Merely having an up-to-date resume and being able to craft a cover letter are no longer enough to conduct a successful job search. Workers that have been in the same industry for decades and suddenly find themselves out of work are mystified by the entire protocol of how to get a job, and how it’s changed.

In light of that shift in the job market and the subsequent changes taking place in job-search procedures, are there training programs for Mainers that address these various needs? Furthermore, how important are basic skills for Maine’s workforce, and how does this impact Maine’s overall workforce, and affect the state’s economic well-being?

WorkReady™ is a 60-hour foundational skills training program developed to meet the requirements set forth by key Maine employers, provides businesses with workers possessing basic skills—being able to show up for work, on time, as scheduled, ready for work; able to work as a team; understanding the appropriate way to handle and react to workplace conflict; knowledgeable about basic business practices. All identified as common baseline skills required in new employees.

An ongoing focus of WorkReady™ has been on maintaining strong relationships with employers. With a curriculum centered on specific skills clearly identified by employers, having employers evaluate and critique the program regularly, providing feedback to the Statewide Steering Committee and local partners is essential for the ongoing success of WorkReady™.

Jade Arn, WorkReady™ coordinator for Coastal Counties Workforce, Inc., sees the importance of WorkReady™, especially for the regional employers that she works with.

“WorkReady™ fills an important void in our region and elsewhere matching people with the essential basic skills employers are looking for, with a host of employers that demand these kinds of skills,” said Arn. “It’s interesting that despite the economic downturn, we’re finding many employers struggling to fill positions. I think it’s because there is a skills gap, and WorkReady™ is helping to bridge that gap,” she said.

Additionally, each time WorkReady™ is offered, a key component of the three-week training is the mock interview day. This is when local area employers set aside time to visit the training and conduct actual interviews with the trainees. Each trainee has the opportunity to sit for three to four interviews, usually lasting about 20-30 minutes. The participating employer then provides valuable feedback to the interviewee.

With the growth of the program, employer participation has expanded to include lunch and learns, where employer representatives spend about an hour talking about their business, some of the advantages and benefits they offer employees, and why they might be a great fit for graduates completing the program.

Given the number of programs taking place across the state, WorkReady™ would especially benefit by forging strong partnerships with statewide organizations, especially groups and organizations like SHRM, as well as regional HR associations.

“Our biggest challenge right now is connecting our trained candidates and finding the right match with an employer,” said Arn.

WorkReady™ History Lesson

As far back as 2004, conversations between workforce and education leaders in the state were taking place about the need to develop some kind of an initiative, which would target very specific gaps in skills among Maine’s working population. In early 2006, a group of partners was convened in Lewiston that included, the Central/Western Maine Workforce Investement Board, Lewiston Adult Education, representatives from Maine’s Department of Labor, Lewiston/Auburn Economic Growth Council, and key businesses such as L.L. Bean, Callahan & Callahan, and others. This partnership launched a localized pilot, and WorkReady™ was on its way. The curriculum had been developed by select Maine Adult Education staff, as well as other local Adult Education directors.

As now a statewide program, WorkReady™ is guided by a Statewide Steering Committee, which provides program oversight, develops by-laws and guidelines, and also approves applications from Adult Education programs and others looking to launch new programs. Each one of Maine’s local workforce boards are signatories on a memorandum of understanding that exists between them and Maine Adult Education/Department of Education.

Coastal Counties Workforce, Inc. the local workforce investment board in Area 4 (York, Cumberland, Sagadahoc, Lincoln, and Waldo counties), has developed a spate of successful WorkReady™ programs in their region.

WorkReady™ : Meeting at the Intersection of Workforce and Economic Dvelopment

Given Maine’s recent focus on higher education, especially attempts to raise the percentage of Mainers holding a four-year degree, it’s easy to dismiss foundational skills programs like WorkReady™. They’re not as “sexy,” and may often get downplayed by policy makers, and others. However, community leaders, particularly leaders focused on the intersection where workforce and economic development meet view WorkReady™ as a key component in building regional economic strength, through ensuring a strong local workforce—a workforce that possess skills provided by WorkReady™. All of this begins with foundational skills.

A candidate for WorkReady™ must first pass an assessment (the Comprehensive Adult Student Assessment Systems, or CASAS), which makes a determination about basic literacy in reading and math. Then there is the informational interview, a mandatory orientation process, and a rigorous three-to-four-week training period closely approximating the workday. All of this ensures that a graduate of WorkReady™ leaves training with the kind of qualities that employers are clamoring for. Beyond that, a WorkReady™ graduate has a much better sense about what it means to create value for an employer.

John Butera, Executive Director for the Central Maine Growth Council considers a program like WorkReady™ as a key initiative in his region’s long-term economic development strategy.

“WorkReady™ is a critical component and is part of a much broader strategy in our region,” said Butera. “In our area, we’re looking to join workforce and economic development efforts and WorkReady plays a key role in that strategy. It also has the capacity to engage employers in the community and bring them onboard as partners in this effort.”

WorkReady™ offers employers numerous benefits beyond mere “work readiness.” Given the continued escalation of costs associated with recruitment, as well as the subsequent retention issues many companies currently struggle with, WorkReady™ provides a built-in screening process for employers willing to take a look at a WorkReady™ graduate for employment.
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[This is an article that was published in the recent edition of HR Times, Maine’s Connection to Human Resources—this issue was included in the welcome packets for all 700 attendees at the 15th Annual Maine Human Resources Convention, held May 11-14.—jb]

The trip wasn’t done on a whim. A summer spent traveling somewhere had been Mark’s intent for several months. Initially he talked about finding a city with a professional baseball team, purchasing season tickets, and chilling for the summer. Toronto was mentioned. I like that idea, as I envisioned a couple of long weekends hanging out with him and watching the Blue Jays. Baseball has always been an important bond between us.

Walking across America was something different. Cool, really, but different than sitting in the bleachers in Toronto, or Detroit, or Seattle. Others have done it. A friend told me about Peace Pilgrim the other day. I went to the website. I was impressed and intrigued. For Mildred Norman Ryder, walking became a way of life, like breathing; it also became a way for her to make a difference. Peter Jenkins is someone else who walked across the country and even wrote a couple of books about he experiences.

Mark is now into his third week walking, a journey that began at Tybee Island, near Savannah, Georgia. Yesterday he crossed into Mississippi, spending the night at a Rodeway Inn, near Meridian.

Each day of Mark’s trip has had an affect on me. I think of him a bit differently now, than I did before the journey. This isn’t the first time he’s taken to the open road. In 2006, he and a high school friend hitchhiked across the country. Both my wife and I had little contact with him between weekly phone calls. That was really hard, mainly because we had about 20 minutes notice that he was doing it. This time, he gave us advanced warning, so we could prepare.

He came home for part of a weekend at the end of April to get some supplies from home, LL Bean, and have his Mom’s famous ribs. We had a great visit, albeit a necessarily short one. He had to get back to Brown to finish up classes.

Mark’s a writer. He also has a blog. This trip he’s using technology to keep his readers (and his parents) updated on his journey. Except for a few times when cell reception’s been a problem, we’ve been able to track the trip.

