'm not sure, but oops, there it is! Nothing I could do about it.

We spent the last week in California, meeting my oldest son, Greg, my middle son, Doug, his wife, Paige, and my one and only grandchild, granddaughter Retta, who is all of three years old! I'm not posting many pictures of this glorious event, as Doug and Paige do not want Retta's image to be shared on social media. Given the awful nature of our times, I agree with their decision. I might post other pictures from the trip at some point.

I am including a picture of me on my 70th birthday. I'm wearing a cap I got from our visit to Disneyland. It states Disneyland, authentic, original, established 1955. Just like me!

Yes, I'm as old as Disneyland. I'm not in as good a shape, but I haven't had as much money spent on my maintenance as Disneyland has!

Really, the only things that make me aware of my age are mirrors and arthritis. Most of the time, I'm still a young kid reading comic books, enjoying movies, eating pizza, and spending time with those I love.

California was a risk, in that I was afraid of a flare-up of arthritis pain, making it difficult for me to do things and keep up. I asked, "Please! Just let my arthritis stay away while I'm in California!"

Sure enough, it did! Now that I'm back, it's starting to flare up again. I asked, "What's up? Why am I getting it now?" The answer? " I gave you California! You didn't ask for anything after that!"

Oh, well.  

No, I don't have everything I dreamed of as a kid. I'm not famous, not as a writer, not as an actor, not as a politician (that last one may be a blessing, but really, whatever my flaws, I couldn't be anywhere as bad as the Orange Despot).

But, in reality, I do have everything that I want. A beautiful, loving partner, three successful and kind sons, an amazingly gifted granddaughter, a supportive church, a wonderful library, and so much more. I may not be a professional actor, but I've been in over a hundred plays, a body of work that encompasses a tremendous variety of roles. I may not be a professional writer, but I have self-published books and maintain this blog, which has garnered over half a million views.  

I've had ups and downs, calamity and heartbreak, success and failure, but through it all, I've always had what's most important, in family and friends. And at 70, that is what you cherish most.

I'll keep this positive, and not deal in this post with what an absolute nightmare the politics in this country have become. I just pray that it eventually straightens and I get to see it.

Until next time,

T. M. Strait

AOC '28

Dolly Takes a Bath

 Dolly* was huge. Almost as tall as Carol and me. Here we are, all dressed up in our Easter best. I'd hate to think that doll came to church with us. Surely, I would have remembered that if it had happened. But the only way to be sure might require extensive therapy.

Carol also had a Barbie doll. It was very early on, one of the originals, or close to it. Unfortunately, Carol does not still have that doll. If she did, she might have been able to pay for one of her kid's college education.  

Alas, I am the reason she doesn't have it. One fine day, her brother decided to find out at what temperature Baribe would melt in the oven. Weren't I special?

Dolly is long ago, too. I'm not sure what happened. It could have something to do with drowning,

You see, one fine day, my sister decided that Dolly needed a bath. So, she drew water in the bathtub and placed Dolly in the tub, naked, facedown.

And then, as children are wont to do, she went to play someplace else and forgot about how she had left Dolly.

Mom was looking for Carol. She couldn't find her. And then she opened the bathroom door.

The wailing and screaming could be heard throughout the neighborhood. "CAROL!" she screamed. She grabbed her, fearing it was too late, pulling her precious daughter out of the tub, ready to do whatever it took to revive her.

"Mama," Carol said as she entered the bathroom. "Is Dolly all clean now?"

Mom looked at Carol and then the Dolly. She threw the doll down and started screaming all over again. "Carol! Don't you ever scare me like that again!"

Yes, with all the noise, I had also come around to observe some of this. I was relieved that even though I was to blame for melting Barbie, I was not at fault for trying to drown Dolly.

After that, I have no more memories of Dolly.

My poor sister just had so much trouble keeping dolls.

*I am trying to remember if Dolly had an actual name. Maybe when my sister sees this, she'll remember the name, and I'll fix it. And if she wonders how I remembered the dialogue from that long ago - well, everything I wrote is true, except for the parts I made up.

NOT Phone a Freind

 As all ye former landlubbers are aware, the nature of phones in our culture has changed considerably in recent decades.

It's changed from dialing an operator to connect with anyone, to party lines where you might be inadvertently sharing a conversation with half the town, to the Princess phone, to cordless phones, to all kinds of cellular devices.

My Mom was on the phone a lot. She had many long conversations with many people. My Dad was less enamored with it. His conversations were much shorter, even when conducting school business. Me? I was terrified of the phone. I had difficulty talking to people when I couldn't see their faces or gauge how they reacted to what I said. Even the rare times I might have a girlfriend, I talked very little on the phone with them.

The phone, now adapted to our all-purpose cellular devices, has changed in a more comfortable way for introverts. We get information about most callers and can decide whether to answer.  

Not only that, most of our communication now is in the form of texts. It is much easier to respond in writing than in a call. And my understanding is I'm not alone. Among the younger generations, texting is much preferred to calling.

Indeed, some are worried that, for the first time, we are moving towards an introvert-friendly culture. This is due to our social media culture, spurred on by the isolation of the recent pandemic.

I don't know. America is still a culture dominated by the socially aggressive, the gladhanders, and the snake oil salesman. Too many of us are attracted to the Trumpian, 

The whole introvert/extrovert thing is kinda weird. Many of us are not entirely one or the other. It's more like human sexuality - there aren't simply two points on the axis. There is a great variety of mixes on the scale between the two. Few are 100% introvert or 100% extrovert.

Society best functions when there are roles for all kinds of people. It fails when it is structured so only one or the other thrives.

So, some are worried that we are tipping too much to introverts. I don't know. That may only seem that way because this country had tilted too far to the extrovert side.

But only time will tell.

Meanwhile, I'm pretty happy with the way phones are right now. Text me, but be patient for how long it may take me to return the text.

Tom Strait AKA The Dancing Machine

Still going through old boxes of stuff.

I found one centered on my amateur acting career while going through the boxes in Fibber McGee's closet*.

And how could I not treasure this award for achievement in dance the most?

Until the memories came back that it was a good-natured joke.

