Two rejection letters arrived on a recent Tuesday afternoon at Jerry Beard's house in Timonium -- making it three for the week.

The electrical engineer read them with resignation, took his place at his computer, and scrolled by rote through dozens of job-search files. Then he retreated to the couch, laid his head in his wife's lap, and stared blankly at the television.

"I had expectations that I would be working by now," said Mr. Beard, 38, who had worked at Westinghouse for more than nine years. "It boggles my mind sometimes to think that I'm not out there working. You grow up and think, 'My job is my life. I am my job.' Well, now what am I?"

Mr. Beard has been unemployed since Dec. 30 -- one of the 2,500 people laid off last year from Westinghouse in Maryland, and one of the 1.3 million people across the country who lost jobs due to the unrelenting recession.

When he was laid off, Mr. Beard lost not only his paycheck but the part of himself that anchored his position in his family. And the underpinnings of his identity and confidence have been badly shaken.

He now takes life a day at a time, in search of any beams of hope and encouragement. The Sun shared several of those days with him and his family.

'I feel frustrated'

Recessions are not supposed to affect people like Jerry Beard. A lanky man proud of his unfashionable sideburns, he is an earnest worker who served in the Navy, married a girl from his hometown of Lancaster, Pa., and went to college so that he could get a white-collar job -- the key to security.

His wife, Donna, 36, is most comfortable wearing little make-up and casual pants. She never wanted to be rich. But she worked to help her husband through college so that he could get a good job and she could stay home and raise the kids.

Their dream was only to have a nice house. Mrs. Beard wanted a bedroom for each child because when she was growing up, she had to share a room and bed with her sister. Mr. Beard wanted a room where he could work on his wood crafts and a porch big enough for a swing.

After nine years at Westinghouse, with a salary of about $53,000 a year, the Beards and their three daughters were living that dream. He planned to work at Westinghouse until he retired. His family's life had settled into a series of gentle peaks and valleys.

But their stability was swept away Oct. 30. On that Wednesday, he was called into his supervisor's office and told that his work was appreciated, but no longer needed.

"Sometimes I wonder why God is doing this to me," he said. "Why me? Why is he punishing me?"

"I just have to remember that God doesn't give you more than you can handle."

Mrs. Beard looks around her home of antiques and country oak furniture, and shudders at memories of the days when she and her husband rented an apartment that was furnished with an old purple sofa and green and blue chairs. A part-time nurse, she has doubled her hours at work in anticipation that she will become the major bread-winner when her husband's unemployment and severance payments expire this summer.

"I feel bad when I go to work because I know he wishes he could be going," she said, tears streaming from her blue eyes. "I feel frustrated because I don't know how to make it better for him."

The couple's 13-year-old daughter, Christina, has nightmares that her parents will have to send her to her aunt's house because they won't have enough money to keep the family together. Eight-year-old Amanda says she misses having her mother at home. Diana, a chatty 6-year-old, leaves her mother notes because she wants her to feel better.

"Dear Mommy, I love you very much," Diana writes in different-colored markers. "I hope daddy gets a job soon."

A recruiter calls

A smile flashed onto Mr. Beard's face when he came home from the meat market and found a message on his answering machine from a corporate recruiter.

He dropped in the kitchen an ice chest filled with pork chops and beef. Then he dialed the telephone and for 15 minutes sat in the adjoining family room, explaining his professional background and goals.

"It's taking a long time," his wife said nervously, as she packaged the meats and loaded them into the kitchen freezer. "I guess that could be a good sign."

When he walked back into the kitchen, his smile seemed forced.

"Well?" Mrs. Beard asked, her voice shaking.

"They need someone with a top-secret security clearance and I only have a secret clearance," he said, adjusting his wide blue suspenders, "but they wanted to talk to me in case there is an opening in the future."

As if she had been holding her breath for minutes, his wife released a heavy sigh.

They told me I don't match exactly what they are looking for," Mr. Beard said.

"It makes me wonder what he is perfectly qualified for," Mrs. Beard said, turning to a visitor. "He worked at Westinghouse all those years and went all that way and still they are always looking for someone more qualified."

She said pleadingly: "What is it that he needs?"

"Dear, they are saying I don't match this particular job," Mr. Beard interjected. "But they think I can do something for them -- maybe not now, but in the future."

"But you need a job now," she said.

"I know," he said, smoothly. "I'll find one."

'I've isolated myself'

Mr. Beard rarely lets a negative word be the last one in his house these days. He rationalizes bad interviews and rejection letters by saying: "[The recruiter] was aghast at how much money I made at Westinghouse," or "I was too qualified for that job and would have been bored within a few weeks, anyway."

Each day, he assigns himself a chore. On Monday and Thursday mornings he types up applications and cover letters at the job resource center operated by Westinghouse for laid-off employees.

Every other Tuesday morning, Mr. Beard volunteers to read with students in Amanda's second-grade class. In the afternoons, he helps renovate an old church barn into a teen center, or he builds wooden toys and birdhouses in his basement.

He stashes his $446 unemployment check between other checks when depositing it at the bank -- hiding it as much from himself as from the teller.

He has stopped listening to television news or reading newspaper stories about the recession.

"I've isolated myself," he said. "I just don't delve into all the bad news and all the grim statistics. They make you think things are not as rosy as you want to believe."

On one Saturday morning, Mrs. Beard exploded with rage when she found her bedroom closet had been ransacked by the kids. Mr. Beard rushed upstairs to the bedroom and found his wife crying on their bed, and complaining that she was tired of doing all the work for everyone.

"Yes, dear," he said, and then rounded up the girls to go with himto the hardware store.

