A Job to Experience

In recent years, it seems as though the teenagers I’ve known (my son included) are not as interested – or maybe I should say intense – about getting their drivers’ licenses as my friends and I were.  My 16-year-old goals looked like this.

1. Get my driver’s license – on my birthday
2. Get a job
3. Get a car

And it wasn’t just me.  That was what all my friends and classmates were doing at 16.  We needed wheels, we needed music, and we needed the latest fashion, and our folks were not putting out for it.

My first job was working as kitchen help at the Stockbridge Convalcare in Stockbridge, Michigan. This was somewhat surprising – mostly to me – because I was extremely uncomfortable around ‘old’ people. Three of my grandparents had passed away by the time I was four years old, and I met my only remaining grandparent one time. I had no exposure or relatable experience.

As a child, I was occasionally trotted out to the ‘nursing home,’ which is how everyone I knew referred to the Convalcare.  We would sing Christmas carols or share arts and crafts (think Styrofoam egg carton flowers with pipe cleaner stems).  I’m pretty sure I did this with my Brownie troop, but possibly also with my elementary school class or Sunday school kids.  It was a terrifying experience. 

In a small town like ours, just about everyone had some connection to the nursing home. My best friend’s mom was a nurse there and my own mom was a volunteer. As a 16-year-old with a new driver’s license, I remember going there to pick up my mom who had been calling the Wednesday afternoon BINGO numbers. I still recall the discomfort of walking down a hallway lined on both sides with old people in wheelchairs waiting for the dining room to open, some speaking to me in a nonsensical language of their own. I’m pretty sure I had an out of body experience.

So as I say, it was surprising that I even applied for a position there.  I don’t remember a thing about the application, the interview, or the job offer.  Nonetheless, there was an opening in the kitchen for an aid, and I was hired and scheduled.

• Hours:  3:30pm – 7:30pm 
• Pay:  $3.35/hr
• Uniform:  Hot, heavy, pink polyester pantsuit thing.  Hairnet.  Ugly, but comfortable, shoes.
• Duties:  Prep food and serve meals.  Wash dishes.  Clean kitchen.  Mop floors.

Several days a week after school (and on weekends) I would don the ridiculous polyester swelter suit, scoop up 50 or so dishes of fruit cocktail and set the tables with silverware and cups with saucers.  As the residents poured into the dining room (from those two long lines down the hallway,) the kitchen aids would carry plates of food from the kitchen and serve the residents.  The kitchen work was easy peasy.  I was petrified of the dining room. 

My first day they put me in charge of coffee.  I didn’t need to say anything, I didn’t need to talk to anyone, I was just supposed to fill any coffee cups that had been turned right side up.  I assured myself I could do it and armed with a coffee pot, I made my way into the dining room focusing on the upturned cups.

I had been in the dining room no more than ten minutes when a man grabbed my wrist with a wiry hand covered in blue veins and liver spots.  “Anee maneeth,” he croaked at me in a husky voice.  I looked at the grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup in front of him.  Nothing looked amiss to me.

“Anee maneeth,” he said to me again as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. 

My eyes swept the room.  I was desperate for an aid to come rescue me from this man’s grip.  And like an angel, a young woman in blue scrubs appeared.  “Clarence, you forgot your teeth,” she said dropping them into his hand as he let go of my arm and reached out to receive them.

Clarence. Oh, how I grew to love him, and Selma who always dressed and did her makeup like she was dining at The Club, and Elizabeth who was wheelchair bound and refused to wear shoes so she reminded us of Fred Flintstone as she maneuvered her vehicle up and down the hall trying to bum cigarettes off the aids, and… oh so many more. Some were lucid, others not so much. Some treated us like employees (which we were), others treated us like we were their grandkids. And for some of them that didn’t have any family that visited, I guess we sort of were.

It was the best first job EVER, and I would recommend it to anyone. Wonderful experience, wonderful memories, and lessons that have stayed with me for a lifetime.