Village Squire, 1975-03, Page 21"Don't be late for work, morn ... "
The chronicles of a mother
who went back to work
AN ARTICLE BY IRENE MCBRIDE
Having little use for some of the inanities
offered, by television, as entertainment, I
was, for years, a homebody bookworm.
My life dithered back and forth .between
household chores and the printed word.
Living between the pages of a book is fine,
part time, but when one takes up permanent
residence, sandwiches between printers ink,
the social side of life becomes more than a
little flattened.
"What you need," said my diabolical
doctor, "is a job." In the shocked silence that
followed my mind found more reasons for not
going to work than there are wrinkles on an
elephant.
All the days of our children growing I had
been, "Mother, the constant." To suddenly,
"Mother, the missing link," was something,
I was sure, that my family wouldn't stand for.
Ha! From my husband - "It might do you
good, dear."
From my ever loving offspring - "You
might enjoy it, Mom. Lots of the kids mothers
work."
My nasty, suspicious mind recoiled at these
two reactions. They wanted me to go to work.
Me! Mother! Oh, brother!
All that was left for me, after this collective
booting out of the door, was the ordeal of
looking for a job. It had now become a point of
honour. I couldn't chicken out without losing
face.
Convincing that there is nothing to this job
hunting bit, I sallied forth.
Marching right up to the big office block,
with jellied eels instead of legs, was no mean
feat and I was proud of myself. The jellied
eels kept right on going though, wavering
down the sidewalk to the corner. Well, I
might be late for the stores when I came out.
Perhaps I'd better do my shopping first.
Coward!
Slowly I walked back. Perhaps everyone
would be on vacation. In November?!!! .1
walked in.
The man at the reception desk asked,
"Personnel?" He must have recognized the
terror.
squeaked out, "Please."
"Just go right up the steps, turn left and go
through the swing doors. The personel office
is on the right."
i got the go up the steps" bit but was, at
that point, too scared to know my right from
my left.
Hopelessly lost, at the top of the stairs, I
floundered about. An undecided, quivering
wreck.
A kindly gentleman stopped in his flight
through the wilderness of doors and
corridors. "Personnel?" he asked. How I
wished that I didn't look like someone looking
for a job even though, perverse creature that 1
am, I was more than glad of his help.
A couple of doors, a few steps, and my
rescuer left me to my fate.
The place was empty. Perhaps the
personnel manager had gone to China for
lunch. I turned to leave but heard the
tap -tap -tap of a busy typist behind a closed
door. Perhaps I should call again. I knocked at
the door.
She was young and vivacious: I felt like
damp laundry waiting to be ironed. If she so
much as smiles at the idea of me having the
nerve to ask for a job, I told myself, that will
be it: me through with this whole insane idea.
I was treated with the greatest deference
and had the nasty suspicion it could have
been because of my age. She gave me an
application form.
"Just have a seat and fill this in. If you
have any questions I'll be in my office."
What a pleasure to let my knees give way.
That had be'en their one aim in life ever since
I had started on the job hunting chore.
The application form had more questions
than a Customs official. Long before I got to
the end I was prepared to lay bare my soul.
Come to think of it, I already had.
The personnel manager came back just as I
was thinking of beating a hasty retreat and he
apologized for keeping me waiting. He was so
nice that I didn't have the heart to tell him
that next week would have been fine for me.
Well, this was IT!
He found me a chair in his office and,
sitting behind his desk, proceeded to read my
application. What had I written? I wondered
in panic. What family secrets were sliding
under the door of the cupboard? I knew my
answers had been truthful: at that point my
mind wasn't devious enough to invent even
the tweeniest lie. They had furnished the
questions and, whatever the out come, they
had got straight answers.
The man across the desk smiled a faint
smile and that bothered me quite a bit.
Finally he looked up, nodded, and went on
to ask me more que3tions. I felt sure there
could be very little of my past that he still had
to find out.
To the surprise Of every nerve end in my
body my office experience of 15 years earlier
was accepted as proof that I was still full of
capabilities: I was tentatively hired.
Miss Vivacious took me to an office on the
third floor where I met up with a lady dragon.
Breathing fire, she decided that I wouldn't
really fit into the job she had open. I was
insulted but, as I had never really planned to
work for a dragon, I thanked her kindly and
followed Miss Vivacious back to safety.
Back with Mr. Personnel I explained that
had been fired before I had been hired. He
soothed me and escorted me to yet another
carpeted sanctum. I think I had now become a
point of honour with him; being in the same
age group.
Interviewed by a man, I was given a job. In
minutes I was out on the street gathering my
scattered wits and coaxing the jellied eels
step by step.
A week of staying up late followed by
hiring. Every new morning brought my fate
one day closer so I postponed mornings as
long as possible.
With luck perhaps an earthquake would
swallow the place before Monday morning.
It didn't. Monday found me at work on time
even though I had bags under my eyes from
lack of sleep.
I was signed, sealed and stamped. A
working gal.
Thursday came and I was the proud
possessor of my first pay cheque in years.
The old, familiar cry of, "What's to eat?"
suddenly changed to, "Don't be late for work,
Mom."
1f you belong to a club, church
group or other organization that
is interested in raising money
for your own club or charitable
activities, Village Squire may be
able to help out. Your group can
earn money by selling subscript-
ions in your town. Contact
Village Squire. Box 10. Blyth or
call 523-9646 for more details.
VILLAGE SQUIRE/MARCH 1975, 19