These Writings

By Dr. Bob Polk

The writings in this book started as a way to frame letters to friends, expressing thoughts about a particular moment. But as I became more alone over the ten-year span, it was as if I had to talk to myself. Its interesting how one becomes. One form of this is by talking to yourself as you write about them. These Writings covers the ups and downs of the years, the risks taken, the winnings and losings, and other memories. It is a collection of thoughts in solitude about becoming an island that nearly washed away but has reformed, has recovered, and has moved forward.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543483222

Dr. Bob Polk

This is a true story, except for people's names. It describes a path of personal history in making of a new person. The appendices are part of the story; partly humorous, otherwise thoughtful and introspective. It is an experience to read and to recognize yourself. There are also ideas for management. All in all, an easy and worthwhile read.

Book preview

CHAPTER 2008

I’d rather die on my feet December 2008

It is better to die on your feet, than to live on your knees. This is a quote from Emiliano Zapata, a Mexican revolutionary (1879-1919); but I heard it first attributed to Che Guevara, an Argentine Marxist revolutionary and medical doctor (1919-1967). Both were violent men, but not the subject of my note here. That quote, by itself, set an objective to me to recover from my recent illness. I had a life-threatening collapse this past summer which spurred me to retire from government service, and which had severely depleted my physical reserve. So, it is how much that statement meant to my recovery that I thought of as I set out to write this note.

This will be the beginning of some memoirs that I plan to write over the coming years, as I get better and return to wellness. You see, I had thought I would die last summer, and wanted to return to my home here in Georgia. My wife had suggested I should request long term disability support and then continue working. Perhaps she is right, but I didn’t feel I could do that. I was very weak at the time and looked it. Now, just six months later, I feel well again, and realize she was right. But it is too late to return to government service now; I am too old (72 years!) and once retired, I think the government would prefer that I stay retired.

It is winter outside, and an unusually large snowfall has enveloped everything outside. I am inside in my warm den in the basement, working on my model trains. Just now, I’m hand painting about a hundred figures to carefully place inside the passenger cars. My trains are running on a track set on a shelf around the top of the room. It is a tinkerer’s paradise. My wife has helped me recover my health, and I have been very busy with my tinkering inside and my shoveling outside.

I have picked up momentum with my readings too; mainly novels interest me. So, I ran across a novel about Cuba in the 1960s, wherein the quote from Che Guevara appeared. I had developed the habit of bi-weekly visits to the local used book stores and was browsing when I saw it. I didn’t buy the novel, and I can’t remember the name of the book or author, but the quote struck me, and I remembered it. When I got home, I looked up Che online and then learned about Zapata as well. So, I knew who said it originally and I was pleased with myself and at the same time, wondering why it had impressed me.

I have taken the inspired leap in seeing the quote as an epiphany for me. It means for me to get busier than ever; to find new things to do. Hence, my latest model train project. There are more than my trains, though. I feel as if I have more to give in terms of my working life. But as I think about it, who would want to hire me at my age. That would be a big risk; virtually impossible to insure as a worker, and the possibility that they would eventually have to carry me out of the workplace. In other words – a dead man walking!

I am going to ignore those arguments and get busy applying for jobs; and not just any jobs, but worthy of my education and skills. Will I succeed? Of course, I will; I’m Bob.

CHAPTER 2009

What to do? Mid-June 2009

Summer has begun here in Georgia. It’s hot, and I am at wit’s end. My wife’s 60th birthday was a little more than a week ago, and I can’t imagine how we’ve come this far. I think the romance is gone, and we are sort of tolerating each other’s good and bad habits. I am trying to be optimistic, but I am failing. We are beginning to run out of money; well not quite just yet. I hope I’m not becoming stupid again.

Time to cut the grass and have a beer. I rolled out the tractor and had at it. The job took a little over an hour; it’s a big yard! I trimmed all the bushes and found plenty of things to do to keep busy outside. My wife seems content to stay in and work on her studies for culinary school. I can only hope she will get a job when she graduates, but that is a remote possibility at our age. And I think, or feel at least, that she believes it’s my responsibility to support us. I mostly agree and wonder why I didn’t listen to her and stay with the FBI, but on disability leave until I recovered.

