Nolite Illegitimos Conterere Vos

That's what it said on a sweatshirt from Nashota House, a very high church Anglican seminary my mother attended (which would be a whole other posting in itself). I'm not sure the spelling is correct, but I'm clinging to the meaning.

This is the story of what happens to a person who takes a job that they probably are not suited for. It's not a happy story.

I have a bachelor's degree from Oberlin College that I really haven't parlayed into anything of substance. There was an intense social work stint (yet another entry someday), and an almost 10 year run as a paralegal in Social Security disability law. But what I think I really took away from Oberlin was the knowledge that I can work in a kitchen. I somewhat jokingly like to tell people I was a food service major. I know my way around a Hobart.

Thus almost 2 years ago, when I was ready for a regular paycheck again (my tortured work history is yet another posting someday), I had the good luck to have the manager of a nursing home kitchen in my bowling league, and I found out they were hiring. They needed part-time, I wanted part-time, so I applied.

It was a dream situation in so many ways. First of all, I was looking for a job, not a career. Second, I wanted something that was mindless and not likely to come home with me. The nursing home in question is only a 3 block walk from my house. It was perfect.

Let me qualify that. The situation was perfect. Working anywhere never is. Oh, yeah. There were bad days. As I used to like to tell people, food service is not a field that attracts the best and brightest. I would need 2 hands to count the number of people who came and went over my year and 1/2. And the ones who last are an interesting lot. Also, the work was physically hard, and there was a lot of it. An advantage was that time never dragged because I would be hoping the clock would slow down so I could accomplish everything I was supposed to. When I came home after work my daughters wouldn't hug me until I'd changed out of my nasty scrubs and washed up a bit.

What I did not expect was that it was an interesting place to work. To avoid any possibility of a lawsuit I will refer to it as Home Sweet Home. It's a private nursing home with only about 100 beds. I liked it because I noticed that the staff and residents knew each other. Residents could knock on the kitchen door to ask for things. One of the administrators was really trying to push for resident centered care, and it was impressed on us that this was their home.

They also tried to create a family atmosphere for the staff. They fed us meals. It was the same stuff the residents were having so if a resident complained I could say I was eating the same thing. I got a turkey my first Thanksgiving there even though I was just a part-time dietary aide. A couple of times a year they had staff-appreciation days. As a result there are some outstanding, caring staff there, as well as a few who really should pick a better profession. But it was a decent place.

I also found that I loved the residents. I was fortunate enough to be one of the dining room hostesses for the 40 or so residents who had lunch and dinner communally instead of in their rooms. They were real people to me, and I didn't have the disadvantage of knowing them before their health issues flaired. I liked them just the way they were, lucid or not. I also found them easy to minister to since they appreciated little more than being looked in the eye, smiled at, and called by name. Oops, I'm heading into another post territory.

PAINFULLY LONG STORY SOMEWHAT SHORTER: I thought I had picked a recession-proof job, but I didn't. We walked into a meeting one day only to find out that Home Sweet Home had outsourced us to a corporation (of bottom feeders) who walk in and promise they can run the kitchen better and for less money. Guess how they control costs?

This is where it became painfully obvious I was somewhere I shouldn't be.

To be continued.