Looking for Jobs When I Should Be Retiring

The real question is, should I use the last of my school loans to have some of my "smile lines" removed before I start interviewing? Or would it make sense to drop ten or fifteen years of experience off my resume? These are real topics of discussion when you are about to become a sixty-year-old with a new master's degree. Luckily, I have about six months to contemplate the answers before I need to take action or go for the Botox.

With the economy in its present state, job hunting is hard enough, but add to that the fact that I am far past the "entry level" jobs that most of my cohort of classmates will be vying for presents different kinds of problems. While most of the students in my classes are trying to look more mature and experienced, I'm trying to set the clock back, ten, fifteen, even twenty years. Why should this be true? Isn't experience supposed to be valuable? Doesn't wisdom come with age? Apparently not or I wouldn't be here.

So what am I really selling when I interview? I will have some immediate expertise in my field of study: college administration. I also have about twenty years as a faculty member, and another ten as a marketing and public relations practitioner. So what? Will this help me secure a position as an assistant director of student affairs at a small college, especially when the director is likely to be younger than I am? Where should I even begin looking for a job where I would be a good fit? It is the true conundrum of the adult learner.

On the other hand, the idea of starting fresh is exciting. I know I am ready to take on another area in which to sharpen my skills and become an effective participant. I have a history of always being ahead of the curve, so trying to start a second career after midlife is just another example of leading the pack. The trick is just finding some kind of balance between moving into a new life while continuing to borrow the best parts from the old one.

The problem doesn't seem to be, "You can't teach an old dog new tricks." The problem is how to make a new dog.

Why Did I Ever Think Going Back to School Was A Good Idea?

It is almost time for the evening news and I am surrounded by library books marked with little stickers, a few journals, a couple notebooks, and no ideas. I have a presentation tomorrow about a project that seems to be an unsolvable problem: how do I reach out and engage adult learners in an online discussion? What would make them access a Blackboard site on campus that might actually help them? How do I get their attention, and worse yet, how do I keep it if I ever manage to get it in the first place?

Problem 1: Who is my audience? Adult learners are a diverse group. Maybe non-traditional students is a better definition because the audience for this site is students who live off-campus, who may have responsibility for caring for others (parents, children, spouses, even pets), who may be self-supporting, who might range in age from 18 to 80, and who may be from either gender or any ethnic/racial group.

Problem 2: The original site is hard to access. Students have to go out of their way to find it and add themselves to the roster. What can I do to make it easier to find?

Problem 3: If they manage to find the site, what will make them use it? What kind of information will they need? What info do they already have available from other sources?

Problem 4: Once they find the site, how do I transform them from passive viewers to collaborative participants? In other words, how do I engage them and get them to take some ownership of the site so it can serve them better?

In a way, I'm my own audience. I'm an older adult learner. I've got a couple of 20 something kids living with me and another one away at college. I've got pets. I live in an old house that costs too much money. I have car payments and property taxes. I work and I volunteer. There's never enough money or time.

So what do I need that a site could provide? Resources and information that could save me time and money would be a start. Advocacy would be another because a lot of the time I feel marginalized in a university where I am one of the older students. Finally, I need a social network because I moved here to return to school, so it would be nice to have some local contacts.

I need an online one stop shop that will help me feel like my decision to return to school was not such a bad idea. It might be easier just to be a discount store greeter. At least I wouldn't have had to take out school loans again, but I'm probably too grumpy to be a greeter, so I guess I'd better come up with some ideas for this presentation. I'm too old to run away from home!
http://www.antshe.org/

Back To School & Older Than My Teacher

Last summer I started graduate school after being on the other side of the desk for 15 years. I had to completely change my life in order to do this. I quit my part time teaching job at a state university, sold my house, packed up my pets and possessions, and moved to another state!

I rented a little farm house and spent a month painting and cleaning it during a 90 degree plus heatwave. At the same time I started summer school (two theory classes) and a new job as an academic advisor at a nearby community college. I was hot, lonely, and exhausted.

Over the next six months, my dog was killed, two of my cats died, my house was buglarized, my daughter's car was stolen and used in a driveby shooting, and I had to go to court over some problems with my out-of-state property. I ran out of money, time, and patience. Two of my children moved in with me after being in their own place for five years. I gained back the 15 pounds it had taken me two years to lose, ripped my hamstring in a fall, and developed colitis.

I made new friends, started a campus organization for graduate students, began working at the university women's center, wrote a book chapter, and survived the winter and my first two school terms. So one way or another, returning to school has been an "interesting" experience, if I use the word "interesting" as it is used in the old Oriental curse, "May you live in interesting times."

I have another year and a half ahead of me before I can claim my second master's degree. Will I make it--I hope so, Was it worth it--I'll find out when I'm done. One way or another, I've learned a lot about myself, not all of it good. I've also had a chance to start again, sort of, because you always have to bring your baggage with you and I have a couple of steamer trunks!

