The Northward Contrail

Reward and risk

So the big adventure has been over for a couple weeks now; slowly the ache is melting, and slowly I'm getting accustomed once more to being where I am.  And it's not a bad place to be, really, even if the heat and humidity here have lately been making our digital weather amusement center go haywire and reset itself every couple of days, and have made me long for being in a place where in July it's in the 60s and occasional 70s and things are bright and pleasant, and if you want cooler you can always climb higher.

Even with all this, and even with the healing that's gone on, and even as the sweet little aches recede into the realities of life, I keep coming back to the question: What part does Alaska play in my life?  More to the point, what part should it play?  My friend told me a week or so ago that he half expects me to inform him before too long that I'm coming up for an extended stay that becomes more than just a research trip.  As much as I chuckled with recognition, I know that's not likely to happen.

Oh, there are reasons, and I've gone over the more practical ones: the good job I have here, the family I have here, the home we've built, adjusting to a different climate (which, as much as I sometimes really hate the climate here, it's at least climate I've lived with most all my life, so I know how to deal with it).  There's the turmoil it would cause.  There's the pain of moving.  There's a spouse I have to think about.  There's my feeling that moving to Alaska just to do the same kind of work I do here would be kind of pointless. There's a list of practical reasons as long as your arm against it.

But there's one very good reason I probably won't make the move, and I haven't shared this with anyone.

One of my favorite movies of all time, one I'd put on the proverbial desert island list, is Mister Roberts.  I love it for way too many reasons to list.  But, in this case, I think of it as a cautionary tale.  Roberts wants nothing more than to be transferred from his sleepy duty aboard a cargo ship; he wants to go where the action is, transferred to a combatant vessel.  The end of the war is coming, and he can't get to the action, and it frustrates him.  Finally, he gets his wish and is posted to a destroyer off Okinawa...where he's killed, drinking coffee in the wardroom, in a kamikaze attack.  

That came to mind the other day when I was thinking about how I'm sitting here some days, thinking about those distant mountains and those bush planes, and it's just like Roberts in the opening titles of the movie, standing on the foc's'le and watching the task force slink by in the distance, imagining himself on the bridge of a carrier or a battlewagon headed for the waters off Japan.  Roberts wanted it, and it cost him his life.  And, as much as it kind of freaks me to say it, I can see the fulfillment of my dream of Alaska costing me mine. 

It's because I see Alaska in much the same way I look at an airplane like an MU-2.  The MU-2 is a marvelous airplane.  But get behind the airplane while you're flying it, and it will kill you just like that.  It has happened many times.  You have to know exactly what you're doing, maintain complete awareness of what the airplane is doing, and you need to be trained and proficient and competent.  It takes time and training and skill and good judgment, because inattentiveness, carelessness or other lapses in an MU-2 will kill you a lot faster than in many other aircraft. 

And I can completely see this happening.  Let's say the stars do align somehow and I move to Alaska and I fulfill this wild dream of owning a little airplane, flying out to these remote areas.  I can easily see me getting just a little bit careless one day and smacking into a mountain.  Or say I go out for a nature hike one day and I fail to see that I'm between mama moose and her baby.  Or, just as easily, that I have an encounter with a bear that doesn't end well.  Or I'm driving to work one day on a snowy road and lose control of my vehicle and plunge off something, or swerve to miss a moose and end up losing an argument with gravity.  Or I go hiking and climb on the edge of something, and the ground beneath my feet turns out not to be quite as firm as I originally gauged, and it's two hundred feet down from there.  The list goes on.