I played Lazar Wolf, the older butcher who wants to marry one of Teyve's daughters. He leads a dance to the song L'Chaim (To Life!), a lot of fancy Russian dancing (well, fancy to me). I struggled. It was not pretty. We had to rehearse a lot just to get to something passable. And I was the chief culprit who was not getting it.

Dance has always been an interesting challenge to me. There is some kind of wiring delay in my head that causes all my movements to come out about two seconds later than they should. That is if I get the movement right at all.

The first school dances that I went to, in Junior High, proved to be a major attraction, and not in a good way. Other students would stop and watch my gyrations. I found myself surrounded by a rapt audience as if I were John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. But not in a good way. More like a jaw-dropping stare at the geek way. I had a few girls want to dance with me, girls who otherwise would not want to go near me, just to see how lunatic I would dance.

Throughout my acting experience, I always had difficulty with the dance element. I've been sidelined in several dances, which probably limited my usefulness in musicals. I could sing pretty good, but most of the good singing parts also required dancing. Most of the parts open to me were comic relief, and the singing I had to do was more bass/baritone, when I am a first tenor.

I plan to do community theater again, but I am picking my spots carefully. With my periodic arthritis (centered in my knees and feet), it makes it difficult to do if there is a flareup. So, this dancing machine may be retired from that element of theatre.

I've said this before, but I'll repeat here my theatre motto - 

I can act with the best of them. I can sing with the rest of them. I can dance if everyone closes their eyes and pretends.

I can still dance at home alone. Well, with the pets. But they're ok. They don't judge me.

*Fibber McGee's closet was from a well-known radio program, Fibber McGee and Molly.  Every time the closet was opened you would hear sounds of a deluge of things falling out of it.

Opening Up the Fissures of Time

 In Bemjamin's study, thre is a closet.

When we first moved in to our home on Glenwood, we had a bunch of stuff packed up that we didn't have an immediate place for.  So, we crammed it into Benjamin's study room closet.

And then, over time, Benjamin's own possessions spread, and the entry way to the closet was blocked off - at least to the extent that it would require a tremendous effort to get inside. 

Now that Benjamin has moved to Warner Robins, we've been slowly reclaming the room, designing it more for exercise, and putting in a day bed.  This reclamation project opened up the closet.

And once I got into the closet...time itself began pouring out.

I've only gotten to about ten boxes (there are still maybe two dozen more).  Each one has overwhelming whiffs of another time.

There are books and old toys and games. There are pictures of Benjamin, and his artwork,  There are items and pictures about Greg and Doug.  Alison has a couple of boxes, including old family movie reels and correspondence with friends.  There are materials from my parents, including more of Dad's genaoligical research.

I found a box of science fiction and mystery pulp magazines dating back to the 50s.  I found a stamp collection of my Dad's, Japanese yen, and a post card collection dating back to the 1890s. 

And I found pictures.  Pictures galore.

The one at the top of this blog is from a collection of pictures my Dad has of his mother.  I'm guessing this was taken sometime in the 1910s.  The back of the card has the front row identified as Ella Snow, Nellie Snow (from Mass.), and Olin Snow. The back row has Ned Tripp and Flossie Snow.

Flossie was the nickname used by people for my Grandmother, whose actual first name is Florence.

She was very smart.  She gave a speech at her high school graduation, one that had a feminist bent, extolling the contributions that women can make.  She taught school for awhile.  She got married a bit later than what was normal for that time, to my Grandfather, Clyde Strait.  She had three children, the first of which was my father, Eugene Everett Strait.

As I organize these treasure troves of the past, they should help generate a lot of stories for this blog.

No, this blog won't be just about the long ago, but it will play a part.  

Sometimes, in order to know where we're going, it's good to know where we've been.

Rocky Ride

 Another poem I found when trying to clean up the boxes in my study.  When this is from, I'm not sure.  It could trace back to high school, but it could be from later, college or my twenties.

The world is coming to an end

Some see natural catastrophe

of floods and fire, of earthquakes

and locusts as from long ago

They warn of the coming of the apocalypse.

As for survivors, only true believers need apply.

Some see doom in the rise of technology

and the fall of humanity.

Filth and pollution and environmental destruction

leave the world a decayed apple.

fit only for worms and other creatures

that thrive in the slime.

Others see the end as coming in man's aggressive toys.

Bmbs and germs and other things

that can make the world go boom in a press of a button.

They warn of the spread of this terror

to smaller countries and littler people.

Pompous dictators and idealistic revolutionaries dying to start the war

no one will survive.

Others close their eyes to the coming doom

And choose t olive out their lives in blissful ignorance

consuming themselves into oblivion.

Some even preach the gospel of hope, 

that man can conquer any problem

and the end is only the fantasy of gutless doomsayers.

But I, just like the small boy

on his first roller coaster ride at the amusement park,

only want a hand to hold

during the rocky ride.

Echoes of '59 - 2023 Rewrite

 

Echoes of '59

by T. M. Strait

This is a previously published story that never went through Grammarly.  So here it is, for better or worse, after those edits. 

The closest I ever came to the supernatural was that summer of '59 in Eugene, Oregon. My dad was a teacher, and he would fill his summer break each year by accepting a National Science Foundation Scholarship. One year, it was Stanford University in Palo Alto, California. Another it was Ball State in Muncie, Indiana. That summer, it was the University of Oregon. 

That summer was weird and wonderful, filled with unexplained events that still mystify me. I was only four, my sister Carol was three, and it was our first real experience away from home, so maybe it was just the exotic newness of the locale. My parents had rented the top floor of a big Victorian house, set spookily on top of a hill (probably not that big of a hill, but impressive enough to a family from Michigan's flatlands). Male college students occupied the first and second floors.

I remember the piercing introductory music of Perry Mason, my mother's favorite show. Carol and I would hear it from our beds and shiver. I remember my first pet, a turtle I took out onto the roof in the mistaken belief that he needed more sun. He required much less attention after that. I remember getting mad at Carol and shoving her down the stairs. In a normal world, she should have been maimed or killed, with me suffering horrendous guilt for the rest of my natural-born days. Instead, she tumbled down like a gymnast doing an Olympic routine, popped up at the end of the stairs, and came flying back up, ready to kick some brother butt. But what I remember most was the car we brought back to life.

