Since my last post, where I shared doing the interviews, but not getting any of the jobs, I've done a lot of thinking, and hope to have learned from it.

The employee recruiter at the Mental Health Center tells me more interviews soon will be done, and she'll be calling to schedule some. In the meantime I'm reading books about how to interview better, and notice that talking less is highly recommended, as well as shaking hands correctly, and making good eye contact.

This book, "How To Gain The Professional Edge", by Susan Moreum, emphasizes we should look at the other person long enough to know the color of their eyes, but to not stare at them. Doing hand shakes gets into several parts; how to grasp theirs, how strong and long to hold it, and says to make sure it doesn't feel like you're giving somebody a limp, dead fish.

After reading more one night, I'm sitting at home feeling downhearted and not much confident, but this self indulgent funk feels worse than not getting one of the jobs. Next morning I go looking for candidates who'll let me practice on them, and stop at a nursing home.

In the front lobby a tiny lady who looks older than myself, is pushing a food/snack cart around. She guides it slowly, and stops now and then, to rearrange its cargo so none falls off. Her waistline which is very trim, and the old fashioned apron she's wearing like it's her uniform, remind me of my own grandmother.

Weiners and buns are on the cart, and I ask her if they're selling hotdogs to help the Alzheimer fund raiser. "No", she says, "We just do this every week", as if she's been there years, as she keeps navigating the stacked up cart. Intending to remember it, I ask her name, but my personal thoughts and concerns don't let it stay in my head.

At my next stop, a thrift store, where I get in line to pay for some books, a new clerk seems intent with details of ringing up sales. I smile, and assume a patient pose, but am eager to leave, and not very interested in the little speech she gives about our spare change keeping kids in school. My usual patience is nowhere around. I am in a rush to find someone else to practice people skills on. I don't even think to leave a few coins.

I set the books I couldn't resist buying in my car, and get in, then pull into traffic. I recount in my head the things I'd set out to remember today when connecting with other human beings, and don't want to admit that so far I've failed almost completely.

The books I got that day sounded so helpful. Wayne W. Dyer's "Wisdom of the Ages", is almost an encyclopedia of what the title implies, and Anna Quindlen's "One True Thing", if that book cannot teach you how to interact with another human, not much can.

I stop at a convenience store. Behind the counter a man I've bought lottery tickets from many times, is as usual polite, but today he's having a hard time ignoring something on a small TV screen. He starts to get the ticket I want, but stops and stares at the screen again. Already he's done that twice, and now three times, and still glancing at it, makes himself stand still, and explains. It is some program in his native language that sounds oriental, but until today I didn't know, or ever think to ask where he's from.

"Laos," he says, and points to the screen again. In English that still doesn't come out smoothly, he apologizes for taking so long. When I stopped here, all I wanted was a lottery ticket, but now I am trying to remember what little I know about this place he calls Laos. I recall that when Vietnam was going, hordes of their own in a Civil War died there.

"Where I from, he says louder, and I realize I haven't been listening. "Where I born, I born there." and as he returns in his mind, his dark brown eyes I finally remember to look at, mist over enough so that they almost seem to float.

Again he turns toward the TV, and not knowing what else to do, I ask a question, to fill the time hanging between us. What he says then almost makes me forget an important appointment I need to go to. He and his family lived wherever they could hide, in jungles. "I born in Jungle" He said, like it was an accomplishment. "Ten year old, I ten year when we come, he said, as softly as the sound of the almost empty store. He explained that men in his family fought against communists, and if they'd been found, they all would have been killed. I ask if he has brothers and sisters, and did his Mom and Dad make it here. He became quiet, and looked away, so I didn't ask again. The TV program he was so intent with was made where he lived there.

I tuck my lottery ticket in my purse. "Must seem you come to a whole new world." Realizing I'm almost picking up his enunciating, I stop talking. "Very big world, he says; only the way he says it sounds like it starts with an R. "America has freedom too", he adds. As I'm walking away his smile returns. "And we have rottery here, but I already rucky." I paused a moment, then went out the door. Next time I go there I'll ask his name. Walking to the car I realize I'm feeling good that I looked into his eyes long enough to know their color.

In my apartment as I check phone messages, it rings. A friend whose little girl started kindergarten this morning, wants to know if I'm coming over to celebrate with them, before she has to return to where she lives with her father. This friend has tromped through some deadly jungles of her own, but with God's Holy help she's made it through a very long haul, and makes herself and all who know her grateful and proud.

Celebrating starting school included letting the special little person choose where we'd dine, within limts, of course."Country Buffet." she said, dragging the last syllable of it almost all the way across the coffee table. "I like their macaroni, and the spaghetti, and their ice cream is very delicious." At five years old, she still speaks sincerely. Everything is very this, or very that. How I hope she never learns to squelch it. I know the color of her eyes, and they gleam with the awe of it. She shows me a picture she drew for her teacher, and it's very clear she's already claimed this special person as her own. I love the way she smiles as she pronounces her name, and I wonder how a granddaughter who is in teaching feels, when she's adored like that.

After we are more than full from the buffet's many choices, the mood of the occasion slows, and seems too quiet. "I don't want to go", she suddenly announces. We're on a busy road now, and I sense her mother's hands press hard into the steering wheel. "Let's have some happy music, the mom says, as she trys to keep smiling, and slips a sing-along CD in. We all join in, and once in awhile deliberately sing off key. After all, this is suppose to be a fun time party.

In the back where she sits in her car seat, her little voice trys again. "Some day! No! some night when everyone's asleep I will get out of my bed, and bring my clothes, and walk and walk to where you are". The sing-along fades as if it slowed itself. My friend guides the car safely, even though her hands have become part of the steering wheel. "Some day", she begins, and says it again, then her voice trails into silence. Out of respect I don't look into her eyes for a while.

Tomorrow I will find more people to practice interviewing skills with, but tonight I set that aside. I am thinking of a tiny aproned lady pushing a cart, whose wrinkled skin could qualify as a badge, and I'd still like to learn her name. I wish I had been more patient with the thrift store clerk, but she will do her job just fine. I know I'll return to the convenience store, and hope the man with misty eyes feels like smiling, and my friend's young daughter, I plan to help with learning her numbers.

If I get the chance to interview again, I will try it, and if offered the mental health position, will consider that. But if I don't, it is alright. Nursing offers almost countless times to connect with a person and their heart, and already I am wondering what the next one will be like.