I send him an email most mornings, called “Notes for the Road”—I number these successively. I give him the sports scores; right now, it’s NBA playoff time, so I provide details and updates him the Celtics and also about the MLB, primarily the highlights of the Sox game along with key details. When he has time, he emails me back.

Do I worry about him? Sometimes, when I let fear invade my thinking, I’ll spend a few minutes imagining the worst. Given that I was raised by parents that infused me with worry, and characteristically communicated a message of fear when I told them about his trip, I guess that’s to be expected. I’m getting better. A lifetime spent learning to face down my fears and making good faith efforts to beat back the irrational helps.

Reading Mark’s regular posts provide signposts each day, here in late spring, awaiting the arrival of summer. I’m sure that the summer of 2010 will forever be known as “the summer Mark walked across the country.” I’m proud of him. It takes guts, and determination to walk 25-30 miles each day. Cars whiz by, law enforcement regularly stops you. Food and water can be a problem. So far, people that he’s met have been friendly and even helpful. The woman that cut his hair in Georgia took him out to lunch and gave him a can of mace. A man at the beginning of the trip gave him a lucky dollar. He gave it to the pizza man last night as a tip.

I’d like to get out on the road at some point this summer with my son. We’ve shared baseball and basketball. We’ve talked about books, politics, and life. I’d like to walk alongside him at some point; maybe later in the summer.

If you see someone walking (or biking) on the side of the road, slow down, be respectful of their right to be there—by law, they actually have that right. On the other hand, I recognize that roads are for cars, trucks, and distracted drivers who sometimes can pose danger to those not ensconced in tons of metal and alloy.

One thing that happened to me when Mark hitchhiked across the country is that I came to view hitchhikers differently. I rarely pass one now without stopping to offer a ride. Mark’s walk now has me on the lookout for wayfarers in my path that might need a helping hand.

Mark’s blog posts have already offered me insights into a part of the country I know little about, other than from books, and the often skewered way that southerners are portrayed on television, and in the movies.

When the trip has been completed, and Mark’s last step on his journey is taken, he’ll have a firsthand knowledge of his country that very us have the chance to acquire.

As Neil Young sang, “Walk On.”

I’ve been many things in my life—baseball prospect, writer, husband, father—this last one is the moniker, in hindsight that might be the most important for me, primarily because this is how I got connected with my son, Mark.

Parenting is the hardest activity many will ever do in life. The irony in this is that there are really no manuals to follow. Oh, there are a wealth of books, written by America’s expert class that tell you all the “right” things to do, or how to skirt the laws of man and incorporate corporal punishment into the mix, or utilize manipulation and subterfuge. I have little good to say about the likes of these.

For most, you figure it out as you go along, often, trying to run counter to the models inflicted upon us by our own parents. Later in life, you look back at our imperfect predecessors and realize that they didn’t do as bad as we had originally thought they had—subsequently, the damage wasn’t as permanent, or the scars as deep as we had originally feared.

Another irony of parenthood is that as soon as you receive that little bundle of joy (mixed with the pain associated with childbirth for the mother), you begin preparing for the inevitable day when they leave the nest (if you’ve done your job right). Granted, there are always the kids that are still living in they’re parent’s basement when their pushing 40, surfing porn sites in their underwear. But if you’ve got any wits about you as a parent, you recognize that if you’re lucky, then you’ll have your son or daughter for the first 18-20 years (and possibly a few more during the transitional years of college, or those years after high school when they’re getting on their feet) before they spread their wings and fly away.

For Mary and me, those formative early years with Mark were special. At the time, we were 1,500 miles away from our own parents. This required us to rely on our own limited knowledge about what parents are supposed to do, with some assistance from Dr. Spock (one “expert” that I found tolerable/helpful), and the very few other experienced parents we had contact with. Looking back, it was most stressful for me when Mark would get one of his frequent bouts of bronchitis that left him with an awful cough, which usually kept me up at night wondering if he was going to make through ‘til the morning. Mary was more measured in her approach, knowing Mark could manage and would survive. He did or course, and began growing into a chunky, good-natured child.

When Mark was five, we moved back to Maine from Indiana. Mary’s parents were building a new house, and had plenty of space, so they offered us the second floor for a domicile until we got settled and could find a rent of our own. What we planned on being a couple of months turned into 14. The upside of this time (despite the little irritations that come with moving back in with family) was that Mark developed a very strong bond with Joe and Joan, Mary’s parents. Additionally, the country location, tucked back into the woods provided Mark with his own outdoor playground to build forts, fight Indians, and be a little boy.

With invested grandparents helping out, we had the best of both worlds. Unlike in Indiana, where childcare was always hit or miss, and a strong dose of luck, back in Durham, we had Joe and Joan to watch Mark part of the time, as well as my parents, who lived across the river, in Lisbon Falls. Mark grew up knowing both sets of grandparents, and they took an active interest in his well-being.

I’m never quite sure how Mary and I did it—turning out such a wonderful young man like Mark. Maybe it had to do with the love and concern he sensed from us, and his extended family. I look back at my own imperfection as a parent, and Mary and I talk about it from time to time—children don’t come with a playbook—you just figure it out as you go along. Things managed to turn out ok, with a few speed bumps thrown in to keep the journey interesting.

****

Mark was born in Indiana; technically, I think that makes him a Hoosier. We had ventured out for the middle of the country while Mary was five months into her pregnancy. I was following what I thought was a calling from God to attend Bible College. Mary was following her husband down the first of many rabbit trails to come in her marriage. It’s little wonder that Mark can pack on a whim and move, since we packed up our U-Haul truck and drifted 1,500 miles to the west without much thought about security, or what our new locale had in store for us.

Being young parents (when Mark was born, Mary and I were both 21) may have left us a bit short on the material side of things. Most of our first year in Indiana found us dreadfully close to running out of cash. This was before credit cards allowed young families to get hopelessly saddled with debt. Actually, I got my first taste of the credit bug in Merrillville, Indiana when I needed $300 worth of car repairs to my ’74 Plymouth Scamp. Firestone was more than happy to offer me a revolving credit plan. I was able to get my car repaired and later, even added a set of retread tires, and it only cost me pennies on the dollar every month. We were now on the highway to American financial servitude.

While money always seemed in short supply, our young family managed to be together as often as we could. Stranded halfway across the country, all we really had was one another, and a handful of fellow Bible College students. Once the failure of that experiment became apparent, we no longer had that small circle of support to cling to.

When we landed in Merrillville in August of 1983, we had a contact from our pastor back in Maine. He knew an older couple that had left a small country church where the husband pastored, only to move to Indiana and sit under the anointed teachings of Pastor Jack Hyles, at First Baptist Church in Hammond. Hyles was half of the namesake of Hyles-Anderson College where I was preparing to enroll in September. Clayton and Catherine Beal were living in a housing complex comprised of duplexes, four-plexes, and relatively new apartments that were carpeted and came complete with air conditioning. This housing option was appealing—less than a mile from campus, plus we had the requisite security deposit and first month’s rent, not to mention that we knew little of the area and needed to unload our life’s belongings soon, since we were paying by the day to keep them ensconced in the back of our U-Haul. The decision was an easy one to make—we became residents of Pine Island, like so many other first year Hyles-Anderson College students.

