Meeting the Poltergeist

(Edited repost from May 2011 . . . )

“Dee, write a memoir,” a Minnesota friend suggests.

            “Why? My life’s so ordinary.”

            “My life’s ordinary,” she counters. “Yours is interesting.” Stunning moment.

            I toss around the idea and even set to writing. But rather quickly I stop. Too much work. And somehow, my life seems boring in the telling.

            Then another friend suggests a blog. Ah. A post whenever a story from the past moseys to the street corner of my mind and announces, “Tell ‘em about me! I’m a humdinger.”

            So that’s what this blog’s going to be—the story of my life as moments present themselves to me. We’ll move together from growing up to convent to cats to social justice to edging into the 21^st century. Back and forth. No trying to be sequential. Just meandering.

            Let’s begin.

            I used to live in an 1870 house with a 1907 dilapidated garage at the side of the yard. No matter what the Minnesota weather, I’d be carrying groceries from way back in that yard to the kitchen.

            Recently I moved to a 2002 house in Missouri with an attached garage. Think of it. A garage attached to the house. Twenty-first century for sure. I’m not even going to talk about the marvel of a dishwasher. That’s for another time.

            My brother and his family gather on the driveway to greet me. We explore the house. Then he hands me the garage-door opener: Lock this way; open this way. Simple enough I think. I immediately name the opener “Sesame.”

            The family leaves around midnight. Within minutes my cousin and a friend show up. We settle on the bedroom carpet—the furniture won’t come for three more days—and talk about my drive down that day.

            Around 2 a.m., I lead them to the kitchen and open the connecting door. Flamboyantly flourishing my right hand I proclaim, “And here’s my attached garage!” I invite their oohs and aahs at the wonder of it. They struggle to find something to say about an attached garage; I lean against the wall, expectant.

            Just then the garage door opens. What the heck happened? I examine the door but what do I know about the personality of an attached garage and its opener? I lean back against the wall while the three of us consider possibilities. The door comes down. But before it can grab hold of the floor, it heads back up again. Then it changes its mind and starts back down.

            I’m still just leaning against the wall watching this strange phenomenon. What if this keeps happening? How will neighbors sleep with this racket? And what about me? Anyone could get into the house. I’ve left a place of safety for this. Suddenly the 21st century doesn’t seem so tempting.

            Up.

            Down.

            Up.

            Down.

            I’ve collapsed against the wall in bewilderment. My cousin and friend seem equally perplexed.

            I call my brother. He answers groggily. Always helpful, he comes over. By this time the door has done its hokey-pokey several more times.

            He questions me, then asks for the opener.

            Where had I put it? Oh, yes, in my pocket.

            All of you who have attached garages know what was happening. The opener doesn’t just accept finger taps. A hip bump will do.

            My cousin, our friend, and I giggle. My brother just shakes his head. After he leaves, I feel foolish for a moment and then excited. Perhaps this is an omen. Maybe the 21^st century is going to be filled with laughter. Adventure. Creativity. I did sort of figure I’d unwittingly been fairly creative with that opener.

            One can only hope. 

Photo from Wikipedia

Working in a Sweatshop

(Continued from Tuesday . . .)
The cavernous warehouse in which I worked for eight weeks and one day in late 1971 was divided into several dimly lit rooms. In each, employees ticketed items sold at a downtown Dayton department store. The huge, echoing room in which I worked housed clothing piled on long, rectangular tables. Each table might have four or five piles of different items such as blouses, shirts, trousers, dresses, ties, underpants, handkerchiefs.

            The employees ranged in age from teenager girls to women in their sixties. These older women had worked in the warehouse much of their lives. They stood for eight hours a day on concrete with no cushioning and so had varicose veins.

            They welcomed me with open arms. During lunch break, they shared their life stories. None of them had been nuns or had the educational advantages I’d had. All of them dated or had been married or were married. Most had children. Their stories seemed to me to be filled with tragedy. They were truly poor. I had the hope of someday finding a better job. They didn’t.

