Adventures with Dad

We used to vacation two weeks a summer at Ocean City, MD. But even with the beach and the boardwalk, the miniature golf and Playland, the best part for me and Dad was going out on his 16-foot aluminum boat to fish Assawoman Bay. You heard me. Look it up.

Now, Assawoman Bay was, in many places, so shallow that, if you had trouble with your boat you could pretty much walk it back to the dock. Trust me. I know. And thus I always wore sneakers. There’s some icky stuff down there.

But on this particular day, Dad wanted to go down by the bridge, where the big boats play.

I, as a 12-year-old, was up for it because down that way, just the year before, we’d caught 142 blowfish. I say “we,” but Dad was mostly baiting my double drop hooks, then scooping them up in the net by fives. It was like they wanted to get in the boat. Later, bless his heart, he cleaned them all … barehanded.

Anyway, the closer we got to the bridge, the rougher the water was getting.

Dad’s wasn’t a Jon boat with the flat front. His had a pointed bow with a triangle of aluminum at the tip with a handle so you could lift it onto the top of your car to carry it home. And it came equipped with a 5 1/2 horsepower Johnson motor, which was about the size of a dorm room refrigerator.

With all that weight in the back, Dad had me sit way up in the fronty front to balance it out. It didn’t work, but it made him feel better.

On this day, I felt like doing the bucking bronco, what with the rough water and all. I’d sit on the triangle of aluminum, holding on to the handle with my legs dangling over the bow and ride her like a steed.

Only this time, one of those big boats happened by, creating quite the wake. That, combined with the already rough water, caused our mighty vessel to ride up and tip violently to port. So I rode up and tipped violently to port … and fell in the water. Tshirt, shorts and tennis shoes. And a hat! I forgot. I lost my hat!

When I reached the surface again, Dad had put the motor in neutral and was laughing his butt off. I grabbed hold of the side of our piece o’ crap craft and glared at him. I could see the thought forming in his brain.

“Deb. As long as you’re down there, why don’t you see how deep it is?”

“Dad!”

“C’mon. You can do it.”

Right. Play with my ego. So I pushed off, took a deep breath and dove, pulling myself down … and down … and down. This was creeping me out, so I turned back up and propelled myself to the surface as fast as my sneakers would allow.

I came up for air yet again and Dad was still laughing and almost clocked me with the boat.

I grabbed the side of our dinky dinghy again. “Dad, I couldn’t get to the bottom.”

“Wow. It must really be deep, then.”

OK. That formed a little pearl of pride in my chest. A little one. We still had to get little miss waterlogged back in the bloody boat.

It involved pain. You know those little round thingies you can put oars through? Yeah. Ouch.

We decided this trip was pretty much over and headed back to where we were staying. I slogged my way up the stairs and put my fishing gear down on the porch, stood, and saw Mother standing in the doorway.

“Howard! What on earth happened?”

Dad, who was standing beside me, beaming with pride because he had, after all, brought me home alive, was about to say something when I interrupted.

“Mom, we never really saw it, but it had to have been huge. Fortunately, we got the fishing pole back.”

I inched past her through the doorway and squished my way to the bathroom for a shower.

IF...you were Obama

I re-read Rudyard Kipling's poem, If. It sounds like a check list for our new president, and so far he seems to be passing. Check it out.
[IF]
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

--Rudyard Kipling

Unemployed

I was not going to cry.
But I cried. It was the gals in the front office who made me weepy when I had so wanted to go out with my head held high. I know they did it on purpose. They had wanted to take me out for a farewell lunch, but I told them my stomach wasn’t up to it. Boy, that was the truth.
So instead they surrounded me and gave me a card they had all signed. It included a $50 gift card, which will undoubtedly come in handy. Then they all demanded a hug. Then came the waterworks.
I’ll miss them and most of the folks up at James Sprunt Community College in Kenansville. I’d spent more than 15 years there as the public information assistant, producing the Web site, newsletters, brochures, ads, press releases – you name it. If it was written, I wrote it.
But things, and people, had been changing for the past few years. Retirement was breaking up the old gang. And the new gang had new ideas. So here I am, 52, and reorganized out of a job.
I have to admit, I’ve been lucky. This is the first time in my 30-year career that I’ve been unemployed – “between jobs” – because of someone else’s decision. And I have to admit it’s not easy to wrap my mind around that fact.
I have been receiving a lot of support from friends and family, though, which is important – if for no other reason than my own self-esteem. My brother’s prayer group sent me a card saying I was on their list. I hope that continues until further notice. Others have insisted this is an opportunity to find something much better. No more 100-mile round-trip drives up I-40 in all kinds of weather. And there was a segment on the Today Show about, essentially, the power of positive thinking.
So only a week into my being “between jobs,” I’ve pretty much stopped wishing ill on certain people. I guess that’s a step in the right direction.
And while I have tried to take all those positive thinking vibes into myself, there is something that I have adopted as my own credo: Looking For a Job Is a Job.
So I get up the same time every morning, read the news and start the search. I’ve bought a $20 downloadable book about how to go about selling yourself in this new era. I haven’t finished it, yet. But I have been contacting people I know in the business – or close enough to the business – and making new contacts with businesses and organizations that could use my skills. At least that’s what I need to convince them.
I have uploaded my resume onto two different job search agents, including Monster.com, which is available through the Star-News Web site. I have identified myself as a writer/public relations specialist and a content expert. So I have been somewhat puzzled when I received so-called matches from these agents that have included such things as Family Dollar store manager and nighttime security guard.
In the meantime, I’m entering Week Two “between jobs.”