How I got a job at Mayo Clinic

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A hallway in the Plummer Building at Mayo Clinic.

As I sat at the graduation ceremony for my oldest son recently (he has a master’s degree now, yay!), I surveyed the vast audience of new graduates, wondering how the economy can absorb so many people seeking jobs. And to think, new graduates are being let loose on the country all over. So many of them, swarming across the spring landscape. I know not all will slip seamlessly into the perfect jobs. It might take a while. For some, it might take a long while.

It reminded me of a job I had once that was a great fit. As a public service, I’d like to offer some job interview secrets that might help new grads, and employers, too. I am not doing this to show how great I am or because I am a chocolate-covered narcissist with narcissistic filling. Well, maybe I’m a little narcissistic. (Said the woman with a blog about herself.)

Seven years ago, I started feeling overworked and underpaid at my job. I also had a relatively recent master’s degree. Armed with that, and with the restlessness that seems to go with mid-life, I decided to look for a different job.

The first one I applied for was a public affairs consultant position with Mayo Clinic in southern Minnesota. The very next day I received a call for an interview. I figured that meant either they were desperate to fill the position, the timing was right, or they were excited by my application. Turns out, it was a combination of all three.

They paid my way for the interview, which included an overnight stay in a hotel. The next morning, I hoofed it through a winter’s chill over to the historic Plummer Building, walking through its ornate brass doors and trying not to be too impressed and overwhelmed by the hallway chandeliers and bathroom stalls made out of marble.

I met the chair of the search committee and the administrative assistant who would be guiding me to other buildings to fill out human resources paperwork and for an informal interview with the head of the Public Affairs Department. Then the search committee chair (who later became my boss) did something for which I will be eternally grateful. She gave me the interview questions ahead of time and allowed me a few minutes to think over my answers.

Why don’t more employers do this? I had never had that happen before, or since (even when I asked). It cut my nervousness by about 85% and it made my answers more cogent, thus making better use of the committee’s time. I mean, half the battle with job interviews is the fear of the unknown. You don’t know what they’re going to ask you, so go into flight or fight mode and freak out. As it was, I had just enough time to write a little outline of my answers for each question.

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Just one of the many panels on the brass door to the Plummer Building.

The interview went well. Then I was given over to the administrative assistant for the trek to the other buildings. In case you’re not aware, Mayo Clinic is comprised of many buildings, taking up a good chunk of downtown Rochester, Minn.

I decided to make use of my time with the assistant. I figured she would be a good person to talk to about how she liked working for Mayo. So we talked as we walked. Sometimes I opened building doors for her, sometimes she opened them for me.

My interview with the department head was conducted as we sat in a hallway. Keeping from laughing was the hardest part for me because a bunch of boisterous ladies wearing purple dresses and red hats kept passing us. (For the uninformed, see the Red Hat Society.)

That interview seemed to go all right, too. Then we were off to human resources and back to the Plumber Building. When we got back to the room where we started, the administrative assistant took off her coat. I saw she was pregnant, so we had a typical “Oh, when are you due?” chat about that.

Experience over, I was free to go. A week later I had a phone interview with the PA Department head’s boss. That went okay, too. Soon after, they offered me the job, and I ended up accepting. Months later, I found out that the reasons my boss reacted so quickly to my application was that a hiring freeze was looming (this was during the 2009 recession) and because she was excited to see my qualifications.

She also said one of the reasons I got the job and the five others they had interviewed before me didn’t, was that I was nice to the administrative assistant. She said the fatal errors by the others were that they were arrogant and treated the assistant as an underling. An organization like Mayo runs on teamwork and compassion, so that was her secret test to see if the job candidates would fit into the work culture.

So, the message I have for employers is to give job candidates a few minutes to review the interview questions beforehand. It will help both them and you.

To job candidates, my message is to study the mission and vision statements for the organization you’re being interviewed by, and try to demonstrate those values. (And just be a good person!)

I am no longer working for Mayo Clinic, but I loved the job. I’m glad I took the chance and made the change. The aftermath wasn’t easy to deal with, but it’s led me to where I am today, which is also a good place.

Good luck grads!

Trail Cam in the Office

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True story. This happened in my office last week.

 

We’re caught
inside the camouflaged box that’s mounted on a pole
in our office.
Eyes wide, coffee cups in hand
we walk down the hallway
feeling like someone is watching.

What strange natural rituals
will the camera catch —
Mating habits of the white-collar worker?
Dominance displays of the office alpha female?
A furtive mail boy stealing candy from a desk?
The shy engineer emerging from a conference call?

I suspect all the mother wolves who have had their birth dens invaded,
all the nesting birds who just want to feed their young in peace
would enjoy the sweet revenge
of these photos.

©2016  Marie Zhuikov

Nobody Dies in Spring in Duluth

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Marsh marigolds. Credit: Brian Robert Marshall [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons.