Clayton and Catherine were two heavyset, jovial people that had become good friends with Dan Chamberland, the pastor of Tabernacle Baptist in Topsham, the church we attended in Maine. The met us at Hyles-Anderson, after we had been on the road for 2 ½ days cooped up in the truck’s cab, making our way across the country. It was late in the day on Thursday when we rolled into the college’s parking lot. Mary had been sick much of the day. We had just weathered the traffic nightmare that was Chicagoland, particularly the busy I-80/94 corridor, and it was beginning to dawn on us that maybe this move to Indiana should have been given a bit more thought.

We spent that evening, and the first weekend with the Beals. Then, on Monday, we unloaded our belongings (with the help of a few students we met on Sunday, during church) into our new apartment on Matterhorn Drive, in Pine Island.

Mark’s birth was one of the happiest moments in my life. When I first saw him after he entered the world, I was overwhelmed with emotion and love for this tiny little bundle of humanity. Mary and I had brought a brand new life into the world. While we were both elated by Mark’s birth, the responsibility that comes with being a new father was quietly descending on me. My life had changed in an instant.

During the first year of our marriage, I wasn’t one to go out with the boys, or have a bunch of activities that kept me away from Mary. Our relationship was characterized by spending most of our non-work time together. Being there for Mark wasn’t going to be an issue for me. Still, there is that moment when the realization of exactly what fatherhood entails hits you. You become aware that you now have the responsibility for someone placed in your care and that’s pretty daunting. But like many young parents from time immemorial entrusted with childrearing responsibilities, we began figuring things out as we went along. I learned about colic, and diapers, and rashes, and bronchitis (something that our young son was susceptible to).

Things slowly began unraveling on the Bible College front. Around the same time that I misplaced God’s call, we found a cheaper apartment, miles away from the school, in Hobart. This tiny community, which had a lake in the middle of town, and a library down the street, became a haven for our young family. Hobart was where we began to figure some things out about life and started putting our young marriage and parenting responsibilities for a toddler into a clearer context, relying more on our own experience, and less on what someone claiming to speak for God might have to tell us.

After finding employment difficult to secure (unemployment in Northwest Indiana in 1983 was close to 14 percent), and taking a security job that paid a shade more than minimum wage, in Chicago, I eventually found an employment situation that would allow us to finally have more money coming in at the end of the month than was going out. Even better, it had health insurance, an HMO, which was something we desperately needed. I had been carrying my Blue Cross/Blue Shield plan under COBRA (costing us $350/month, which was the same as our rent) while Mary was pregnant and afterwards. Even with this plan, a holdover from our jobs we left behind, we still exited St. Margaret’s Hospital, Mark in tow, owing over $5,000.

I went to work for the State of Indiana Department of Corrections. This wasn’t necessarily the employer I thought would help our young family get off our financial backs, but it became an employment oasis for me and our family.

I first learned about Westville Correctional Center from students at Hyles-Anderson. Several male students had found jobs at the medium security correctional center, located about 30 miles east of Crown Point, the town where the college was located. I’d see them in church on Sunday morning, in their blue shirts, and gray slacks that were the garb of the guards at the facility.

I inquired of a fellow student that I knew that was working at Westville if they had any openings. There were usually openings for corrections officer positions, but he mentioned that they also had openings for their psychiatric unit. Since I had worked at Pineland Center for the Mentally Retarded and had direct care experience, I thought that this experience might help get my foot in the door at Westville. It did.

During January of 1983, shortly after Mark had been born, I got the good news that not only had I scored well on their employment exam, I was being asked to come back for an interview with their Director of Nursing, and Shift Supervisor. My interview with Doris Bowman and Lila Barnes went exceptionally well. They asked me if I was available to start. I told them I’d like to give the security company in Chicago at least one week’s notice, but I could start after that.

The job at the correctional center boosted my pay nearly two dollars/hour, plus provided us with a comprehensive insurance plan. Additionally, once I completed the six weeks of training, I’d be eligible to pick up overtime shifts. Later, I’d regularly work two to three overtime shifts per week, which helped Mary and I begin to pull ourselves out of the financial hole we’d fallen into after our move to Indiana.

I’d continue working at Westville for the next three years and seven months. During that time, I’d leave the Bible College, and we would move from Hobart to an affordable, but much nicer duplex in Chesterton, a community that was situated near the shores of the Dunes National Lakeshore and Indiana Dunes State Park. The Dunes became a significant place for us, as Mary and Mark often spent the day together at the beach (when I was working) and on days that I had off, we often would head to the lakeshore to experience a wonderful recreational setting that was inexpensive and invigorating.

In retrospect, relocating to Chesterton was positive on many different levels. One of the important ones for Mark was that our new duplex we rented was in a neighborhood with an abundance of children Mark’s age, and older. Having grown up in a neighborhood, I knew the advantages that come from having to fend for myself with peers in a variety of play situations.

By-and-large, this was a great experience for Mark. He developed a couple of close friends. The dead-end street was safe for riding his tricycle up and down in front of our home. Except for the time he left the used tricycle behind my car and I backed over it by accident, there were very few negatives to living in Chesterton during the three years we resided there.

My work schedule during Mark’s preschool years was perfect for our family. I worked a second shift position (2:15 pm to 10:45 pm) at Westville Correctional Center. After six months, I had transferred off the psychiatric unit to the infirmary. This was less stressful, as I didn’t have to deal with inmates sticking objects into various parts of their bodies, or administer psychotropic medicines that were strong enough to immobilize a horse.

The work schedule at Westville was six days on, two days off, and every third weekend involved having a three day weekend. This was a routine that worked well for the three of us. I got to spend my mornings with Mark every day. Beyond that, long weekends usually involved spending at least one day (during the summer) at The Dunes, and another one exploring the area as well as we could with our older cars, one of them routinely breaking down, or requiring some minor repair. This usually chewed up one of my days off. The upside, however, is that while not the world’s most mechanically-inclined person, I got to know how to do some basic repairs like changing a starter, alternator, and even doing a brake job. I also began accumulating a few tools, as well as the hands-on experience about how to utilize them.

What I recall most fondly from those days when we were poor, young and inexperienced as parents was how enjoyable it was just spending time with Mark. In Hobart, mornings in warm weather meant walking one street over from our apartment, located over a pizza parlor. One of the “perks” that came with this apartment was cock roaches, attracted by the ample supply of food, downstairs. I’d buy a loaf or two of day-old bread for the ducks. Then it was another block down the hill from Main Street to toss bread chunks into Lake George.

I remember crossing Main Street and reaching my over-sized hand down and feeling Mark grasp it with his small hand and fingers and knowing he trusted me as his father without a second thought. It’s hard to describe exactly what it means to a young father to know that your own flesh and blood has that kind of faith in you. It will be a few more years before the bubble bursts and Mark will realize that I have feet of clay just like everyone else. Until then, it’s pretty special.