We were playing in the front driveway when we got bored. So my sister conceived of a tag game where we would chase each other like idiots unless we could touch the safe spot first, which she decided in her infinite toddler wisdom should be a yellow Ford Mustang belonging to one of the college guys. Remembering Perry, the fried turtle, and Elastic Girl tumbling down the stairs, I said, "Are you crazy? That's not our car! What if we break it or something?"

Carol laughed. "Stupy boy!" which, in her lingo, said it all. And then she proceeded to show me that it was okee-dokie to touch the car. She raced to it and whacked it on its front hood. Her effrontery paralyzed me, but we were horror-struck by what happened next. The car started to back out the driveway, turn into the street, and drive away! The college guy whose car it was came bursting out of the house, cursing us as little brats and running after his suddenly untamed Mustang.

Selective childhood memories repress what happened after that. Maybe we were spanked, maybe the college guy saddled his car before it wrecked, maybe his car made it to the fields where Mustangs roam free. I don't know. It wasn't until years later that it occurred to me that gravity and parking brakes could have played a role. I still prefer to think of it as I did in my youth, as one of those rare times when real magic echoed through our souls.

            

Stop the Presses!

 

When last we left the My Jobs thread -

I retooled my career by taking business courses at Berry College (1982 - 1984). Unfortunately, despite stellar grades and high recommendations, the best job I could get was working at Atlanta Seal & Stamp for an insensitive "entrepreneur" who was incredibly nasty and self-centered (see Seal of Destiny). I stayed in that job for less than a year).

I hate looking for other jobs. That's why I often leave because I am forced to. Not the case with American Seal & Stamp. I wanted to get out, restart my career, and maybe get on a course with more opportunities.

So, when a chance to interview at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, I took it. I was hired, interviewed by the assistant controller. The beginning of a salary pattern emerged - the assistant controller offered me slightly more than what I made at my last job. I don't know if it was the norm for everybody, but it certainly was for me. You're not paid based on merit - you're paid based on what they can get away with.

I started out as the newsprint accountant, tracking purchases and inventory levels. I checked how much we used compared to how much we should have used. Think that's a small job? Think of how much newsprint a paper the size of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution uses daily. They published the Constitution every morning, the Atlanta Journal every night, and myriad other local papers and supplements.

One day, not long after I was hired, the newsprint supervisor took me on a tour of the newsprint presses so I could have a better understanding of the process. While he showed me the presses, printing the current edition, the presses suddenly stopped. The newsprint supervisor was puzzled because the run needed to be completed.

Turns out they wanted to change the front plates because of a breaking news event. The Challenger space shuttle had just exploded shortly after taking off. He told me that what happened was an extreme rarity, to stop in the middle of an edition. So, just like in the movies, I witnessed "Stop the Presses!"

The inventory was done perpetually and then checked each month physically. They were kept in separate bays and, as time went on, at two locations, one downtown and one in Gwinnett County.

A forklift lifted me to the top of the stacks, and I counted from there. And yes, I don't like heights. And yes, sometimes the stacks were wobbly.  

The physical inventory had to occur on the last day of the month, and it had to happen between editions. Even if that meant the inventory had to be done on Sunday morning at 4 AM. That was fun.

I learned my first lessons in dealing with layers of corporate bureaucracy and management. The controller met with upper management in the middle of the month, and he would project how the numbers would turn out. Then, when I did my newsprint usage numbers at the end of the month, if they did not conform to his projection, he would send me back to the drawing board until I came up with the numbers he wanted me to come up with.

The controller, someone close to my age, was impressed because he knew I had been a teacher and had chosen to do this instead, that I was willing to take the salary hit to do it. Yeah.  That should have been a warning sign that I may have made a terrible mistake. For most of my career,  a teacher with a master's degree would have made more money than me.

I always tried to make sure I was one of the first ones there and one of the last to leave. I was salaried, so it didn't help me make any more money. I thought it would impress them, but I don't believe they gave a ratatouille.

Eventually, I was named General Ledger Supervisor. I had four people to supervise. The accounting department as a whole had about 100 people. With few brief exceptions, everyone I supervised was a minority, and almost all of them were female. I got along well with most, and I was proud of our work.

One person did not like me. When there was a workplace shooting in the news, she would remark on it positively and insinuate it might be needed here. Upper management wanted me to get rid of her but do so with cause to lessen the likelihood she would sue (which she also delighted in suggesting). My efforts failed until she was tardy a few times, and they used that as an excuse to fire her. She didn't come back with a gun; she didn't sue.

She was extreme, but I understood some of the resentment. The white guy got promoted in a department that was decidedly not white. There was a changeover while I was there in Accounts Payable when their elderly white supervisor retired and was then managed by a very competent young black woman.

While I was there, they introduced personal computers - three or four for a department of 100. I became a leader in using those computers, creating spreadsheets and macro-programs to modernize how the newsprint inventory was kept. But, unfortunately, my reward for this innovation was...nothing.

I wanted to advance my career, so I prepared for the CPA exam. This was an intense two-day, four-part test, and for the first time, I did not prepare well enough. The first time I took it, I flunked all four parts. The second time I paid for a training class, studied my toucas off and passed it all in one sitting.

I was so happy and proud. I went to the assistant controller and will never forget his response -  "No sh--! Why the f-- did you do that?"

I became disenchanted with them, and they became disenchanted with me. They told me I had 90 days to prove I could do better, or they would fire me. Rather than go through that farce, I told them I would go if they would certify my experience with them so I could become a CPA. To get your license, you need either need two years of public or five years of private accounting experience. And that's about what I had with them - five years.

And that's what they did. My CPA certificate was like my golden parachute. Now if I could only parlay that into something greater and grander.

Spoiler Alert:  HAHAHAHAHAHA!

 

Seal of Destiny

 When last we met on the My Jobs thread:

My garden epiphany that led me to realize that I would NOT get to do what I wanted for a living, began a roughly two-year period where I took business and accounting courses at Berry College near Rome, Georgia.

I came out of Berry College with high hopes and even higher grades and recommendations. I was confident that I could go out into the workplace and acquire a high-powered career path that would lead to even more lucrative pay than my aborted teaching career.

I must have been high to think this.