Could I survive there?  Yes, as years pass, I would probably build the skills I needed, become wise to my environment, and do other things to mitigate the risks.  I already play it safe, and I'd build on that.  If I did join the ranks of the airplane owners up there, I'd take all the training I could, fly as much as I could, and generally try to stay wise and proficient (and if I couldn't afford to do all that, I just wouldn't fly).  And, I mean, it's not like I haven't learned how to adapt to strange new environments before (South Florida has its own hazards, and yet I survived there and adapted pretty well), and it's not like the place I live now doesn't have its risks -- there's snakes, deer darting in front of your car, angry bees, bobcats and other wild creatures that can get rabid and tear into you, and that's just the wildlife hazards.  But those, at least, I've become savvy about.  I know this because I've lived most all my life knowing certain things.  I know there are certain times of the year I don't go into our woods without watching my step very carefully and keeping my .38 in my back pocket in case I have a rendezvous with a copperhead.  I know the things to avoid.  I know the ways to protect myself here. 

And, over time, I'd learn how there.  I know I would, and I know I'd build a certain level of competence in being out and about.  But I'd have to approach it with a lot of care, and I'd have to give it time.  I would need to give myself time to build the kind of intelligence I'd need to survive.  I know I could do it.  But I'm also aware of how much I don't know, and it's what I don't know that could really bite me, especially early on.  Or, even, what could bite me after I've had years and years of experience, just like what almost happened to me a few months ago.

No matter where you go or what you do, there are risks.  Heck, I could walk out the door of my office tomorrow, cross the street and get hit by a bread truck (or ambulance, since I like the conceptual versions of such things to have elements of farce to them).  But something about being up there this time, and seeing more of it and being reminded of its power, has reminded me that with great beauty comes potential danger.  It's not fear that I have of this wild, strange, wonderful place called Alaska.  No, it's more like respect, and being reminded of just how much respect you need to have to avoid grief there, and that you need to keep your mind in the game when you're out and about. 

Like that MU-2, Alaska offers great reward.  But, if you're not careful and you let yourself fall behind, it'll bite you.

We interrupt "Municipal Roundtable" to bring you this football game

Sorry to interrupt the trip report, but a consulting job landed in my lap a couple days ago.  It's being made well worth my while to take the job, if you catch my drift, but it's required me to delay the next part of the trip report until Monday.

In the meantime...ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Conway Twitty.

A little love

Soon it'll be a decade since I started my present job.  It's hard to believe it's the same place. 

To say the place was "limping along" when I got here is an understatement.  It was close to shutting down, and I didn't know until much later just how close to oblivion we were, that at one point we were one hiccup away from folding up like a card table.  I remember in the early faculty meetings I attended that there was some breath-holding, as we had to improve some things to satisfy our accreditation agency.  I remember worrying about what might happen if we lost our accreditation.

Slowly, gradually, we dug our way out.  Improvement took a while to see.  There were rumors floating around about what might or might not happen, but I tried not to spend too long thinking about them.  The worrying wasn't going to solve anything.  The decisions were being made by the higher-ups, and, besides, my job was to teach the kids, and worrying wasn't going to get them taught.  

There were some hits, and some misses.  Any time I'm tempted to get too nostalgic about my early days here, that's all I have to do, is remember some of the things that didn't work out and some of the people who didn't work out here, either.  We had some really great folks who had to leave, and I miss them still.  (And there's a handful that...well, I wish them well, but I don't miss them.)  All the while, we had some pretty good leadership.  Not everything went exactly well, and indeed some initiatives turned out to be real duds, but the place not only stayed on the rails, but it managed to grow.

A couple weeks back I had a meeting with someone about a project we're trying to hatch, and in the course of his visit I gave him a tour of the campus.  I told him something I find myself saying more and more, that the place looks nothing like it did ten years ago.  Back then it looked worn and tired, there was a shuttered, abandoned building in the middle of campus, and it just looked worn-out.  Now, though, that abandoned building has been reconditioned and is a showpiece, there's new student housing, there's things being repainted and reconfigured and all kinds of good stuff.  A few weeks ago at a special faculty meeting, one of the things we were told about was a new facilities management plan, and that a lot more things were going to get some money invested in them.  For someone who remembers the sad, sore-eyed campus I first saw in 2001, this is heartening news.