"It's irritating sometimes," he said later. "I don't understand why she's so upset. Why is there so much stress? There's still money coming in. We're still managing.

"I have faith in myself," he said, his voice trembling. "But I can' seem to convey that to her -- that it's going to work out."

"Of course, sometimes I'm unobservant," he added. "I can't say I've always made it a point to look for signs of trouble."

Staying positive

Mrs. Beard confronts those signs everyday. The soft-spoken woman is the household treasurer -- keeping track of all the money that comes in and goes out.

On a sunny Friday, she and Mr. Beard took their monthly drive to a market in Lancaster. It's 75 miles from the Giant around the corner, but the Beards find fresher meats for less than half the supermarket prices.

"So, have you found anything yet?" asked a woman behind the meat counter.

Mrs. Beard, whose eyes become teary at the mere mention of the word "layoff," shook her head.

"But I'm going to a job fair tomorrow," Mr. Beard said, grinning. "I'm going to be out there with the rest of the herd."

They spent about $250 for groceries that day. Later that week, Mrs. Beard would mail out $1,800 in checks to pay the mortgage, insurance for their van and utility bills.

Until December, Mrs. Beard worked when she wanted to. Her $23,000 income from Good Samaritan Hospital was used for luxuries: a pocket-sized television for her husband, dinners out, books for the kids, home renovations.

Now, she works four or five days a week to build up the family's savings. Instead of dreaming about sending their daughters to college or throwing big weddings for them, she focuses on meeting the monthly bills. For the first time, she thinks twice before throwing away applications for subsidized school lunches.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm the one who was most short-changed in all this," she says, riding in the van with her husband across the rolling hills of southern Pennsylvania. "I raised the kids, and I finally have time to myself, and now I have to work."

Mrs. Beard tries not to cry in front of her children and maintain their daily routines. There may be fewer trips to the bookstore and fewer dinners out, but she makes sure there still are plenty of cookies in the cupboard and indulges Mr. Beard in his bowl of ice cream before bed each night. Sometimes she even catches herself laughing.

On a rare night out, Mr. and Mrs. Beard dropped the children off at a church youth function. Then they browsed through Hunt Valley Mall to buy birthday cards for relatives.

At the card store, Mr. Beard opened a colorful card with a alligator on the front and burst into laughter. He showed it to his wife.

"How is my job like an alligator with his jaws wired shut?" the card read. "It sucks swamp water."

"Go put that back," Mrs. Beard said, giggling.

"I wish I had a job I could say that about," Mr. Beard responded.

At the job fair

By 9 a.m. on Saturday, Mr. Beard had eaten his frosted flakes, put on his best blue suit and was standing in a parking lot in Southwest Baltimore with hundreds of other people. They were waiting for the doors to open at the Environmental Elements Corporation job fair.

The "herd" began filing through the lobby doors and picked up packets that included a job application and an annual report. Mr. Beard, who had gotten his sideburns trimmed for the occasion, recognized several people from Westinghouse. "Good luck," he told them.

In the main room, 10 booths were set up for interviews. Mr. Beard walked immediately toward the booth for project engineers, introduced himself to the recruiter, and handed him a copy of his resume.

For a few uncomfortably long minutes, the recruiter scanned the resume. It's only the third time he's interviewed for a job in more than nine years.

Recalling the meeting, he said:

"I was sitting there thinking, 'OK, I have 15 minutes to get my point across. What do I want to say?

"Don't stutter.

"Who is this person? Is he going to be the one making the decision or is he just compiling information?

"I wish I was more articulate.

"I wish I was more of an extrovert.

"If I force myself, will they see I'm really uncomfortable and tense?"

Mr. Beard has read several books on successful interviewing techniques, and had an answer for almost all questions. The recruiter seemed interested, Mr. Beard recalled, but then he threw a curveball.

"What are your outside interests?" the recruiter asked.

Mr. Beard said he fidgeted in his seat. It was a question he hadn't prepared for.

"Is it okay to say I was cookie mother for my daughter's Girl Scout troop?" he thought. "Or if I say I'm a wood-worker, is that going to count against me?"

Finally, he went for a more vague answer, saying he volunteered at his church and his daughter's school.

The interviewers seemed pleased and told Mr. Beard he would be contacted by mail or by telephone within two weeks. The nervous applicant left feeling positive. On his way home, he even sang along with the radio's country tunes, which he calls "cryin', dyin' and lyin' " music.

"I think I might've gotten something," he told his wife.

"Yeah, until you get your rejection letter," she said with a sigh.

'Like a death'

Mr. Beard sat quietly at his weekly unemployment support group meeting at Epworth United Methodist Church, where he is an active member. It was a strange setting for him. Growing up in a Pennsylvania Dutch home, he rarely shared his troubles with his own family, much less casual acquaintances.

Among the six people seated with him in the small meeting room were a property construction manager and a marketing research specialist who have each been out of work for a year, and a human resources manager who has been out of work for almost two years.

Pastor Jeff Jones tried to initiate an upbeat conversation, asking the group about childhood achievements and any interesting hobbies that could be used in pursuit of new careers. Perhaps, he said, employers will start looking for employees who may need a little training, but who have potential and integrity.

But the participants were not up for a pep talk. Most kept thei eyes on the floor.

"There was a two-line ad in the paper on Sunday and I called," added Bob Carruth, who owned an industrial supply company until it went bankrupt last November. "The guy told me he was scheduling interviews every 30 minutes for four days. That's the kind of response he's gotten from that tiny ad."

Mr. Beard never really joined in the discussion. It was the kind o talk that forces him to confront the truth: Things are bad, they aren't getting better soon, and there's no such thing as security.

"This is like a death," he said. "It's a definite end of a part of my life."