Giving Up
For the last two weeks I have been working in the trenches as a census taker or the fancier terminology, enumurator, driving around looking for addresses on mailboxes half standing, leaning, been hit so many times, the numbers are mostly gone, roads that have no names, no markers, houses that have no mailboxes, the description on my little computer says yellow house with red roof.
Having an impossible conversation with what the owner of this pet calls a sweet girl, in reality is a mongrel dog who would like nothing better than to trip you and take your arm off as a prize for the master. Heat, a lot of heat.
When I finally do find a house number on a mailbox and I carefully walk down a steep driveway that, if covered in snow would be called a ski jump, these so-called driveways, covered in gravel, pine cones, and pine straw, I walk down because the drive is too steep for my little four cylinder car to make it back up.
Oh, my heart leaps when I finally discover a house at the end of the “walk.” Someone thought this would make a fine home, but only if they had an all-terrain vehicle, good brakes and a healthy heart. Usually, there is no one at home or they don’t answer the doorbell or loud knocking.
My imagination gets the best of me, should I stop and look for some poor soul sitting in a car who tried to drive down there and never made it back up, or maybe a salesmen who is beside a porch or walkway who suffered the big one after that trek, or maybe…I hurriedly fill out my Notice of Visit, stick it where the passing cars on the road can’t see it, that’s another laugh, and start back up the hill. Note to Janet—a great birthday, anniversary, Christmas gift for moi, a tank of oxygen.
Some of our enumerators have turned in their U.S. Department of Commerce smart phones and given up, because they did not understand the extreme circumstances of our work. I don’t recall getting a job description that said you will encounter people who claim they never heard of the census which by the way has been taken every 10 years since 1790, people who say the government knows everything already, I can assure you that is very untrue.
If it were true why did they hire a half million of us to go around knocking on doors to try and find you after you did not fill out your census form online or by telephone. We only know the addresses, you could tell us you are Marilyn Monroe or Santa Claus and that is what we type in. 99% of the people are nice and fun, but it is that 1% that gives me and the rest some great stories. Of course, we can’t divulge your name, address or secret code, but trust me on this one, great stories.
Some days I feel like I am selling aluminum siding or vacuum cleaners with the friendly greeting I get. The homeowner peers through the blinds and quickly shuts them or cracks the door enough to hear what I am saying and takes my little two-page introduction of why I am there. After looking it over they open the door to give me the information I need or to give me an earful of what is wrong with everything from Washington to their kids. That one quarter of psychology I took back in college is really coming in handy as I become the front porch therapist.
And finally, the Virus, the Covid. When you roll up to house and there are six kids jumping on a trampoline and the parents and friends are lounging around the pool or front porch drinking a cool one, no mask in sight, you wonder if maybe, COVID-19, the life-threatening, been on the news every day since March, just has not reached the far corners of Jasper County. I ring the doorbell and stand back 10 feet to conduct my interviews.
Although no one knows really how the virus is transported except that viruses are air-borne and on every surface of the world. There is no vaccine, if there was one they would have used it back in 1918 when millions died in the United States, or during the many other pandemics in our history. I love to see it when people go into restaurants with masks on and then take them off to eat as if food is a deterrent to the virus.
Giving up, we don’t give up, we scratch and dig for our last breath here on earth, will try anything for a cure and who can forget the immortal words of John “Bluto” Blutarsky in the cult classic movie, “Animal House,” when he yelled to get the troops going, “Over, Over, it’s not over. Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor?” See what a seven year college degree will get you.
Soon my temporary government service will be over and I will be back to the normal. No more driving to the fire station to get a cell signal so I can get my list back several times a day or to input important interview answers, (where is that 5G, I would settle for 1G), talking with complete strangers, driving one mile down a dirt road to interview one person. It will be back to the normal. What is the normal? I don’t know, but I do know it doesn’t happen in Jasper County. Keep the faith folks.
They, whoever they are, tell us that we need to finish this census by the end of September with the count of Jasper County citizens falling in the 59 percent response rate, around 6,000 people are missing. Soon, if you are lucky you will see one of our friendly enumerator faces at your door.
Hello, Monticello, we need your help to get those funds from the federal government that feeds your kids breakfast, lunch and sometimes on the weekend, who pay for such small items as folders to send home with kids so Mom and Dad can see their progress or lack of, services for seniors, handicapped, the sick, the police or to the representation in Washington who will vote for us on such subjects and keep the funnel of money coming our way.