It is possible people may misunderstand my story about beginning our lives in Montana on that chilly, wet, muddy day in the spring of 1995. It may seem that we arrived aimlessly, full of doubt and worry. There is no doubt those same people might be surprised that we had researched things extensively, especially the availability of work.
Back in Connecticut at that time Kerry was staying at home with the kids and I had two jobs. My main job was with the State of Connecticut working at Day Services with the Department of Mental Retardation or as it was known internally, DMR. At night after work and on weekends I shod horses around the county. There was never enough money but at least we had badly needed health insurance. Why that was so important to us is a story for another time.
I know some will cringe at the term “Department of Mental Retardation.” Well, I’m sorry but that’s what it was called back in the 1990s and for years before then. Apparently at some point after I left, they cured Mental Retardation and last I knew the name was changed to the Department of Developmental Services. The changing of signs and letterheads alone probably cost millions.
The acronym they came up with for the new department was DDS. Its also the acronym for Doctor of Dental Surgery. The irony is palatable because it was just like pulling teeth trying to get funding for our needs.
As it turned out I had a knack for working with people, we called them clients, who not only had developmental disabilities but also a mental illness like Bi-polar disorder or schizophrenia.
I ended up working with a crisis management team made up of some of the best people from various departments like psych, residential, administration, speech and hearing, and physical therapy. I represented Day Services and that meant I helped teach skills for employment. Many times, however, my job went beyond that.
As a team we helped individuals who were in crisis that included violent outbursts at home and at work. We were good at it, and I like to think we made a difference in people’s lives. In fact, in one individual’s case we presented at a world conference because of our innovative ideas and ultimate success.
I’m using the word “we” loosely. The Commissioner of our department and one of her assistants presented. They even took their husbands. We were idiots for not seeing the situation for what it was. We had done an in-depth presentation as a team to our local hospital to rave reviews. Our presentation materials were requested by the powers that be for review with many assurances they would be returned so we could prep for the conference. I foolishly asked when we were getting everything back a couple months before the conference and was informed, we just couldn’t be spared. We were essential you see. Of course, to me, that would mean the Commissioner and her lackey were not essential. My point of view was not appreciated by some people.
Anyway, we never did get those materials back. We didn’t even get a video tape of the presentation. For all we knew the Commissioner and her toady went on a taxpayer funded vacation. Those were some dark days for us all, but the meat grinder just keeps churning so we needed to get back to work.
And yes. The client’s success in achieving a happy productive life should be its own reward.
Well, it wasn’t, and all these years later, still isn’t. That’s just corporate speak meant to guilt you into thinking you and your team weren’t treated like garbage.
Sorry about the diatribe. I still have nightmares about clients occasionally. I guess I’m just not mature enough or a positive enough employee to pretend it all never happened.
Let’s get back to the story.
Because I was good at this sort of work, I thought it made sense to check out the employment situation in Montana ahead of time and maybe even get a job just before moving. We had decided we wanted to live in the western half of Montana, so I started researching different towns and cities to see what sort of opportunities existed. I made calls and set up appointments for interviews. Then I talked with friends in Big Timber who offered to put me up for a few nights. Then, spending money we didn’t have, I flew out, rented a vehicle and began my interviews.
It was a disaster. Each place I went to got worse. They were so far behind the times on treatment and programming for clients I couldn’t believe they were allowed to be open. There are state and federal rules about this sort of thing. In Connecticut, we had to obey them and be subjected to yearly inspections. How could these organizations I was visiting be declared functional and safe? On top of that, people kept saying I was overqualified to work in their organization. Me? Overqualified? I had never heard that before or since my Montana interviews.
My last interview stop was in the early morning at a place I could not find. There just seemed to be abandoned warehouses at the address I was given. Fortunately, I saw a wheelchair van parked behind one building and I figured it was a clue. I wandered in through a bashed up metal door at the top of a ramp and ran into a mountain of clothing. Some items were hung on long racks. Some were in moving boxes, and some were just piled on the floor. A head popped up from behind a pile.
“Hi!” a young lady said.
“Hi. I have an appointment with Jerry today.”
“Oh, he isn’t here today. What was the appointment about?”
“It was a job interview.”
“Oooohhh.” She said with a knowing laugh and smile. “You want the other Jerry. Follow me.”
Good lord. The other Jerry?
She led me through the rabbit warren-like thrift shop this organization ran with their clients. She opened a door and there, in an incredibly messy office, even worse than Kerry’s, sat Jerry.
We introduced ourselves and Jerry launched into a very rehearsed speech about his organization and all the money it made. Apparently, there were group homes attached to this thrift shop and they were basically self-supporting. He showed me balance sheets as proof.
“We don’t need any of the damn government’s money,” he proudly proclaimed.
I was impressed until he began bragging about how they saved money. They knew that the local grocery stores threw out old produce on certain days of the week, so he arranged to take it off their hands and have the clients sort through it for useable vegetables and fruit. He also had an arrangement with the game warden and cops to get any roadkill that was salvageable (I’m not joking) along with poached animals that had been confiscated.
“We save so much money on food you just couldn’t believe it.” Jerry declared with a self-satisfied smile.
I made some small talk and took an application to fill out. He assured me that he could tell I was qualified. I don’t know how he came to that conclusion. We never talked about my resume, the programming they did at the shop or group homes or even what positions were open. I think my one qualification was being a warm body.
