frozen custard stand, a landmark in South St. Louis. And they were ready to go, now.
“Help your aunt carry everything to the garage first,” she said to them with a nod toward the tools scattered in the grass. Hannah went out my back gate to deposit the weeds we’d dug into a Dumpster in the alley.
After we’d stowed the last of my garden tools in the garage I wiped my face with a rag I’d left on the shelf.
The girls giggled.
“What?” I asked them.
“You look funny,” Gena said.
Even Hannah was trying not to giggle. “Well,” she said, “that rag left black smears all over your face.”
“The better to scare you, my dears!” I jumped toward the girls. They squealed in delight. I growled and chased them out to the street and into Hannah’s SUV.
“You can’t catch us now!” Tina shouted through the closed window. She stuck out her tongue, put her thumbs in her ears and wiggled her fingers at me.
Hannah opened the driver’s-side door and Tina leaned out the opening.
“Ha ha ha ha,” she taunted in the time-honored singsong children’s chant. I waved them a smiling goodbye, grateful for the help and the distraction. Hannah was right. Gardening is good for stress.
The PARTY WAS IN full swing by the time I arrived at the career fair in a downtown hotel. A jazz combo played on a dais at the far end of the ballroom, which was crowded with display booths. I squeezed my way through the aisles jammed with students. Interspersed among the hospital booths were equipment companies, book publishers and representatives from graduate schools. Hospital recruiters hawked their giveaways—candy, penlights, key chains—and grabbed any takers with their spiel. Most glanced over me, my age and determined look discouraging them. Young, energetic ones were the prize they all sought.
I’d grabbed a quick shower after Hannah left and donned white pants, a red-and-white striped top and white clogs that I usually wore with scrubs to work—the ones without any bodily fluids left on them.
St. Teresa’s had a small exhibit space along one wall. Dressed in khakis and a moss-green polo shirt, Tim stood beside a table spread with brightly colored brochures that touted the benefits of working in a small, urban hospital. Pictures of nurses caring for patients—mostly photogenic infants, of which St. T’s had precious few—were tacked on the felt board propped atop the table.
Tim watched me approach, his one black eye giving him a lopsided owl-like appearance.
“Any traffic?” I asked him.
“Some,” he admitted, handing a smiling young woman a brochure.
“Any live ones, really interested?”
He turned to me. “What does administrations want us to do? Tell these kids how wonderful it is to work at St. T’s? Lie?”
“Tim, I’m sympathetic to you. And everyone. But we have a job to do here.”
“Some job,” he said. “We don’t even have recruiters like the other hospitals. Or a real booth—just a table and a few feet. On top of that we’re expected to do this on our own time.” Tim had a family—a pregnant wife and two young girls—and he treasured his days off. “Anyway, you’re here now. I’m going to take a break.” He left without telling me what I was supposed to do.
A group of students approached, and I gave them my best smile.
“What do you have to give us?” asked a young man dressed in a navy golf shirt, tan slacks and expensive-looking loafers.
I looked around on the table. “I have some brochures here about St. Teresa’s.” I smiled again.
“Humph. That all?”
A couple of the girls with him giggled and then the group moved on. I kept busy after that as a steady stream of students grabbed brochures as fast as I could hand them out.
At a break in the crowd, I spotted Bart and Wanda standing behind a counter in a booth down the aisle. Milbum University had twice the exhibit space St. T’s had. A tall display board stood at the back and held photos of smiling
“Help your aunt carry everything to the garage first,” she said to them with a nod toward the tools scattered in the grass. Hannah went out my back gate to deposit the weeds we’d dug into a Dumpster in the alley.
After we’d stowed the last of my garden tools in the garage I wiped my face with a rag I’d left on the shelf.
The girls giggled.
“What?” I asked them.
“You look funny,” Gena said.
Even Hannah was trying not to giggle. “Well,” she said, “that rag left black smears all over your face.”
“The better to scare you, my dears!” I jumped toward the girls. They squealed in delight. I growled and chased them out to the street and into Hannah’s SUV.
“You can’t catch us now!” Tina shouted through the closed window. She stuck out her tongue, put her thumbs in her ears and wiggled her fingers at me.
Hannah opened the driver’s-side door and Tina leaned out the opening.
“Ha ha ha ha,” she taunted in the time-honored singsong children’s chant. I waved them a smiling goodbye, grateful for the help and the distraction. Hannah was right. Gardening is good for stress.
The PARTY WAS IN full swing by the time I arrived at the career fair in a downtown hotel. A jazz combo played on a dais at the far end of the ballroom, which was crowded with display booths. I squeezed my way through the aisles jammed with students. Interspersed among the hospital booths were equipment companies, book publishers and representatives from graduate schools. Hospital recruiters hawked their giveaways—candy, penlights, key chains—and grabbed any takers with their spiel. Most glanced over me, my age and determined look discouraging them. Young, energetic ones were the prize they all sought.
I’d grabbed a quick shower after Hannah left and donned white pants, a red-and-white striped top and white clogs that I usually wore with scrubs to work—the ones without any bodily fluids left on them.
St. Teresa’s had a small exhibit space along one wall. Dressed in khakis and a moss-green polo shirt, Tim stood beside a table spread with brightly colored brochures that touted the benefits of working in a small, urban hospital. Pictures of nurses caring for patients—mostly photogenic infants, of which St. T’s had precious few—were tacked on the felt board propped atop the table.
Tim watched me approach, his one black eye giving him a lopsided owl-like appearance.
“Any traffic?” I asked him.
“Some,” he admitted, handing a smiling young woman a brochure.
“Any live ones, really interested?”
He turned to me. “What does administrations want us to do? Tell these kids how wonderful it is to work at St. T’s? Lie?”
“Tim, I’m sympathetic to you. And everyone. But we have a job to do here.”
“Some job,” he said. “We don’t even have recruiters like the other hospitals. Or a real booth—just a table and a few feet. On top of that we’re expected to do this on our own time.” Tim had a family—a pregnant wife and two young girls—and he treasured his days off. “Anyway, you’re here now. I’m going to take a break.” He left without telling me what I was supposed to do.
A group of students approached, and I gave them my best smile.
“What do you have to give us?” asked a young man dressed in a navy golf shirt, tan slacks and expensive-looking loafers.
I looked around on the table. “I have some brochures here about St. Teresa’s.” I smiled again.
“Humph. That all?”
A couple of the girls with him giggled and then the group moved on. I kept busy after that as a steady stream of students grabbed brochures as fast as I could hand them out.
At a break in the crowd, I spotted Bart and Wanda standing behind a counter in a booth down the aisle. Milbum University had twice the exhibit space St. T’s had. A tall display board stood at the back and held photos of smiling
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