I've sometimes been asked why I continue to stay at a tiny college when I could (theoretically, at least) command a higher salary and a lighter teaching load elsewhere, maybe even get to teach some graduate students.  The story I often tell them -- that it's not cutthroat here, that I like the smaller atmosphere and the fact that I know my way around, and that it's not all about money -- is only a part of it.  The part that I very seldom share is that my years here have made me develop an attachment to this little place.  I didn't graduate from here and I don't buy into putting the stickers on my car and all that, but it was a place that, almost a decade ago, took a chance on me and allowed me to flourish, become happy, find my calling.  It is a place that has been extremely good to me, and in return I find myself very loyal to it.

Could I have made more elsewhere?  Unquestionably.  But it's not about the money.  It's a deeper satisfaction.  All the extra money wouldn't mean beans if I wasn't happy about the way I earned it.  Instead, I feel affection for the college, and for my little department, and for my students.  Since my first year here, I've felt about this place the way Charlie Brown felt about his pitiful little Christmas tree: it's not so bad.  Maybe it just needs a little love.

Treasure!

There's been a great technology purge at work.  A lot of stuff that's been in storage for many years was pulled out and dumped into a vacant classroom.  Whatever we want, free of charge, as long as we got it the hell off campus by a certain date.  Well, they didn't need to invite me twice, that's for sure.

Last week wasn't just about test strips and phone calls.  Nope, one day I stopped in to have a look.  I didn't expect much, and there was some stuff up there I could find no use for, but...man, somebody was ditching an IBM Selectric II.  And a couple slide projectors.  And two Cortelco 2500 phones.  Sold. 

The next day, I stopped in for another look.  A colleague had put a pristine Selectric I up there for disposal.  I chortled with joy as I instructed it to come home with mama.

Then Monday I was by for one last look.  Almost as if it had grown there overnight, there was an IBM Model M keyboard, the best keyboard ever constructed on this planet, and free for the taking.  I grabbed it, along with a few other obscurities.  

Some of this stuff may turn out to be junk.  Some of it is useful just for the curiosity factor.  And some of it works (the Selectric I, for instance, just needs a minor tune-up and it should be goin' like sixty again, and I imagine the Selectric II will be fine once the gunk is blown out of it).

Still, man, for a techno-history junkie...treasure!

New beginnings

One afternoon about 15 months ago, the phone rang.  Hubby was headed home early because he'd been given the axe.  I'll never forget the feeling I had for the next hour, how it felt in the pit of my stomach. But, as is typical for me, I burned through my foul horror in a hurry, and quickly began to see the up-side.  This job was killing him, after all, and being freed of it was a release.  That night I took him out for pizza and ice cream.  And, though we didn't really know it, the long, long wait had begun.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months.  He farmed out applications and resumes, but there were no takers.  We both worried.  We had a house to worry about keeping, groceries we needed to keep on the table, and other concerns.  My income and his savings could only take us so far.  So a lot of plans fell by the wayside over the coming months.  We still managed a little getaway every now and then, and the fact we could pretty much choose any day of the week to do it sure helped, but those were simple little things, nothing of the sort we might have done had things been different.

Near the end of last summer an opportunity came up for him.  It wasn't in his field and didn't pay that well, but it was something he enjoyed, and it gave him something to do and helped pay for groceries, at least. Eventually it became full-time, but it was six days a week and he got home late.  We didn't get to see much of each other, and since his only day off was during the week, we didn't get to go many places.

One morning a few Mondays ago, the phone rang.  He'd been working on a particular lead for a while, and and they wanted to talk to him.  It went okay.  Then they wanted to talk to him again.  Long story short, it worked out.  This morning, he reports to work at this new job.  It's a return to a field he's spent most of his life in, for which he spent six years in school to build his qualifications, and that he knows like the back of his hand.  As much as he's enjoyed the low-paying but low-stress job that's helped tide things over, I can't help thinking some part of him is very happy to be back in the game.

