A person is said to live several lives within the whole. I was the one who just said that. A door closes and a grate or sometimes a hammer appears.
I used to envy those who knew exactly what they wanted to do with their lives. They attended college, got the right degree for their chosen line of work, worked for 20 or 30 years, and then retired to RV travel. My course hasn’t been like that, and I’m okay with that.
I’ve enjoyed several jobs in my life, each one bringing special people and education, though I’ve never found one I could be content with for long. New beginnings often hide in the corners. Mine was waiting in Jacksonville, giggling like an excited kid with a present.
This week I start a part-time shift at the Visitor Center, which is perfectly located inside the historic train shed. I sell tram tickets instead of train tickets. I realize doing a happy dance at this stage of life is a little unorthodox, but I wonder, when have I ever adhered to orthodoxy?
I already know most of Jacksonville and am curious about the rest. I can point people to public baths, the library, places to eat, coffee shops, the cemetery, hiking trails, Beekman’s Bank, and several wine tasting rooms.
But I’ve never been good at dating, so if someone starts asking me about my age, I might get a puzzled but sincere smile. In history class, all these numbers went together like a combination lock, although I usually got the century right.
Our VC has a wall of brochures and brochure racks to show people every bit of entertainment in our beloved valley and beyond. Since I’ve covered so many places here, I feel good about this new adventure. Did I mention it’s in an old depot?
In some ways, this VC job reminds me of one I had in Phoenix, Arizona when I was working as a Taxpayer Service Representative answering questions for the IRS. Except instead of being on vacation, our interlocutors were somewhere on the angry spectrum of just irritated or ready to fly. Also, they were sweating.
One unpleasant element of this job was the electronic counters. We were expected to answer as many calls per hour as possible – a numbers game. At halftime, there was this mad rush to the Wall o’ Counters to see where they were stacked. The joys always went ahead. I preferred to take my time and make sure the angry or mildly irritated person on the other end got the help they needed. So I got into the habit of answering and hanging up the phone between calls. Click, click.
I also have a click in that office, but it’s just… to keep track of… how many… Hey, wait a minute. After all, life ends.
At the IRS, I was afraid that if I stayed too long, I would start to look like most of the other women who had been celebrating someone’s birthday for years with casseroles and plates overflowing with cakes and cookies. I mean, it was like an extended Southern Baptist talk. Someone always had a birthday.
Heck, some of us had four or five a year. Those feds could cook. I still have a handwritten recipe for Farnesi Italian Cream Pie somewhere in my recipe box. I need to take this pacifier off and celebrate. We were fingerprinted for this job. This is how everyone got their dishes back.
I still plan to write this column as long as they have me, so don’t start celebrating. In fact, I will be writing articles again for the Jacksonville Review, a quality community publication by Whitman Parker, a dear man who picked up the phone and called me at an opportune time. After all, writing is what I’ve always wanted to do.
Visit me on VC on Fridays and Saturdays to be able to count on you in the click. I’ll do my best to answer your questions, but BYOBC (bring your own Bundt Cake).
Peggy Dover is a freelance writer/author. Contact her at pcdover@hotmail.com. Be nice, or he’ll call his old friends.