Coming out, I found that most potential employers did not think of me as an accountant but a teacher. This was not the background they wanted. I tried CPA firms from Dalton to Atlanta. I tried private industry.

The most hoped-for job by top accounting graduates was to be hired by one of the top eight accounting firms.* I did have one interview with a large firm in Atlanta; it was a day long, and for most of it, it appeared they were more courting me more than I was them. I thought I had this in the bag. But no job offer ever came.

After a few months in the wilderness, I finally got a job offer from American Seal & Stamp, a small business just at the edge of downtown Atlanta. They were offering $13,500 a year. Does that sound low? Even for 1984, that was rock bottom for someone with six years of college education.

I felt like my Dad had taught me that you must be willing to start wherever you can and work your way up.

I was wrong. When I told my Dad about the job, he thought I was crazy for taking it, and that I needed to hold out to start somewhere else at a higher rung. On the other hand, I felt morally obligated to take it since I told them yes. Over the years, I have realized what a stupid decision it was.

American Seal & Stamp sold mostly corporation kits, which included corporate seals and something called Goes paper, which was used for stock certificates. It contained everything you needed to legally incorporate. Except the lawyer. And the actual incorporation.

American Seal & Stamp was owned by Howard Massell, the ne'er do well brother of former Atlanta Mayor Sam Massell.  But Howard was never there. His day-to-day operations were managed by somebody else. He talked to that manager by phone and sent orders over.

You see, Howard decided to move from Atlanta to avoid, uh, some legal entanglements. He wanted, in part, to leave Atlanta to avoid the temptations of drugs like cocaine. And to accomplish that, he moved to Miami.

I repeat. In order to avoid drugs, he moved to Miami.  

His reputation was as a snarling, self-centered asshole. A legend from before I came was that he visited the company one time, and that the manager was so nervous she had a breakdown that caused her to literally collapse. He emerged from his office, saw her writhing on the floor, and said, "Great! Now, who's gonna take me to the airport?"

And this was my introduction to accounting and the business world. It would not get much better from there.

But have no fear! Your intrepid hero stayed less than a year and was able to parley over to another job, one that rocketed his career to...

Well, that is a tale for next time.

*well, it was The Big Eight at the time. Now it's just the Big Four. Is this a great country or what? And people wonder where inflation and price gouging come from? Hah!

A Very Berry Remake

 

Previously: having lost my second teaching job, having met little success as a circulation manager and radio ad salesman/ad writer, I had the epiphany that I would not be able to earn money from my creative abilities and that I would return to college to improve a more business-oriented background.

The time is circa 1982.  One of the closest colleges to Cartersville was Berry College near Rome, Georgia. It had an excellent reputation and a gorgeous campus on 27,000 acres, making it the largest school in the United States (by land area, not by the number of students). In addition, it had an extensive student work program, which I would need.

There was a program you could take that combined business, math, and computer science courses. I forget what they called it - business systems analyst? Sad that I've forgotten, but I have.

I don't remember much about the computer science courses. COBOL? Is that a computer language? Stuff like that.  

Math was a challenge. I had taken no math at the University of Michigan. I was not a great math student in high school. Nevertheless, I was going to give it my best shot.  

I started with College Algebra. I had never worked so hard in a class in my whole life. Even though I only got a B, it was the grade I was most proud of in my academic career.

The next class was Precalculus. But I had limited time, and my algebra grade gave me the big head, so I decided to skip Calculus.

I got my posterior handed to me. I should have quit the class, but I was stubborn. By the time of the final, I was utterly lost. Instead of solving the exam problems, I wrote a dissertation on how calculus was actually magic. I got my only academic fail.  

Business classes, however, went swimmingly. Economics, business writing, business statistics, marketing, business theory - all went well. But the course where I barely had to think and still shined was ... accounting. I don't know why it came so easily to me, but it did.

The final exam in one of the accounting classes was to do a business tax return from start to finish. After it was graded, the professor told me I was the first student to do the return absolutely perfectly.

My student job was at the library. I managed a system that lent and received books across the nation's entire library system. This was done via computer, and once again, I have forgotten the system's name. I loved it. Searching the library for requested books, mailing them, and receiving and processing requests that our students made, I could have been very happy with doing that, and other library work for a living. But, alas, Berry had no Library Science program.

The academic walls were closing in. If I was going to get any value from my academic sojourn, I would have to go in one direction... accounting. Not because I loved it, but because it was easy for me and the quickest way I could make a decent living for myself and my family.

Ultimately, my two years at Berry did not result in an additional degree. They only had Bachelor's degrees, and I would have to go a while longer, taking physical education courses and other strange things to get that second Bachelor's. The result is I have over six years of college and only a Bachelor's degree in Education to show for it.

Nevertheless, I had the equivalent of a business and accounting major, and by the spring of '84, I was ready to go out and make my mark in the accounting world.

And that's when losing my work soul really began.

Theatrical Wednesday Wanderings

For some, hobbies seem to come and go. They have a passion, and it flairs strongly for a while, only to be eventually replaced by something else. Alison's hobbies have varied through the years - antiquing, scrapbooking, jewelry making, and now crochet.

There's nothing wrong with that. There's a lot to be said for experiencing a variety of interests throughout your life.

For others, like myself, hobbies remain relatively consistent. Comic books, reading, writing, an interest in politics - all have been with me since I was very young, continuing even to the present.

One of those foundational hobbies has been theatre. I have been performing in plays all my life, from being Hansel in Hansel & Gretel in second grade at 7 to the present at 67 in Harvey.

Harvey was the first play I performed on a stage (as opposed to the classroom or cafetorium). I was a High School Freshman. I had tried out for the JV Football team and found the initial practices chock full of cross country running. I didn't mind sprints (my best position was halfback), but I found running for long periods exhausting and tedious.

There was a poster for play tryouts, and I thought, what the hay, let's give it a whirl. There has to be less running; besides, everybody knows, chicks dig actors!*

To my surprise, I got a part! I was cast as a very elderly Judge in the comedy Harvey, about a man whose best friend is an invisible six-and-a-half-foot tall rabbit. I hammed it up and became completely addicted to the theatre when I heard the swell of applause as I came out for curtain call.