Writing Exercise #1 con't

The Haunted House

In the middle of the 400 block of Perry Street was a haunted house. Raymond and David and Patty and I knew it was haunted because when we walked past, it made all those little hairs on the backs of our necks stand up, even in the daylight. At one time it must have been grand and white, but most of the paint had peeled away over the years, making it hardly any color at all. The wood siding was loose in many places, especially on the second floor. And the backyard was a weedy jungle. Even the sidewalk in front seemed dangerous because between the walk and the street loomed the largest tree on the block which heaved up the concrete with its big knobby roots.

We used to dare each other to go up on the rotting square porch with its wobbly balastrads and look in the wavy windows. The lace curtains had rotted away so we could see that the inside was filled with old Victorian furniture still arranged the way it had been the last time anyone had lived in the house over ten years before. The owner died before any of us were born, and no one had ever come to change anything. The couches spilled their stuffing as mice and squirrels got in to make nests. Books still sat on the marble-topped tables, consumed by bugs rather than readers. And over everything was a grey pall of dust. At the very end of the shadowy parlor, we thought we could see the top of a bald head above one of the wing chairs, but we were never sure.

We used to dare each other to go into the house, but none of us ever had to because the windows were all intact and the doors were tightly locked, even the one in back. And since we were good kids, it never occurred to us to break in; besides, we were afraid. We'd rather wonder about the house, "Who had lived there?" "How did they die?" "Why was it left empty?" "Was that really a ghost or a body in the wing chair?" We discussed it on those twilight summer evenings when the lightning bugs were just coming out or in the fall when the cicadas buzzed in the trees. The haunted house was always there, waiting for us to solve the mystery.

But one spring day a truck pulled into the cinder drive next to the house, and men got out and went in. They started dragging the furniture into the side yard and setting up long tables on which they piled all of the motheaten, forgotten treasures from the closets and drawers and shelves of the house. Some men set up tents and a farm wagon, while others dragged the horsehair furniture from the parlor onto the porch where it sat with its stuffing exposed to the sunshine. Even the bald headed corpse was exposed as a bulbous vase that had sat on a round table behind the wing chair. A day later an auctioneer was calling for bids over a loudspeaker, and a small crowd of onlookers carried away the contents of the house.

Two weeks later a wrecking crew came, and in a few days the haunted house was gone. Even the huge old tree was cut into enormous logs and hauled away. The city crews repaired the sidewalk. Shortly after, the Baptist church erected a tiny, yellow, one story modular house on the lot and the minister and his family moved in.

That summer Patty and David started "going steady" and in the fall went off to junior high, leaving me behind. Raymond seemed too babyish to play with, still dragging his little trucks around with a string. And one by one, our elderly neighbors started to die, and new, younger families moved into their homes.

Writing Exercise #1

Mapping Your Neighborhood

Here's an exercise to get you started thinking about details. It will also help you transition from essay writing to short stories because it will help you learn how to use description. I am going to do the first few steps with you so you have an example.

1) Draw a map of the earliest neighborhood you can remember from your childhood, preferably from before you turned ten. If you lived in a city or town, you might want to confine your map to one block or one side of one block, which is what I am going to do. If you grew up in the country, you might want to focus on your road. Give all of the houses names.

I grew up in a small city of about 50,000. I lived in one of the oldest areas of the city from the time I was about two until I graduated from high school and left. I am going to write about the side of the city block where my house was located. Since I can't draw it here, I'm going to list the houses and give them names.

The first house on the corner was a two story grey brick mansion built in the early 1800's. Two elderly women lived there. I'll call it The Mansion.

The next house was a two story red brick house where my friend Raymond lived with his mother and father. I'll call it Raymond's House.

The third house was a one story red brick house which was painted white where I lived with my mother and father. Of course, I will call it My House.

The fourth house was a two story white frame house where an elderly couple named Harriet and L.J. Reinhiemer lived. I'll call it Mr. & Mrs. Reinhiemer's House to differentiate it from the next one on the block.

The fifth house was another two story white frame house where Miss Reinhiemer, L.J.'s spinster sister, lived: Miss Reinheimer's House.

The sixth house was a huge two story frame house which had been unoccupied for years, but it still contained all of the old Victorian furniture in it. I'll call it The Haunted House.

The seventh house was a newer, single story frame house built sideways on its lot where my friend David's grandmother, grandfather and aunt lived: David's House.

The eighth house was an older, poorly kept single story frame house that was occasionally rented, but usually empty. I'll call it The Empty House.

The ninth house was an older, unpainted two story frame house where one elderly, reclusive woman lived. I'll call it The Witch's House.

The last house on the corner was a single story yellow frame house divided into two apartments: The Apartment House.

2) Now that you've drawn your map, you need to write about your life in this neighborhood. You can write about one incident or event or one character that stands out from your childhood experience. I'm going to write about how The Haunted House was finally emptied and torn down. But you'll have to wait until my next blog for that story!

Always Plant Asparagus - A Parable

Putting things off is sometimes not the best way.
Playing it safe doesn't always make things better.

