Happy Fourth of July!!!

Waiting for the Fireworks

 

It is too hot and too bright

and I am way too old to take a nap.

I’ll be seven next month,

and I never took naps, even in kindergarten!

When Mrs. Proctor told us

to put our heads on our desks for a nap

I never fell asleep!

I just listened to the secret noises I could hear

when I pushed my ear against the top of my desk.

Mummy knows I never sleep in the day,

but she said I have to,

because tonight

we’ll stay up late for the fireworks.

We go every year on the Fourth of July,

and there's crowds and crowds of people

and it’s very, very dark.

We look up, up, up!

When the fireworks explode,

I can feel the bangs in my heart

and everybody, all together,

we say, “Ahhhh!”

If I didn’t take a nap, Mummy says,

I’d be too sleepy, but I’m never ever sleepy.

I tried to tell her that, but she just said,

“Not another word! Straight back to bed!”

I hear Queenie barking for me to come out and play,

but Mummy said

I can’t get up again for another whole hour!

I’m wearing my Cinderella watch,

the one that Grandma gave me,

and I keep looking at it,

but every time I do,

it still isn’t time to get up!

I don’t think I’ll ever fall asleep!

But when tonight finally comes,

I’m going to see the fireworks!

   ~Kate Lydon Varley

Early Morning Rockport, Front Beach

 

Rising ridges

waves roll forward

faint pink – no, gold – no, pink.

A break of white flows past the boulders

sends pebbles sliding

forward and back

sounding advance

sounding retreat.

Just a peep of pink past cloud bank

now a glimmer

now full hue

orange vivid globe emerges

palette shifts violet

salmon, gray, blue.

Seagull searches fresh-made tide pool

drinks, throws head back

flexes wings.

Pipers dart on spindly legs

here and there at breakneck speed.

Woman barefoot crosses beach

footprint, footprint, cane print, foot

stops and leans on slab of granite

waits, inhales

watching still another sunrise

over the restless, restful sea.

    ~ Kate Lydon Varley

The ocean speaks

Morning Metaphysics

Five A.M.

cannot sleep

listen to the tide

regular

but not

predictable

but not

always retreating

always advancing

always the same

always changing

changing

changing

Dress in the half light 

down to the beach

feet in dry sand 

shifting

feet in wet sand 

sinking

feet in sea water

tingling cold

feet in tide pool

warming

tracing ridges of sand 

formed in the pull of waves

always the same

always different

always new

always old

always no one's

always mine

always

always

always

   ~Kate Lydon Varley

I listen, take notes

The Best Bedtime Stories Ever

In advance of Father's Day, I'm remembering 

some of the stories my Dad told us at bedtime,

 many years ago.

“Tell us a story about when you were little!” Johnny and I begged.

Standing at the doorway to our bedroom, Daddy smiled, and we knew that meant yes.

“All right,” Daddy said. “Now, let’s see. One time, when I was just three or four years old, my mother needed to go to the store to get something for supper, so she called to my Dad to watch me while she was out, and she told me to be good. The store was just across the street, so she wouldn’t be gone a long time. My Dad was tired and he went to take a nap, and while he was sleeping, I got some nails and a hammer from his tool box, and I decided to help out. I started to nail down our rug in the parlor.”

“Why?” Johnny asked. We had never nailed down our rugs.

“I wanted it to stay down,” Daddy said. “I made such a mess! Those nails were twisting all over the place, but I kept trying, and I finally got nails in all around the rug. And when my mother came back home, there I was sitting on the parlor floor, with a bunch of nails around me and a hammer in my hand.”

“Was she surprised?” I asked.

“She was more than surprised! She was mad!”

“She was mad at you?” I tried to imagine my Nana mad at Daddy!

 “No, she was mad at my father! She went into the bedroom and got him up, and said, I ask you to watch Jackie for a few minutes so I can go to the store, and look what happens! You go to sleep, and he nails the rug to the floor!’

“My Dad said, I was just taking a nap! I thought he was with you!

“With me?’ my mother said. I told you I was leaving him with you!

“‘Well this is the first I heard of it,’ my Dad said.

“‘And didn’t you hear all that hammering?’ she asked.

“‘I didn’t notice,’ he told her.  But his nap was over, and he had to spend the rest of the afternoon getting all those nails out of the parlor floor!”

We both laughed, and then, quickly, before he could get away, we begged, “Tell us another story!”

“My father used to take me down to the corner store with him, and he’d tell the people there, ‘Between me and my son Jackie, we know everything. You can ask us any question you want, and between us, we can give you the answer.’  Someone would ask a real tough question, and my father would smile and say, ‘That one’s Jackie’s department! You tell them the answer, Jackie.’”

