I’m so excited. Remember Creamsicles? I was introduced to them in the ‘70’s - Popsicle brand Creamsicles, very refreshing on a warm, summer day. You can still get them, but they cost $1.09 each and are sickeningly sweet.
Last summer in Ottawa, I was reintroduced to a version of the creamsicle that is so much better. It’s made by Chapman’s and sold locally at Zehrs in what they call their Club Pack. Works out to 30¢ each, only 90 calories, and absolutely delicious! (Thank you Lorraine. Or not.)
Enjoy!
In the summer of 1964, I worked as a clerk in the Emergency Department at the Montreal Children’s Hospital. I was a university student at the time and this was a great job! What stands out for me is the day I had an opportuntiy to observe a medical procedure.
I became quite friendly with one of the doctors and expressed an interest in observing a medical procedure when possible. One morning he invited me in to watch while he attended to a child who had fallen and needed a few stitches to his chin. I found it very interesting! I watched as he gently calmed the crying child, froze the area with a little needle, cleaned the wound thoroughly, and then closed it with four stitches. He covered the stitches with a bandage and sent the little guy and his mother on their way. I thanked him for the opportunity; I told him that it was absolutely fascinating!
And then I fainted.
I’ll take a break from talking about the jobs I’ve held to talking about a subject I love – the English language. I really enjoy reading things that are well-written, and listening to people who are well-spoken. Stephen Lewis is a favourite of mine. What a treat he is to listen to. Did you notice I just ended a sentence with a preposition? When I was in high school, my English teacher taught us to never do that. She made the point by saying, tongue-in-cheek, “A preposition is something you never end a sentence with”.
Over time I’ve adjusted to many changes in our use of language. Ending a sentence with a preposition is one of those changes. After all, language is dynamic, always changing, right? One just has to read Chaucer and Shakespeare to be reminded of that.
Nonetheless, as I read and listen I find I’m constantly editing. And it’s not only the obvious mistakes. For example, one of my pet peeves (and I can tell you I’m losing this battle), is the use of the phrase “try and find”. “I’m going to try and find my keys.” The correct phrase is “try to find”. An example of the correct use of the word ‘and’ is “shot and killed”. Each action has to be able to stand on its own, in order to correctly link them with ‘and’.
Another error that makes me cringe is the incorrect use of the words ‘fewer’ and ‘less’. At the checkout stand, “8 items or less” is incorrect. ‘Fewer’ is the correct word to use with any countable noun. “She makes fewer errors now.” “He has fewer friends.”
Use ‘fewer’ when the noun is countable, such as “I eat fewer apples than I used to”. Use “less” when the noun is uncountable, such as “I eat less fruit than I used to”.
And then there’s the important distinction between the words ‘number’ and ‘amount’. But, enough!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RGWiTvYZR_w&feature=email (Thanks, Judy!)
I was just remembering my first non-babysitting job. I was fifteen and I got a summer job – at Kresge's! It was in the notions department. I sold thread and needles, that kind of thing. My day off was Thursday. One Thursday morning I got a call from my boss asking me to come in to work. “But it’s my day off”, I said. He explained that a shipment of notions had just arrived and they needed me to unpack everything and get it on display. My reaction? I was so excited. They needed me. ME! I was in there in a flash. It was my first taste of having big, important work!
A little bit of history:
Sebastian S. Kresge first met Frank Woolworth when working as a travelling salesman and selling to all nineteen of Woolworth's stores at the time. In 1897 Kresge invested in two five and dime stores.
Apparently, I’ve had more jobs in my life than most. Care to hear about one of those jobs?
It was Fall of 1968. I was studying for a Master’s Degree at The New School for Social Research in New York City, when my friend Joanie invited me to visit her in San Francisco. Joanie was a student at McGill University when she decided to go to San Francisco to study non-violence under Joan Baez & Ira Sandperl at the Institute for the Study of Non-Violence. (It was the sixties, remember.)
I decided to spend my Christmas break with Joanie; so off I went to San Francisco.
Instead of staying in San Francisco the planned two and a half weeks, I ended up staying two and a half years. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I spent the first three weeks crashing on Joanie’s couch (do people still use the verb ‘to crash’?). Looking back, I realize I was pretty depressed. I didn’t want to go back to NYC to continue school, and SF really had its appeal.
I moved out of Joanie’s place into wonderful quarters - Douglass Street, large house at the top of a steep hill. (Of course, in SF everything is at the top of a steep hill.) The owner of the house lived in the basement and he rented all the rooms in the house. Mine was the room at the front with a lovely bay window.
Now all I needed was a job.
I decided that there were two criteria for a job — it had to be really easy and it had to be walking distance from the house. So one morning I got up very early and started walking to have a look around. At just about at the right distance from home (a 20 minute walk) I came upon a large hospital. I went in and applied for a job.
The job title was, “Mail Delivery Clerk”. Perfect. I filled out the application form, carefully leaving out any mention of having attended university, or having a degree with a major in psychology and a minor in sociology. I made no mention of the three months I spent pursuing a Master’s Degree in Psychology in NYC. They asked me what I've been doing since high school. Since I was 25 years old at the time, I expected that question and had prepared for it.
I lied. "My aunt died and I went to live on the farm to help my uncle out with his five kids.”
I got the job.
Every morning, I woke up very early and walked to the hospital. I was very happy. Along the way, I’d smile and nod at the local letter carrier – mailman, as he was then called – and watched the street lights turn themselves off, and passed the newspaper vendor as he opened his kiosk.
Work was fun, really fun. There was a designated route that I very quickly learned - pick up outgoing mail, drop off incoming mail, and move on. It was easy, it was pleasant and I was enjoying myself. Very soon I was able to greet everyone by name as I quickly made my way through the hospital, pushing my stainless steel cart brimming with mail. I was expected to make two rounds per day, and I did so, without a problem.
Then one day I realized that the route set out for me was not the most efficient. I began making changes to it. Before long, to everyone’s delight, I had established a way of showing up at each office three times a day. Everyone was impressed, but to me, it was just simple logic.
Then something unexpected happened. At the end of one of my new, three-circuit days, I was told to report to the Personnel Office. Were they angry with me for making changes without approval? Was I about to be fired?
“It’s come to our attention that you are over-qualified for the job! We have a new job for you”, said the Director of Personnel. He went on to tell me that they had an opening as a Ward Secretary and thought I’d be excellent for the job. Is there a word for feeling flattered and devastated at the same time? Did I have to take the new job? The extra money was tempting, but the job description for Ward Secretary made it sound stressful and complex. Nonetheless, I accepted the new position.
Being Ward Secretary was interesting, and challenging, I must admit. But I no longer felt carefree. I wanted a ‘job’, and now they were giving me a ‘career’. I think they call that bait and switch. I was not happy. After four weeks, I quit.