I have always loved asparagus. It is probably my favorite vegetable. I try to eat as much of it as possible, but it is usually a little costly in the grocery stores, even in the spring and early summer when it is plentiful. One house I lived in in Ohio had a creek running along my property line. Every spring I could pick wild asparagus, so buying it wasn't a problem.

But planting asparagus involves patience because the crop can't be harvested for the first few years in order for it to esablish itself. First I would have to get some asparagus roots from someone who had a good crop. Then I would have to plant the roots and wait. The first two years I couldn't pick any of the spears; I would just have to let them go to seed. By the third year I would be able to pick a few, and after that I could harvest most of my crop because the roots would be established; although I have heard it is usually a good idea to let some of the plants go to seed so the asparagus patch will spread.

Therein lies the problem. When I moved back to Ohio, I rented a farmhouse where I planted a garden. However, I didn't plant asparagus because I didn't think I would stay at the house long enough to harvest any. I planted peas, zucchini, eggplants, peppers, and tomatoes, plus a few different vegetables every year, but no aparagus because it took too long. I didn't want to waste my time getting an asparagus patch established. Afterall, it was only a rental house and I planned to return to San Francisco in two years.

I lived in that house for more than seven years, and I never went back to live in San Francisco. I could have had aparagus if I had just planted some that first year!

Asparagus was the fist vegetable I planted when I moved to Michigan. I only planned to be here a year or two; then I was moving on to find a better teaching job, but I had learned my lesson. After fifteen years, I have a wonderful asparagus patch, and I eat lots of fresh asparagus every spring!

Undergraduate Adventures con't

A Brief Respite (a few years away from school)

After droppping out of Bowling Green and driving to San Francisco, my new husband and I presented ourselves on the doorstep of an old college friend who had been living in San Francisco for a few years. The couple with whom we had driven to California took the VW van and started back to Ohio. The plan was that they would sell the van when they got back and send us money.

When we arrived, we thought that Bill would be delighted to see us and that we could stay with him for a week or two while we found jobs and an apartment. Unfortunately, there were a few problems we hadn't thought about.

• San Francisco was going through a time of horrible unemployment. The dock workers were on strike, so all of the jobs around the ports were no longer available. Plus, the Vietnam War was ending and a lot of the men being discharged were landing in California and deciding to stay. Also, California was a heavily unionized state; there was even a ditch diggers' union! Finally, San Francisco was the place to be, and thousands of young people from across the country had left their homes and moved west. Even Bill's garbage collector had a master's degree! So finding a job was going to be a lot tougher than we had anticipated.
• The housing situation was a lot more expensive and harder to negotiate than it had been in the midwest. Most of the apartment rentals were not listed in the newspaper classifieds; potential renters had to go through rental agencies which charged a fee just to find out what places were available. Landlords also required a deposit, plus first and last months' rent and references on top of the agency fee. To make it even worse, San Francisco has limited housing available because of its location, making rentals some of the most expensive in the country.
• Bill had a girlfriend who paid the rent on their apartment, and she didn't want guests.

So instead of a happy reunion with our friend, we had to find a place to stay immediately. Since we had arrived on Sunday night, no rental agencies were open. Bill got the Sunday paper, said, "Here's a place you can rent by the week," packed us back into our VW and sent us to The Fellah Hotel.

We had a little trouble finding it because it wasn't on a street. It was on an alley off San Francisco's downtown in an area referred to as the Tendorloin, a charming collection of skid row hotels, hookers, bums, and runaway kids. For $25 we got a room with a sink in the corner, a nasty looking mattress on the floor, kitchen and bathroom priveledges to be shared with a lot of loonies, and a broom to sweep up the broken glass on the bedroom floor. Our friends dropped us off and drove the VW van towards Oregon, and we stayed behind, wondering what we had done. Welcome to San Francisco!

We were in the Fellah Hotel for two weeks before Bill decided to take us back to his place. He came to visit us, and after fighting off the panhandlers in the hall, he was sitting on our mattress sharing a cup of tea when something fell off the ceiling into his cup. That was too much even for him, so he helped us pack up our stuff and go back to his house. My husband and I both eventually found jobs, but no apartment. I managed a downtown photo store and he delivered sandwiches and sold Fuller Brush door-to-door. After a few months, Bill and his girlfriend decided to move down the coast and we inherited their apartment.

A year later we moved to an even better apartment in the Haight Ashbury near Golden Gate Park where we lived until we decided to move back to Ohio.

During our years in San Francisco, we met a lot of artists, musicians, and crazy people. We acquired a St. Bernard, a Chevy van, and a taste for exotic food. It wasn't easy, but it was certainly interesting. Eventualy, I decided to go back to school, so we packed up the Chevy van, loaded the St. Bernard, and drove back to Bowling Green where I finished my BA.

Post Script: The VW van never made it back to Ohio; it broke down attempting to cross the Rockies at Greybull, Wyoming, and as far as I know, it is still there.