We laughed again.

“It was the Depression,” Dad said, “and no one had money. When the rent was coming due, if we didn’t have enough money to pay it, we’d move someplace else where the rent was cheaper. So one time we moved into an apartment on the top floor of a three decker where everything seemed fine until one night when it rained. The roof leaked, and we had water dripping from the ceiling. My mother put pots and pans underneath to catch the drips, and the next day, my father told the landlord about it. Well, the landlord said he’d fix it, but he didn’t do anything. The next time it rained, we had water dripping all over the place again. So my mother got the pots and pans out again, and the next day my father told the landlord again. He promised again that he’d fix it, but he still didn’t do anything. Every time it rained, we’d have pots and pans all over the floor. My father got so mad! One night when it started raining, he looked up at the ceiling where it was dripping, and he went for his toolbox. He got out a drill, and he drilled holes in the floor underneath every place it was dripping, so the drips would go downstairs to the apartment below. ‘Maybe if there’s more of us complaining, the landlord will do something about it,’ he said.”

Daddy’s father was so funny! But so was the rest of his family. “Tell us another story from when you were a kid,” we asked.

“Well, one time when we were living with my grandfather,” Dad said, “I decided to stick my head through the rungs on the back of a dining room chair, just to see if it would fit. I got my head through all right. The problem was, I couldn’t get it back out again. So I began to holler for my mother. Your Nana came running, and she and her sister Agnes tried to pull me out. Well, the more they pulled, the more it hurt. I was really stuck, and every time they pulled me, it felt like they were tearing my ears off. I began yelling, ‘Saw the chair! Saw the chair!’ And Agnes said, ‘The damn little brat!’”

Johnny and I giggled in shock that Agnes had said a swear word about our Dad!

“My mother got some butter and rubbed it on my head and my ears, and she and Agnes kept pulling me and rubbing butter on me until my head finally slipped out. Agnes was so mad at me!” Dad laughed.

“Tell us more about Agnes!” we begged. We loved the stories about her.

“It used to drive Agnes crazy that I pulled my chair in close to the table when we ate. She’d say to my mother, ‘Look at him! His chair’s too close! Don’t let him push it in so far!’ My grandfather Daddy Jim would tell her to leave me alone, and she’d be real mad. So I’d pull my chair in so close to the table that I could hardly breathe, just to bother her.”

“Tell us about Willie,” we’d beg.

“Willie was your Nana’s littlest brother, and he was just a teenager when I was a kid. One time my mother said that she was going to take me to the doctor to get a check-up before I started school. Willie got me alone before I went to the doctor, and he said to me, ‘Jackie, I heard you’re going to the doctor. Now don’t be scared about it. Going to the doctor isn’t so bad. There’s only one thing you have to watch out for. Sometimes the doctor takes out a little flat stick and tells you to open your mouth. Whatever you do, Jackie, don’t open your mouth, or he’ll take that little stick and shove it down your throat and choke you to death. So you be careful!’”

Johnny and I laughed. Willie was telling a big fib!  Doctors don’t try to choke you to death!

 “So I went to the doctor’s,” Dad said, “and everything was all right until the doctor took out that little wooden stick. ‘You’re not going to kill me!’ I yelled.  Well, the nurse started telling me everything was fine, and the doctor wouldn’t hurt me, and she and the doctor were both trying to hold me and telling me to open my mouth. I kicked the doctor as hard as I could and jumped off the table, and I started running. The two of them chased me all over the room trying to get me to open my mouth.”

That Willie! I thought.

“Another time,” Dad said, “it was a Saturday. I loved to go to the movie theater and Willie was all set to go with his friends. He said to me, ‘Aren’t you going to the pictures today, Jackie?’

‘I can’t go. I don’t have any money,’ I told him.

‘Don’t you know, today you don’t need money,’ he told me. ‘Today they have a special deal, and you can get in for a button.’”

“We always have to pay money,” I said.

“Well, I ran in the house and pulled a button off a shirt,” Dad said, “and then I ran down to the theater. There was a big line for the matinee, and I got in line and waited my turn. Finally I got up to the ticket window. I handed the lady my button and asked for a ticket.

‘This is a button, little boy,’ she said. ‘Where’s your nickel?’

‘You’re taking buttons instead of nickels today,’ I reminded her.

‘No, we don’t take buttons. You need a nickel to get a ticket,’ she said.