Mornings spent feeding ducks at Lake George, a day with Mary and Mark along the shores of Lake Michigan, or coaching Mark on how to hold his first bat and pitching to him in the back yard are but a few of the memories that reign eternal.

Growing up, I never had a dog. My mother, preternaturally neat, thought dogs were dirty and uncouth. I did manage to get her to bend her restrictions enough to have a cat, one we thought was a male, who actually turned out to be female and give birth on my mother’s couch. But that’s another story.

The job I had for the local power company involved reading meters. More often than not, the homes and properties that I ventured onto in order to obtain my monthly readings had a dog, or several dogs. While occasionally these dogs were oppositional to meter readers like me (and UPS, or FedEx men, also), more often than not, they were friendly. If they happened to be yellow labs, their preference was that you stay awhile, tossing them a tennis ball. More often than not, I obliged.

Around the time that a boy turns ten, or 11 is an excellent time to acquire a dog. Our eleven-year-old at the time was dog-less, just like I had been. I was determined to reverse that curse, and find a dog that was good for him, and good for our family.

My wife, who grew up with several dogs—some very good, and some spectacularly terrible—was partial to shelties. Her family had acquired an eight-year-old sheltie after its owners had decided to move to Florida. Given that Florida’s hot weather and a Sheltie’s thick coat were not a good match, poor Lollie was going to be left behind. Mary’s family adopted Lollie, and she had become a fan of the breed.

Both Mary and I diligently did our research. This was before we would connect to the internet, when research actually required some effort, not a simple Google search. Mary came home with dog books from the library, about breeds, and whether they were a good match for children. Nothing in our research pushed us away from shelties.

Technically, their official name is “Shetland Sheepdog,” but most often they are referred to simply as “shelties.”

According to our research, we found out that shelties are intelligent, family oriented dogs that can be as happy in an apartment in a city as in a house in the country. They have a thick double coat that can come in many different colors and patterns. They are vocal dogs, with few health problems. They are very good house and family dogs. They are very protective and good with children if properly exposed to them as a puppy.

Most people think of a sheltie as a “little Lassie,” whose breed is that of a rough collie. In actuality, the sheltie is not a true miniature collie, but in fact, the sheltie’s parent breed is the border collie.

Mary had located a breeder in Damariscotta that raised shelties. Since we had decided on getting a dog that was pure bred, not a mongrel, and that our breed of choice was going to be a Sheltie, we’d have to wait for a weekend to visit this woman, who happened to have a litter of puppies at the time.

****

It had been a long week for me at work. While the money was good for me at Central Maine Power Company, I hated the boring nature of my work. I was always eager for Friday night to arrive, to be done for the week. Weekends were a sanctuary from work for me.

Leaving work a bit early this particular Friday, I arrived home and announced, “get in the car, we’re going to pick up a dog.” Mark, our son, was thrilled.

Mary made the call to inquire if it would be ok for us to drive down and have a look at her litter of puppies. She said “yes,” and we were on our way. I remember arriving and having her unleash a roomful of puppies from the room where she kept them. They spilled forward and rushed towards us, all bouncing, and yelping their puppy barks.

We took several aside separately, in order to get a read on their personalities. Bernie was the one that stood out. His winsome traits were apparent even at three months. That was 15 years ago. Mark was 11 at the time, the perfect age for him to fall in love with a dog.

All the literature on the breed says that shelties are intelligent, loyal, and affectionate. Bernie has been all of these things, and more. Mary was diligent in her training, and Bernie, like most shelties, eager to please, learned quickly.

No dog is ever perfect. Bernie has always been notorious about begging for food. It wouldn’t matter if you had the president over for dinner, Bernie would camp at the edge of the table, and give those seated at the table the most pathetic look, as if he’d not eaten for weeks, even if he’d just been fed prior. We disposed of our waste food in an outdoor composting bin, about 150 feet from the house. This became a favorite destination for Bernie when he’d go out to do his business, or happened to be outside with us, on the lawn. He always was checking for new items—moldy bread, semi-rotten vegetables, pasta gone bad—all in hopes that he might snag what we deemed inedible, but to him was a delicacy. Occasionally, he’d get something really rotten, and he’d puke it back up, more than once on our bedroom carpet, or one of our downstairs throw rugs.

He never really learned to like other dogs, and any time that Bernie would be in the company of someone else’s dog, he’d inevitably snarl, growl, or skulk away from them. He could also go the other way—acting like a total wimp in the company of other dogs. Apparently, he didn’t have enough socialization with other dogs when he was young. Or, it might be as Mary said, that “Bernie thinks he’s a human,” so in his mind, other dogs were “beneath him.”

Around humans, you couldn’t find a kinder, friendlier, gentler dog. Several times when Bernie was small, young children were around him, during a visit, or at one of Mark’s Little League games that we took him to, and they’d be pulling on his whiskers, or sometimes, patting him roughly, almost hitting him, and Bernie just wagged his tail, and tolerated this short-term pain. That’s how he was. The only time he would ever snap at anyone was if he felt his food security might be compromised. Food was his life, basically. That and chasing balls, Frisbees, or any other item designed to be tossed.

Bernie grew up in a home where baseball was king. Mark inherited my love for the game, so it was a rare summer night when, if home, and not at a baseball game of mine, or Mark’s, we’d be out on the lawn, playing catch, or some other variation on the kind of baseball activities you can play within the confines of a yard, a house, and windows.

Chasing a ball is what Bernie lived for. Mark and I would set up on the front lawn with a bat, and baseball-like ball that was much softer than a normal hard ball. These balls allowed us to replicate baseball activities, while lessening the risk that we’d put out a window, or dent an automobile.

Bernie on front lawn

Mark would stand, near our front steps and hit away from our house, towards the wooded area at the front of our property. Bernie stationed himself behind me, like an outfielder, ready to snag a grounder, but better prepared to pursue the ball into the woods, and retrieve it, bringing it back, soaked with his saliva. This gave him what he needed to uncannily find any ball, even those Mark and I thought were lost forever. His scent never failed him in tracking balls.

As Mark grew stronger, he could slug these balls a considerable distance, high and deep into the large trees far beyond the lawn area. Some nights, as it grew dark, it would become difficult for us to know exactly where these balls landed. Bernie never let us down. He’d be off into the woods, or leaping over the stone wall bordering our property, tongue hanging out, and before we could get to the spot where we assumed the ball had landed, out would come Bernie, ball in his mouth, tail-a-wagging, proud of the prey he’d been able to score. This was repeated ad infinitum during Mark’s adolescent years, then high school, and even after he was at college—a trip home never failed to include one session of me pitching and mark walloping balls, with Bernie shagging. Most visits, Mark would jump out of the car and before doing anything else, he’d greet Bernie, bound up the steps to the mudroom, grab his bat and ball, and Bernie, seeing this, would already be racing towards the edge of the lawn, where it joined the grove of trees, awaiting Mark’s missile blast.