            We were dissimilar in many ways. And yet we were all women—with hopes and dreams. All of us knew what being broke meant. All of us knew pain and disappointment and fatigue. And so we shared our lives with one another.

U.S. sweatshop circa 1890. 

            What the older women didn’t share was the large sewing-machine-like equipment that enabled them to ticket more articles of clothing than could be done with the handheld taggers. They could wheel these cumbersome sewing machines from one pile of clothing to another. Claiming seniority, they refused to let newcomers use the automated machines.

            Why? Because the company based its raises on how many items an employee tagged in a year. The sewing machines enabled a woman to label many more items during the day than a simple handheld tagger.

            These women had all started at minimum wage. Their wages grew slowly. That’s because only one woman a year got a raise—the woman who tagged the most clothing.

            That longed-for raise was five cents an hour—two dollars a week, minus social security, so a dollar plus some change.

             For your information: One dollar in 1971 had the same buying power as $5.67 today. Click here to discover what a person could buy for that dollar in 1971. Then you’ll see why the raise was so important.

            All the women—and I do mean all of them—worked hard. Some deftly wheeled those heavy sewing taggers from pile to pile. Their hands flashed as they lifted each item and labeled it. Others rushed from pile to pile and hand tagged. No one was a slacker. Picking up and tagging the most items each day had a reward—that year-end raise of five cents an hour.  

            The floor manager of this beehive of workers was a thin, angular young man of perhaps twenty-two. He sported a straggly mustache and stood watching all of us work industriously for eight hours each day. He wielded great power in our lives. He could take one of the large machines from anyone and wheel it to another woman to use. Thus, he could determine who had tagged the most items at the end of the year.

            Moreover, we had to ask his permission to leave the room and use the lavatory. He timed us. If we took more than five minutes, he docked items from the number we’d tagged for that day.

            I’d been using the handheld tagger for seven weeks when I decided that these women and I needed a trade union. I’d come from a union family—my father was a pipefitter—and I recognized a sweatshop when I worked in it. We slaved in a warehouse with no ventilation and no fans. I didn’t stay beyond November, so I’m not sure whether the company heated the warehouse in winter.

            I knew nothing about how a person unionized a group of workers. I wasn’t Crystal Lee Sutton. Eight years later—in 1979—her valiant efforts to unionize a shop in North Carolina would be told in the movie Norma Rae for which Sally Fields won an Oscar.  

            I had met no trade union organizer as Crystal had. I didn’t even know how to get in touch with one. I just saw injustice and knew that we needed to be part of a union that could effectively protest the working conditions. I knew that life could be better for all of us.

            On Monday of my eighth week there, I began to approach the other women in the parking lot where they stood in groups, smoking their cigarettes during the lunch break. I explained what a union could do for them. One by one, they walked away. As the week passed, however, they stayed to explain to me that they couldn’t afford to protest or go out on strike. They needed the money they earned. They warned me that anyone who complained was fired.

The 1912 textile strike in Lawrence, Massachusetts.

            On Friday of that week, the young twenty-something of a floor manager followed me as I moved from group to group. Seeing him, the other women faded away. When I stood alone, he said, “You’d best stop agitating these women. You'll get them fired. You too." 

            The following Monday, while I was ticketing socks, he escorted me to the warehouse overseer’s office. “There’s never been a union here,” the headman boasted. “There never will be. We don’t need troublemakers like you around. Get your things and get out. You’re fired.”

            That pipsqueak who’d reported my actions accompanied me to my locker and then to the warehouse door.  “I warned you,” he sneered. And so he had.

            No buses came out that far from the city, so I sat on the curb the rest of the workday. At the end of her shift, Char—the woman who’d gotten me the job—left the warehouse, and we drove home together as we’d done for the preceding eight weeks.

            “I hope you don’t get in trouble for my actions,” I said to her.

