HOW FUN TO HAVE A JOB where I can literally be nosey. Nosey in the dictionary means prying or inquisitive. In my vocabulary, nosey reminds me of some of the oldsters in my home town when I was a teenager, so to me it is not a friendly word. I like interested, caring, or helpful much better. However, in many years of day-to-day living on this planet, I have had the opportunity to be downright nosey. Under the guise of a job, I have had the license and the responsibility to pry and be inquisitive.

As a teacher, there were many things I heard about the conversation over last evening's dinner table that I really didn't want or need to know. But there were things I needed to ask for the registration in the school; information which was sent on to the county offices. Birthdays, parents names, occupation, siblings, and the person to contact in case of emergency. Some of these questions seemed personal to these farming families at that point in time. We also needed to ask the phone number. Many families had no phone. Since my first three years of teaching were in the country school where I had been a student, where my father had gone, and where my mother had been a teacher, I practically knew all the answers I needed. The scary thought was that the parents knew everything there was to know about me.

One summer my cousin and I went to San Diego to work for the three months of summer vacation. It was the time of WWII, so there were many jobs waiting. I got a job with Solar Aircraft, where parts were made for airplanes. I was an inspector of welds. I wasn't hired to ask questions there, only to detect the small flaws that might show up in the welded seam. It was an interesting job. There were many people from all over the U.S.; all of us hoping to help make a difference in the war effort, and ultimately to help bring our boys back home.

The next summer, after another term of teaching, I went back to San Diego where I was employed by the San Diego Transit Company as an inner-city bus driver. At that time, about half of the drivers were women, as most of the young men were in the military service. This job allowed me to "tell people where to get off". I had to learn the many streets of the city in a hurry. It was little different than finding my way in that little home town. This was a fun job where I had the opportunity to chat with people from everywhere. Since I had a regular route, I got to know many of my passengers by name, and knew which stop they needed. It wasn't a job where I needed to ask personal questions, but it was a time in our country's history when a smile, a friendly greeting, and a little caring were desperately needed.

People were very worried about the war and their loved ones who were fighting for the country's preservation. I've had passengers board the bus and tell me that they had just received notice that a loved one would not be coming back, or that someone had been wounded in action. It was not an easy time to be upbeat, and smiling on the outside while grief was tearing at the heart strings.

San Diego had bases for all the military branches, so there were many service men coming in and out of the city, generally on their way to active duty abroad. It was a time when a service man would come to the front of the bus to alight, would tell me thanks for the directions, and I wondered if he would make it back home to a mother, possibly a wife or a girl friend, and to his children. No matter where they were from, I was struck by the thought that someone was worrying about their return. We saw very few women in uniform at that time.

It was in 1945 that I married one of the sailors I met in San Diego, and in 1946 we moved back to Nebraska. I became one of the 1950 census takers. Now, there was a job where I really had a license to ask questions. My section to be covered was a very large rural part of the country. So I went from farm to farm asking questions. Many of the questions remained unanswered because the residents felt it was "none of the government's business".

Sometimes, after I forced myself past a barking and snarling dog, I was met at the door with suspicion until I made it clear that I was a home town girl; in fact, Ralph Leapley's daughter, and my mother had been Elsie Whitney. My married name was totally foreign to them. After the introduction and my reason for being there, generally all was friendly. I had the opportunity to chat about the horses, the flowers, the little calves, and held a few darling babies. The census took about six weeks since some of the farms were so isolated. It was an enjoyable six weeks.

The well known "who, what, when, where and sometimes why" were the questions I was expected to ask at my next career move, which was journalism. Writing, yearbooks, and newspapers consumed my thinking for the next phase of my life. No one asks questions more than a reporter. I free lanced for the Omaha World Herald and the Sioux City Journal, and worked for the Sloan Arrow, and the Coleridge Blade. Then my path in life took me to teaching journalism, and advising the year book and the high school paper. Now, my students were the ones asking the questions.

After retiring, and after I became a widow, I again followed the writing hunger and became the editor of the Golden Review, a 12-page monthly publication for the Tallahassee Senior Center. I was a volunteer, but doing what I loved to do. There I asked more questions, and expected more answers.

I have concluded it's O.K. to ask caring questions, but not so great to be nosey, unless you have an identification which reads "Press", and a clipboard. Even then, there should be a reason for asking.

In this pursuit of 80 years, I have been privileged to meet many people. I have worked for newspapers, been the editor of a monthly community paper which some neighbors and I began, was the person responsible for the beginning of four school papers, and was the advisor for many yearbooks. The census, bus driving, the teaching were all challenges, adventures, and gratifications. Questions are not all bad or nosey. Some are in the line of duty, and many are just because we care.