After college, Mark moved to Boston, where he was working, and developing his writing craft. Mark and Gabi (his girlfriend) came to visit, and Gabi, a photographer, was planning to do a photo shoot with me in Lisbon Falls, for my upcoming book, Moxietown. This would be one of Mark’s last visits home, before he and Gabi moved to Los Angeles that summer.

Bernie was beginning to show his age. He had just turned 13 and it was becoming apparent that he was no longer the same energetic dog he’d been. He still liked to walk, and occasionally, he’d race around the yard, chasing some imaginary prey, like he did when he was younger, but he had lost his desire to chase balls, and more times than not, when I’d hit him a ball, he’d watch it, and turn to me, as if to say, “I’m not going to chase it for you.” For Mark, however, it was a different story.

Once more, Mark bounded out of Gabi’s Jeep, greeted his mom and I with hugs, and up the steps he went to get his bat, and the old, saliva-infused ball of Bernie’s and began launching drives into the woods. Bernie bounded to life, retrieving the ball more times than not. His sense of smell wasn’t as keen, and occasionally, he needed Mark and me to help orient him towards the general direction of the ball. Still, he chased the balls for a good 15 minutes until I had to insist that Mark stop, as Bernie was obviously tired, tongue hanging out, but satisfied to have played out his own special ritual with Mark, or “the boy,” the anthropomorphically assigned name that we imagined Bernie used to differentiate between the three of us. I was “the man,” and of course, Mary was, “the woman.”

****

Morning walks were our thing. Once Bernie reached a certain age and had learned to take a leash, walking became a treasured routine of mine, and of Bernie’s.

Initially, teaching him the parameters of walking took some effort. Walking a dog so that it’s an enjoyable activity for owner and pet requires training, like most all other things that became second nature with a dog.

Once Bernie became acclimated to his leash, then it became the mechanics of walking a straight line, following some basic commands, and prompts with the leash, ensuring safety, efficiency, and most of all, the serenity of the time we spent out on the roadway near our home.

We live on a rural road, but it happens to be a main thoroughfare between communities. Cars pass by on Route 9 on their way to Pownal, Freeport, North Yarmouth, and points north and south, hunks of metal hurtling by us at speeds of 50, 60, and even 70 miles per hour. Knowing the proper mechanics of walking, and establishing the correct rapport with Bernie was of the essence if this was to work for both of us.

Initially, Bernie had a tendency to want to venture into the roadway, rather than stay on the shoulder of the busy roadway. Or if he stayed on the shoulder, he’d lurch towards some item of interest, and even sharply spin around towards me, which more times than not caused him to stumble, and even fall. I helped offset these early walking transgressions by keeping the run of the leash short enough so that Bernie was close by on my left, on the shoulder, with me straddling the edge of the pavement. This forced him to match my stride and move forward in a straight line. When he would wander back towards the roadway, I would nudge him with my left shin. If he dawdled over a discarded McDonald’s wrapper, cigarette butt, or soda can, I could give him a gentle tug and prompt him forward. It wasn’t long before Bernie had the routine down. Shelties love to please and Bernie was a natural for walking.

As we developed the semi-regular habit of walking together, the leash became more of a prop, and less something that was essential for smooth ambulation. Bernie learned to stay left, as our strategy always involved moving against traffic for survival.

Sometimes he would prefer walking along the edge of the pavement, and not on the shoulder. This was fine as long as there was no traffic to contend with. Initially, on our first walks, getting Bernie situated to contend with oncoming traffic required me to nudge him leftward. Over time, all it took was a verbal command of “left,” and on cue, he moved leftward. A slight tug of the leash off his left shoulder also worked well for this task. As the months passed, Bernie became so attuned to traffic and the moves that were part of our morning dance together that it seemed like I didn’t even need the leash. Verbal commands and Bernie’s own intelligence had him moving properly when cars approached.

Never was this more apparent than when one day, after we’d been walking together for several years, I had to drop off my car at a local mechanic located down the road a couple of miles, for minor repairs. I had brought Bernie along with the intention of walking back before getting started on my writing for the day. Bernie loved to ride in the car, and I knew he’d welcome the chance to walk back home from the garage. After explaining the problem to my mechanic, I fetched Bernie from the backseat only to realize I had forgotten to bring his leash. Not a problem. Bernie and I headed out for home, sans leash without an incident. As we moved along, I would occasionally bark out a command of “Bernie, sit.” Immediately, he would cease walking and sit perfectly straight until I said, “go ahead.” Walking alongside him, Bernie stayed to my left as cars approached, and sped by. He kept up his steady gait, and we arrived home without incident. This was just another example of his intelligence and how Bernie had become well-trained, well-behaved, and a joy to be around. This was always apparent when others commented on his winsome behavior, and how Bernie was welcomed by family and friends, allowed to visit their homes during various events.

Now that Bernie is gone, I no longer have a desire to battle speeding motorists, along with their boorish behavior.

For 14 years, I walked Bernie up and down our stretch of road, thinking about life, writing ideas, presentations I had to give, or whatever I chose to ruminate on during those many walks. Without him, I no longer have a companion who offered an uncritical ear, and occasional glance backward to check on me, and his energetic bounce of a gait to draw me onward. Our walking time was special, and it was due in large part to Bernie.

****

Bernie began losing his hearing during his 11th year of life. At first, we were unaware of the gradual loss of the acuity of this important sense that dogs regularly rely on. We began to figure out that something was amiss when Bernie would wander to the edge of our property and not return like he always did when we’d call him. Commands for him to “come,” which had always brought him running back towards the house, now had us out trotting around, calling, and then, angrily motioning for him to head house ward, after he spied us. Even when he was nearby, and we’d call out his favorite command, “Bernie, come eat,” it didn’t have the usual affect. We then began to realize that his hearing was failing.

Before long, it was almost entirely gone. Like most other things in his dog’s life, Bernie never missed a beat. From verbal commands, Bernie made the transition to hand signals. He now had to see us in order to respond and know what we wanted him to do, but this wasn’t as difficult as I expected. Even better, he never lost his sweet spirit and eagerness towards us that he always had when he could hear.

Being a herding dog, and one that always had to know where his family was at all times, he now was hyper-vigilant about keeping track where everyone was, even if this meant that he had to make frequent trips around the house, and up and down the stairs to keep count of the home’s inhabitants, now just my wife and I.

One of the most interesting habits (or annoying depending on your perspective) he developed after he went deaf was pushing in the bathroom door in the morning, or any other time, often when you hunkered down on the toilet. If he saw the light under the door, he’d attempt to push the door in. Since we usually left it ajar, you’d be sitting there, greeting Bernie, with pajamas, or other sleepware down around your ankles.

Gabi, our son’s girlfriend had come to visit with Mark. Gabi thoroughly enjoyed Bernie, and knew how special he was to our son. Since Mark’s room was directly across the hall from ours, I heard someone get up and go into the bathroom. Bernie sensed some motion in the hall and once he saw the light spilling out beneath the door, he was on his way to check out who might be up early. Nosing open the door, I heard Gabi elicit a startled, “Oh!” and then, “Hi, Bernie,” once she recognized it wasn’t Mary or I walking in on her. We all got quite a chuckle out of that one.