For me, it's a source of relief, albeit tinged with caution.  I have no way of knowing where this is headed for him.  It could be the greatest thing ever and he could end up as contented at his new job as I am with mine.  Or it could all go blooey at some point down the road, and we'd be right back where we were.

But, at least for now, this is a blessed thing with potential.  It's at least an opportunity for things to get back to something approaching "normal" again, to being able to do once more the things we were able to back when, to a life where we're not quite so worried about making ends meet as we have been.  I hope the opportunity will translate into a reality.  I'm not a betting person, so I'm not going to lay odds.  But I do have hope.  It was hope that got me through the last 15 months.  There was something that told me that dark Thursday afternoon that, hey, we'll get through this somehow.

I sure hope we have.

Busy again

I haven't had time to come up with much for today.  It's been a busy week.  Monday was nice to have, and we relaxed a bit, but the rest of the week has been hectic.  I've had to do a bit of travel, there have been appointments to keep, there has been work to get completed, and very little of it has been compelling. I've had to spend a few hours in the office, much of it doing some fairly tedious paperwork, and it hasn't exactly had me doing handstands.  Sure, I've caught a moment here or there for enjoyment, but there's been enough in this week for me to be glad the weekend's almost here.

See you Monday.

Growing, and pain

When I was working on my master's degree, I had to write a thesis as a capstone project.  I could choose the subject, but it had to pass muster with the committee.  So I went to something I'd been interested in, a subject that combined my interest in aviation with the way it was covered in the press, and from there trying to get some insight into how different forms of media cover complicated technical issues and disasters. 

Well, my first attempt at selling it as a thesis went ka-blooey.  My adviser, who was also the graduate dean, thought it would be too big and too complicated and that I'd have to travel far and wide for my sources.  I got discouraged and down and out about it.  But I didn't give up.  (Remember "stubborn"?)  For a seminar the following semester, I put together a paper-length version of the project as a proof-of-concept vehicle.  It got a good reception from the instructor, so that was sort of an easy way for me to show it had value.  The subject was approved by my committee, and I went forth.

I spent the summer working on that thesis.  I scoured microfilm and microfiche, conducted e-mail interviews with a retired engineer who had particularly valuable insight in the real story, spent hours banging away at the keyboard, stayed up to the wee hours of the morning to the point at which I started to get a little loopy.  Three months later, there was my completed draft.

At this point, I should say something about my thesis committee.  The first member was the instructor for the historical methods course, a very quiet younger gentleman who was fairly easygoing.  The second specialized in statistical studies, and...well, he was lovably quirky. Kelsey Grammer could portray him in the movie.

Then there was the third member.  I'd tried to enlist the help of a professor I particularly liked, but he begged off because he didn't have much of a technological background.  Instead, I went to another professor.  I'd not been taught by him, but I knew him by reputation, and had been referred to him by a friend.  This professor was beloved, but legendarily tough and just a little feared.  He was very cordial to me, even though we'd never met, and agreed to be part of the committee.

When the first draft was ready, the committee took time to review it, and one Friday morning we met in an empty classroom.  I thought I had done a decent job on it.  Well, things went the other way.  Gently, but still.  My historical methods professor didn't have much to say, since he was familiar with the work.  My stat methods professor was encouraging, but wanted more numbers. 

As for the third...well, it was one of the most gentlemanly instances of absolute evisceration I've ever encountered in my life.  Not a single page was left untouched.  He never raised his voice, he never said a cruel word, he never made it personal, but his disappointment was clear, and when the thing was over, I had been reduced to a quivering pile of Jell-O.  If you've seen "All the President's Men" and recall the scene where Ben Bradlee reviews one of Woodward and Bernstein's first Watergate stories, pokes holes in its flaws and orders it buried deep inside the first section, that's about it. I spent the afternoon at my job in the school's photo lab, paging through the required revisions and nursing my pain with vending-machine food.