‘It’s a special button day! My uncle Willie told me it is!’ I said. ‘You’re giving tickets for buttons!’

‘Your uncle Willie lied to you,' she said. ‘Where’s your nickel?’

‘I don’t have a nickel,’ I said. ‘I just have a button.’

 “If you don’t have a nickel, you can’t get a ticket. Now stop holding up the line!’

“I was so disappointed that I started crying. But you know what? A big kid was selling papers on the corner, and he saw what happened. He came over to me and said, ‘Don’t cry, kid. 

Here’s a nickel. Go see the pictures.’ So I got to go to the show anyway.”

 “Tell us another story, please!” we’d beg.

“I bet you never knew that one time I gave Nana a black eye,” Dad said.

“Why?” my brother Johnny asked.

“We went to Revere Beach one day, and Nana put out a blanket on the sand for us to sit on. I sat down to take off my shoes. I was so excited to be at the beach that I was rushing so I could go in the water. I got my shoe off, and threw it over my shoulder to get it out of my way. I didn’t know it, but my mother was right behind me. It hit her in the eye, and she got a black eye!”

“Was she mad at you?” I asked.

“She knew it was an accident, so she wasn’t mad,” Daddy said. “But even when I was naughty, Nana always hated to punish me. Sometimes if I was naughty, she’d say, ‘If you don’t stop that, Jackie, you’re going to get a spanking.’ And if I kept it up and kept it up and kept it up, she’d finally take me over her knee. She’d lift her hand way up in the air, and then just barely touch it down on my bottom, about as hard as when a fly lands on you. She’d give me two or three little pats like that, and all the time, she’d be crying because she hated to spank me.

“When I was supposed to begin first grade,” Daddy said, “my mother told me, ‘You’re not going to be able to spend all your time having fun and playing in the park. Those days are over. You have to start school.’  I didn’t want to go. I was used to playing with my friends and my cousins in the park all day, and I wanted to keep playing. My mother sent me off to school, but instead I just went to Glendale Park to play. So my mother told my father, ‘You’re going to have to take him to school.’ The next day my father walked me to school. He waited until he saw me go in the door to the school building, and then he left.

“Well, I waited just inside the door, and when I saw he was gone, I ran off to the park to play. That night my mother said to my father, ‘I asked you to take Jackie to school, but the school said he didn’t come today either.’

“’I took him,’ my father said. ‘I saw him go in the door.’

“So the next day my father walked me into school right to my classroom door to make sure I got in. But as soon as the teacher turned her back, I snuck out of the room and went to the park again. My father found me in the park, and brought me back to school. He told me I had to stay there. This time he came right into my classroom and sat in the back of the room to make sure I didn’t sneak out.

“But it turned out I had a nice teacher. She had us act out nursery rhymes. She brought a candlestick into class, and every day she’d put it on the floor in the front of the classroom. While the class would recite, ‘Jack, be nimble! Jack, be quick! Jack, jump over the candle stick!’, I’d jump back and forth over it. So I started to like school.”

“Tell us another story!” we begged.

“That’s enough for tonight,” Daddy said. “It’s time to get some sleep.”

“Can I have another glass of water?” Johnny asked.

“Me too,” I said.

“Just one,” Daddy said, “and this is the last one.”

After we drank our water, Daddy kissed us again and tucked us in. Then he disappeared down the hallway. Still giggling, Johnny and I talked for a few minutes about when Daddy was a little boy. No matter how many of his stories he told us, it was never enough.

     ~ Kate Lydon Varley

In My Mother's Kitchen

Past counters strewn with trivets of my childhood,

barefoot across the cool ceramic floor,

I step from one island

to the next --

on area rugs we should remove, they say,

lest she trip.

Through the dark, 4:23

glows red from the clock on the stove.

I still smell the soup we made

for last night's supper,

full of vegetables we chopped together,

she helping against my protest

just an hour after coming home.

Leaning against the kitchen door,

I look through the panes

at bare trees against a blush of retreating snow cloud,

and past the porch, the full moon,

a luminous will-o'-the-wisp,

casts a foggy glow

through mesh of branch.

Still on patrol,

I listen

to my mother's sleeping breath,

six nights past bypass,

as she dreams once again in her own home.