For Bernie, it wasn’t being rude; it was just Bernie being Bernie, greeting whomever, first thing in the morning.

****

We lost Bernie on May 17, 2009. He was just over 14-years-old. This essay was begun a week before he passed away, and I’m putting the finishing touches on it a week after he died. Even now, a week later, my eyes well up with tears as I think back to what Bernie meant to me, my wife, and our son, Mark.

Loving a dog is fraught with danger. When they arrive as a puppy, and begin making a home inside your heart, you rarely consider that in most cases, you’ll outlive them and that when they’re gone, it feels like your heart has been ripped out, turned inside out, and put back. Losing them is so hard, it literally hurts.

The good thing is that Bernie lived a full life and didn’t suffer at the end. While he had suffered a stroke back in January, he was about 85 to 90 percent back to what he’d been before, albeit increasingly tired, probably somewhat arthritic (he’d groan when lying down), and just not quite as energetic as he’d always been.

After his stroke, Mary and I were much more aware that Bernie was on borrowed time. But like everything connected with Bernie, he always put on his best face, and continued to provide joy for us on a daily basis. Unlike me, Bernie never had a bad day, or almost never. Saturday, and then Sunday, the day he died, he was obviously not himself. His usual morning perkiness was absent, and he didn’t even bother to lift his head in our bedroom, when I got up early Saturday morning to write. Normally, he’d have followed me into my office across the hall, and slumped down behind my chair, where he could keep an eye on me.

My wife and I were crushed Sunday night when he expired in our dining room as we patted him and tried to assure him that everything was going to be ok. He died with dignity, and apparently, minimal distress.

Anyone who has ever lost a close canine friend knows how hard it is to bid them “adieu.” Bernie was unique, and we miss him terribly.

The day after Bernie left us, we received an email from Mark, who lives in Los Angeles, and is struggling with losing his own special friend. He put Bernie’s passing and life into his own personal context. His note brought a bit of joy to a day that was pretty joyless, and a challenge to get through. Here are some of his thoughts on man’s best friend.

This morning has been tough. I read mom’s email on the bus and was crying. The people around me must have thought I was going to blow up the bus or something.

I always knew it was going to be tough when Bernie passed, but I wasn’t sure why. The past day or so I’ve been thinking it over. I think it comes down to dogs being anything you want them to be. They have needs, but these needs are minimal, and for most part they keep their agendas to themselves. Bernie was something different for everyone. Whoever came up with ‘man’s best friend’ hit it right on the head. Bernie was everyone’s best friend despite everyone having a different idea of what a best friend would look like. For mom he was her style, fashion, and cooking assistant. For Dad he was his best editor and walking partner. For me he was something of a silent baseball coach or brother who didn’t know anything about baseball, but would put in hour after hour, despite not knowing what he was putting in work for. He never asked, “Why do you keep hitting the ball after I get it for you? Your advancement of the ball is a net worth of zero.” Basically, the reason why he was so great was because he couldn’t say ‘No.’ He’s the friend that always wanted to hang out and do whatever you wanted to do. Sure, there were times when he’d try and sneak off and eat out of the compost or lie under the tree and rest and not chase the ball anymore, but if I hit the ball he’d go get it. Dogs in general are amazing in this sense because mostly they portray a blank slate with little opinion and it’s almost up to whoever they’re with to create the personality and voice for them in their own mind. And I think what’s so special about this is that despite Bernie passing, we each carry that personality of who he was to each of us in our own minds and he can live on.

That note says it all for me. Mary, Mark, and I will carry Bernie’s memory and personality with us, and he’ll live on in our hearts and minds, and always occupy a special place reserved uniquely for him.

The mayor surveying his manor, from the front steps.

Taking history from past to the present

news@TimesRecord.Com

02/07/2005

Lisbon students use technology to learn about Lisbon’s past

By Jim Baumer, Special to Neighbors LISBON – With options galore available to capture the interest of today’s teens, history – particularly that of the local variety – often falls off the youthful radar screen. With popular culture placing more value on the 15 minutes of fame of the superficial and the sordid, it’s easy to see why the study of the past no longer captivates.

Don’t tell that to Richard Moore and his seventh- and eighth-grade gifted and talented students at Sugg Middle School, however.

This energetic teacher in Lisbon Falls decided that he would incorporate the town’s rich historical and cultural heritage into his instruction. From his own research into the history of the town, Moore recognized that local resources could be used as a way to meet the curriculum requirements of the state, while also plugging his students into the rich heritage of the town’s mills, war heroes and baseball teams.

As part of Maine’s Learning Results, Moore’s eighth-grade students were studying the Industrial Revolution and his seventh-graders were covering the history of Maine.

“Knowing Lisbon’s history concerning the mills, I thought I might be able to find resources right here in town and tie them into my regular instruction,” said Moore.

When Moore discussed his idea with a couple of colleagues, they told him about the local historical society. One Thursday after classes were done for the day, he stopped by the Lisbon Historical Society’s new Marion T. Morse Center location on School Street in Lisbon Falls. Here, he met the Society’s enthusiastic curator and secretary, Dot Smith.

“Dot showed me pictures of the great fire of 1901, as well as other things that she thought would excite my kids,” said Moore.

Moore next got in touch with the Maine Memory Network. With one of the largest and most comprehensive collections about Maine, the network, a grant-funded project of the Maine Historical Society, serves as a statewide database and provides a technology-based, centralized location for the state’s historical and cultural documents. The network also provides outreach and facilitation to groups across the state. It was this aspect of the network which provided the catalyst in bringing Moore’s ideas to fruitionv and involving members of Lisbon Historical Society.

According to Steve Bromage, who serves as the network’s director of education, “we recognize how difficult it is for local groups to share information about history and culture. Because our organization has centralized resources, we are able to provide teachers and others with resources that they might not have access to on their own,” he said.

Staff from the Maine Memory Network contacted Smith at the Lisbon Historical Society to find out if she would be interested in having some of Lisbon’s artifacts and other items archived on the network’s Web site. Next, the network’s staff provided training to Moore and his students, as well as Smith and the other volunteers at the Historical Society on proper archiving and handling techniques.

The last two Fridays in January were chosen as dates to pull together Moore’s original vision.

“The first Friday, the kids came in and researched information on different subjects they had chosen,” said Smith. “They were really excited to see the pictures of the fire of 1901. Some of the boys were very interested in the old baseball uniforms and other pictures, and all of them were interested in the mills and war heroes.”

On Jan. 28, Moore’s 13 seventh- and eighth-grade gifted and talented students, along with members of the Lisbon Historical Society, joined staff from the Maine Historical Society’s Maine Memory Network, when they prepared documents for the network’s Web site. Using laptops, digital cameras and scanners supplied by the network has provided some of Lisbon’s rich historical heritage a home on the World Wide Web.

These young and not-so-young members of the Lisbon community joined together, adding information, photos and other artifacts to the network’s Web site. As a result, anyone with an Internet connection can now view history from Lisbon’s mills, war heroes and baseball teams.