And now, 53 years later, I am reprising the role of Judge Gaffney in WACT's upcoming production of Harvey. The major differences between my performances? A lot less makeup. and I don't have to work so hard at pretending to be old.

This season represents WACT's 50th season, an incredible milestone for any community theatre. They have been producing quality plays for a half-century!

I am proud to have been a part of HALF of those fifty years, my first production with them in 1997, playing Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. There are a couple others who, if they perform in any show this season, can say they've been performing longer than I have, but we are a fairly exclusive club.

Some have shined brightly for a while and then moved on to other things. But some of us've been bitten by the acting bug and just can't let it go.

So, yeah. As long as there are parts I'm qualified for  (plays where the oldest characters are in their thirties or younger, seem out of reach for me), as long as I have enough brain wattage to memorize lines, I'll be performing.

So, with luck and good fortune, WACT, here's to looking forward to performing in your 75th season!

Salute!

* yes, I was actually that stupid that I believed that student theatre acting would lead me to be more popular with girls than playing football.

In the Garden of Indecision: A Jobs Interlude

 

I was lost. It was the summer of 1982. I had been let go from my second teaching job. I did not know where to turn. I did not know what to do.

We had a home in Cartersville, Georgia. Greg, my first son, was almost a year old. Although our economic circumstances were not as dire as you might think (there was family money on my wife's side), I still needed to get out and do something. Long term, I would need to work at something secure and steady.

Teaching had closed its doors to me. Technically, I could still teach, but I found it impossible to explain why I had been let go in my first two teaching jobs. There was nothing immoral or criminal in anything I had done, but I'm insecure to begin with. Under the best of circumstances, I'm not good at job interviews - this just made it infinitely worse.

We had a small flower bed in front of our house. I took a day to do yard work, including de-weeding that flower bed.

My mind was awhirl, and the manual labor allowed me to think. What was I going to do? 

And while weeding that flower bed, I had an epiphany. An epiphany that changed my life.

In all the jobs I had, specifically those after graduating from college, I had some creative outlet and hoped to have more. Whether it was the carrier's newsletter at the newspaper, writing ads at the radio station, or creating games and curricula at the schools, I always wanted to do jobs where my creative skills could shine.

But it was not working out. I had to accept the hardest fact of my life.  

If I wanted to have a secure family life, I was never going to be able to earn it through my creative side. I had to give that up and do something more practical. I needed to do something that required some technical expertise. I would have to recreate myself to be in a position that utilized some set of skills that only a limited number of people possessed.

I surrendered. I gave up receiving any creative satisfaction from work. From now on, it would be all about a paycheck.

The next step would be to obtain more specialized skills. As I'll detail in a subsequent post, that led me to Berry College.

Yes. From that epiphany on, I only earned a living through regular work that involved virtually zero creativity. It led to a steady but unspectacular career in accounting.

I continued to do creative things as my off-work hobbies, especially community theatre. I'd get fits of writing, but I've never made more than partly covering expenses.

I'd love to tell you I have no regrets. To tell you I made my decision and never looked back. But that would be a lie.

It wore on me. It wore on me hard. It was very, very hard to stay the course. But I did.  

Next up: Berry College!

Please note, that the picture above is only symbolic of a garden.  I think it's from the botanical gardens in Athens, Georgia.,

WKRW in Cartersville: My Second Job in Georgia

 

WKRW in Cartersville.

Just one call letter away from greatness.*  And no Turkey Drop.

My time as Circulation Manager was deeply frustrating. Any creative talents I had were ignored and ridiculed.**

In a rare moment, I followed another opportunity while still employed and not being booted or being under threat of a boot. I could have rocked on at the paper for who knows how long, as long as I understood I would never be promoted or given a more creative role.

The couple that owned WKRW were Don (pictured above) and Ollene Kordecki.  Not only were they radio station owners, they were also the founders of the community theatre group, the Pumphouse Players.

Long-time readers will know of my love of community theatre. It wasn't a done deal, as many may believe. I indeed did quite a bit of theatre in high school, but I did nothing in college and during my first years out of college.

It wasn't until I tried out for Inherit the Wind as put on by The Pumphouse Players that I reengaged with theatre. Inherit the Wind was something I performed a scene of in high school drama class, and I had fallen in love with the play. I tried out hoping for one of the lead lawyer parts but got cast as the teacher on trial for teaching evolution. So here I was, this Michigander just moved south, cast in a part playing a Tennessee school teacher. Don Kordecki was in the play-acting the part of a cynical New York reporter.

The Kordecki's friendship and encouragement steered me into my lifelong passion for community theatre. Soon, I was doing lead parts, and I won the Best Actor award two years in a row, once for a comedy and once for a drama.

Their friendship led me to interview and try for a position at their radio station. And I got it! Networking is King.

Unfortunately for both of us, that position was in sales. You hear about the guy who could sell ice to an Aleutian? I was the opposite. I couldn't sell water to a drought-stricken desert dweller.

I tried. They gave me a list of clients and potential leads to additional clients. Your pay was based on commission - how much ad time your clients bought.  

I don't remember successfully adding new clients. My strongest memory is of a guy who had a large clothing store. I managed to get a lunch meeting with him, but my social studies background, where everything is couched with conditions and uncertainty, caused me to be more couched with my language rather than the glad-handing confidence a salesman exudes. I know that, in my conversation, I used the word assume. I know this because I'll never forget his response, "Do you know what it means to use the word assume? It means you are making an ASS out of U and ME!"

Yes, I know that's an old trope. But it was the first time I had heard it. Needless to say, I did not get any of their advertising dollars.

It was not all doggy downers. Don and Ollene were as kind and as supportive as they could be. And I got to write and perform ads! And they were creative! I thought I added quite a bit of zip to their commercial time using multiple voices and humor.

That part mostly went well. However, one client, a sandwich shop, responded negatively to one of my extravaganzas - "Just tell them what sandwiches we have and where we're at."  Oh, well,  Not everything is a home run.

The music format of WKRW was pop. On weekends, they would do Casey Kasem's Top 40, or a similar countdown. They were known as the WKRW (Wicker) Rocker. Clever.  

