Just Call Me Mahatma

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By Jake Beech – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=30859659.

All these years, I’ve somehow avoided taking the Myers-Briggs Personality Test. Then a potential manfriend showed me his results, so I felt obliged to take the free online test and show him mine. I was surprised to discover that I have one of the rarest personality types. No wonder why it takes a blog to explain myself to the rest of the world!

According to the test, I am an INFJ, which means I approach the world in an Introverted (we knew that already), Intuitive, Feeling, Judging manner. The description of this type says that only one percent of the population has this personality. INFJs are warm and caring, organized, highly intuitive, creative and imaginative, nurturing, and patient.

The description also goes into the weaknesses of this personality type and what INFJs look for in romantic relationships. Many of the traits described struck me as accurate and I learned some new things about myself.

The results also listed notable INFJs. Mahatma Gandhi is one of them. I think I have a new nickname!

The Soccer Meat Fundraiser that Wouldn’t Die

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Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. By Flixtey (own work).

Ah dear blog readers, you may recall my plight as a reluctant inductee into a leadership role in my son’s high school soccer team booster club. The committee is made up of myself and two other soccer moms whose boys are all co-captains (tri-captains?) of the soccer team.

Why is the committee composed of just the moms and not the dads, too? Very good question. The dads came to the first meeting but disappeared quickly thereafter. My guess is they took one look at what was involved and they got out while the gettin’ was good.

Soccer season is in full swing. We’re actually on a downward slide to playoffs now. Our little committee of three has cut its teeth on several tasks. Although our styles differ drastically, we’ve been able to collect club fees from about 40 families, organize volunteers, hold a BBQ, collect raffle tickets and payments, and host a frozen meat fundraiser. We did a lot of other things, too, but they are too boring to list here.

I am proud to report that I fulfilled my non-elected political platform promise to insert reason into the activities by reducing the number of team spaghetti dinners from five to three. I mean, the boys can only eat so much spaghetti and there are plenty of other activities for which parents can volunteer. Unlike my fears in my previous post about this, my action did not incite riots or revolt. Other than that, I’ve been working as the club treasurer and raffle coordinator. It’s been kind of fun writing checks with someone else’s money.

But the frozen meat fundraiser seemed never to end. Unlike what the title of this post may imply, we are not selling meat made out of soccer players (soccer meat). It’s just frozen animal meat. But it’s a fundraiser for the soccer team.

Anyway, another soccer mom coordinated this task (thank goodness!) But people seemed unable to turn their money in on time, so their checks came to me in fits and starts over several weeks. And some people sent the wrong amounts, so we needed to ask them for more money or to issue refunds.

Thus, the fundraiser seemed to go on forever. BUT I am happy to report that I have received the last payment from a parent, so I think it’s finally all done. I had my doubts for a while.

Another thing that’s been difficult is that I was doing all this and my son wasn’t even playing soccer for half the season. A torn knee ligament required him to sit out for several weeks. It was a bummer to put in all this effort for the team when I couldn’t even watch my son play in the games.

But when my son did come back into play, he came back with a vengeance. Despite the best efforts of the other team to lame him up again, my boy scored the most beautiful soccer goal I have ever seen (and I’ve seen a lot). He was right in front of the net and his teammate passed him the ball at shoulder height. My son headed the goal right past the goalie and squarely into the net.

Everyone on our side of the stands stood up and cheered. Even me, the reluctant, whiney, booster club officer.

Poor Zika Babies

It happened again tonight. Every time I see a TV news report about the Zika virus and the babies it affects with microencephaly (small brains), they are crying. Surely the babies don’t cry all the time, do they?

I suppose it’s more dramatic to show a crying baby, especially one that has been born with such a harmful defect. But in showing the crying babies in every newscast about the disease, I fear that news editors are stereotyping the babies forever in viewers’ minds as always crying.

At first I was going to rail that nobody’s produced or written a story about the quality of life these babies have, but I did a search and found that is not the case. There are balanced stories out there, but I doubt the average person will ever see them.

Poor Zika babies. They not only have brains that work differently, they will also have to overcome the stereotypes these newscasts are creating.

Shunned by the World’s Largest Rubber Duckie

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The World’s Largest Rubber Duck turns its back on me.

Duluth is hosting a Tall Ships Festival this weekend. A newcomer to the event is the “World’s Largest Rubber Duck.” I put that in quotes because equally large or larger rubber ducks exist in the world overseas. It’s just that the U.S. creator (who happens to be a Duluthian, too) of this particular duck trademarked the phrase.

Even so, I was intrigued to view this giant yellow floating bathtub toy – in part to see if it could nudge me out of my doldrums following my father’s death – but also just because it’s novel. Like others who have attended these festivals over the years, I’ve seen plenty of tall ships, but never a sci-fi movie-sized duck. Also, I needed to attend the festival for work, to deliver some keys to a co-worker who was on one of the tall ships (the Denis Sullivan).

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A crew member barks orders on the Denis Sullivan.

The duck was participating in the opening ceremony for the festival, called the Parade of Sail. For this spectacle, all of the ships sail into the Duluth-Superior Harbor through the ship canal and under Duluth’s iconic Aerial Lift Bridge.

