Response: "Hey mister, wanna buy a cat?"
Smug satisfaction, Bunky? I think not. Each time I get a paycheck I thank God that I somehow fell into a profession which in Oklahoma puts me firmly in the middle class and doesn't leave me covered in grease at the end of day. Thankfully, I'm not dishing out hot pizza to mall rats or manning the cash register at the La Quinta Inn.
I always wanted to be a librarian. Well, almost always.
I dreamed of a farm in Africa. Well, not in Africa. But I did dream of a farm in South Texas. A cat farm, where I would tend herds of multicolored cats, exquisite animals desired as far west as El Paso (and possibly up into the panhandle as well). Although my artistic abilities have never been up to scratch (so to speak), I would spend hours doodling images of my ideal occupation, imagining my life as a cat farmer. Dressed in overalls, I'd wander among groves of apple trees, cats frolicking at my feet, hanging from branches, perched on my shoulder -- a veritable Garden of Eden minus the fig leaves and angry God.
It was a cruel day when I noticed that cats were all too familiar in my urban landscape. Most likely, I remember thinking, cats aren't going to be a big seller. Especially when they were practically giving boxes of kittens away at the local icehouse. Perhaps horses would be a better career choice. Sadly, as I researched the big ticket items that went along with housing horses, I could see that was another dead end career choice.
Perhaps I could write the Great American Novel, then. Yet after only two college-level literary courses, I felt something inside me die. Could I create anything that compared to Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County? How could I possibly top the picaresque stories of Mark Twain? Those masterpieces by Edith Wharton, Flannery O'Conner, Herman Mellville. Damn them all to hell --they'd beaten me to it.
After that, it was a long, miserable slog of occupational despair: local newspaper reporter, typesetter, desktop publisher, library assistant, temp, C-SPAN gopher, administrative assistant. Fed up with my tiny checks, I finally decided to go back to school. It was librarianship or die!
My decision had nothing to do with the librarians I'd encountered in my life. Up to that point, I'd never had a devoted book lover beam at me from over the reference desk and guide me to a literary wonderland, like Matilda's mentor in Roald Dahl's amazing novel for children. From what I remember, my elementary school librarian had been a battle axe with a fondness for shushing, the middle school librarian had kept the room sealed and locked, and my high school librarian had a permanent frown that reached down to her knee caps. No, it was merely the presence of books that did it. Those constant childhood companions, stalwart friends -- I wanted to be surrounded by books.
Like the Saint says, there is something attractive about moving from job to job. If anything, it gives you a wealth of experiences from which to draw when writing your own Great American Novel.
I'm sad to say, it won't help you much if you decide to open a cat farm. But lately, I hear llamas are all the rage.
posted by Adjective Queen @ 2:30 PM,
1 Comments:
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At Sunday, September 28, 2008 5:23:00 PM,
A Contemporary Bunkshooter said...
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I always had you pegged as a crazy cat lady. Thank you for providing the desired proof.
Great post!
