Jobs that Taught Me About Life, Part 2: The Secretary

A few days after high school graduation and with my hands filled with sparkling resumes I’d worked out on my Selectric typewriter, Portage la Prairie was my oyster. I left copies at the brand new Provincial Building (no idea which department I might like to work in, but back then they had a central reception desk at the main doors), the Portage Mutual, and the Portage Co-op. 

The next day, I received three job offers by phone and figured that was just how the world worked. The reality check would come later.

Monday morning, I showed up at the Co-op by 8:00 a.m. where I would work in their offices for the next seven months. Having learned shorthand in high school made me a bit of a novelty, and the personnel manager who hired me was eager to play the role of dictator. Turns out, dictating a letter was harder than he imagined. After fumbling around to come up with his first sentence, he sat back, took a drag of his cigarette, and said, “read that back to me.”

It also turned out that taking dictation in a real office situation was more challenging than taking it in Mrs. Wangsness’ shorthand class, where she stood at the front of the room, stop watch in one hand to evenly time her speaking as she read from carefully prepared text. Even her “no, scratch that’s” were scripted.

We stumbled through one letter, I typed it up, and I never took dictation again. But I do recall typing a lot, sorting piles of invoices into alphabetical order, operating the switchboard, and breathing my chain-smoking co-worker’s second-hand offerings.

It was an interesting time in the life of our Co-op. The old store was being torn down and a brand new one built (which has since been demolished. Yes, I’m that old.) By fall, we had moved our offices into two temporary mobile homes at the rear of the building. I shared the kitchen/living room space of one trailer, while the bedrooms became managers’ offices and the copying room. The second trailer included a makeshift customer counter where more staff worked, and the two trailers were joined to each other and to the main building by plywood hallways that grew increasingly colder as winter set in. Not the most pleasant of working environments, but everyone looked forward to moving in to our new space.

One November weekend, a massive snowstorm left Portage buried up to its nose. When I returned to work Monday morning, I learned one of our trailers had collapsed under the weight of the snow. The roof had come down right on my desk, destroying my typewriter and cracking my desk in half. Had I been sitting at it, I’d have been a goner.

We heard later that the trailer had been made in California and should never have crossed the Canadian border. It was not designed to hold that much snow. 

I remember little about what followed because I left shortly thereafter to start my new life in Texas—far from the ice and snow. But I gained work experience that would prove valuable in the years ahead and the memory of that smashed typewriter assured me God was not done with me on this planet yet. I suppose there’s some irony in the fact that I would later live in a mobile home for 26 years.

When our Co-op demolished the old store and opened its current building in 2008, I felt both sad and bewildered as to why they’d destroy such a “new” building. Maybe that’s why I now work at City Hall, built in 1898 and still standing strong. 

But that’s a story for another day.

Sparks and Embers

Our city is looking for more part-time firefighters. I was reminded of this recently by our Fire Chief, on his daily breeze through City Hall (some say he stops in to pick up mail, but it’s really to inspect the premises for fire hazards and it’s always a mad scramble to extinguish my candles before he comes around the corner.)

He asks me if I want to become a part-time firefighter. Of course, there’s always the remote chance he is teasing. But, assuming the department actually wants out-of-shape grandmothers with weak lungs and a fear of fire, I tell him I’ll consider it. I might look kinda cute in the gear.

Unlike a lot of kids, “firefighter” never appeared on my childhood list of things I wanted to be when I grew up. Perhaps that’s because back then, they were called “firemen,” like police officers were called “policemen” and mail carriers were “mailmen.” Most of the girls I knew wanted to become teachers or nurses, but maybe that’s because we considered those our only options. I figured I’d follow in the footsteps of my mother and sisters, all teachers. But a month of teaching Vacation Bible School in my teens cured me. Now, the only times I regret not becoming a teacher are summer, Christmas, and Spring Break.

I remember playing “secretary” a lot. I’d set up my desk with Mom’s old portable typewriter, a toy telephone, and an overturned toy cooking pot with red and green dots painted on it for my intercom—essential for alerting the invisible boss in the next room to incoming calls.

My Grade 8 English teacher, Mrs. Armstrong, told me I showed promise as a writer. For that, I’ll love her forever.

In high school, I studied office procedures, shorthand, and typing. While the shorthand turned out useless and obsolete, the typing has served me well both as an administrative assistant and as a writer. Sometimes when I’m doing nothing, my fingers are mentally typing the words I am thinking. Does this happen to you?

In an informal Facebook survey, I asked a few friends what their childhood aspirations had been, and was surprised by how many women said “veterinarian.” I remember having that thought briefly myself.

“Athlete” proved popular for both genders. One person (possibly related to me) confessed she is probably the fastest runner in the world but is relieved to have kept that talent under wraps since she hates running.

How about you? Do you still dream dreams you wish you had followed? What are you waiting for? Maybe you’re young enough to have a variety of sparks still burning, but for many of us, only a fragile ember remains. One thing none of has is the option of starting sooner.

I think I’ll pass on the firefighting opportunity and hope stronger, braver, healthier people apply. What I get to do suits me fine, and I concur with King David who, in Psalm 16, said: “Lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup…you have made known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence.”

(And I was kidding about the candles, Chief.)