I took the weekend to get over it, and accepted that the only way around it was through it.  Page by painful page, I made the changes that were requested, or at least most of them.  I did a little reorganization, added a few more statistics where requested.  And, I have to say, the finished product was an awful lot better as a result.  The corrected, improved draft was soon back in their hands.

Later that semester, I had to show up for the defense.  I was nervous.  Was it going to be more of the same?  I found out early on that it wouldn't be.  I'd made the changes they wanted, and it turned out they were happy with it.  They just wanted to ask me the usual closeout questions about my sources, what I'd learned, and all that kind of thing.  And when it was done, who was the first to congratulate me?  The same professor who, months before, had reduced me to gelatin.  He was now smiling warmly, congratulating me.  Talk about feeling like I'd earned something special.

Even though I was finishing my master's degree, I had already begun my doctoral work, so I was going to be around at least another semester.  My adviser requested a meeting with me one afternoon.  The reason?  That professor wanted me as his graduate assistant.  Normally, he only hired students who had taken his courses as undergraduates.  But he liked my writing, in spite of its flaws (he's the first person who's ever referred to me as "a stylist," which I thought was neat).  And he wanted me to be his assistant.

I served him as best I could the following semester.  I can only say it was an honor and a privilege, and that in those three months I learned more about teaching by watching him than I could have from three years of education courses. 

None of it would have happened had things not gone the way they did.  It was painful, but well worth it.

The devil you know

I figure it's been five years and the statute of limitations is now up on it, so I'll tell this story.

In the Spring of 2005, I didn't know where things were headed with my job.  A few months before, I'd gotten results of my three-year review, and it hadn't gone well.  Making matters worse was that our academic dean, who had been kind and patient through my many mis-steps, was retiring.  There had been a close call several months before when we all thought we'd be drafted into working on something that just wouldn't have worked out.  There were also these ongoing rumors about the college's financial health.  Things were at the point at which I wondered: were better opportunities out there?  Could I make more somewhere else, or would I have to take that second job tending bar at P.J. Calamity's?  Could I get the chance to be an official, full-fledged department chair on a permanent basis?  Could I get on at a place where I wouldn't have to worry about if it would still be there next year?

Back then I used to keep a job search going through the Chronicle of Higher Education's e-mail service.  One day, I saw a listing for a department chair position at one of the local two-year colleges.  While there was no journalism program, I did complete a cognate in history and was qualified to teach in the discipline, and I had also taught Speech courses.  There was plenty enough overlap.  So I applied, put as much polish on my qualifications as I could, and sent in the application.

A couple months later, I got a phone call.  They wanted to schedule an interview.  I shuffled a few things, found the next good date, and confirmed it with them.  Later they called back.  Did I want a hotel room for the night?  Well, it was enough of a drive and the festivities started early enough in the morning that it wasn't a bad idea.  (Plus, I mean, I'm a sucker for free lodging.)  So I took them up on it.

I should have known things weren't going to go so well when I showed up for check-in and found out the room hadn't been paid for.  My tour guide, one of the professors in the department, had given me his phone number, and they called him and squared it up.  He had told me he'd be by at 6:30 to pick me up, show me around town a bit, and then we'd meet the rest of the faculty for dinner.  And that's how it went.  It was a nice dinner.  The guy showed me around downtown, and I think he was a little chastened when I gently told him I was very familiar with the town, since I'd spent three years there during graduate school.

An excellent night's sleep later, I shoved off for the interview.  The college at which I was interviewing had two campuses, one for each side of town.  The one on the other side of town was where I was headed for the first part; it was to meet the academic dean, get a tour and meet a few folks, and then we'd go to the other campus for the interview itself.  This much of it went well.  The dean and I hit it off, and he couldn't have been nicer to me.