April is National Poetry Month in the U.S. I couldn’t let it pass without posting a poem. This is one I just finished, inspired by a poetry class taught by Duluth Minnesota’s Poet Laureate Jim Johnson, based on Philip Appleman’s poem, “Nobody Dies in Spring.” Try your own version! It’s a fun exercise. I hope this Spring finds you well.

Nobody Dies in Spring in Duluth

Nobody dies in Spring in Duluth.
That’s when we hold gloved hands
with total strangers on the Lakewalk.
We sing sweet nothings to our dogs,
who have been lying by the fireplace
all winter, gazing up at us
with walk-hopeful eyes.
Kids yell and splash bikes through street potholes.
High school students don shorts
when the mercury hits forty-five.
Fathers take a year’s worth of family refuse
in pickup trucks to the dump.
Pussy willows sprout gray fuzzy nubbins
for mothers to cut and bring inside.
Shy yellow marigolds beckon in marshes.
White gulls cry and fly over melting snowdrifts.
The sun reaches down with tentative warm caresses.
Nobody dies in Spring in Duluth.

©2016 Marie Zhuikov

 

Entering the Virtual World

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My youngest son enters the virtual world under the tutelage of my oldest son (in background).

I spent the weekend in a virtual world. Well, okay, it was just a few hours this weekend, but it was a cool few hours. My oldest son, who is a computer science graduate student, used his tax refund money to buy an HTC Vive. He treated me and my youngest son to a demonstration of this virtual reality system at his house.

The easiest way to describe it is to say it’s like stepping inside a video game. You put on the virtual reality goggles and **bam** you’re in another place.

Now, I am a mom, so I think of safety-related messages like these: Be sure to only try virtual reality with people you trust. You can hear the people around you, but you can’t see them once you put the goggles on. Others in the room could easily trip you if they are the mischievous sort, and you’d never see it coming. Likewise, remove all pets from the area that could wander into your virtual space and make you fall flat on your face.

I tried several demos from a program called “The Lab.” I entered a cave, complete with dripping water and piles of snow. Using one of the hand controllers, I found I had the ability to blow up balloons, which quickly rose to the cave’s ceiling and popped. It might not sound that exciting, but when you’re surrounded by the world, and you see the balloons you create actually rise like real balloons, it’s pretty darn cool. Then I was off to a secret shop that felt like a wizard’s lair come to life.

When it was my youngest son’s turn, he started out at Vesper Peak, throwing sticks on a mountain top for his slinky robot dog companion. He also tried Longbow, which had him defending his fort with a bow and arrow against rabid gingerbread men-like raiders. He also got to try his hand at being a line cook in one of the job-related games.

I am a real-world nature-lover, so my knee-jerk reaction to virtual reality games is negative. But after trying it, I can see how it’s certainly better than watching television because it gets you up and moving. Also, I can see how it can be a powerful storytelling tool because it immerses you in the experience more fully than a flat screen ever could.

In short, the virtual world’s not so bad. It might even be useful.

The World’s Largest Freshwater Sandbar

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Even though Wisconsin Point on Lake Superior is not truly part of “the world’s largest freshwater sandbar,” it’s still pretty.

It’s a common local point of pride in Duluth to say that Minnesota Point (a.k.a. Park Point) and Wisconsin Point form the “World’s Largest Freshwater Sandbar.” I am sorry to burst the community bubble but . . . NOT.

Way back so many years ago I can’t even find it on the Internet, Duluth sent a delegation of kayakers to Lake Baikal in Russia. They returned with tales of a sandbar or two on this freshwater lake that were even larger than MN/WI points. Maybe I was the only one who listened then because local tourism organizations and media outlets continued to refer to our sandbar as the “world’s largest.”

A couple of years ago (2014), I decided to fact-check the claim because I was editing a government report that repeated it. Lo and behold, I found a provincial park in Canada that claimed the same thing (Sandbanks Provincial Park).

I also asked several scientific types who are in the know about such things and received a response from a researcher at the University of Minnesota Duluth’s Large Lakes Observatory. Prof. Ted Ozersky did some Google Map comparisons and found that Jarki Island at the northernmost tip of Lake Baikal sports a sandbar that is 18 kilometers long. MN/WI points are 16 km long.

He also found a series of long sandbars on Proval Bay along the eastern shore of Lake Baikal that collectively stretch for 40 km.

So, in the document I was editing, I changed the wording to MN/WI points as comprising “one of the largest freshwater sandbars in the world.”

The issue arose again just last week when a fellow blogger made the “world’s largest” claim in his post. Why? Because he saw it elsewhere on the Web.

I figure it’s high time to get definitive news out on the Web that, alas, Minnesota and Wisconsin Points ARE NOT the largest freshwater sandbar in the world. Even the park in Canada has downgraded their claim to say instead that they have the “world’s largest baymouth barrier dune formation.”