   ~Kate Lydon Varley

Jeff Cullen, guest writer for today’s post, was a dear friend who left us, all too soon, in May this year, a month before his sixty-fifth birthday. Before I knew him, Jeff was my husband’s college friend, a funny, bright, surprising guy. He grew up on a farm in southeastern Pennsylvania, went to college in Maine, and over his lifetime, maintained a love of the sea as well as a love for the farm. He was a hard-working man, generally holding one or more – up to three – other jobs while also working on the farm. Jeff was a prodigious reader who loved history and literature, and who could launch into the most surprising discussions at any moment. No matter if his subject was the Civil War, the battle of Agincourt in 1415, or the conversation he had with a dissatisfied customer in the supermarket a week ago, Jeff was a gifted storyteller. And funny – oh, he could bring the house down sometimes. He was a beloved uncle to our children, a dear, dear friend, a curmudgeon with a heart of gold. Today, on Jeff’s birthday, I am honored to present “Farmers’ Time,” the eulogy he wrote for his own father.

FARMERS’ TIME

Guess maybe it’s how you look at things – the face or the edifice of a coin, the dawn and the sunset – you know, how life meets death and shudders and emerges as life again.

My father, a farmer, died in early June, unloading hay in the top of his barn in the cool evening quiet that comes after a hot day of toil and deadlines. Sudden, final, the last worst thought of our minds, like an awful aberration, a crushing grievous jolt to the rhythm of his family’s lives that had seen the best spring start in years.

Yet I wonder at this tragedy, and somehow see it as part of a grand puzzle come together to form an unforgettable memory that will warm and comfort his survivors as the years move on.

It looked like he had just lain down; his color was still robust; there were no signs of a struggle. Only our dog saw it, and ran to show us. Dad was kneeling against a bale on a wagon bed he’d built, in his barn, back lit by a 150 watt bulb overhead, with the fresh perfume of beautiful hay in the cool even darkness that comes only on a cloudy night.

I rushed out, hoping to breathe life into he who had given us our lives and everything good in life. Oh, I knew when I saw him, but it could not make me quit trying. There, for a precious few minutes, we lay with him, trying to kiss life back into him until the paramedics could get there with the proper tools. Too late, and how cruel it seemed. Two hours in the emergency room, and a restless tearful night of organizing – planning for the events of the coming days.

His children and his dearest neighbors were all there before dawn, forming a grieving wall for his shaken wife, who loved him utterly, totally, without constraints. Three acres of his hay, his final windrows, lay in the heat under a cloudy threatening sky. A chance for one last challenge that would have made him proud, something to do when we all felt so helpless and missed him so much. We turned it twice and baled it up, unloading, even selling it, before it got cool and the showers came.

Then, a quiet sleepless night while the news filtered through all its passage ways to our community and our extended family. Two days of unseasonably cold weather, clouded, sunless, and drizzling, gave us time to tie things up, for our friends and neighbors to put aside their labors and send their sympathies, pay their respects, and comfort us with their kind words and support.

We found a place to lay him to rest, near enough to visit at a whim, overlooking another farm, its pond and cows, and in sight of where he had, himself, torn down and saved two barns last fall to rebuild on our place.

The day of his funeral was cool and rainy, rain coming as we stood at his grave, hurrying us away to our friends, and away from any morbid contemplation. And it rained all day, a good sign, for we needed rain, and as Dad would say, a good day for a funeral, for a farmer couldn’t do much in such weather. A day to finish his work, and three days to rest and plan and remember him, without the sunshine to give us guilt or make us look beyond his memory.

And that night, as the front pushed through, a rainbow at sunset, there just long enough for Mother to see and know it was God’s benediction.

A series of little weather events, all entered into my father’s daily weather diary – all rare and deliberate and unforgettable, reminding us of the rhythm of the earth that is part of us and to which we belong. This was a farmer’s time, the puzzle pieces all falling into place – in respect for my father, who was a steward of the land and a flower on this earth.

Jeff Cullen 

June 13, 1995

Hettie La Greem and the Fox 

a verse

for a day, such as today,

when one feels one may have been 

quite inadvertanly, I expect,

courting disaster

but one is still hoping that all will end well

Hettie La Greem is my very best friend.

On that central point, I never will bend.

I admit that it's true, she would take to her bed,

Red bows taped to her elbows, a fox on her head,

Much to the distress of her Mummy, you see.



It was ever the case, perhaps ever shall be,

That the fox would climb nimbly as if down a tree.

The fox would descend from the head of my friend

And engage in a habit that Mummies despise −

Worse than tickling your goldfish or spilling on ties.

For the fox was an expert, an absolute whiz

At filling his pockets with things that weren't his −

Some coins and a pencil, a bottle of glue,

A small can of cat food, a tube of shampoo,

A skateboard, a hot dog, a tuba or two,

Three hair clips, a sneaker − but only the left.