            “Don’t worry, Mr. Watson already told me that he knew it wasn’t my fault. That you’d fooled us all. He said the FBI had tried to warn him, but he wasn’t going to let the government tell him how to run his warehouse.”

            So. . . there I was in November 1971. Broke and fired.

            On Tuesday, May 1, I’ll share my next job—teaching in a black dropout center. Trust me, things went better there.

Afterword: Between now and May 1, I won’t be blogging—life has intervened, again. However, I’m going to preschedule a post for every Tuesday and Saturday in April. These edited postings will be early ones I wrote last May and June when I had only a few readers.

            I hope you’ll comment on them even though I won’t be able to respond. The thing is that at some point I hope to use my stories in a memoir. Your comments will help me know which aspects of my life interest you the most.

            Also, in your comments please let me know if there are postings of yours that you’d like me to read when I return to blogging in May. I won’t be able to read a whole month’s worth for each of the blogs I follow, but I’d love for you to direct me to the ones you most want read.

Photos from Wikipedia

Returning Broke to Dayton

The two years of graduate school came to an end in June 1971 and I returned to Dayton. Accompanying me were the three wearisome characters who yammered in my continual hallucinations. Once back in Ohio, I decided not to teach again as I felt too exhausted to listen well.

            Grad school had left me broke. I had no money to rent an apartment. Even the bus fare downtown and back was burdensome. So for three weeks I lived with friends while searching for a clerical or sales job. The jobless rate in the United States in 1971 was 4.9%. Surely I could find work—easily.

            Not so.

            From nine to five of the first week, I pounded the pavements, going from one downtown business to another. Most employers immediately said I was overqualified and would never stay with the job. Despite my assurances, none of them had me fill out an application. The interviews I did have led to secretaries calling me to say I hadn’t gotten the job.

            In the second week of my search, I went back to a place where an agreeable employer had interviewed me. He was gracious enough to see me despite the fact that he hadn’t hired me.

            “Mr. Loftus, did I do something in the interview that disqualified me for the job? I’m asking so that in future interviews I’ll do better.”

            “To be honest, Miss Ready, it had nothing to do with your interview. You’re a personable young woman.”

            “Then why didn’t you hire me?”

            “It seems you have a file with the FBI. They’re warning us against hiring you.”

            “How could I have a file? I’ve done nothing illegal.”

            “They said you protested the war and were a troublemaker.”

            “I did protest. But it was peaceful.”

            “I have to tell you that the government doesn’t take kindly to protesting.”

            “But you could still hire me, couldn’t you?”

            “The truth is I don’t want the government to start scrutinizing me. I don’t need an FBI file.”

            During that second week, I asked several other employers who’d turned me down if they, too, had heard from the FBI. They had. They wouldn’t risk hiring me.

            Despite this, I did find work, but only with the help of a good friend.

            In my posting “Deep Commitment” of February 18, I introduced you to Jeanne and Jim, a Dayton couple whose example helped me become part of the protest against the Vietnam War.

            Jeanne now helped me find a job.

            Her friend Char worked at a department-store warehouse beyond town that was looking for employees. We met on Wednesday evening of the third week of my search and she explained the job to me.

            “Would you work for the minimum wage?” Char asked.

            “I just need work. Anything will do right now.”

            Another friend of Jeanne’s had a small attic apartment to rent. On minimum wages, I’d have no discretionary money, but I could manage if I lived frugally. However, I wouldn’t have the money for bus fare to the warehouse and back each day.

            “You can drive with me,” Char said. “Just meet me at Jeanne’s house each morning and I’ll pick you up.”

            “What would you like me to pay you each week?”

            “Nothing. I’d just enjoy having someone to talk to.”

            I wept at such generosity.

            On Thursday of that third week, Jeanne drove me out to the warehouse, and I used Char’s name in applying for a job. The manager said he’d ask her about me. The next day, he called. I had the job. The following Monday I started tagging clothes.