For Sugg eighth-grader Douglas McMaster, who says World War II is his favorite era of history, he learned something about veteran and Historical Society member Thomas Huston of Durham.

“I learned that Mr. Huston was on the PT boats during the war,” said McMaster. “He was trained by John F. Kennedy.”

Megan Sampson, Dana Marquis and Maegan Dupre were all studying about Lisbon’s mills as part of their project. Sampson learned about one of many floods that ravaged mill towns located along the banks of the Androscoggin River.

“I learned about the flood of 1936,” said Sampson. “I found out it shut down the mill and destroyed the bridge between Lisbon and Durham,” she said.

When asked if he was satisfied by the results of the project, Moore offered the following observation. “I’m hoping that this will spark an even greater interest in my students. I know it involved them directly in the study of the town’s history,” he said. “I hope it will also promote the work being done by the Lisbon Historical Society to the community at large and get them to come down and see what’s here,” he said.

I’ve fallen out of the rhythm of writing that had been carefully cultivated. There are a variety of reasons for this. One has been my new fitness regimen, which has me at the gym early a couple of mornings each week, and less energetic in the evening, which had been a prime writing time for me. Even more problematic has been the invasive nature of social media, and the huge time waster that most of these platforms are.

Yesterday morning, I was at my computer, with a goal to write uninterrupted for four to five hours. What I found really difficult was maintaining my concentration, and refraining from checking email, checking my blinking BlackBerry, or checking information on the web.

After grinding out about 4 ½ hours, and feeling a sense of accomplishment, I attempted to write a letter by hand to a person I had been corresponding with since the fall. Amazingly, I was physically incapable of composing the letter by putting pen to paper, even though I’d done it several times before. It was as if my thoughts could not find the pathway from my brain, down my arm, and out through my pen, onto the paper. It reminded me of McLuhan’s adage that “the medium is the message.” How we communicate—our means, and tools for communication—affect how, and even, whether we are able to communicate in ways that we might have been able to in the past. This was a mind-blower for me.

This morning, I was back at the task of working on an essay that I had started yesterday. The going was much more difficult today. I wrote, went back and rewrote, and felt enough frustration that I had to get up after two hours and take a break. I was able to return, and wrapped up with a productive period of 90 minutes.

What the past couple of days have done is to remind me again that in order to maintain an edge to my writing, I’ve got to get back into habits that have allowed me to be successful in the past. This will require discipline, work, and an uncoupling from things that keep me from those essential habits.

When I began this job in August, 2006, my position had a loosely defined job description, with my primary focus being coordination with the business community. I was tasked to build a bridge from the public, to the private side. Partly, this involves the skills necessary for successful business development, as well as communicating the need for businesses to support training, as well as other initiatives designed to enhance our regional workforce in Central/Western Maine (a five county region, which includes Androscoggin, Kennebec, Oxford, Franklin, and Somerset).

I could have easily spent months spinning my wheels trying to figure out the myriad of details of how our organization fit into the mix of the larger county, state, and federal workforce development mix. Instead, I determined to find a way to hit the ground running, and not look back. One fledgling program, at the time, a mere localized pilot called WorkReady, which had run one time before I was hired, stood out to me. I sensed that rolled into that Lewiston-based program, everything I needed to know about workforce development, the catalyst I needed to reach out to the business community, and the desire I had to take the lessons I had learned, and was continuing to learn in my own life regarding reinvention, and share it with others in search of something more, were gathered there. My intuition couldn’t have been more accurate. With the advantage of time and history, it amazes me how prescient I actually was.

More than three years later, WorkReady is now recognized as statewide program, guided by steering committee format, resting under the umbrella of Maine Adult Education.

While it’s easy for an outsider to view the program and laud its recent successes, the journey to this point hasn’t been without significant challenges. Funding has always been tough to come by for a variety of reasons. Much of our success in getting WorkReady to this point can be attributed to having the ability to leverage and marshal a variety of resources and often unexpected funding streams. It also has been a positive example of what can happen when the right kind of collaboration is brought together to target and carry out a worthwhile task with clear goals and outcomes.

None of this has been an accident. In order for a program like WorkReady, in its original state, to have arrived to where it sits today, someone had to have the vision and foresight to recognize that WorkReady’s future hope had to be built upon a grassroots model. It required a roll-up-your-sleeves approach, and willingness to do whatever was necessary to cultivate the qualities of on-the-ground community organizing. Fortunately for me, I came to my job with considerable experience in that area, built through my activist work I had been engaged in prior, as well as my own entrepreneurial background and experience. Many, if not all of the partnerships I cultivated three years ago, have paid dividends far beyond what I imagined at the time.

Yesterday, I was in Waterville, at yet another WorkReady graduation. The ceremony was held at the REM Center, downtown. This local nonprofit has a wonderful function room in the old Sterns Department Store where we’ve held each one of Waterville’s four graduation ceremonies in.

Twelve trainees were conferred a credential signifying that they had met each one of seven competencies, or standards required in order to graduate. This particular program, now 80 hours long, included the original 60 hour soft skills curriculum developed by Maine Adult Education, as well as an additional 20 hours of computer and technology enhancement. Normally, the training would take place over a four week period, which would be intense enough. This time, because of a variety of logistical constraints, had to be condensed even further, jam-packed into three weeks.

Adult Education programs deliver the curriculum, locally. Each director hires a facilitator, coordinates the classroom schedule, and in this case, also delivers the additional week of computer training. Both Lawrence Adult Education, in Fairfield, and Mid-Maine Regional Adult Community Education, which includes Waterville, Winslow, Oakland, and surrounding communities, have done a tremendous job partnering together, and delivering one of the better programs I’ve been associated with. Both Pat Theriault, in Fairfield, and Susan Tuthill at Mid-Maine have been instrumental in helping to coordinate our first truly regional program for WorkReady in the state.

My role is one of coordination. I help locate resources for funding, connect with business partners, draw upon my experience of shepherding the program from pilot status to one of the programs creating a “buzz” in the state—all of this gets to my point earlier—coordination is essential when you are working with a grassroots model. Without someone, or a couple of “someones” pushing things forward, the best laid of plans rarely move beyond mere idea, to boots on the ground, action.

I mentioned the funding piece. Initially, in order to get the program off the ground, a diverse group of community partners had to pony up resources. The Mid-Maine Chamber of Commerce, the Central Maine Growth Council, KVCOG, as well as Coastal Enterprises, Inc., and the Central/Western Maine Workforce Investment Board paid for the first program in October of 2008. WorkReady was part of a larger workforce development strategy that Kim Lindlof/Mid-Maine Chamber, John Butera/Central Maine Growth Council, and Ken Young/KVCOG and others in the community were coordinating, all focused on a larger strategic vision for economic development.

In fact, I had a conversation with Butera after one of the first meetings I attended, to present the WorkReady concept to members of the Chamber. I remember his words, as they’ve stayed with me and I think helped crystallize my focus about what I deem important in my role as director of business services.