His skill was uncanny, his fingers so deft,

But this was the story − it can't be denied −

His fingers were sticky, but he never lied.

If something went missing, one never need guess.

One would just ask the fox, and he'd always confess,

And quickly return it, no more and no less.



Which was why Hettie's Mummy, despite all her doubt,

Allowed him to visit, for truth must come out!

You know, Hettie's my friend! I'd praise her to the skies!

But her Mummy thought Hettie was telling big lies!

Her Mummy said, "Lies, they start small, but no matter.

Yours always gets bigger and taller and fatter."

Hettie's stories, it's true, were fast-growing and strange.

No matter the topic, her thoughts fit that range.



Why, she told me one time of a bad case of mange

On her darling pet turtle, Felicia Rosemary,

Whose shell one fine day grew remarkably hairy.

The turtle's odd hair was first blonde, and then red,

And a week after that, the poor turtle looked dead!

But before you cry out in surprise and dismay,

It turns out Hettie managed to quite save the day.

She rubbed the poor turtle with Reptile Hair Cream,

And the turtle let out an incredible scream!

It wiggled its tail, and its shell hair fell off.

And the turtle, it burped, and it let out a cough,

And the next thing that happened was also quite weird:

Hettie said that the turtle then grew a green beard.



But, back to the fox, no, we can't forget him!

One day he decided, perhaps on a whim,

To work out an hour or two at the gym.

He tried every sport, and his little heart pounded,

But his skills were so great that all watched him, astounded

As he filled up his pockets, already quite brimming,

Adding baseballs, a gym bag, a noodle for swimming,

Two rackets, a whistle, a bottle of water,

A towel, a dumbbell, a small teeter totter.



Then he hurried to Hettie's, for she'd promised lunch,

And she always had something delicious to munch.

Hettie set out two drumsticks, three large rounds of cheese,

Biscuits with honey, a bowl of green peas,

Some carrots and celery sticks for good crunch,

Chocolate chip cookies, bananas, and punch.

The fox stuffed his pockets, as quick as you please,

With both of the drumsticks and all rounds of cheese,

The biscuits with honey, the bowl of green peas,

The carrots and celery sticks for good crunch.

Then he crammed in bananas, each one of the bunch,

Every last cookie, so tempting to munch,

And poured into his pockets a good bit of punch!

He put down the pitcher, then grabbed it instead.

Hettie lifted him up to the top of her head.

Then up creaking stairs the two of them fled.



Meanwhile, in the parlor, some friends and her Mummy

Had formed several teams and were playing gin rummy.

Of a sudden, they heard both a crack and a roar,

And it's lucky they ran all at once to the door

For the ceiling fell in, crashing over the floor,

Spreading junk of all manner and kind, and lots more!

The cards and card tables were mixed in there too,

Under coins and a pencil, a bottle of glue,

A small can of cat food, a tube of shampoo,

A skateboard, a hot dog, a tuba or two,

Three hair clips, a sneaker − but only the left −

A green-bearded turtle who looked quite bereft,

A tuft of blonde hair and another of red,

The crumpled headboard of my friend Hettie's bed,

A mattress, a quilt with a lilac lace trimming,

Three baseballs, a gym bag, a noodle for swimming,

Two rackets, a whistle, a bottle of water,

A towel, a dumbbell, a small teeter totter,

Two drumsticks, three crumbling great rounds of cheese,

Biscuits with veggie sticks, honey and peas,

A whole lot of cookies, some crumbly, some wet,

All the bananas, some bruising, I’d bet,

A pitcher affixed with some red bows and tape

And I do not know why, there was also a grape.

But right in the center, with a fox on her head,

Was Hettie, my friend. And her Mummy then said,

"Hettie, what happened? What did you do?"

Hettie looked down at her dusty right shoe,

Retaped a bow to her elbow too,

Reached up to pet the fox perched on her head.

"I don't know," was all that she said.

But the fox, he spoke up, as quick as a wink:

“It was overly full pockets, I think.

Too much weight in them, maybe, a little excess.

I’m sorry I’ve made such a terrible mess!”



The fox, Hettie tells me, returned, as was right,

All those things that he’d taken, sewed his pockets closed tight.

Not again will he take anything but what’s his!

And that is simply the way that it is.

Hettie told me herself, as all honest friends do,

"Every word of this story is nothing but true!"





~Kate Lydon Varley

Chance Encounter. How benign it sounds!