            On Saturday, I’ll tell you about that job and why I got fired.

                                                                        (Continued on Saturday . . . )


PS: If you are entering the give-away for the book "The Sword of Senack," please click here.

Photographs from Wikipedia.

Recap for "The Sword of Senack"

Today’s “recap” completes the adage I quoted last Saturday:

First you ‘em what you’re going to tell ‘em.

Then you tell ‘em.

Then you tell ‘em what you told ‘em.

 Last Saturday was “preview”; Tuesday was “present”—that is, I told you about The Sword of Senack. Today is “recap”—my final sharing of Elisa’s fantastical fantasy novel. 

               I’m recapping with a multiple-choice quiz. By each of the nine pictures below is a question. You can find all the answers in the posting I did on Tuesday entitled: The Sword of Senack: A Fantastic Fantasy. I’ve inserted the nine answers at the end of this posting. I wonder just how good you are at guessing?

            If you want to skip these questions and go to the entry for the give-a-way, click here. The entry will be at the end of the that posting.

1.  Aliya, the heroine of The Sword of Senack, lived in a palace that had a room with a ___.

                     a)     living mural

                     b)    goblet of fire

                     c)     Golden Flame

2.            The witch who kidnapped Aliya’s sister  goes by the name ___.

                                                a)  Belladonna

                                                b)  Beatrix

                                                c) Constance

3.            The ship Aliya drew was different from other ships because it had  ___.

a)     nine masts

b)    a glass bottom            

c)     ten cannons 

 4. In The Sword of Senack, the character who wants to be a pirate is Aliya's ____.

                        a)  sister

                        b)  younger brother

                        c)  father

5.            The Leviathans who hissed their own darkness were the ____.

a) Gryffindors

b) Slytherins

c) Secrenas

6.            The name of the gladiator who was willing to fight to the death for Aliya was ___.

                        a) Malfoy

                        b) Calder

                        c) Snape

7.            The ice-palace where the witch lived was on the _____.

                        a) Isle of Deltre

                        b) bottom of the whirlpool

                        c) Isle of Whumping Willows

8.            The dragon who fills the pages of The Sword of Senack with terror is __.

                  a) Grawp

                        b) Hungarian Horntail

                        c) Ophyrus

9.            Aliya meets a giant who believes in possibility. His name is ___.

                        a) Hagrid

                        b) Teius

                        c) Thestral

Here are the answers: 

1. A;   2. C;   3; B;   4. B;   5. C;   6. B;   7. A;   8. C;   9. B.

           I hope the three postings I’ve done on The Sword of Senack have piqued your interest. To order this fantastical underwater fantasy click here for Elisa’s blog.

PS:  Next Tuesday,  I’ll begin again to examine the social justice issues in my life.  

       

All the photographs are from Wikipedia.

The Sword of Senack: A Fantastic Fantasy

I admit to not playing fair with you in my Saturday posting. I began with a professor’s adage about how to teach:

First you tell ‘em what you’re going to tell ‘em.

Then you tell ‘em.

Then you tell ‘em what you told ‘em.

Then I proceeded to cheerfully ignore the adage. I didn’t tell you what I was going to tell you today. Instead, I tried to whet your appetite with several possible topics about which I might write. Hidden in that list was the following: “Will I share my reading of books by other bloggers?” And that’s it folks. Today I’m going to share with you how a fellow blogger’s book—The Sword of Senack—came to be written.

            Ten years ago, Elisa Stilson gave birth to her second child. Two months later she and her husband underwent the harrowing experience of having to let go of Zeke. Elisa’s firstborn, “the Scribe,” didn’t understand where her little brother had gone. She wanted to follow.

            To comfort her daughter, Elisa began the bedtime story of a young girl—Aliya—whose brother Jack was spirited away. The intrepid sister followed him and ultimately rescued her brother from the dangers of Ophyrus, a winged orange dragon, and Constance, a vengeful witch who lives within a bone-chilling ice palace on the Isle of Deltre.