In short, it’s okay to say that MN/WI points are the largest freshwater sandbar in the country, or one of the largest freshwater sandbars in the world, but not “THE largest freshwater sandbar in the world.”

Class dismissed.

Please Vote for my Poem on Goodreads!

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By Jonathunder – Own work, GFDL 1.2, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27488865

I swear this is no April Fool’s joke. I entered a poem in the Goodreads Newsletter contest and it’s one of six finalists up for vote. The winning poem will be featured in this month’s newsletter, which Goodreads says is read by 20 million people.

My poem, “Inevitable Scones,” is currently in second place by ten votes. If you are active in Goodreads, please join the Poetry Group, read my poem and vote for it if you like it.

This is the first time I ever entered a poem in this contest, and I am amazed it was picked as a finalist. I’m also excited that it has the chance to be read by so many people. For those of you already a member of the Goodreads poetry group, here’s a direct link to the voting.

Voting ends at 11:59 p.m. (Pacific Time) on April 2. Every vote counts!

* * *

UPDATE, 4/3/16:

Well, my scones poem didn’t win the Goodreads contest. Even though, as my brother would say, it makes me the first loser, I am at peace with my poem’s strong second-place finish. I’m excited by it! This is the first time I’ve entered a poem in a national competition and it’s validating to see my little book-inspired nostalgic ditty place well. Thank you for the pains you took to vote, and for your encouragement.

Crawling out From Under my Musical Rock

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A Band Called Truman. Photo by Tanja Heckert.

Is there something your community is known for that you aren’t tuned into? It could be a sports team, an industry (like craft breweries), or some other cultural/historical thing. For me, it’s the local music scene. And now I’m making up for lost time.

For years, I’ve been squished under the rock of my responsibilities so I haven’t been able to enjoy the local music scene. I also haven’t had friends or acquaintances who were into it, so I plodded along, deaf to all the musically talented people around me. And Duluth has a lot of them. Case in point: Gaelynn Lea, who just won National Public Radio’s Tiny Desk Concert Competition. Her unique style surpassed that of 6,000 other people and wowed the judges.

Sure, I knew about the symphony and high school bands – wider community kinds of music, but not so much individual local musicians. I realized I needed to rectify this. As a writer, I appreciate the creativity involved in songwriting and singing, and I feel it is my duty to become more familiar with the local music scene. Besides, I just like it!

I’ve had the good fortune to meet several local musicians/band members (including A Band Called Truman, Teague Alexy, Michael Monroe, Mary Bue, Georganne Hunter, and Jerree Small) and others I’ve managed to see play live or I’ve plucked them out of the “local music” CD section in the library. These include the Hobo Nephews of Uncle Frank, Cloud Cult, Low, Charlie Parr, Bill and Kate Isles, Ryan Lane, Rachael Kilgour, Sara Thomsen, Woodblind, and Jamie Kallestad.

I don’t know what I would do without the library’s help in catching up on twenty-something years of missed local music. Thank god for libraries! I know I’m missing many local musicians in this list, but I’m only halfway through the alphabet in the library section. 🙂

The thing is, I didn’t even know what I was missing until a series of chance encounters, life changes, and opportunities arose. It’s been a fun ‘research project,’ and the experiences will no doubt find their way into my fiction writing.

Is there something in your life that you don’t even know is missing? Something available in your community that’s being wasted on you? Here’s hoping someday you have the ability to take advantage of this food for the soul.

A Lake Superior Cruise

I stopped freelance writing a few years ago, choosing instead to focus on writing fiction and poetry. (And this blog!) I was tired of hiring out my brain for somebody else’s use, since that’s what I do all day at work already. Thankfully, I also no longer had a financialLSMagazineMay16 need to freelance, so I made the conscious decision to stop.

That worked well until about a year ago, when I took a cruise on Lake Superior aboard the Wenonah, the ship that took me on my first trip across the lake.

The cruise dredged up old memories. I considered blogging about them, but once I started writing, I realized I had a story I could sell, dang it!

Alas, I succumbed to freelancing, but at least the story was one I truly wanted to write. I know, poor me. It’s a good problem to have.

My story was recently published in Lake Superior Magazine. It’s a superb magazine — pick up a copy and check it out! (Page 14.)

They also published a couple of my photos. But I have gobs of other photos I took that day, which I thought I would share with you. Please enjoy this virtual cruise along Lake Superior’s North Shore.

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The Wenonah at Silver Bay Marina.

 

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The tip of Gold Rock, site of a shipwreck in 1905 that claimed a life.

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That turquoise water looks like the Caribbean, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t jump in though. It’s a bit nippy.

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Coming around Split Rock Lighthouse. Not many people get to see the lighthouse from a mariner’s view.

