Who am I?
By Jim Zola

My name is Jim Zola. I am 42 years old and live in Greensboro, North Carolina. I work as a Children's Librarian at The High Point Public Library. Previously, I worked as a Library/Media Coordinator at The Central North Carolina School for the Deaf. Other jobs in my lifelong quest for what suites me best include stints working for the publisher of Mailbox Magazine and Teacher's Helper, cataloging a private collection of Thomas Wolfe books, letters and miscellania, managing a wonderful independent bookstore in Kalamazoo Michigan (one of the few independents still left), and working as a Returns Manager for the largest Textbook Wholesale Company in the United States. I always seem to have some contact with books. But this is not who I am.

I am a husband of 16 years (this August) with a wonderful wife (Tricia) who works as a pediatric occupational therapist. I have three children -- Dylan Scott (13), Ariana Bryn (3), and Ethan Tobias (2). Also, a turtle named Myrtle (about 9) and the newest member of the Zola zoo, Bela (about 9 months), a dog of questionable lineage (more about Bela in the next article). This is getting closer to who I am. But close only counts in Ping-Pong and taxes, or something like that.

I am the son of educators -- a father who was a science teacher and then a guidance counselor, a mother who was a school librarian. The brother of two occupational therapist sisters (imagine what our family get togethers are like surrounded by OT's). I am a poet of sorts with poetry published in a milieu of obscure small press magazines and with one chapbook titled "One Hundred Bones Of Weather" (available upon request to those interested enough to ask -- I still have a few dozen copies tucked away in a box in my attic).

What I am not -- an expert in anything. I know a little about a lot and a lot about a little. I have opinions. If you are looking for authorities, turn to Dr. Ruth, Dr. Spock, Dr. Laura or Dr. Koop. I want this column to be interactive as possible. I seek feedback, advice, encouragement, condemnation, backslapping and cheers.

I am a father, a daddy, dad. I am not Ward Cleaver. I have only recently begun to understand the art of carving a turkey. Don't ask me to cook a turkey. Or even shoot a turkey.

So who am I. Perhaps, as this column develops and a series of rambling opinions, half-truisms and amateur advice shoots forth from my computer, I-you-we will begin to see a definition of me evolve. It could happen. Then the question becomes -- Who Are You?