When my son started first grade, I decided to look for a part-time job to help supplement our household income. I had worked as a free-lance writer for several years, but both the assignments and the pay were sporadic at best. I heard that the local school district often used substitutes for their various offices, and so I applied for the job. Shortly afterwards, I was called for an interview to be a substitute teacher. I knew there must have been a mistake, but since it had been a long time since I’d had a job interview, I decided to go anyway, just for the experience. Surprisingly, I was hired on as an elementary-level substitute teacher (my bachelor’s degree qualified me for short-term assignments), and added to the list of potential office subs as well.
Early one morning a few weeks later, I got a call from a woman in the Human Resources Department, wanting to know if I could come in right away. I should have been thrilled, but I was standing there in my underwear, with my hair still dripping wet from the shower, and I had no way to get there because my car was in the shop. “No problem,” the woman said when I told her I had no transportation, “I can come get you. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” So I scrambled around and got ready, and spent my first day working as the only person in the Human Resources office, answering phone calls, fielding questions, and even securing a substitute for a teacher who had to go home sick.
Still later, I was called in to actually be a substitute teacher for a third grade class at my children’s school. The administrators and other teachers were very supportive, the teacher I was subbing for had left an easy-to-follow lesson plan, and the kids were mostly well-behaved. I was exhausted by the end of the day (don’t let anyone ever tell you teaching is easy), but I must not have screwed up too badly because I got more assignments, and even had teachers request me for planned absences.
Eventually, I gave up subbing in the classrooms, but I stayed on as an office sub for the next twelve years. The work was sometimes mind-numblingly routine, but I really liked the people I worked with, greatly improved my computer skills, and the job provided the flexibility I needed to pursue my writing career and be available to my kids. In short, the job was a good fit for me and my family at the time, and I was fortunate to get it.
It would have been so easy for me not to go on that initial interview, since it was for a job I didn’t apply for and didn’t think I qualified for. And it would have been so easy to tell the woman who called from Human Resources that I just wasn’t available to come in that morning. Looking back on it, I’m surprised I said yes, because taking risks is not my strong point. I tend to play it cautious in life, choosing the easy option over the difficult one, and am a little too quick to think, “I can’t do that.” But if I hadn’t stepped out of my comfort zone all those years ago, I would have missed out on a great part-time job.
I try to remember that these days, when I’m faced with an opportunity that feels a bit too challenging and my first instinct is to say, “no thanks.” I try to remember that every good thing that has happened in my life: my marriage, my children, my writing, my volunteering, etc., came only when I was willing to try something new and take on a challenge I wasn’t entirely sure I could handle. Mostly, I try to remember that, when given the choice, it is almost always better to take the risk.
We just got back from a fun weekend spent visiting family in Iowa. On Saturday night, my nephew and his wife graciously hosted everyone for a big family dinner at their home. They moved to a beautiful old farmhouse in the country a couple of years ago, and this was the first time my husband and I had visited them there. Their one hundred year-old house (which is remarkably well preserved) sits on several acres of land, with a beautiful view of rolling pasture right outside their front door. They have fruit trees, a huge garden, several charming outbuildings and even a chicken coop, complete with six lively chickens. And as they were showing us around, all I could think was, “I want to live here.”
I have probably read all of the “Peanuts” cartoon strips that were created by Charles Schulz, but one of his stories in particular stands out in my mind. The character of Linus discovers that the summer camp he is attending is being run by a group with very strong religious beliefs that are very different from his own. One night, he’s sitting around the campfire with all the other campers, listening to that night’s lecture from the group’s leader. At one point, he raises his hand and politely asks, “May I ask a question, sir? Has it ever occurred to you that you might be wrong?”
Yesterday, I spent the morning helping my daughter, my mother, and my sister host a multi-family garage sale. Most of the items for sale were my daughter’s, the combined result of her love for shopping and the need to find space in her house for the many lovely wedding gifts she received last year. It took us hours to sort and price everything because we had so much stuff we couldn’t even fit it all in my mother’s two-car garage. And since we had all contributed items for the sale, we also had to have a system for keeping track of who was selling what, so we could divide the cash fairly afterwards. Five of us spent an entire evening just setting up the sale. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I was pretty tired before the sale even started.