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A more classic view of the lighthouse.

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People frolicing with gulls on an island off Silver Bay.

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Piles of taconite pellets waiting to be shipped south to be made into steel.

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The taconite plant in Silver Bay, although it looks more like a cloud factory. Perhaps it’s not beautiful, but it’s part of the cultural landscape of this area.

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The rugged coastline of Lake Superior’s North Shore.

 

 

 

Stalking the Wild Ceili

Dancing

I had heard the myth of the ceili dance for years. At the contra and barn dances I’d gone to, the ceili was spoken of in hushed tones. Held locally only once a year on St. Patrick’s Day, ceilis were said to be wild and more vigorous – full of revelry, sweat and shouts. Although intrigued and a bit daunted, the timing had never been right for me to join a ceili . . . until this St. Patrick’s Day.

That evening, more than fifty of us gathered in a large church basement on the hillside of the city. The event was a fundraiser for Loaves and Fishes, an organization that helps homeless people. I arrived early enough to hear instruction by the dance caller on the specialized (yet easy) dance steps, some of which are done in groups of sevens or threes. The first dance was a round dance (done in a large circle), the next was a long line dance.

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This chap won my unofficial vote for best ceili clothing.

Then things started blurring together, but I recall one dance that involved couples dipping up and under each other in waves. Yes, the dances had faster steps and more vigorous movements than the other dances I’d been to, but any reasonably coordinated person could handle them – no need to fear!

I lasted about an hour-and-a-half until my little toes started to scream with blisters. I left before any shouting started, but I can attest that some clapping was involved.

If you ever go to a ceili, don’t dress too heavily, because you will sweat. For women, I recommend a skirt because they are easier to move in and cooler than jeans/pants. Bring a water bottle. Wear comfortable shoes. Most important, bring your smile. You will want it handy for frequent use. 🙂

At a big social dance like this, no partner is necessary. Either someone will invite you to dance or you’ll get a partner accidentally through the formations of the lines or circles. It’s also common for women to dance with women and men with men. No big gender deal. All you need to want to do is dance.

If you’ve never gone to one, I recommend stalking a wild ceili near you.

That Time I got Mistaken for a Homeless Person in Grand Central Station

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New York City’s Grand Central Station.

A friend of mine was talking about Grand Central Station in New York City the other day and it reminded me of an experience I had there thirty years ago. I had just arrived in the city (for the second time in my life) and I was waiting in the station for several hours to catch a train to join the other members of my outdoors expedition. (If curious, please click on the link for an explanation.)

I sat on one of the hard wooden benches in the waiting area, surrounded by my gear: a large duffle bag, a daypack, and an internal frame backpack that had a pair of Sorrel boots tied to the back along with a sleeping bag and sleeping pad.

A man with a kind smile walked among the benches, handing sandwiches to the people who were sitting or lying down and who didn’t look like commuters. When he came to me, he offered me a sandwich. I sputtered a “No thank you, I just ate a muffin,” and he moved on.

I was surprised and a little offended that he mistook me for a homeless person. After all, I was clean and well fed. Couldn’t he tell I was going camping in the wilderness, not camping in a city park? Apparently not. I probably did look like a runaway waif, lugging all my worldly possessions with me.

Over the years I’ve enjoyed relating how I was mistaken for a homeless person in Grand Central Station. But you know what? The sandwich man’s observation wasn’t far off.

About halfway through the nine-month expedition, a certain feeling started. Our yellow school bus would drive through towns in the evening and I’d look out at the homes with lights in their windows. Families would be gathering at the table for supper or watching television together in their living rooms. I envied the comfort, safety and security those people seemed to have. They didn’t have to cook on camp stoves, put their tent up in the dark or move on the next day.

Although the experience was a great adventure, I was starting to feel rootless. And although the expedition gave me the outdoors of America, Canada, and Newfoundland as my home, I was beginning to miss a home of my own – not so much my parents’ home back in Minnesota, but a place of my own.

I suspect that feeling was one reason why I didn’t continue for the second scheduled year on the expedition. I’d had my fill of traveling, and was ready for some roots. So after our bus broke down out West, I headed back to Minnesota and I’ve been here ever since. I’ve been lucky enough to have opportunities to travel and explore my own back yard over the years, and was always happy to come home. I’ve been in my current house now for sixteen years.

But dare I say it, as things have changed and my boys have become more independent, a certain meandering wanderlust is beginning to whisper in my ear. It’s saying, the world is waiting . . . . It’s dangerous when that happens. I know from the past that things tend to change when the restlessness begins. Maybe not right away, but eventually.

Don’t be surprised in a few years if you see a young-for-her-years gray-haired lady sitting on a bench in a train station, surrounded by bags, or sailing away with all her possessions in a boat. It just might be me.