Living on a Seattle Houseboat in 1963-64

Part 3

My life as an adult was really beginning to m0ve along.  I landed a job at the Western regional office of TV Guide in Seattle, moved out of the YWCA and into an apartment in the University District with two girls (who could type!) I had met at the “Y’.  It was a very  temporary arrangement; I had to find some other living quarters.  Quickly.

I still loved to explore the waterways of Seattle.  During one evening walk along the ship canal between Lake Union and Lake Washington I met a woman, Durrell Whiting, who would become my first roommate. 

She was from New England, had gone to U. Connecticut, signed up for the Peace Corps–it was brand new at that time–and apparently been bounced out of training in Hawaii for rowdy behavior.  Like me she thought living on a houseboat would be terrific.  So we began to look for a houseboat to rent on Lake Union. 

Even in those days when the houseboat communities were definitely not fashionable–in fact, they were somewhat disreputable,  semi-bohemian slums–it took several weeks of daily scrutiny of the For Rent ads before we found one that was available on a dock on Fairview Avenue and in our price range.  Well, I thought it was in our price range.  (Durrell was a physical therapist and was paid much better than I was.)  

$90 a month split two ways meant my rent was $45.  Plus heating oil which was delivered by a tiny tugboat.  Plus electricity.  Plus all those other things–like pots, pans, dishes, food–that very sheltered 22 year olds in those days never thought of.  We moved in.  

Like all houseboats and many beachfront homes, the living room faced the water.  The entry from a ramp that led from the dock brought one into the “back” of the house.  We had to walk through the kitchen–such as it was–to reach the  livingroom.  There was only one bedroom, accessed by walking through the tiny bathroom and Durrell took the bedroom.  I slept on a fold out sofabed in the livingroom.   We had no TV, no radio.  The houseboat was furnished in grubby, faded furniture.  But we didn’t care–we had our houseboat!

Living on a houseboat, working in magazine publishing– those earlier dreams of running off and traveling the world began to fade.   My life was great!

Five days a week I caught the bus downtown to the TV Guide offices.  I found out immediately that being an editorial assistant was basically a file clerk job.  What I did was pull file cards out of a massive bank of filing cabinets.  On the file cards were capsule summaries of syndicated TV shows that were showing during the week.  The information about new TV shows came over a news wire from Radner and printed out on continuous form paper.   We cut the continuous form information apart, added the file cards, made sure the times were correct then sent it all to the printer, who set the type for the listings.  The cover and the articles for each edition of TV Guide were printed elsewhere.  Our work was only involved with the listings of the 12 editions for Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia that came out of the Seattle office.  But in the Christmas edition of TV Guide in 1963 I was listed as an Editorial Assistant in the magazine.  Wow!  Even my parents, who were dismayed by my living on a houseboat, were proud of the fact that I was listed as an editor–at any level.

Meanwhile Durrell and I learned to eat creatively.  We would “shop” at the Safeway in the University District and eat all the free samples we could get our hands on.  Maybe we would buy a dozen eggs and some English muffins, which I had learned to love during my college years in New England.   Our favorite recipe was English muffin pizzas–long before they entered the wider world of American cuisine.  We would split two muffins, smear on some plain tomato paste (no herbs), toast them in the oven and call that dinner.

More tomorrow…

(This post is part of an experimental memoir.  I teach memoir writing and will edit your memoir to make it better.  Learn more at www.onedaymemoir.com)

Miracle in Seattle

Part 2

I had been in Seattle for several weeks in the Fall of 1963, looking for my first permanent job after graduation from Smith College.   My 22nd birthday had passed on October 2nd and I still was only working at occasional temporary jobs through Kelly Girls, as they were known in those days.   I lacked the typing skills expected from most girls–and that’s how they all thought of me: a girl.

But I had heard about a very upscale employment placement agency and decided to contact it.  The woman who owned the agency was very elegant: in her 40s with upswept blonde hair, wearing a pale pink silk dress with pale white silk hosiery.   Her spacious office, with high ceilings and a huge view window in a downtown office tower, was equal to her appearance.  I was still wearing suits, hats and gloves.  No other job seekers were in her office.

As with the other employment agencies,  she asked me to complete a registration form.   My resume counted for nothing. 

Then, to my dismay, the first thing she said:  “How fast can you type?”

I nearly burst into tears.  My money was vanishing.  I really needed work.  And all this must have been very apparent to her because she said:  “My dear, you are over-educated and under-trained.  You need to take a typing class.”

As a possible act of sympathy, she found a temporary file clerk job for me.  It was boring.  Boring beyond belief.  For this, I thought, I spent four years at college?  But I showed up at the file clerk job every day until it too ended and I received a pitiful little check. 

By now my $187 adult life starter fund was well below $100.  I was eating coffee and toast for breakfast.  No lunch.  Soup with a lot of crackers from a cafeteria from dinner.   That take-away basket of fried clams and french fries at Ivar’s on my first day in Seattle was only a fond memory from a more affluent period of my life. 

 The other young women–girls–at the Y were not having the same problem I was.  They all could type like whiz-bangs.  Even the ones that had gone to college for a year or two.

