Jobs, Jobs, Jobs – Part Four

As a Special Education teacher I had many years of rewarding work with children with special needs. I’ll probably write about that some time, but for the moment I seem to be remembering other jobs.

One was working for Stokes Seeds in St. Catharines. (Thanks JoAnn, for reminding me.) Stokes hired casual workers each Spring as ‘pickers’ and ‘packers’. Most of Stokes’ business was catalogue orders of seed packages. The warehouse had wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling shelves full of packages of seeds. As a ‘picker’, my job was to grab an order and a basket, and RUN through the warehouse ‘picking’ the correct seed packages, putting them in the basket, and then dropping the basket off at the packing department. Grab another order, another basket, etc. It took practice to find the right seeds quickly; some days I was assigned to vegetables, other days to flowers. My shift was 3:00 pm – 11:00 pm.

I could tell you about my sore feet, but believe me, I was one of the fortunate workers who could afford the luxury of a good pair of walking shoes. Others were not so blessed. I saw women (it was apparently ‘women’s work’) with swollen, blistered feet, wearing slippers and flip-flops, the best they could do on minimum wage. I could tell you about my sore back, which at first recovered overnight, but soon did not recover at all. I was in pain (feet and back) throughout my shift. But so was everyone else!

One evening I arrived to find I’d been re-assigned. I was to work in packing! Ah, the luxury of it. Picture a long counter with a row of bar stools. As ‘packers’ we got to SIT! Besides the comfort of sitting, I really enjoyed the job of packing. I was fast, accurate, and apparently very good at organizing and packing the boxes and wrapping them tightly, ready to mail. The person in charge of the packing department told me so! But after three wonderful nights packing, I was re-assigned to ‘picking’.

Devastated, I asked the head of the packing department why I had been re-assigned. She explained that all the jobs rotate and that she has no say in who works in her department.

The next morning, I went to the Stokes Seeds head office and asked to speak to the Personnel Department. 


“May I please be permanently on packing?”  “You see, it’s about my feet....”

“Absolutely not.”

“... and the head of packing really likes my work; she wants me to work there full time.”

“No.”

“Can I tell you about my back?”

My words were falling on deaf ears. (Or am I supposed to say ‘hearing-impaired ears’?)

“This is how it’s done; if you don’t like it, quit.”

“And while I’m here” I said, “may I make a suggestion?”  “Instead of stocking the seed packages alphabetically by name, if you placed the most popular ones on the middle shelves, the picking would go faster and you would eliminate a lot of the bending and stretching needed to reach for the packages, thus reducing the stress on the back, and probably cutting down on sick time.”

“This is how it’s done; if you don’t like it, quit.”

I quit.

Jobs, Jobs, Jobs - Part One

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.