I got a tour of the facility and after a quick handshake and goodbye I was shown out through the same steel door by the same young lady. I trudged out to my rental vehicle and tried not to bang my head on the steering wheel in sheer frustration before backing out and heading down the street toward my motel. There was a diner open a couple blocks down and I was hungry. I got some coffee and a corn muffin and sat there in a daze watching the traffic go by the window.
This could never work out. The system here was not for me and from what I gathered, the state-run institutions were even worse. I had six examples presented to me in the past few days and they were all the same. If I worked here, I would spend my life tilting at windmills and would either get fired or just learn to hate myself for not doing what was right. What now?
I still had an afternoon and evening left. I was to head back to my friend’s house in the morning and then leave for home the day after. I had accomplished nothing except to know that I didn’t want to be a part of any of these organizations. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? It didn’t feel like it.
Across the street I saw a fly shop and decided to get a license and fish for the rest of the day. Rock Creek, a famous trout river in Montana, wasn’t far away and maybe I could find a quiet spot to fish and think. I had packed my rod and waders in case I had the time to prowl a river. The fly shop would have answers about what to use and where in general to fish plus I like hanging out and talk fishing with knowledgeable folks.
As God is my witness, I have never been in such an unfriendly fly shop in my life. As soon as the two guys behind the counter found out I didn’t want to book a trip with a guide they ignored me. I asked about fly hatches. Their response was to silently point at a chalk board and turn away. The board had fly info so I picked a few flies from the displays, some leader material and went up to buy my license at the counter. I always like to get a few things, even if I don’t need them, in exchange for information. These two morons continued to ignore me. I was about to explode with anger. It had been a very bad day capping off a bad, expensive week. I finally threw the stuff on the counter and declared I had changed my mind and left.
I was lucky a cop wasn’t around because I was driving way too fast as I headed for Rock Creek. I had heard there was a fly shop there and if there wasn’t I would at least find a place by the river to sit and try to figure out what this all meant for our plans.
The shop was not too far from the I-90 exit but wasn’t hopeful looking. It was a café as well as a shop and in my experience that meant they would have very little equipment and maybe not even sell fishing licenses.
I was surprised to see a very well stocked shop inside with several tables and chairs in a separate section alongside a lunch counter. The place was empty except for a big, bearded man with a pleasant smile who greeted me and asked how he could help. I admit, I was still mad and took it out on him.
“Do you want to sell me a license and flies?” I growled at the man.
“Son, I’ll sell you the whole place if you want it.”
He looked at me with a calm almost serene face.
“Having a bad day?” He inquired.
“Bad week. And today just sent me over the edge. I went to a shop in town and…”
“Stop right there.” he said with his palm outstretched. “I know what you are going to say. You didn’t want a guide and they ignored you, right?”
“Exactly.” I quietly replied, more than a little embarrassed at my behavior.
“Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.” I was now completely disarmed.
“Good, you have plenty of time left. Mother!” the man called out towards what I assumed was the kitchen. “Could you bring out one of those extra sandwiches for this gentleman?”
“Coming right up! Ham and Swiss ok?” a woman’s voice said from out back somewhere.
“That’s fine ma’am., I yelled back.
The man offered me a chair and the two of us sat at one of the wooden tables. He pulled out a pocket notebook and pencil.
“Let me draw you a little map of the area. I know a nice spot for you to start. Now you will need a few salmon fly nymphs and drys…” and he proceeded to line me all out. Directions, including what mailbox to turn at. Fly and leader sizes. Everything I needed to know or possess for an afternoon of fishing on an unfamiliar river.
A short, gray-haired lady with a flowery apron came out from behind the counter carrying a plate, coffee mugs, and coffee pot along with something in a small paper bag.
“Here you go, hon,” she said placing the plate in front of me. It had a big sandwich with potato chips and a pickle spear. “I assumed you wanted coffee but you can have something else if you want,” she added as she poured for both of us.
“Coffee is fine ma’am. Thank you”
She put the little bag next to the plate.
“That’s for later when you need a break from catching all those fish.” She smiled and left to go back to the kitchen. I peeked inside. It was a brownie. A big one.
“Let me go pick out some stuff for you while you eat. Do you need a three-day license too?”
“Actually, yes I do.” I mumbled around the ham and swiss.
“No problem.” He said as he wandered his aisles with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose selecting items.
By the time I had finished my sandwich he had collected what I would need, got my information for the license and had me sign it. New tackle in hand I stood at the cash register ready to go. But the bill was wrong.
“You shorted yourself.” I said. “I don’t think you included lunch.”
“Oh, that was just leftovers. No charge.”
I shook his hand and thanked him again. He didn’t let go but instead drew me closer.
“I don’t want you to think we are all like those other guys. I also don’t want you fishing angry. You won’t be able to see past your anger to watch the water. You will make silly mistakes. It’s not fair to you or the fish. Go on now and enjoy yourself. Come back anytime and don’t forget your snack.” This as he handed me the brown paper bag.
With that I went outside to my vehicle feeling like a kid again anticipating going fishing at my grandparent’s cottage. Once behind the wheel I took out my little map from my shirt pocket. The mailbox I should turn at was just a mile up the dusty, dirt road. He said I couldn’t miss it and I didn’t.
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I really can understand how you would excel at working with the retarded. It seemed you always did great working with me 😊.