I can’t change what happened. Maybe I was wrong. But here we are, in a big house that’s hard to afford, and which will not sell in this recessional market. Selfishly, I feel trapped. First by the house, and second by this marriage which has begun to sour. I guess I expected her to help when the going got tough. But for some reason, she’s in her own world about her studies and I seem to think I’m in her way.

Along the way, we acquired a black cat that is a menace. I named him Botrytis, after a fungus that grows on wine grapes. He is a smart cat, and semi wild. Even though we had his front claws removed as a kitten, he still climbs everything, including trees. He loves exploring the woods around our home. I saw him being chased by a fox one day and I scared the fox away. But I should have let him be caught; he is a veritable devil. He also managed to get hit, but not killed, by a car not long ago. We took him to a veterinarian hospital, and $ 1300 later, he recovered. That damn cat knows I dislike him, and he follows my wife around at her heels. I wonder if there is a relationship between the two that’s symbiotic?

Oh well, I can only wonder about why things are the way they are now. But I’m starting to believe that I need to escape, somehow. What to do? My antagonists (wife and cat) seem patient to let it all play out somehow. I am not content with that idea. It is becoming obvious that I need to find work, so that I can be away from here legitimately, at least part of the day and let those two get on with their weird relationship. Dream on, Bob.

When I’m not working on the yard, I spend some time every day in my den in the basement. I have my trains to play with, and I’ve begun applying for jobs over the Internet. I’m learning what works to get recruiter attention and what doesn’t. So, I’m adapting my online resume accordingly. Occasionally, I get an inquiry, and I get somewhat hopeful when that happens. But it’s summer; and I am not yet as motivated as I need to be. I’ll keep at it.

CHAPTER 2010

Another Pervasive Shame Spring 2010

I have been applying for many, many jobs. After the expense of the holidays this past year, I am getting quite anxious about needing to find work before our money runs out. My wife has completed her culinary school but is not inclined to look for work. She has several degrees but has not applied for work that I know of and refuses to talk about it with me. My own job hunt has been very frustrating; not only are there fewer jobs to be had, but there is age discrimination going on, and although against the law, at least for federally-related work, is a pervasive condition.

Discrimination takes many forms; there is a substantial list of discriminations that most people are aware of, but which have no place in a modern civilized and educated society. It is practiced in one form or the other by the very people who know better. The origins of discrimination are rooted in self-preservation, which is promulgated by poverty, unemployment, protectionism, and greed. Even where legal constraints exist, discrimination is the act of protecting the needs and beliefs of the one or the few, not the many. It has become both normal and pervasive. Society’s very protectors, under the guise of reason, occasionally precipitate an event that may have a tragic outcome, for the sake of order as they define it. And discrimination works in much the same way.

People know better, yet still find excuses that seem to them logical, such as the risk of insuring older persons, or because of an innate feeling that people of color are naturally bad. So, they cause pain or discomfort, or at least inconvenience in the name of benefit to society. Why society’s norms, supposedly structured, can be distorted either subtly or overtly, is cause for serious thought. Lawmakers seem not to have figured out, maybe not even bothered, how to attack the causes of unfairness.

It may be that I’m on a soap box here because I’ve been rejected for a job so many times, even after having had a successful working career before. But as my wife has pointed out, there is no such thing as fair or fairness, or just or justice. There is only what everyone believes. It seems that anywhere in the world, there are people who espouse some form of belief, religious or other, that justifies their acts of discrimination as a rule.

Well there you have it. I suppose I should have realized that it is a naturally acquired state, and not necessarily responsible for my condition. On the other hand, in my own selfish way, it feels like I am being singled out. I know that it is a work in progress to find a job. I know there is something in the world that I am suited to do, age aside. But how to find it is the rub.

My experience tells me that capability grows with time and effort made to learn. I must get better with writing and uncovering what works in the job market, that peaks a recruiter’s interest in my skills. I hate discrimination, and I think it applies to me and my job hunt. But if I succeed, it will be because I persisted, not quit.

