To keep from doing harm to others, I've taken up a project.
Joy, my oldest child (and the mother of three) has in her home a toy box I made for her, Nancy and Ted almost 40 years ago. It's a red and yellow fire truck.
Amber, Ted's wife, apparently liked the idea that it had been passed along to grandchildren, and she asked me to make a toy box for Zoe, their 2 year old daughter.
I was delighted, and I went to Home Depot right away and got the lumber.
Amber wanted to paint the "treasure chest" toy box herself, and it is about ready for her. Just some final sanding and touchup and the paint can go on.
Here's hoping the treasure chest lasts as long as the fire truck has.

I don't know whether it was my inability to say what recent product discovery excited me, but something in my phone interview with Tracey, the Wegmans recruiter, determined that I was not a good match for any of their available jobs.
Nor have I heard back from Home Depot after my in-person interview there. Ditto with the gas-pumping job at the Wawa convinience store, which never even offered an e-interview.
Yesterday, I finished the latest rewrite of the youth novel. So now I'm free to go back out in the job marketplace. Perhaps I'll hang out in the Home Depot parking lot, where some folks apparently go to find work. But I sincerely doubt that I have the energy to compete with younger men trying to feed families in Central America, nor would I want to deny them just because I'm white and local. There should be better reasons to get work.
I saw a help-wanted sign in a diner. I didn't apply, expecting that it would be minimum wage. Even if that's the best I could do, I couldn't earn enough to pay for gas to get to the job.
I'd really like to earn enough money to be able to visit daughter Nancy in Hawaii and her family. I've tried in the past few years to do that once a year. This year, the air fare is at least 50 percent higher than last year and that has already caused me to postpone the trip.
I try to imagine the hardship that unemployment inflicts on folks less fortunate than I. I ran into a neighbor whom I seldom get to talk with. He had lost his job as a welder at a trucking company a few years back. He told me that while he was able to get another job quickly, he took a $5 an hour pay cut that he has never been able to recoup. His wife cleans houses, so she took on a few more jobs to make ends meet. They have twin daughters in college. Student loans and scholarships are easing the burden, but still.
So I have much to be thankful for, and while the job search continues, I'll avoid the threat of becoming stir crazy.
There's always yard work to do right here at home.

Last week, thanks to neighbors Pat and Ed Leaf, I had the opportunity to give a talk and sell some books. The event was an evening meeting of the Philadelphia Ship Model Society. It was held at the Independence Seaport Museum in Philadelphia, and two dozen people attended.
This was the first time I'd had a chance to do a "reading" for Eight Survived. For my first book, The Sea's Bitter Harvest, I made several dozen appearances where I either talked to audiences or greeted passersby and engaged them in conversation, hoping for a sale. I set up my table at restaurants along the New Jersey shore, in libraries, at boating and SCUBA clubs, anywhere I thought I might find an audience.
And I loved the experience. I met some very nice people and got to tell a story that I'd spent a couple of years reasearching.
So I was elated when Pat and Ed invited me to talk to the members of their club.
For the event, I wore what for me is the high end of my wardrobe. I ditched the blue jeans and T-shirt and wore a button-down shirt, tie, Blue blazer and gray slacks. I felt pretty spiffy.
Once we arrived at the museum, I saw that I was a bit overdressed. Everyone was in casual clothes. So I started my talk with the announcement that I would be taking an informal approach.
How informal, I didn't actually realize.
First I told my audience -- men and women who build incredibly intricate models of a vast array of ships -- about the sinking of the US submarine Flier on August 13, 1944. (I let them know that I was humbled by their expertise and would claim no such quality for myself.)
Then I read one passage from the book -- about three pages -- where some of the most vivid action takes place.
After I'd wrapped up by telling of the cast of characters whom the downed submariners met in the Philippines, I took questions. As you might expect, the questions were thoughtful an numerous.
By the time the final question was asked, I really needed to use the head. And that's when I discovered just how casual my talk had been.
For the previous forty-five minutes, while my mouth flapped so did my fly, which had been unzipped the entire time.
I had to laugh at myself. I guess I've turned a corner that secures my place among the senior citizens of the world.

lDo we have a job for you?

There was one question during the phone job interview for Wegman's this morning that stumped me.
"Can you name a product -- of any kind -- you've recently discovered that excites you?"
I couldn't think of a single product, of the millions that are out there, possibly because I seldom go shopping and, whenever possible, I buy "pre-owned" and save a ton of money. Most pre-owned things aren't very exciting, and you don't actually discover them. You've probably known for some time that Levis makes blue jeans, for example.
So when the nice lady, Tracey, asked that question, there was a period of silence followed by my answer.
"No."
I don't know if failing to be an excited consumer disqualifies me to work in a supermarket. Perhaps it does. I will know by the end of next week, because I was assured I'd hear from Wegman's by then.

Unparallel house

Home Depot interviewed me today for an important position -- seasonal worker. I did not include this photo in my resume, so it can't be blamed for the fact that I was considered not for carpentry but for the garden section. I guess they were impressed with my brute strength, since that's where all the heavy lifting is done. My back aches at the prospect.
I've also applied to work in the bakery and the pizza shop at Wegmans supermarket, but they have yet to offer an interview. I've put my name in as gas pumper at Wawa convenince stores, as well. I'm getting a good look at Entry Level.

On Sunday, the Philadelphia Inquirer published a very nice review of Eight Survived. I'll try to post it here. Wish me luck!

I am waiting.
I'm waiting for an email that tells me what to do next with the youth novel.
I'm wating for the return of another email so that I can call a certain editor and talk with him about a project.
I'm waiting to assemble a proposal for that project, waiting because I haven't had that phone conversation.
I'm waiting, but I don't have to be idle. There are at least a half dozen stories I could start.
Instead, I visit internet sites, read the news, bang on the piano, talk to Zippy, the cat.
I confess that this is nothing new. The impending has always thwarted the fresh and new. I seem incapable of stepping on the kick-starter because another engine is running some place, and I can't have two of them working simultaneously.
So tomorrow, I'll probably drive to Robin and see how's she's fared during the recent wind storms and assess the work that needs to be done inside her frigid cabins. If I had a bit of carpentry waiting to be done, I'd be doing it. But the only such projects are boat work, and it's still too cold for that. So I'll visit dear Robin instead, talk with her a bit and then return here to my desk in the loft ... And wait.