When the weather warms up, it seems everyone wants to get out and enjoy what nature has to offer. Well, maybe not absolutely everything nature has to offer. (I say this as a loved one of people who suffer seasonal allergies, and as the owner of a tick transport system, otherwise known as a dog.)  Still, while all are out trying to enjoy spring, it might be helpful to recognize that a chance encounter may pose a danger or two. Thus, the following poem.

Chance Encounter

I know someday I will begrudge

 your every meal, detest

your very existence. If ever

I try to get you drunk,

beware!

It won’t be some benign

gesture of friendliness,

anything but! Between

your kind and mine,

peace is illusion, all-out

war the plain reality.

Today, though, I meet

you unawares

on this blindingly beautiful day

when warmth and light

cheer friend and enemy alike. Besides,

you are so young,

your skin gleaming with sunshine and moisture.

Don’t trust me!

Someday I may try to kill you,

but today, on this glorious April day,  

I am complicit in your safe escape,

you,

first slug of spring.

     ~ Kate Lydon Varley

April Poems and Memories

In his nonetheless wonderful work, "The Wasteland," T.S. Eliot began by maligning April, characterizing it in a manner I've never been able to accept:

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

For me, the spirit of change, the color, the textures, the brightness and breezes all suggest a spirit of hope and growth, the memories welcome, the desire a step toward something growthful and good.

So, sue me.

In that spirit, I offer a poem I wrote in which April, the kindest month, offered me its best.

Magill Road

In the time when every sentence

began with the word Mommy,

I spread the ABC quilt under the blooming cherry

in front of the house where I thought we'd live forever.

We snacked on graham teddy bears, my little ones and I.

I told them stories, sang with them, wiped their faces.

Then we lay back, looking up

at the flurry of falling pink petals, rich,

my arms full of cuddles and giggles.

   ~ Kate Lydon Varley

A Piece of Work

I’ve developed the unfortunate habit of looking for jobs. The lack of response makes it seem much more like a hobby than a serious pursuit. Nonetheless, I muddle on.

One job I applied for was as a volunteer coordinator, a position which involved recruiting, training, supervising and mentoring people to be hospice visitors. A tough context maybe, but I’m reflexively empathic, and strong as an ox. I could handle it.

And what do you know, pigs must have been flying, because the company emailed back. They liked my resume and wanted to proceed. Could I come for an interview Thursday at 1:00?

I had plans to get together with some writing friends on Thursday afternoon. But saying no from the get-go wouldn’t exactly endear me to a potential employer. Of course I could come.

And would I fill out the following additional form and return it?

No problem!

Then I read the form.

What intrigues you about this position and this company? I have never in my whole life been intrigued by a company, but I imagined I could drum up something if I studied their website.

Why are you leaving your current job, and why did you leave each of your previous jobs? Oh, come on! I’m an aging boomer, living in a job-hopping era. Why did I leave? Let’s see – because when I started my first job, I was too young to know any better, and thereafter too wise to believe that perfect jobs exist? Because no job is ever as good as it’s cracked up to be? I’d just have to use some of my fiction writing skills for that one.

Where do you see yourself five years from now? In an NPR studio being interviewed by Marty Moss-Coane regarding the amazing success of my latest book? No, guess not. Having a great time over lunch with friends? More realistic, but not impressive to a potential employer. Working at something I find to be incredibly thrilling and life-enhancing, so much so that I never want to retire? Yeah, that could do, provided I could keep a straight face if it should come up during the interview.

I filled out the form, and sent it back.

Their next email said my responses were great, and they’d send further information later.

Then another email telling me I would be meeting with, oh, let’s call him Justin Doe.

On Wednesday, just before I went out to a salon for my pre-interview haircut, I got an email informing me that since there were several openings, this would be a group interview.

What? If we were applying for different positions, why would someone interview us together? Maybe to give everyone background on the company, and then we’d move to individual meetings? Hell, I thought, if I’d known it would be a group interview, I might have told them sorry, I can’t do Thursday, I have plans with my friends.

On interview day, it was raining, sometimes pouring. Of course there was no parking space close to the door of Impressive Office Building, where we were to meet. I dashed from the car, uphill through myriad puddles, arriving slightly damp. When I opened the door to Deluxe Suite XYZ. I almost collided with a fellow in chinos and a button-down shirt, wearing a name tag which read Justin Doe. “Here for an interview?” he asked.

I said yes. He led me to the meeting room, then disappeared.

I entered a small, ugly conference room with a conference table too big for the space. All the chairs were backed up to the pale yellow walls, and there was absolutely no art work of any sort in sight. Six women were squeezed in around the table. Other than a place at the head, only one seat was empty, and I had to work my way around half of the women to get to it. As I sat, one woman, arms crossed over her chest, spoke up. “We’ve already introduced ourselves, so you should too.”