Sometime during this period–and I don’t remember exactly when or how it came about–I had an interview with a woman who did a women’s talk show on TV in Seattle.  She, too, was wearing upswept hair, a dark unnatural auburn, lots of make-up and a very nice suit.  She needed a secretary who could type so I was immediately out of consideration.  However, we talked for a while.  I told her I had contacted many ad agencies in Seattle before I arrived and no one seemed to be interested in hiring me.  I hadn’t even managed to land an interview with even one ad agency.

She came up with a suggestion:  Go back to Spokane and apply for jobs at TV and radio stations.  She was certain I could get work and start in a career in broadcasting there.   I thanked her.  It was a friendly and pleasant interview.  (And maybe I should have followed her advice.  But it wasn’t the last time I would decide against getting involved in broadcasting–decisions that I have had second  thoughts about over the years.)

I did not go back to Spokane.  I hated Spokane.  Going back to Spokane meant failure.  And failure was unacceptable to me.  What I needed was a miracle.  Little did I know then that throughout my life I was going to rely on these kind of “miracles” –positive things that happen out of the blue when my circumstances seem incredibly bleak.

One day in early November the miracle happened.  One of the employment agencies had a new listing for a  permanent job they thought would be right for me.  It was with TV Guide.  It was to be an Editorial Assistant.   My lack of typing skills was not important. 

The interview with the regional editor–I’ve forgotten his name–went well.  We talked about this and that and no mention of typing.  I remember one topic we discussed was Francis Bacon, the British artist.  We both liked his work.  That was the kind of interview it was.

And I got the job!   And it paid $60 a week!

Later I learned that I was exactly the kind of girl he was not supposed to hire.  The guidelines from TV Guide headquarters stated that local editors needed a high school education.  No college graduates.  But out in remote Seattle, 2000 miles from the company headquarters in Radner, Pennsylvania, this regional editor had hired 8 women, all very bright and clever and most had some college education.

I fit right in.  And never again in my life would I be asked:  “How fast can you type?”

(This post is part of an experimental memoir.  I teach memoir writing and will edit your memoir to make it better.  Learn more at www.onedaymemoir.com)

Can You Type?

Part 1

My room at the downtown YWCA had a great view of Elliot Bay.  I could see over the office buildings stacked down to the waterfront.  The Seattle sky was blue scattered with the inevitable gray and white clouds. 

I had arrived around noon on a Sunday in mid-September, 1963 on a Greyhound bus from Spokane.  I had $187, a suitcase full of clothes, and a new college degree. 

After unpacking I headed downhill toward the docks lining the Bay ready to explore my new hometown.  The waterfront held a romantic lure for me.  The fact that the docks were nothing more than enormous gray warehouses on piers above smelly, oily water didn’t dampen by fantasies of traveling the world.  No ships were tied up; no luxury liners or even tramp freighters were in port.  In the distance I could see a ferry ploughing across the bay, but that was the extent of the boat traffic.

As I walked along Alaskan Way I came across a take-away seafood shack called Ivar’s tucked into a corner of one of the warehouses and bought myself a Welcome-to-Seattle dinner:  a basket of fried clams, french fries and a coke.  Ivar’s has since become a landmark Seattle seafood restaurant, popular with tourists.  In those days it was a place for longshoremen to grab a bite. 

Tired and full from dinner, I went back to my little room at the Y.

The next morning I put on my best job hunting clothes, a tailored brown tweed suit and pink beret.  I checked the want ads in the newspaper and saw listings for employment agencies.  Off I went.

The agency was on the second floor of an aging building on a side street.  The reception area was drab with linoleum flooring.  A couple of other girls were waiting, too.  I was the only one in a suit.  The only one with a resume.  Resume or not, I still had to fill out their employment form.

The first question out of  the interviewer’s mouth was: “How fast can you type?”

Type? I thought.  What about my college degree?

I had taken one typing class during summer school in high school and barely passed.   So I answered: “I’m not sure.”

I was sent off to another room take a typing test on an old manual Underwood typewriter.  I clacked away at it for about five minutes.  My skills had obviously not improved in the intervening 7 years.  I could type about 25 words per minute.

“Well”, said the interviewer, “maybe we can find a receptionist job for you.”

As I left the building I thought I’d better try one of the other employment agencies.  Maybe they would appreciate my college education.  But they didn’t.  I heard “How fast can you type?”  from the interviewers at two other agencies.  And my typing test results did not improve.

The instructions from all three agencies were to call in every day, early, to see if there was work for me.  So I called.  And scoured the help want ads over breakfast at a coffee shop.  And called again. 

Finally after a week or so, one agency had a temporary job for me–a receptionist job at an engineering firm way out in a very blue collar, industrial area.  It took three bus transfers to get to the one story beige building surrounded by vacant lots.  Once at the company, I sat by myself at a desk in a small reception area and answered the occasional phone call.  Almost no one came in or out. 

Then, at the end of the day I got back on the first bus, then a second bus and the third to arrive back downtown after dark.  At the end of a week, this temporary job was done.  I was out of work again.  I cannot remember how much I was paid, but it didn’t do much to slow the dwindling away of my $187.

Back to calling every morning.  Nothing today.  No.  Not today. 

Somehow I heard about a more exclusive employment service.  “That’s who I should see,” I thought.  “No doubt my English degree from Smith College will mean something there.”

More tomorrow…

(This post is part of an experimental memoir.  I teach memoir writing and will edit your memoir to make it better.  Learn more at www.onedaymemoir.com)