For me, the hardest part about writing has always been coming up with an actual idea that I wanted to write about. I really envy the writers who say they have dozens of ideas rattling around in their heads, and their only problem is finding enough time to do the actual writing, which they often regard as a chore. I’m the exact opposite: I love the process of writing, of experimenting with different words and phrases until I get it just right. I even like editing my work, because I find that after taking a short break from the creative process, I can see so much more clearly where there is room for improvement. For me, the problem is simply: what in the world am I going to write about?
I was sorting through some old family photos the other day when I came across my favorite picture of my grandmother. She’s standing in the backyard of of her modest brick bungalow, dressed in her Sunday best, complete with hat, white gloves and one of those fox stoles that were so popular back in the fifties. She’s looking off into the distance, unsmiling, formal, and quietly dignified. Even though I remember her smiling easily and more often than not wearing a casual cotton “house dress” as she went about her daily chores, there’s something about this photo that really captures the true spirit of the woman I remember from my childhood.
But I would like to have known if she was happy spending her life at home, raising children and keeping house, or if she had other hopes and dreams that were never fulfilled? I wonder if she waited until she was almost thirty to marry (unusually old, in that time) because she was still needed to help her parents and siblings at home, or if she simply didn’t meet the right man until my grandfather came along. I even wonder about the silly, insignificant things, like why she prided herself on never drinking water with her meals, or where she got the idea that drinking white soda pop gave a person kidney stones. (She let us drink root beer, but not 7-Up.)
One way or another, I spend a big chunk of my life these days in the company of dogs. To begin with, I share my home with Lucy, a fourteen-year old dog who has always operated with a total disregard for household rules. And while old age means she can no longer move as quickly or hear as well as she used to, I still walked into our dining room shortly after we had finished this year’s Easter brunch to find her standing calmly on our dining room table, polishing off the rest of the dessert tray. Just for the record, she seemed to favor the little egg-shaped cakes over the lemon squares, although it was obvious that she had sampled both. She may be old, but she still knows an opportunity when she sees it.
Besides living with Lucy, I often help take care of my children’s dogs, which I’m more than happy to do. My daughter and her husband have Harley, a chihuahua mix who adores her immediate circle of friends and family and has absolutely no use for anyone else. In her own home, she’s happy to simply ignore people she doesn’t like, but walking her is a challenge. She may love her walks, but she also loves barking at anyone and anything she sees, and flies into an absolute rage when she spots an approaching car. It doesn’t seem to occur to her that five pounds of furious dog is no match for a thousand pounds of moving steel, and I’m not about to let her learn that lesson the hard way.
My son and his fiancé have Frank, a pug mix, and Roxy, an English Bulldog. I know Frank well since he lived with us for a while right after my son graduated from college, and have come to love Roxy, too. Roxy and Frank have become good friends in the past couple of years, although there have been a few necessary adjustments. Unlike most dogs, Frank loves to wear sweaters (probably because he doesn’t tolerate the cold very well), but Roxy has a problem with that. One cold December morning, my son sent the dogs outside with Frank proudly sporting a brand-new Christmas sweater. Ten minutes later, the dogs came back in. Frank was wearing only his fur, while Roxy had Frank’s Christmas sweater dangling from her teeth. Clearly, Roxy is a dog who knows how to take matters into her own paws, and Frank has learned to live without sweaters.
My mother has Penny, a sweet and elderly chihuahua who was rescued from a hoarding situation about nine years ago, which means that altogether, my immediate family has five dogs. I spend time with all of them, trimming nails and filling in as needed for potty breaks, walks and meals. For the past fourteen years, I have also been volunteering regularly at the Humane Society where I have logged in hundreds of miles walking shelter dogs. I’ve spent hours patiently coaxing a shy dog out of its run, or working to teach a rowdy dog basic manners, or trying to calm a dog who is clearly stressed out.
Muddling Through My Middle Age 