I told them my name, and asked, “How much information are we sharing?”

Amid some laughs, she answered sharply, “Just our names!”

Then each woman in turn said her name, nothing else. The woman who started it demanded, “Now, how many of those names can you remember?”

I managed to get three, including that of the cross-armed woman. She nodded. “”Pretty good.”

The group settled into uncomfortable silence.

“Where’s everyone from?” I asked.

The answers came – various suburbs, plus one woman from Philadelphia.

“I love Philadelphia,” I said. “When I first moved to Pennsylvania, that’s where I lived. What a great city!”

“Crowded,” someone said.

“I’m hoping to move out soon,” the Philadelphia woman answered.

Ah, so we’re a down-on-Philadelphia crowd, I thought. “There’s a lot going on in Philadelphia,” I said, “and it can be a pretty interesting place, but you do have to breathe a lot of bus fumes.”

Laughter, although brief, and then, more uneasy silence. I was wondering which jobs the others were applying for when Justin returned. He squeezed himself between chairs and the wall, edging toward the front of the room, and took the seat at the head of the table.

“Now as you all know, we’re doing a group interview today,” he said, “and you’re all applying for the same job.” (Wait a minute! That wasn’t what the email said!) “Everyone here is a good candidate for the position. But, you know, sometimes you read someone’s resume, seems like a perfect fit, but when you meet the person, you realize, for one reason or another, it’s not the right person. I had all these great resumes, and I got the idea, why not get everyone together at once! So, what we’ll do, I’ll tell you some things about us, and then we can have a discussion.”

Everyone smiled pleasantly as if delighted, although I imagine we were all feeling more like Scar in The Lion King.

Justin asked if we knew how hospice services became so common. I immediately thought of the work of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, her work on stages of grief, and acceptance of death and dying. Not even close! Justin launched into a history of legislation from the 1980s which authorized Medicare payment for hospice services. From the get-go, the bill required that at least five percent of the work of any company providing hospice services must be done by volunteers. In other words, the legislation that got Medicare involved in paying for hospice became law because it guaranteed using volunteer labor which would save the government money. Since saving money necessitated all that volunteer work, it also led to the need for paid volunteer coordinators, to make sure the money-saving labor was performing as planned.

My cynicism thus primed, I listened to Justin’s cursory run-down of some of the functions of a volunteer coordinator – recruiting and training new volunteers, providing support, introducing volunteers to clients, team meetings, and documenting things; especially documenting things. “Over half your time is going to be spent documenting,” he said, “and we have to be up to date. You don’t know who may come in tomorrow to look at your records – the federal government, the state, insurance companies. We’re only as good as our records, so everything has to be kept up to date at all times. Two mistakes and we’re non-compliant, and if we don’t comply with the law, we don’t get paid.”

“We also fall under the federal requirement that the work force needs to resemble the client population being served,” he continued. Justin had said the average age of their client population was somewhere in the eighties. So they may want older employees, I thought. And what about gender? Hospice workers are much more likely to be women. So maybe the government wants to get more men working in hospice, since many clients are likely to men?

“I became well acquainted with this regulation when I was working with teens in another city – I also have a Divinity degree, you see,” Justin continued. “So when we’re hiring, the racial and ethnic mix is something we need to be aware of.” What did Divinity have to do with it? And whose race and ethnicity should employees match? Justin didn’t say.

But he did explain that their client population is defined by geographic area. “We’re strictly County A,” he said, despite the fact that we were all sitting in a conference room in County B. “Well, and the northern and western parts of County B. Oh, and the southern areas of County B, where it gets near the state border. Well, I guess along the interstate, east to west.” With those added areas, I wondered if there were any parts of County B he didn’t cover.

“Luckily, all the places we serve are within a half hour drive from here.”

One woman said her drive starting within target area County A had taken almost an hour, and it wasn’t a peak traffic time. “Okay,” Justin said. “Maybe it depends on time of day and traffic, but about a half hour.”

Next he told us about the teams. “Team meetings are on Wednesday afternoons, so Wednesday is definitely a workday, and everyone has to attend, because that’s how the physician on the team learns about what’s going on, so he can make appropriate orders. Nothing happens without a physician’s order. No volunteer visits unless the physician says they are needed. If he says two visits a week, it has to be two per week, or else we’re out of compliance, and if we’re out of compliance, we don’t get paid. That’s why the documentation is so important.”