Don had a community talk show in the mornings, and occasionally he let me on as a guest to talk about politics. That's right. I was doing political talk radio before anybody else. And no, I wasn't as Progressive then as I am now, but I was still center-left.

I got to interview two politicians. One was Zell Miller, then running as a CENTER LEFT candidate for U.S. Senate, opposing Senator Herman Talmadge in the Democratic primary. The sitting Lieutenant Governor, he at the time seemed very reasonable, certainly a better alternative than the corrupt and racist Talmadge,  and we had an incredible conversion, lasting an hour.  

He lost that election but later became Governor of Georgia. He was one of the best Governors since I've been living here. He helped bring into being the Hope scholarship, one of Georgia's greatest blessings, as it helps cover a good chunk of the tuition for so many of our college attendees. Benjamin has had an advanced lever of it, called the Zell Miller Scholarship, which awards those with higher grades to cover ALL their tuition. 

Along about 2004, Zell, no longer Governor, now a U. S. Senator, took a sharp turn right and became a spitting, foaming, angry conservative. I don't know what happened.  

My second interview was with former Mississippi Governor Cliff Fitch, running for US President in the Democratic primary. Yeah, you don't remember him. Think hard. He's doing interviews with an obscure nobody in the small town of Cartersville, Georgia, the home state of the incumbent President of the United States, Jimmy Carter.

We met at a diner, I think in Woolworth's. He seemed... a little off to me. I wasn't then, nor am I now, an expert on alcohol, but there was a slight smell, and he seemed a little..off. Like Zell Miller, I got the impression he was center-left. But I was not impressed. Neither were the voters. He got 0.25% of the country's Democratic primary vote, and earned zero delegates.

But I did get to interview a presidential candidate. Huzzah!

I was earning less than minimum wage, so it was not something I could keep up. In addition, there was strain in my marriage, and I realized I needed to do something else. The Kordecki's were understanding, but they deserved someone who could make them more money.

So, once again, I found myself looking for something else. Another networking opportunity soon appeared.

I was at WKRW for less than a year.

In researching this, I found out that both Dan and Ollene have since passed away, Don in 2010 and Ollene in 2015. I was greatly saddened to read about this. They were great people, and they meant the world to me. Literally. They opened up the world of community theatre to me, which has been a blessing ever since.

* the very funny TV show, WKRP in Cincinnati.  You don't know it?  OMG, some of you are so YOUNG!

**check out the post Proof of Existence: My First Job in Georgia.

My Time on Password Plus

It was a terrible summer. At least it felt that way in the beginning. I had been fired from my first teaching job, and my life was utterly adrift.

When the school year ended, I didn't know what to do. Having to look for another teaching job while trying to explain it to any school system that bothered to interview me was too much for me to bear.

My father encouraged me to take a break and regroup. He and his brother, my Uncle Mike, had reconciled, and they would pay for my flight to visit him.

Uncle Mike was a television director, now retired. I had stayed with him for a couple years, starting when I was just five years old. He helped me get parts in a few programs, including his most significant achievement as a Director, Peter Gunn, where I had a recurring role playing the son of Peter Gunn's secretary. I also had a brief appearance in Twilight Zone and also Gunsmoke. I didn't mind it, but I was too young to understand what I was doing.

Then something happened that upset my father, and I was brought back home to Michigan. I don't know what it was - maybe a wild party or drugs or something that Uncle Mike was doing my father didn't like.

I wasn't a traumatized child actor like you read about. I was too young and my career too small to really affect me. It's hard to explain why I didn't go back to it. I did some acting in high school but nothing in college, except in an acting class where the professor really didn't like me and thought I had no talent. Then by the time I soared as a community theatre actor, it seemed too late. And sadly, my Hollywood connection, Uncle Mike, had passed away.

When I came out that summer of '78, I was surprised that Uncle Mike had used his connections one final time to book me as a potential contestant on Password Plus. Allen Ludden, the Password host who was married to Betty White, had revived his show of the 60s and would remain involved with the show until his untimely cancer death in 1981.

Most of the time I was there was spent waiting to see if they would call you up to compete. You spend time with the other potential contestants, both backstage and as part of the audience. Five shows were taped at a time. It took most of a day to do that.

I got to know my fellow contestants more than the celebrity contestants. We had much more time to talk to each other. I really got to talk to one of the contestants quite a bit. Her name was Suzie Wilson. She was a few years older than me, recently single, and very funny.

In the third episode, my name was finally called. It felt surreal to actually be on television again. I saw the cameras, the small audience, the celebrities, and Allen Ludden, but it was hard to absorb that millions might soon be seeing this.

The celebrity I was paired with for that first game was Elaine Joyce. She was (and still is) beautiful. She had a spotty acting record, mostly guest appearances on shows like Love Boat and Carol Burnett, and was very frequently on game shows. Later she married Neil Simon, the playwright.

 It was hard for me to hear anything; my heart was pounding so loud. Allen Ludden asked me to say something about myself, and I stuttered out my name and that I was a teacher in Michigan. I mentioned that I like to write and read, specifically naming comic books. Ms. Joyce wrinkled her nose at that like she had smelled something foul.

 

The other celebrity contestant was Bart Braverman. No, that's real. I'm not making it up. He was a regular on the TV show Vegas and had appearances on M*A*S*H.

I wish I could tell all the clues I was given or gave, but much of it was a blur. You had to guess a word based on the one-word clues you were given. Then, if you got that right, the word would be used as part of up to five words representing something you would have to guess.

The contestant with Bart was named Kelly. I don't remember her last name. I only remember Kelly because it was on her name tag. She had won before I came on, winning Alphabetics and collecting $5,000.

One I remember was where the first clue was piano. Elaine got me to say it on the second try. I think prior clues and been like instrument, keys, and I got it when she said ivory. Then Kelly got lessons when Bart said instructions. Amazingly, Kelly missed the third clue.  It came back to us, and when Elaine said tick, I said tock. Taking the three clues into account - piano, lessons, tock - I guessed metronome and was right! That gave us 100 points.

