Kitchen Duty

I'm the only woman of the baby boom generation who makes her bed. The next job I can remember was given to me also by my mother after she broke her leg skiing in New Jersey. It was her first or second time making my father happy by skiing on the little New Jersey hill with snow making. Full of fear and tension over sliding down a hill, Mom broke her leg in two places.

I was subsequently hired at age twelve to cook and clean. Maybe my only job was to take care of the kitchen because I remember the hell of oven scrubbing and making lamb chops inedible with garlic. I was happy about receiving a ten dollar bill and also happy when I could return to being a carefree penniless twelve-year-old. That may have been the same year I forced my family to celebrate Hanukkah instead of Christmas. That was the year we didn't have to get rid of the tree before grandma came over for a visit. Even though my parents grew up celebrating Christmas, having an actual Christmas tree in our actual house decorating the picture window with it's lights would have been upsetting to all four grandparents or at least the grandmothers.

First Job

My first job was making my bed.  This job was mine before we left Trenton NJ in 1962 when I was six. My mother gave me a quarter every day for making my bed. She also told me the bully across the street was named Tammy the Rotton Spot and didn't question me about picking up heavy rocks when I broke my thumb. As a result, I'm the only woman of my generation who makes the bed every morning. I've even started using a bed spread (remember bed spreads) to protect our bed from dog fur. It's just a sheet but I do put some thought into the decoration on the sheet chosen by my late mother-in-law Sharonn Gittelsohn. Most of our sheets are in-law hand-me-downs.

My father was surprised that my teenage son does not have the job of making his bed. My parents must have been in agreement about the importance of beginning the day that way. I find in freshens up the bedroom.

Coward

December 4, 2012

What if I organized all my writing index cards into emotions so I could make stories, perhaps with photos (scrapbook style since I seem to be fascinated with scrapbooks lately).

What does this have to do with my job search? I realized this morning that I'm a coward. If I were not a coward, I would throw everything aside so I could spend the morning writing. Perhaps it's enough just to have the desire. I could believe the red sea will split for me even if I have to walk up to my nose.