MONTANA 002

This item appeared in the Montana Craigslist under resumes, proving that youthful entrepreneurship is alive and well in the American west. I share it unedited:

RANCH EXTERMINATOR

"I only exterminate with shotguns and rifles so you might want to have some land. anything from gophers to coyotos. ill take care of it! i only can do this on weekends untill the week of june 7th, after that full time anytime.

-my charges is just a flat fee of 35.00$ NOTE: not a 100% chance of geting your request on that day, but free the untill i get the request.

-please know that i am only 14yrs. old but i have done this for almost 2yrs. now and preety knowledgable about tracking and exterminating the pests.

-also know i will not go past three folks or Livingston."

This youngster can’t drive himself, can’t work weekdays until school’s out, and is geographically confined (probably because Dad won’t spring for long-distance gas money). But he is learning a trade still valued on the plains and prairies. One can almost picture a young Wm. H. Bonney placing a similar ad in the Wichita, KS Gazette in the year 1863.

And yes, I note the inadequacies in spelling, punctuation, and grammar. But it’s clear he wrote this himself without parental assistance. I grow weary of Letters to the Editor written by nine-year olds that appear to have graduated from the Columbia School of Journalism. Out here kids are encouraged to go it on their own, blemishes and all.

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The London Daily Mail reports that last year some 43,576 British patients were kept waiting for longer than one hour in ambulances outside emergency rooms before being taken inside. It seems the British Government instituted a rule requiring that patients entering emergency rooms be seen within 4 hours, and in busy periods the bureaucratic dilemma is solved by leaving them outside so the 4-hour clock wouldn’t start running. Lest you smirk, such scenarios may soon become commonplace in a hospital near you. One would hope that Michael Moore doesn’t fall ill in the English capital.

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Billy Hamill (NY sportswriter Pete’s father) thought that the only unforgivable sin was self pity. I don’t know if it’s the only one, but it has definitely become fashionable to hoard one’s joy while sharing pain with all and sundry. I recall a time when the exact opposite was true. But now, grace of the ever-expanding psycho-drama we call modern living, we are told it is OK, we are encouraged, to share our misery, the way folks used to share fried chicken on long train rides across the plains. What good is pain if it can’t be used to elicit a little sympathy.

I was on a flight some time ago when my “seatmate” (there was a time when they were just passengers and not “mates”) volunteered that he was traveling to see his grown children to inform them that his wife, their mother, was having an extramarital affair. Just what the children need, I thought, and I’m sure he must now feel so much better that he has spread the grief around a bit.

And because modern life cannot exist without an equal and opposite reaction (society catching up with physics), I read recently of a man who died painfully of cancer, yet smiled to the end so as not to burden his family. But at the funeral he was roundly faulted for not sharing his last days with them “honestly and openly.” My Nana often said that she “couldn’t win for trying,” and I think she was right.

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I am awash in spam, typically the recipient of several hundred a day, offering breast enhancement, breast reduction, adjustment of other anatomical components, and so much more. But I also note that the flow diminishes dramatically on weekends. Even the idiots and scammers require a day of rest it seems.

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I mentioned that I now have a library card. I don’t recall hitherto having set foot inside one of these institutions since college, save several Saturday morning story sessions with my children when they were toddlers.

In college I believed the library existed for the purpose of securing Saturday night dates. I recall that on Mondays and Tuesdays the place was a ghost town. Volume picked up on Wednesday, and by Thursday it was beehive, every nook and straightback occupied (these were the days before Barkaloungers were installed at public expense to assist digestion of the written word).

Stacks were clogged with anticipation accompanied by furtive glances, shy smiles, and quiet whispers. This was, after all, the 1960s, when “hooking-up” meant a soda in the Student Union, not a liaison necessitating the purchase of latex products. Fridays radiated desperation, with wild-eyed singles plowing ground well thinned by previous traffic. Saturdays were almost too depressing to bare, as well I know, having spent all too many post-football late afternoons in those grey and desolate places, hope trumping reality.

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Spring snow again outside my window. Grey clouds 10 minutes ago, and now the ground is covered. What folks in Washington, DC would call a blizzard, sending thousands of bureaucrats scurrying for their cars to light out before the one inch mark and chaos. I like snow. I’ve often thought that snow in our nation’s capital is God’s way of slowing down the bureaucracy and keeping it from spinning out of control.

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Bloggers often end their posts with cute taglines. While I’m not into cute, I have stumbled across metaphors submitted by English teachers, taken from actual high school student essays. I will share one at the end of each forthcoming post. Remember, these are high school essays.

“He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.”

…..the adventure continues…..

PS: Because I have elected not to foist these posts on anyone unannounced, and because they appear sporatically, I send a short notice "New Post on My Blog" to interested followers. To be added to or subtracted from these notices, send request to: solovoyager@gmail.com