Providence & Patience Wilson

The weather was just perfect. It was late August. A time when people are out enjoying the last liberties of the summer season, or at least they should be and would be except for the weather. It was all gray skies and muggy rain. I say it was perfect because the gloom echoed the melancholy I felt but each cloud has a silver lining ( at least that is what they say whoever "they" are.)

Let me introduce myself. My name is Patience Wilson. My story begins in Summervale, Tennessee. Summervale is a small, rural town located south of Knoxville. It is known mostly for wheat farms perhaps you've heard of it? Most likely not.

Having been unemployed since the down turn in the economy, I was going on 7 months of pushing resumes and receiving little to no encouragement. And to add to it, I had just received another rejection letter from a publisher, Willouby and James. They were very civil, but most form letters are. I am sure there would be a great decline in book production if the response to inquiries were rude and curt. Bad public relations, you see, and so they send formal form letters of rejection.

Thank you for your submission of art work, but we are no longer taking unsolicited inquiries. This is code for get an agent and then we'll talk. But in writing for an agent the response one receives is as follows: Thank you for your submission of artwork, but we no longer are taking unsolicited inquiries unless by conference. Such phraseology is code for go to a conference. Well, in investigating that route it cost a fortune to attend, and for someone with little means as myself, it was fitting that the weather was rainy. It was sympathetic company.

I had opened the letter while sitting in the rocker on my aunt's covered porch. Try as I might to prepare myself for the disappointment, a tear trickled down my cheek, and I wiped it away.

"Patience?" my aunt called from inside.

I arose gathering my once more wounded pride, and put on a face of calm, poise, and indifference and entered the house.

"Raining again is it?" she asked reading her magazine intently in her winged back chair.

"Yes, Aunt June, here is your mail," I said setting it down on the coffee table in front of her.

"Another rejection letter, Patience? Maybe you should give it up for a while," she said without a looking up from her magazine.

Now you mustn't think too harshly about my Aunt June, she is unique character. For instance, having disliked her name - she considered it plain with one syllable, she deliberately named her daughter using four syllables , A-lex-an-dra, who you will meet later on in my account. Aunt June loves shopping at department stores and has a strange aversion to discount stores in spite of the savings. But for all her idiosyncrasies, to her credit she is always ready to bake banana bread for anyone in need of encouragement. The draw back? Aunt June, bless her, isn't the most observant or intuitive at times. Usually the direct approach is needed to grab her attention. So in spite of it all, she means well, and she is family.

Give it up? Could Monet give up paint? Could Hope give up Vaudeville? To give up a pursuit that one feels is her goal - certainly not. It would be unnatural. Okay, maybe I'm being a little over-dramatic, but only to make a point. I may not be an excellent artist and perhaps my ambition of illustrating children's books may, I admit, be beyond me, but the impossible dreams are what make life interesting, are they not?

"Dear,"my aunt continued, "did you try the temp agency in town? It might lead to a full time position."

"Not yet," I replied, "but I'll look into it." I left the room.

In looking into the temp agency, I filled out some paper work, completed some tests and applied for some positions that sounded somewhat interesting. The one in particular that I preferred was a graphic artist for a local marketing firm, but my second choice was as events assistant for the Hotel Fitzwilliam-Henry.

After applying a week passed without a word, and then the phone call came. It turns out the marketing firm had chosen another, but Hotel Fitzwilliam-Henry wanted to see me.

I interviewed and when several days passed, I was ready to chalk it up to another rejection, but Providence has a grand way of intervening - especially when one feels all hope is lost.

I was near the phone when the call came, and I answered.

"Hello, Wilson's residence."

"Hello," said a ladies voice at the other end. "Is Patience Wilson there? This is Mrs. Masterson from the HR office at the Hotel Fitzwilliam-Henry."

My heart skipped, and I sat upright.

"This is she."

"Ms. Wilson, I'm calling to inform you that you have the position as Events Assistant. Will you be able to start next Monday? I will meet you in the lobby. The dress code is business attire. You’ll begin at 9 a.m. . Do you have any questions?"

Do I have any questions? I thought. I'm sure I did, but I couldn't think of them at the moment.

"No, Ma'am,, I replied.

"Well then, I look forward to seeing you again on Monday."

"Yes, Ma'am, thank you. Monday at nine a.m."

"Yes, see you then."

"Goodbye."

A weight lifted itself from my small shoulders. I would be working for the Hotel Fitzwilliam-Henry. A girl could do a lot worse.