Security Clearance Tango March 2010

It’s amazing, the number of recruitment ads for cleared professionals that stipulate Active TS/SCI with Polygraph. Think about it; where would such candidates be found? Of course, the source is from other companies or agencies. And, of course, that source is from on-going programs and projects. So, I would wildly speculate that practice is sort of robbing Peter to pay Paul. In other words, the recruiter’s program or project is more important than the one where the candidate is being wooed from; even though the clearance level is the same for both programs, apparently. Justification: it’s the applicant who likely doesn’t care, right?

What am I missing here? Who stated that the new program would only work or make budgeted schedule if all members were immediately cleared from the start? Which case implies that the new program’s members must come from on-going programs in order, ipso facto, to be actively cleared. So, it follows that the recruiter’s firm likely won the contract by assuring the customer that the workforce would be cleared to start. Even more likely is that the customer insisted on it.

I get the logic of this. The new program is created and budgeted without regard for other programs in progress. Funding of new programs in this day of sometimes on, sometimes off, but always iffy government budget requires that the new program get under way as quickly as possible to avoid a budget shortfall. Work progress would be substantially delayed if new members had to be cleared, and who knows whether the program would survive long enough?

I know that this situation is just business as usual for contractors, and, I’m thinking, same for the customers. But does this beg the question of which program is more important, or which is irrelevant? And if one program is irrelevant, why does it exist? Just wondering! Maybe I’m just grousing because I am unemployed and wondering if I ever will be again.

I doubt that many people care; after all. What’s more important, whimsical new programs to soak up budget or genuinely complementary efforts? And why can’t the new programs conduct their own polygraph tests? But then why should they when they can take talent from other maybe not so needy sources. This is good, right? Or not?

Privately, I understand why this is so. But understanding is not enough for me currently. I know that a security clearance, especially a Top-Secret government clearance, can take a long time. And if you add the caveat of Special Compartmented Information (SCI), it can be even longer. Clearances are individually awarded, after a special background investigation. Currently, many cleared individuals are needed. My clearance expired after I retired from the FBI

Trying to make sense of this doesn’t solve my unemployment problem. It’s looking for an excuse, I think, as to why I can’t interest an employer. I’ve said to my wife several times that I wish someone would kill me or hire me. I think that disgusts her, and I can hardly blame her. It didn’t need vocalizing.

CHAPTER 2011

Landing a Job January 2011

In early spring 2010, a major contractor called me about an analyst job I had applied for. I formally accepted and signed an offer and was requested to apply for a background check for security clearance, which required my Social Security number, and that revealed my age. The contractor called me back to rescind the offer but wouldn’t explain why. I had prepared for this event and had called an agent at the FBI when I first got the offer. He advised me to sign it, have it notarized and then if rejection came, to advise them that I had consulted a FBI attorney (an agent, but also a lawyer) regarding employment practice and non-discrimination law.

I informed the contractor’s program manager and received a written confirmation of the original offer. I was instructed to begin my security clearance re-instatement. That process has taken eight months. With my clearance reinstated, I was instructed to have a drug (urine) test, and then to report to the contractor’s hiring office in Maryland for indoctrination.

The looks on people’s faces when I reported for indoctrination the first week of February was surprise at seeing someone my age reporting for work. I learned that my work location was a government intelligence center in Northern Virginia for analytical work and general support. So, after the usual badging and photo taking, I reported there.

My initial impression was amazing at seeing hundreds of computers next to each other. A bank of large screen TVs was tuned to news stations. The computers are on a slightly elevated floor to permit wiring to be laid under it. Surrounding the raised area is an office perimeter for the managers. The raised area is kept very cold to dissipate the computer waste heat, is very uncomfortable. Peer supervisors are co-located with analysts on the raised area. A job requirement is to deploy to a combat zone overseas for six months after training.

Initially, I stayed in a motel for a couple of weeks while I looked for a place to live. I am essentially out of money reserves and must charge everything. I finally found a furnished basement room to rent just two miles from work, dilapidated, but affordable rent, so I have settled in for what may be a very long stay. I can’t afford to return to Georgia, and frankly, I didn’t want to. My goal is to pay the mortgage until the house can be sold, if in fact it can be.

I am not being pressured to deploy for obvious reasons, and I didn’t want to go. The center operates around the clock. Mostly, I work second shift (2 PM to 10 PM). That is more suited to me and most people there are loners. I haven’t learned of any social functions. People are quieter; management works the day shift and we are left to carry out the various research assignments sent from the armed forces in the field as Requests for Support (RFSs).