“Ten years ago, economic development was focused mainly on real estate and infrastructure,” said Butera. “Now, economic development leaders know that it’s all about workforce.”

For me, Butera’s point nailed it.

Since our initial two pilots in greater-Waterville, the program has been able to acquire additional funding from the United Way of Mid-Maine, through grants process connected to community impact funding.

Having acquired a grant in Lewiston, through the United Way of Androscoggin County to fund WorkReady in that community, I sought similar funding. Tina Chapman, president and CPO for the United Way of Mid-Maine indicated to me that they had a similar process in Kennebec/Somerset Counties. I put together an application and received $10,000 (of a requested $20,000 applied for), which has allowed us to focus on building sustainability in Waterville/Fairfield.

Despite our best efforts, the ability to offer the program twice each year was in jeopardy for January/February, however. KVCAP, one of our new WorkReady partners, indicated that they had ARRA funding through a Community Block Development Grant, coordinated with Maine DECD. This funding made the current program and yesterday’s graduation possible.

We’ve had high profile speakers for graduations before. Congressman Mike Michaud has attended ceremonies in Lewiston and Waterville. Jeff Fantine, director for Maine Adult Education was our keynote in Pittsfield, for our graduation we held for WorkReady involving laid off shoe workers from San Antonio Shoe.

Yesterday, John Richardson, former legislator and Maine House of Representatives House Speaker, and former DECD Commissioner, now current candidate for governor, delivered the commencement address to our graduates.

I’ve viewed Richardson from afar, and was well aware of the good work he’s done on behalf of the people of the state. As happens so often, I gained an entirely new level of respect yesterday, however, seeing him in person, and having a chance to get a read on the man behind the public persona. It impressed me to know that he felt our graduation was important enough to take time away from the rigors of running for high profile public office, to offer congratulations, and support to the efforts of 12 people who have chosen to take the important next step towards jobs and careers.

Richardson didn’t blow in, shake a few hands, give his speech, and get whisked off to his next campaign event. He took time to review each graduates portfolio during the 45 minutes prior to our ceremony, set aside for business people and other community members to participate in viewing the work that each graduate has been engaged in for the past three weeks. It was obvious that he possessed a genuine quality and connected very well with our graduates. Several later expressed to me how much his presence meant to them.

His talk was brief, but focused on elements of WorkReady, and he did a great job of tying these elements into the larger qualities that Maine has to capitalize on to succeed as a state. His four “ingredients for success” (my summary) were:

• Maine/New England has some of the smartest people (born out by data and test scores), but who are often under, or in the case of our graduates, unemployed.

• Mainers have a strong history working hard and the state is recognized for our work ethic.

• Innovation/new ideas (he touched on how each graduate had embraced innovation in their own lives).

• The importance of technology, in moving Maine forward.

As I listened to Richardson, and serving as the graduation MC, I reflected back on the various programs I’ve been directly responsible for coordinating—26 in all since September, 2006.

I looked out and saw my colleague, Paul Scalzone, from CEI. I reflected back on our initial conversations we had back in the fall of 2006, some just a few weeks into my job, as we considered strategies about how he and I could marshal resources and develop the necessary partnerships that would mutually benefit both of our efforts in the five counties of Central/Western Maine. It was an important lesson about staying true and steady and not wavering from your vision and values. My experience is that if you are able to do that, and build strong collaboration with other like-minded people and organizations, then you will taste success, and often, exceed your original goals.

I remembered my first contact I had with Kathleen Lewia, our gifted WorkReady facilitator, one of the most gifted educators I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing in action. We met at a Somerset Workforce Development Team meeting, in Skowhegan. Patte Bowman, director of MSAD #54 Adult Education in Skowhegan had introduced Kathleen to our group as the new WorkReady facilitator, who would be the instructor for Bowman’s first WorkReady pilot in Skowhegan.

Kathleen has been a mentor of sorts, to me. A professional motivational speaker, and multi-talented beyond mere instruction, she has been someone who has helped me hone my own skills, and seek resources, and push my own development in new directions at her urging. She also is one of the few people I know who provides the kind of honest feedback that all of us need to get better.

I’ve rarely spoken to a WorkReady graduate from one of Kathleen’s trainings who didn’t gush about her abilities, but more importantly, her genuine compassion, love, and passion that she pours into each one of her students.

Once in awhile, a program or initiative comes along that is a perfect match for its time—the WorkReady Credential Program, or simply, WorkReady, is that kind of a program.

[The Morning Sentinel carried a Sat. feature on WorkReady, by reporter, Scott Monroe.--JB]

What I like about the article by Hicks is that it ties in very well with the sentiment I’m hearing from employers. Many of the companies I talk to on a daily basis are indicating to me that long-term joblessness is not a positive quality in job applicants.

I’m not unsympathetic to the realities of the current economic/employment situation, and the continued lack of abundance of jobs. However, there are things that the unemployed can do to make themselves more employable. One of them is to seek out training programs, like WorkReady, connecting with their local Adult Education provider to upgrade their skills, or even volunteering–anything to demonstrate to an employer that you haven’t lost your edge, and employability.

Speaking of WorkReady, there is an article in this morning’s Morning Sentinel, about tomorrow’s WorkReady graduation from our Fairfield/Waterville program.

[reposted from Working in Maine, my blog for the Central/Western Maine Workforce Investment Board.--jb]

Take this morning. Up at 4:00 a.m. after a restless night of sleep brought on by job-related stress, I was out the door and at the gym by 5:00. I hit the weights for 50 minutes, and mixed in another 50 minutes of cardio. Not only did it ramp up my metabolism, which helps me maintain my weight, and continue keeping off the 52+ pounds I’ve lost since June 23, I’m also receiving the benefits of a major endorphin release brought on by my early morning workout.

I’ll be leaving soon for work, with challenges to face on several fronts, not the least being a recent chain of action initiated by others possibly affecting my own future–there’s nothing I can do about that–I can only control my own attitude and outlook, as difficult as that can be at times. I have to, however, because I routinely work and assist others in much tougher straits than I’m in and I have to be on my game and be a positive example for them.

Getting re-focused on fitness the past eight months has convinced me how important it is for all of us. Interestingly, the video I posted yesterday of Michael Pollan, from the Democracy Now! broadcast, has Pollan talking about how many of America’s health issues, and the national “emergency” regarding healthcare, is self-inflicted. We all have a responsibility to do our part to take a look at what we need to do individually to move towards a healthy lifestyle, which is different for each person.

Take that step today. You’ll feel better in many ways, and in several months, you’ll look back and know the initial sacrifice it takes was worth it.

Michael Pollan, the author of The Omnivore’s Dilemma and In Defense of Food, appears on today’s Democracy Now! broadcast to discuss the link between healthcare and diet, the dangers of processed foods, the power of the meat industry lobby, the “nutritional-industrial complex,” the impact industrial agriculture has on global warming, and his sixty-four rules for eating.

“The markets are full of what I call edible food-like substances that you have to avoid,” says Michael Pollan. “So a lot of the rules are to help you, you know, navigate that now very treacherous landscape of the American supermarket.”