I was still waiting for the part when we talked about people, but Justin didn’t say anything about the people. Finally, he let go of the compliance issue and asked us what we thought.

Some of us thought about days of the week, and if any day, other than Wednesday afternoon, is specifically required, or is there some flexibility. Justin responded without providing an answer, but no one seemed to mind.

Crossed-arms lady wondered about hours, “I’m a full-time volunteer coordinator for a hospice now,” she said, “So I’m already doing all the things you mentioned. I’d like to have more free time, which is why I want to go part-time.”

“Well, then you know,” Justin said.

She nodded, knowingly, and asked, “Does the job take the current part-time volunteer coordinator more than twenty-five hours?”

“Oh,” Justin said, “well, I don’t know. Our current volunteer coordinator is full-time. But that’s because she’s also the occupational therapist. We’re looking for a part-time occupational therapist too, so if anyone knows someone?”

No one knew someone.

“But is she able to do the coordinator job in the twenty to twenty-five hour range?” Crossed-arms persisted.

“Well, it depends,” Justin said. “You know how it goes.”

Apparently, Crossed-arms did know how it goes, because she nodded again.

Another woman, whose shoes made me wonder if she was a nun, spoke up. “I’m a part-time volunteer coordinator for a hospice, and it’s a great job, but I’d like to work closer to home. In your organization, does the volunteer coordinator have any contact with clients?”

Ah! At last we were going to talk about people!

“Definitely,” Justin said. “The volunteer coordinator goes out with the volunteer on the first visit and introduces them.”

“So the volunteer coordinator meets with the client before the volunteer does,” Nun-shoes said.

“No,” Justin said. “The coordinator represents our organization, and makes the introduction, but generally that’s the first time the coordinator meets the client too.”

“How often does the coordinator need to meet with the client?” Nun-shoes asked.

“Just once, usually,” Justin said. “For the introduction. But the volunteer makes twice weekly visits, and that all needs to be documented. I can’t overstress how important the records are.”

A thin, shy-looking woman spoke up. “I’m a volunteer coordinator too, but not for a hospice. We do a lot of our work with groups. Do you have groups?”

Groups, I thought happily, is a strength for me.

“We have team meetings on Wednesday afternoons, and we get everyone together so we have input from the whole group of people working with each client,” Justin said.

“Where I work,” Shy lady said, “we have support groups for the client, and the facilitator has to be a person who has experienced the same issue as the clients. That’s how I got involved to begin with.”

“So your groups are run by volunteers?” Justin asked.

“Yes,” Shy lady answered. “We train them as group facilitators. Do you have support groups?”

“We work with individuals. Well, with the family too, in support of the client,” Justin said. “But we don’t do support groups.”

“I’m also a volunteer coordinator, for a different kind of organization, not a hospice,” said the woman who wanted to move out of Philadelphia. “Does that count against me?”

“No, no,” Justin answered. “Not necessarily.”

The conversation thudded along. Someone would introduce a topic, almost going somewhere with it, but then it would quickly fizzle out. I broached the subject of client needs, which to me was the central concern, but it was a fruitless effort. Justin cheerfully brought any conversation back to his chief focus: the need to document, so that funding would continue.

At last, he began to wind things up. “I didn’t know how the group interview would work out, but you’ve all been great! So much talent! I’m going to have to call every one of you back for an individual interview.”

“I didn’t know how it would be to begin with,” Nun-shoes said, “but I really liked it.”

Justin beamed. “You enjoyed it?”

“Yes,” she said. “It was very informative.”

“It would be great if we could all keep in touch,” Flee-Philly said.

“We could do that through email,” Shy lady pointed out.

“How about this?” Justin said. “I’ll send you all an email with everyone else’s email, and then we can all keep the conversation going!”

“Is everyone here okay with having your email sent out?” Crossed-arms asked. “Anyone who doesn’t want to be included? Speak up now!”

No one spoke up.

“All right, then we’re all in,” she announced.

Amid promises to keep in touch, we left the conference room.

I stopped in the ladies room before leaving and found four of the group talking about keeping in contact with each other. “We may not get the job,” Shy lady said, “but what a great networking opportunity!”

When I got home, I sent Justin an inspired, obligatory thank you note for the interview, giving several suggestions for attracting more volunteers, although I didn’t mention documentation.

I waited. No email list sent. No scheduling of further interviews. Not even the tiniest word of acknowledgment from Justin.

I imagine it was Crossed-arms lady who got the job. She is probably, even now, documenting something.

And me? Looking for jobs is getting old. I’ve got to find a new hobby.

     ~ Kate Lydon Varley