Bursting Black Balloons

Though none of my friends had part-time jobs, my parents decided that I'd enter the workforce at the young age of fourteen. They gave me a few choices. I could join the family laundry and dry cleaners business or become an employee at the local public library. With a passion for books and an addiction to air-conditioning, the library seemed an easy selection. For a mere fifty cents an hour, less than minimum wage at the time, I began to shelve books, repair damaged spines, read stories to children, and travel the county in the rattling bookmobile. I'd like to report that I saved my salary for college or bought something substantial like part of a car. The teen-age me was mildly obsessed with clothes and nearly every cent I earned was soon transferred to the Ideal Shop, a local store specializing in the latest fashions for young ladies. My parents allowed this self-indulgence without complaint.



Three years at the library provided invaluable work experience and cemented my desire to become a professional librarian. The Library Director, a formidable lady named Eleanora Gralow, became a mentor. Along with other library employees, I enjoyed several day trips to New Orleans and Natchitoches for cultural events. Miss Gralow's close friend, Miss Jeanerette Harlow, wrote a column, 'Pot Pourri' for my hometown paper. She read my articles in the high school paper and counseled me to become a writer. Mrs. Flossie Klotz, who brilliantly taught U.S. History, routinely insisted that I become a History major in college. I tried to please all of these august women as I made my career choices during the next four decades.

With a degree in History and a minor in Library Science, I worked in Arizona as a librarian for over a decade. My skills, honed in classrooms, improved as I designed outreach programs for the community, selected books for the collection, served on multiple City committees, and participated in state-wide professional activities. Two of the influential ladies from my past would be happy.





Nine years ago today, I left work early. I'd arrived on campus in early June, 1978, one of many being interviewed for a technical position in the Personnel Office. With exactly no experience in this field, I was nevertheless hoping to make a favorable impression. When I talked with my husband that evening about the interview, I shared a few of the questions I'd been asked. I remember one in particular. A dean wanted me to describe myself in terms of being able to work without supervision and to use a scale from 1-10. My answer was, "11." I realized that my answer was unorthodox but I told the truth. My husband, though agreeing that the number was probably accurate, cautioned that interview panels usually don't expect or even appreciate such candor. I went to sleep convinced that I'd be receiving a rejection letter in a few days. Amazingly enough, the phone rang before 7:30 the next morning with a job offer. I was stunned and asked if I could call back with my answer. Again, my patient husband inquired as to why I hadn't simply said, "Yes." In a few minutes, having recovered my composure, I telephoned the lady who would become my boss and arranged for a start date.

Immersed in the collegiate world, I began to master the nomenclature. FTES, ABE, ESL, full loads, Board agendas, EEOC, Chancellor's Office, credentials--each term soon meant something to a novice. Years passed, then decades. Presidents' resigned, voluntarily or not. Lawsuits became commonplace and labor negotiations brought days of exhaustion. Richly gifted instructors joined the faculty and introduced their magic to responding students. I never expected this job to become lifework but it did. The office expanded to meet the needs of a growing campus. Named a member of the management team, I strived to succeed with the support and dedication of a talented staff. Not every day was fun, not every conversation resolved difficult issues. Not every person appreciated the laws and Board policies the office had to administer.



Toward the end of my tenure, I spent more and more time in meetings. Often these gatherings focused away from the institution's only purpose--the students. In frustration, I began to scribble on my notepad. With extremely limited artistic adroitness, I drew feathers. When I'd return to the office, a staff member might inquire, "How was the meeting?" I'd declare, "Well, it's been a forty feathers day." That phrase has become a mantra for me.



In the week prior to the grisly events of September 11th, I submitted my retirement letter. My husband had made the transition to non-working status in a seamless fashion. I seriously doubted that I could emulate his elan. Everything about retiring frightened me. Who would I be? What would I do? Could we be in the house all the time together? What if I regretted the decision, would anybody hire me again? How could I live an unstructured life?

With false bravura, I'd picked my departure date. I began to close files, say farewell to colleagues around the State, and visit various offices on campus to thank those who'd shared my journey. I also decided to have a bit of fun. Around the door to my office, I hung black balloons. Each one was labeled with a week. On Fridays, I burst a balloon, signifying advancement to the inevitable ending.



My apprehension had not abated but inertia carried me forward. Those final days, I cried sporadically. So did my staff. We met at a Chinese restaurant for a celebratory meal. They gave me a beautiful Emily Dickinson book, inscribed with poignant words. To lighten the mood, I also received a trophy with the words, 'First Aardvark' on its base. These ladies knew that when my supervisor, the President, asked if I'd like a new title, I told him that I wasn't partial to fancy names and would be happy to be called an 'Aardvark.' I do not believe he was amused.

I couldn't have foreseen my future as a college employee that nervous day in June. I joined the staff as the mother of a seven year-old boy and left twenty-three and a half years later with a college freshman daughter. I suppose I had abandoned history, librarianship, and writing during those years. With the rest of my life unfolding before me, I could and would reclaim those interests.

I can proudly say that I've become acclimated to the tenor of retirement life. It did take a while but as my often quoted husband likes to say, "It is emancipation." So far, I've volunteered in the Literacy Program at the library and been profoundly gratified assisting at the Adult School in the High School Equivalency program. Smitten by genealogy, I've created a family data base that is burgeoning with over 7000 names of our matriarch's descendants. I write the reunion newsletter, continue to compose poems and essays, and recently have become an avid blogger. I've been lucky enough to travel widely, often visiting family and friends.

I have a routine. I know the difference between Tuesday and Friday and realize that it really doesn't matter. I relish the luxury of an alarm clock that is only set if we have an early flight to catch. I've found 'new' cousins through genealogy message boards and added them to my life. I've learned that it is possible, actually preferable, to spend all day, every day with my darling spouse. He is a source of constant entertainment, thought-provoking intellectual stimulation, endless serendipity, and boundless love. I've watched with a bursting heart as our daughter married her special man and reveled in the amazing young woman she's become. I never doubted it for a moment. I've been blessed by neighbors who are truly family, whose unstinting gift of time reminds me constantly of my good fortune.

As I peer into the next year, I see another milestone. An early birthday will activate the blue and white card in my wallet. Medicare is my destiny. I don't mind so much. I'm retired, you see, and there are balloons aplenty.