I left in what I thought was enough time to catch the parade. But I didn’t anticipate the number of other people who also wanted to attend. I expected a lot of people, and planned my travel route to the festival via a back way, but there were not just a lot of people. There were HORDES.

After being turned away from one event parking lot because I didn’t pre-pay a parking ticket, I ended up waiting in line for 40-something minutes for another lot.

I knew I was going to miss the beginning of the parade, so enterprising me got out of line to bribe a local business to let me park in their lot. They weren’t open to my bribe (or perhaps it was not large enough!), so I got back in line, even father back.

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The chart room, below decks in the Denis Sullivan.

As I was waiting, and gazing out my car window through a fence and a tangle of tansy weed, I saw the head of a large yellow duck gliding past in the nearby harbor. I was missing the duck!

Alas, failed bribery attempt already past, there was nothing more I could do to improve my situation. I could only hope the duck would still be around once I made my way to the event grounds.

By the time I got to the parking lot entrance, the attendants were only letting cars in once other cars came out. After another 15 minutes or so, I finally got to park my car in a swampy spot and hoof it to the harbor.

The duck apparently did not like that I was late, and would not show its face to me. It was far away by this time, across the harbor at its docking site — its back turned in disapproval at my lack of strategic event attendance planning skills. Sigh.

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A crew member climbs the rigging on the Denis Sullivan as it sails under Duluth’s Aerial Lift Bridge. Image courtesy of Kathy Kline, Wisconsin Sea Grant.

But my spirits lifted when I ended up getting a free tour of the Denis Sullivan. I found my co-worker among the hordes and she let me aboard. The Sullivan’s home port is Milwaukee, and the ship is used for educational purposes. My co-worker had just completed a five-day sail with about a dozen Great Lakes teachers, instructing them on lake ecology and maritime history.

Enjoy the photos!

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What the duck looked like to everyone else. Image courtesy of WDSE-TV.

My Father’s Passing

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My father is inside this piece of ham radio equipment. Note: This is not a commercially available urn! It’s made from an extra piece of equipment from my father’s radio.

My dad died last week. I’ve been wrestling with whether I should write anything about it, and if so, how deep I should get into our relationship. As you can perhaps tell from the photo, I’ve opted for quirkiness over soul-bearing.

My father lived a good long life, made longer because he took care of himself. His body continued to function even when his brain didn’t work so well. He was father to four children and grandfather to six. He recently got to see his first great-grandchild, but I don’t think it really registered.

In addition to his passions for stamp collecting, coin collecting, listening to classical music, and jogging, was my father’s passion for ham radio (amateur radio). He contacted people all over the world with the radio he made by himself. My childhood home was notable in the neighborhood for the tall radio antenna in the back yard.

My father wanted to be cremated. When my family was at the cremation society office talking about details, the topic of an urn for our father’s ashes came up. One of my brothers had the idea of using a piece of our dad’s ham radio equipment as a container instead.

It might seem weird, but we all agreed immediately to this unusual container. And I’m sure my dad would approve too, if he knew.

Welcomed by a Kelso Swan: Adventures in Scotland, Part 8

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Kelso as seen from The Cobby Riverside Walk.

Three weird things happened on my trip to Kelso. The first happened before I even left the U.S., after I had already made reservations to stay at the Bellevue Guest House in Kelso. Although there are about fifteen other places to stay, I chose Bellevue because it looked nice and was the closest B&B to Floors Castle. A tingle went through me when I was visiting my parents and I looked in their scrapbook from their trip to Scotland in the late 1970s. They had saved a business card from Bellevue Guest House, where they stayed while they were visiting Kelso. (Cue the Twilight Zone music.)

The second thing was the fact that I did not get lost once on my journey from Edinburgh to Kelso. Just ask my traveling companion (who was no longer there to help navigate) — that was unusual. It was like I knew where to go. Ancestral memory, perhaps?

Actually, the drive was wonderful. The roads were wide compared to those in northeastern Scotland, and the scenery was ultra-pastoral. I sang as I drove – so happy at the ease of finding my way. By this time, I was much less terrified of driving in Scotland anyway, having a week of wrong-handed shifting and wrong-sided driving under my belt.

The third weird thing happened after I checked into Bellevue House. My host, Graham, suggested that I take an evening stroll along the River Tweed just a few blocks away. I unpacked and did just that. The riverside walk wasn’t on a boardwalk like we are used to in the U.S. The “walk” was a wide swath of mown grass along the riverbank. As I emerged from the neighborhood homes and came the river came in view, the first thing I saw was a huge white swan. It swam in the river directly across from me.

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The Kelso Welcome Swan (a mute swan).

Ach – so beautiful! We kept pace with each other for quite a while, then parted, only to meet later downriver when it was with its mate. Call me weird, but I felt like the swan was welcoming me to Kelso.

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The Kelso Abbey

I made my way along the river to the town square and the Kelso Abbey. The abbey has a graveyard, which I thought my great-great grandfather’s gravestone was in. But it was late and the gate to the abbey was locked. I’d have to come back tomorrow to look. Afterwards, I walked on the Kelso Bridge over the river and got a glimpse of Floors Castle in the murky and darkening distance.

Worn out from my long drive and walk, I retired back the Bellevue House to rest for my gravestone quest and visit to Floors Castle the next day.

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