We then adjourned to the other side of town, where most of the faculty worked.  I got a tour, and then a department chair from another department took me to lunch.  The rationale was for her to give me a candid idea of what it's like to be a chair at this institution, and during lunch I asked her a lot of questions.  I started to think that maybe this wasn't such a bad gig, and I started to daydream just a little.

Then came the interview.  I was asked to teach a brief sample class, and that part of it went well (teaching the introductory part of screenwriting is always a good fallback for a quick lecture).  But the question-and-answer session...well, I bungled it in a couple places.  I went on through the interview, trying to do my best.  But I was starting to notice some things about my potential subordinates that, well, didn't really make me that comfortable.  There was a little bit of Very Serious Indeed in the air.  One faculty member, I thought she was just plain cool.  The rest...I could see the potential for clashes.  They got earnest at times.  After the interview, there was a little drop-in with finger food as a "thank you" for me, but by that point, the air was out of the balloon.

(Oh, and the kicker: At the end of the interview, I lost my sunglasses.  I went back to try to get them, but the room had been locked.  By the way, did I mention the interview took place on April 1?)

I drove home that afternoon trying to rationalize it.  I'd gone to an interview, been treated as a guest, got a free night and some good food out of it.  And, really, that was about it.  I kept my options open, and wrote thank-you notes to everyone at the technical college who had been a part of my visit.  I didn't want to burn any opportunities, because you never know what could happen.  The greatest job offer in your life could potentially come, right?  So be polite and professional.

But by the time I arrived home, I had pretty much decided that if it came down to a choice, I really wanted to stay where I was.  I already had a good job.  I knew my way around the place.  I was comfortable with my students.  I liked my work, and I enjoyed the freedom I had to innovate.  I liked my colleagues' relative lack of ego.  I even came to realize that not being a department chair was actually a pretty good thing, since the headaches of command often outweigh whatever prestige comes with it.

As it happened, the decision was made for me, and a letter came a couple months later informing me they'd decided to move on to another round of candidates.  That was fine.  I signed on for another year where I was, took the bad with the good, and things worked out okay.

It's now five years after that interview.  I'm still at the same college.  I'm now tenured and one of the more senior faculty members.  I still have the same small, comfortable academic department, still working with folks who, for the most part, check their egos when it comes time to get things done.  I work with wonderful students, have been trusted with some sensitive tasks by the higher-ups, have served in a critical position or two, and have even won an award that was an unexpected surprise and a great, great honor.  It's not been a bad ride at all, and I have never had a moment's regret about staying there.

What if I'd been offered the other job, and taken it?  Who knows?  I could have set the world on fire and have built my own little empire, and maybe now I'd be leaving Gulfstream IVs as tips for waiters. Or maybe I'd be out of a job due to budget cuts or my own bungling.  Or, just perhaps, I'd be in prison for having taken a six-iron to one of my faculty members.

But none of that matters.  It turned out the way it was supposed to. There may be a danger in saying that the place you work is the place where you feel you belong, but even on its bad days, the job I now have feels like  a job that was made for me.  And, unless something really weird happens, I don't think I want to tinker with that.

Knowing

The other night my mother called and we talked for a while.  We strayed from the usual weekly "how are you doing" stuff and reminisced a bit.  I forget how we got there, but somehow I made mention of my first grade teacher.  To protect the innocent/guilty, let's call her Ms. Krabappel.  (Yeah, I know the Ms. Krabappel you're thinking of wasn't a first grade teacher.  If it bothers you that much, get your own blog.)

Let's get it clear up front that Ms. Krabappel was an intelligent, competent teacher.  From an educational standpoint, I had no quibble with her.  But...well, as a person, she was a bit odd.  My parents had found this out when my brother had her as a first grade teacher.  She had a bit of a temper, could get a little adamant about things that didn't meet her standards.  She was driven in a way that perhaps wasn't best suited for first graders or gentle souls.  Fifth grade, maybe.  But not first grade.