            To do this of course, she needed magic. The magic of drawing what came to be, the magic of breathing in the ocean’s depths, and the magic called love that does not tire when faced with the difficulty of finding a beloved brother.

            Magic enabled her to leave the castle of Senack with its living mural that foretold the future and to venture into the ocean on a glass-bottomed boat she’d drawn. Encountering a whirlpool, Aliya’s boat fell down, down, down into the watery deeps. Mystery lurks. Adventure beckons. Suspense tempts her to use the Golden Flame.

            Within the ocean’s depths, Aliya encountered eeriness: gladiators like Calder who laugh at death in the colosseum; Secrenas who hiss their own darkness; ancient giants like Teius who believe in possibility; and barbed Rentans who carry disease like a plague.

            This cast of fantastical characters could have frightened a less spirited sixteen-year-old and sent her scurrying homeward—but not Aliya, not the Scribe who so wanted to find and comfort her brother. Of course, she also wanted companions—both in her home and in the story.

            She got her wish: Elisa and her husband had three more children. Their blog names are “the Hippie,” “Zombie Elf,” and “Doctor Jones.” As each of these children came along and became interested in hearing bedtime stories, Elisa incorporated her or him into her ongoing fantasy of the Sword of Senack.

            Thus the Hippie becomes Sky, who knows the future; Zombie Elf becomes a pirate, who sports a black eye patch and eagerly seeks escapade; Doctor Jones becomes Indy, who awaits deliverance after the witch kidnaps her.

            Ah, you see all the ingredients for a first-rate fantasy: Adventure. Improbable creatures. Suspense. Courageous children. And yes, adults who sometimes don’t have their priorities right.

            “Ah, my friends, and oh my foes,” the Sword of Senack will draw you into an underwater world of peril with two talented heroines and a swashbuckling hero. You will wonder at the creative mind behind this book. A mind that envisioned an underwater world that will enthrall both children and adults.

            For such is the power of Elisa’s astounding imagination: she introduces you to that which cannot now happen on our earth and convinces you that all is possible to those who say, “Why not?”

            For fellow blogger Elisa Stinson, whose fantasy I’ve so enjoyed reading, I have only this song to offer. It’s what I want to say today to Elisa.

            What I didn’t tell you about last Saturday is the contest accompanying the publication of The Sword of Senack. Here’s the information on that. Please do consider entering.

            And please do truly consider purchasing the paperback or the e-book edition of The Sword of Senack. It is the first of four planned books in the Mer-son cycle. You won’t be disappointed. Elisa is an accomplished and creative writer. She’ll take you with her on an exciting underwater adventure.

<br /> <a target="_blank" href="www.voiceboks.com/community/pages/The-Sword-of-Zenack-Kindle-Fire"><br /> <img src="http://i1194.photobucket.com/albums/aa376/voiceboks/ButtonKindleFire-1.png"></a><br />

One of our favorite authors, EC Stilson, has done it again! She has graciously purchased a Kindle Fire to giveaway to one of her readers. The Sword of Senack is an epic fantasy about three children who embark on a journey to find their brother, but in the process may discover the truth about themselves. This tale of an underwater adventure is now available as a physical book and eBook through Amazon. It is also only .99 on Smashwords--for a limited time.
           In addition to this exciting news, Wayman Publishing will be giving away $50, five signed copies of The Sword of Senack AND considering new talent for publication! Please check out http://ecwrites.blogspot.com/p/senack-writing-contest.html for more information about the art and writing contest.
        Now, to enter to win these great prizes, please make sure to follow the Rafflecopter rules below. You must complete the MANDATORY entries to reveal eighty-two more easy, possible ways to earn entry points towards the Prize. Please remember, the more entry points you gain, the better your chances are of winning. So Good Luck!

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6) Simply Stacie - Product + Book Reviews, Giveaways, and more!

7) Sassy Mama in L.A.

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