This was a different time. The level of contact between celebrities and contestants was much greater than it is now (thanks and a hat's tip to COVID, and sharper views on sexual harassment). If you remember Richard Dawson macking on virtually every contestant on Family Feud, you'll know what I'm talking about. Although the most contact between me and Elaine Joyce was her squeezing my lower arm once, Kelly and Bart were going to town. Constantly touching, kissing at every answer or clue. If they got one right, it would be full on the lips. Even at that time, it was kind of uncomfortable to watch. Allen Ludden asked if they needed to get a room.

At any rate, I surprised myself and won the first game, 300 pts to 100. This entitled me to go to Alphabetics with Elaine Joyce. They presented you with words from ten letters, and if you got all ten, you won $5,000!

We started with the letter D, and I remember most of these. Elaine would give me a one-word clue, and I would guess. She could provide another clue if I gave the wrong answer. We had 60 seconds. This is what I remember - the hint that got me there from her is in italics, and my correct answer follows -

School  Desk

Escalator Elevator

Bird, Maltese Falcon

Stone Gem

Service Help

Break Intermission

Clown Jester

Diamond Karat

Italian ???

Castle Moat

Yep. I missed one. I didn't get Lasagna. Now Alison's Lasagna is one of my favorite things, but it was fairly unknown to me back then.

I became the champion for the next round, paired this time with Bart Braverman. Luckily, he was able to keep his hands off me. I think he was kind of miffed that I had eliminated Kelly.  

My challenger was Suzie Wilson, who I had talked to so much. She smoked me. I'm not saying Bart didn't try hard to help me, but, you know, the suspicion was there.

Suzie stayed on through two more challenges, actually winning two Alphabetics, collecting over $11,000. We talked some between games. Enough so that I actually worked up the nerve to ask her out.

We had a pretty intense few days, but it soon ended. My excursion was over, and I went back to Michigan.

I had earned $1,200. Not a fortune, but it was enough to fund my next trip. To Georgia, where, unlike Hollywood, I wound up staying.*

*April Fools! I never was on a game show, I do not have an Uncle Mike, I was not a child actor. What is true is that the Password programs have become my retirement guilty pleasure. That and my overactive imagination, 

Proof of Existence: My First Job in Georgia

After losing my teaching job at Cass City, I was lost and set adrift. The odds of me ever getting another teaching job were infinitesimal. I was lousy enough at interviews. I couldn't see myself trying to rationalize why I lost my first teaching job. It was a different time. You really didn't get second chances.

I tried my hand at substitute teaching with Bridgeport - a bit of nepotism. Although I didn't mind teaching overall, I hated substituting. It played into all my weaknesses.

Not having anything else, I decided to visit a friend in Atlanta who came from Bridgeport and was a close friend in high school. He had recently broken up with someone who he had been involved with for several years, and I went down in part to console him.

By the time I got there, he had already found a new partner. Through them, I met someone who would become my own partner. Long story short, I soon found myself relocated to the South.

My first job in the South was working as a Circulation Manager for a small daily newspaper in Cartersville, Georgia. It mostly involved managing the newspaper carriers, from boys on bicycles, to redneck couples in pickups, to retirees in jeeps.

It was a rough job for a young guy who was more of a creative type than a skilled, commanding manager. Fortunately, one of the aspects of the job was to run contests and otherwise motivate the delivery staff. I came up with the newsletter you see in the picture above. It contained information about routes, new hires, contests, and more.

It also contained a fictional serial, cartoons, jokes, and whatever else I could think of. It was a  creative outlet for me in a job I was otherwise having a hard time with, and I thought, hey, maybe somebody would notice! Maybe the publisher would take notice and let me write for the paper!

Yes, it was just a hand-typed, pasted together, mimeographed mess. But it was my mess, and I was proud of it. So proud that when it came time for the Southeast Circulation Managers Convention, I proudly entered it in the Best Promotion Contest. I was so excited because there were only two entries and three awards in our paper size group! Woohoo! I was in like Flynn!

The big banquet and awards ceremony capped off the event. It came time to announce the awards for our division. The emcee announced the other entrant as first place but then made a joke to the guy as he came up, that "he was the only entrant in the division." Everyone laughed, and there was no second place. There was no acknowledgment that I had even entered. It was like I wasn't even there at all. Like I didn't exist.

It was also a place where I learned early lessons about Southern culture. 1) People had many acquaintances but fewer close friends. If they invited you to come by for supper, they were often being polite and would be surprised if you actually showed up. 2) African-Americans were more deferential in the South than up North - it was quite embarrassing to experience. 3) Whites on the lower economic rung did not respond well to yelling or arguments - they would become violent, scary quick. I got upset with an adult paper carrier one time and learned quickly to never raise my voice. 4) Most small southern towns are run by what I call the "10%" - these are important family clans with a disproportionate amount of wealth and a family name that commands respect. 5) Even though I had student taught at the heavily Southern Michigan town of Willow Run, it took me a while to get used to the accent. People would call to complain about missing a paper or other delivery complaints, and it took me a long time to figure out what they were saying. I had no idea that the word "Paper" had so many syllables.

Although I did not shine at this job and only stayed about a year, I was not let go. Instead, I left of my own volition for something else. Something I was both more suited for in some ways and less suited for in other ways.

 

Cass City Fading Blues

My first real job, beyond after-school and summer jobs, was as a teacher at Cass City High School.

Given the current talk of teacher shortages, it is hard to remember that in the late 70s, there was an oversupply of teachers. This was particularly true of social studies teachers, whom I had more than one person tell me were "A dime a dozen."

I started at the University of Michigan as Pre-Law. My dorm room faced the Law School, and I dreamed of being a lawyer someday, if not Perry Mason, at least Clarence Darrow.

Things did not go that way. I had a girlfriend whose father passed, and I was concerned about how she would pay for her schooling. I thought the School of Education would get me out earning money sooner if she needed help.

Well, it wasn't long before she broke up with me. Heartsickness and inertia kept me on the same course. I also found out how poor an advocate I was when I took college Debate and was beaten by two football players (and, yes, I know that football players can be academic achievers - however, these two did not fall into that category).  

My student teaching went well, assisting with Social Studies and US History at Willow Run High School. The town had many Southerners who had come up starting in World War II to work at the Willow Run munitions plant. Many of the students still spoke with a heavy Southern accent.