And, for whatever reason, some things about me bothered Ms. Krabappel.  I don't think she felt I was applying myself to her satisfaction.  She also didn't like my obsession with airplanes, either.  Airplanes were all I ever talked about, she would say to my parents during conferences.  Nor did she care for what she viewed as a laid-back approach to my work.  (Never mind that I was an honor-roll student, always turned in my work on time, never got in trouble for disciplinary problems, or any of that.  If there was a legitimate knock on me, it was that perhaps my handwriting wasn't the best, or that I really, seriously hated using those big fat pencils they made us use in first grade.)

What Ms. Krabappel couldn't understand, as I told my mother the other night, was that I knew exactly what I was doing.  Even in first grade, I knew what was going on, and I knew how to get things done.  And, to be honest, there were many times when I'd be one step ahead of everyone else, and I'd just get bored waiting for everyone else to catch up. 

This led to a more free-form observation.  In much of life, as in much of first grade, I've known exactly what I was doing, even when people around me were hollering and screaming that I didn't understand or that I was about to mess up.  I may not have spoken up about it, and perhaps sometimes I've enjoyed acting like I didn't know what I was doing, just to have a little fun.  But, believe me, I've knew exactly what I was doing, and exactly what my vision of success was.  But the people around me, making the fuss and criticizing me, didn't make it any easier. 

I believe that's why I'm at my happiest, and do my best work, when I'm alone.  Tell me what you need done, tell me when you need it, give me the stuff, and leave me alone.  Don't bother me about it, don't drop by, don't call or write about it.  Just leave me alone until the deadline.  It will get done -- and sometimes, it'll get done ahead of deadline.  Believe me, I can do it.  I've done some amazing things when everyone else thought my back was to the wall.  I know my limitations, and I know how to work around them.  The problem comes when other people, instead of realizing their limitations, project theirs upon me.  Just pipe down and leave me alone, okay?  It will get done.

I wonder what Ms. Krabappel, who worried that I wouldn't amount to much because of my airplane obsession, would make of what ended up happening in my life.  I think things turned out okay.  (Didn't they?)

It's so calm

One afternoon last March, I got a phone call in mid-afternoon from hubby informing me that he'd been granted his free-agency.  It was a nasty shock, but not completely unexpected, given that times had been slow and a few other factors were in play.  This meant that I got to see a lot more of him than I ever had before.  While I went in and worked each day, he remained home working on job applications, following up on leads, and all that kind of thing. 

It also meant sharing a lot more time with him than I ever had before.  This was good sometimes, very good.  It meant we had a lot more freedom to travel and see things, and we took a few day trips and had a lot of fun.  It also meant we got to see a lot more of each other than we'd seen in ages, and without the stress of his old, high-pressure job, it was a lot more fun.  But it also meant a lot of long afternoons when not much was going on except what was on television.  There were times it took some adjustment for me, because I'm a solitary type who enjoys quiet, and I'd been so accustomed to being able to have quiet afternoons with not much going on.  But, hey, I made a commitment to him, so I dealt with it.  I'd go upstairs and work on projects, or do other things, and it all worked out.

About mid-summer hubby stumbled across an opportunity to help out with a new business.  It wasn't in his old field, and it carried no guarantee of employment, but it was something to do, at least.  It got him out of the house, and meant he didn't have to just sit and wait for the phone to ring.  So that happened, and it eventually led to the job he has now.  He enjoys the job, but it's six days a week and involves getting home later. 

Now it's a year afterward, and I remember what it was like this time last year, and I think "Wow, it's so quiet."  I don't miss the uncertainty of last year, and believe me, I'm very happy he's employed again, and this time doing somewhere where the environment is vastly improved.  And we do have one day a week where we can go off and do things together.  But compared to this time last year, it's so quiet...and I have to confess, though there were times when it was a little too boisterous, I did get spoiled having him around.