I am lonely for my home in Georgia and am living a poor lifestyle I never imagined. All I do is pay debts and work at a job that has no future, except a paycheck. Enough of complaining. It’s getting toward time to head to work again. I am almost ashamed that I’ve come to this state at this time in my life, but inwardly proud that I’ve found work.

Kaye February 2011

Kaye is my age; well, about 6 months younger. She was born in 1937 and we grew up next door to each other. She always seemed a bit smarter than me. For instance, when we were both about 4 years old, she taught me to tie my shoes! I remember that they were Buster Brown shoes, and I recall her showing me how to loop the string over one finger, hold it in place, and wrap the other string over and around to make a bow. We were on my back stoop, and I practiced until I could do it on my own. That stuck with me all my life. She didn’t seem to be a tomboy to me but was very much a girl. It’s just that we were confidants, and great friends and we did things together. Some were little boy activities and some little girl activities, and we did them with and for each other. Kaye was always the same or even a bit taller than me, and skinny as a rail, but always wore a little short dress and white sandals.

I wanted to marry her before I was 5 years old. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew that I should buy her a ring. So, I asked my mother for a nickel and I walked up to Cartwright’s candy shop (up the alley behind the high school). In those days, a kid could walk everywhere without fear of harm. As I recall, the store was full of high school kids, so it must have been about mid-morning break time. I had seen some swell plastic rings in the candy counter, and I asked Mrs. Cartwright if my nickel would buy one. She asked me what I wanted it for and I told her. The next thing you know, my quest was a featured article in the town newspaper, The East Liverpool Review. I don’t recall that part, but Kaye still has the news clipping. Those early years were wonderful; but this is about Kaye, not me.

Kaye’s mother Shirls was a fastidious housekeeper. I remember that she had a tiny raised wall garden of flowers outside her back door, and it had a screen door as I recall. One summer day, I went over to Kaye’s door and yelled for her to come out. But for some reason, she was not allowed out that day. Because I was holding the screen door open and yelling in, and her mother had just scrubbed the kitchen tile floor, she shooed me out. Boy was I mad at her; I wanted my friend! So, I skulked around outside her door and tried to think of a way to get even. The screen door was unlocked, and her clean floor was air drying. Then it came to me. I scooped up a handful of dirt from her little garden and opened the door and threw it in on her floor, and then I ran into my house to hide. But it was obvious who the guilty party was and her mom and mine found me out and tanned my hide well. Lesson learned: consequences for bad behavior.

I started Kindergarten and then first grade before her. Her mother held Kaye back a year because she had contracted both chicken pox and whooping cough that year, and I think she wanted to be sure Kaye had recovered sufficiently. So, I was always a year ahead, I believe all through our school years, but Kaye was always a bit smarter. I remember once that she and her parents took a vacation out west someplace. They brought back a souvenir of the Painted Desert, a small vial layered with different colors of sand. I looked at that longingly and enviously as we sat on her couch. We remained fast friends but saw less of each other as we grew up in different grade social circles. We still had our summers together until we became teen-agers. But she was always a good girl and I was always a fire brand; not a bad boy, but on the edge. I couldn’t wait to grow up and leave town, and she could never imagine leaving it – and she never did. She still lives in her parents’ home (now hers) where the family lived sometime after I left home at 18. She recently told me that she still has that souvenir vial of various-colored sand.

I lost track of Kaye over the years. She apparently flourished in our hometown, while I had my fill of personal failures and ups and downs in careers. I saw her once when I visited the hometown during the 1980s, and again before earning my doctoral degree in 1992. I’m not sure if it was fall at the time I saw her. I remember that she was at the gas station across from the old post office filling her car. For some reason, I noticed her legs and they were sleek and slightly tan. I don’t remember if we talked or not. I had returned out of curiosity to see where my former home had been and now was a parking lot below the high school. I found a brick from what was a fish pond my father and I built, but I don’t have it any more.

Kaye was, I’m told, a secretary at the EL School District office all her working years, and eventually retired from that job. I think she was in her 40s when she met and finally married a good man, John Michels. Like everything else in her life, she cherished and loved that man, as he did her. They apparently always lived in the home Kaye’s parents