I constructed a big game around the Horatio Alger myth (that all it took to be rich was pluck and hard work). Students took on different roles and tried to improve their economic and social condition. Those already rich had plenty of advantages, and the deck was stacked against the poor. I'm not sure this game would fly today, what with the great WHITEwashing of American History that is going on.

After graduating, I tried to blanket the Michigan school systems with letters and resumes. It's not like today - each letter had to be hand-typed on my old Smith-Corona. My typing skills were poor, and my error rate was high, so this took some time.

I got a few interviews, but the primary question was always the same - "What'dya coach?"  There was a tremendous prejudice that social studies teachers needed to coach athletics to justify one's existence.

Finally, only a few weeks before the school year began, I was interviewed by Cass City. They had a position open, but not for Social Studies. It was to teach English and Speech, two subjects I had minored in. They also wanted a Debate coach. I did not explain my dismal history with Debate but bluffed my way about how good I could do.

I got the job.

I thought I had no pictures from this time, but last week, while looking for other photos, I stumbled across this album I had forgotten about that had some grotesquely faded photos from that time.

The picture above shows me at my desk. I don't remember who the student was. If you can see the board, what was written was "Intellectual Dodge Ball." That sounds like something I would try to pull off.

The student pictured above was part of our Debate Team. His name was Tim, and he was a very brilliant student.

We had little resources to pull for debate prep, mostly Newsweek and Time. This was WAY before the internet. Other schools had many more resources, like our neighboring competitor, Caro.

We made up for the lack of resources with sheer bravado and intellect. Our affirmative team had one good solid case to defend backward and forward, displaying extreme confidence. The negative team oozed Willaim Buckley's disdain level and sharpened lines of attacks against all pro cases. The topic that year? Universal health care.

The Debate team received their highest placement ever, 3rd in the state in their class division.

I believe this faded picture from days gone by is the Debate team in a prep session. I am seated near the back.

I taught 9th grade modified English. This was a class for non-college-bound students. They didn't like school, and they didn't want to be there. They represented quite a discipline challenge. I had some students sneak out a window the first week or so. Gradually, though, I developed a system of rewards that motivated them more than grades. Soon, I had students achieving more than they ever had. One student told me it was the first class she had ever gotten an A in, and she finally believed she was smart enough to achieve.  

When the school principal sat in my class in the Fall, he told me it was the best hour of teaching he'd ever seen.

By March, I was told I would not be rehired.

What happened?

I will never fully know, but consider the following -

1) Discipline was never easy for me. It was a struggle. But the Principal reviewed me a third time and said my discipline was much improved. Even so, they had no intention of reversing their decision.

2) In one of my efforts to improve discipline, I tried to get under the control of a student whose parent was on the School Board. Look, my father was my School Principal at Bridgeport. The idea of favoritism stuck in my craw. Suffice to say, even though I thought I got the student under control, he must have reached out to his father.   It wasn't until later that I found out that the student had gotten other teachers fired who dared to challenge him.

3) During the Spring of that year, the teachers of Cass City went on strike. One of the issues was hiring first-year teachers and then firing them before they got tenure in order to keep wages low.

The bottom line was that I felt defeated and scummy. My teaching career was over before it really began.

And that's the beginning of how I wound up in Georgia.

 

Getting Out of Gear

 

The summer between my Junior and Senior year of college, my third job was at Saginaw Steering Gear, a General Motors plant.

Like my previous two jobs, I think my father arranged it for me somehow. I didn't interview. The first interviews I remember was trying to secure a teaching job after I graduated from the University of Michigan. I know. Networking? Probably, on my Dad's part. White Privilege? Not sure. My Dad was definitely white, connecting with white employers. My hard work in promoting myself and seeking a job? Hell, no.

The picture above is one I found on the interwebs. I don't remember if this is the Saginaw plant from the 70s, if it looked exactly like that, but I think it is generically correct.

I remember the parking lot. It was vast. A lot of people worked there. Some in my generation assumed that they would work there, just as their fathers and/or other family members or friends did. But that proved to be elusive. The auto industry was soon in decline in our area.  

Once again, like my work at the pickle factory, it was a night shift job. I was a "floater." I filled in for different workers who were taking their vacations. This meant that every week I was doing something different. Some I did okay. Some I was awful.

Most of the jobs consisted of taking parts from one operation to another. Much of what happened was automated, and I guess we were doing what the machines could not do yet. Most of the jobs were very routine and boring.  

There was often significant downtime between cycles of the machine processes. During these significant gaps, I noticed that some workers were reading. Well, you don't have to tell me twice about finding an opportunity to read. So I brought a paperback and started to fill in the time with my first love.

That was the wrong thing to do. The supervisor called me and blessed me out for reading on the job. I can't remember whether I brought up that others were doing it. There must have been a difference between a full-time unionized employee and a college fill-in like myself.

Not everyone gets to live out a true situation comedy legendary moment. But I did.

One day they decided to let me work on a conveyor line where I was supposed to do something to these small parts that came whizzing down the line.

Within minutes it became clear I could not keep up. And, unfortunately, I could not eat what was coming down the line like Lucy did.

I rendered almost the entire plant to a standstill in less than half an hour.

It wasn't funny. It was terrifying. And it did nothing to enhance my popularity at the plant.

When the summer was over, I was again called into the supervisor's office. He told me that my career there was over and that I would never work at a General Motors plant again.

My first job, Dixie Tool, ended in a meh. My second job, Vlasic Pickles, ended with them wanting me to come back and be in management.

Sad to say, the way the Saginaw Steering Gear job ended became more the norm rather than the exception.

It's hard for me to tell for sure, but I think Saginaw Steering Gear closed, maybe in 2001? Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find clear Googled information about it.  

I did make good money there, probably four times as much per hour as I had made at the pickle factory. I made enough to buy my first car, one I could use at college to get back and forth from my student teaching assignment. It was a 1976 (or 77) Honda Civic, and it cost a whopping $3300. And yes, friends, that was a NEW car!

That's just a picture of a 1977 Honda Civic. It's something I found on the interwebs. All I remember is that it was blue. I like blue. What am  I driving today? A 2012 gray Honda Civic. I can't always get blue, I guess.

That completes my memories of my third job. But, as usual, memory is a tricky thing, and I'm sure others will not hesitate to correct me where those memories go astray.