My first job ever was in management. At age 14, with no portfolio whatsoever I became day manager of a Dairy Queen, which provides a clue as to how desperate were the two brothers-in-law, belatedly realizing just 3 months after their impulsive purchase that this was not the path to untold riches foretold in the franchising brochure.
My second foray into the business world was the less inspiring delivery of telephone books. I was recruited off the playground in the closing days of fifth grade to work with Ray, a gaunt, seedy and very creepy type with pencil mustache, who projected an air that kept me sitting with legs tightly clamped together in the front seat of his 49 Chevy.
And so another circle has rounded the third quadrant and is heading for home as I, a half century later, again found myself delivering “the book”, not the Yellow Book, the Other Book. As I have grown a bit, so has the book (proportionally much greater), and there are now a plethora (consistently pointed out by recipients, “My God, not another one?”)
And while I won’t suggest the modest compensation was unappreciated, other factors, those obvious and others to become so, factored into my decision.
After paying some dues slogging through snowy trailer parks and dank college-student apartment buildings, I was treated to long drives through some of the planet’s most dazzling geography. I made it half way to Canada, crossing again and again the Yellowstone river, ending in White Sulphur Springs. Then south to the Wyoming border and Yellowstone, crossing again and again the magnificent Madison, where solitary anglers caught early spring rays looking to entice winter-starved fish. Spectacular snow-capped mountain ranges everywhere.
And along the way some delightful Americana:
The (apparently) one-room Pine Creek school, where the teacher, cute as a button (odd phrase, that) and looking all of 15-years old, replied to my question “is this really a one-room school?” with “Oh no, Sir we have two rooms and a Biology lab in the basement.” She looked as proud as the headmaster of any Charter School, and likely more accomplished at imparting basic education to her charges.
Rural libraries, sans computers and A/V rooms, where youngsters sat enthralled by the pictures in 20th century artifacts called “books.”
Small towns with one gas station, a small grocery, and 3 bars, by late afternoon packed with locals who likely sat astride the same stool since FDR’s CCC was paving their main street, and still discussing whether that bit of “progress” was, indeed so.
The all-in-one: gas station, grocery, liquor store, feed warehouse, and U. S. Post Office; although most villages now sport shiny new Postal emporiums that vastly outclass all other local real estate and are as out of place as would be a Starbucks.
The sad elderly, who, the minute I would (attempt to silently) place the book-enclosed plastic bag on the door knob, thrust open the door, act as though this “gift” was the year’s most exciting, and implore (beg) me to alight for tea. Post boxes are now at street level, avoiding unnecessary walks for Postal employees, and time-wasting encounters with our forgotten citizens. (I know a retired “letter carrier” (as they were known in pre-PC days) who was consistently admonished for being late on his route, as he insisted on stopping to exchange pleasantries with the aged, infirmed, and housebound).
…and various wonderful locals with comments like: “I don’t have a phone, but these burn well in winter”…”when my husband died they took our name of the of the book, so I won’t have one in my home any more”…”why are some pages yellow? Can’t you make them green for the environment?”…and my favorite, “my dog loves your book. He won’t go on anything else.”
#####
Amidst this excitement I threw on a tie, hopped aboard a Horizon Air prop plane painted yellow and orange by in celebration of not having flown recently into a mountain, and departed for Seattle, where I addressed the State Emergency Operations Center as an SME (subject matter expert) on a Subject whose Matter I was somewhat familiar with but not necessarily Expert. Anyway, I was asked back, the consultant’s equivalent of a standing ovation.
I reflect that such peripatetic hopping about is a recurring theme of my life, having once transmogrified in short order from the Director of U. S. Government Pavilions at international trade shows to a humble itinerant wandering aimlessly through Europe in a VW camper, taking up embroidery to fill long days. Variety for me may be the spice(s) of life, with short wiffs of curry, cumin, cinnamon, and rosemary in quick succession. Makes for interesting fare.
#####
I’m not a smoker, had my last on March 13, 1977, and I do enjoy the improved air quality in bars and restaurants from Dublin to Paris, London to Rome, and now increasingly here at home. But I wonder if we are not forgetting the lessons of Prohibition, where far more chaos was wrecked in the forbiddance than the permissiveness.
Governing bodies have struggled for centuries with bans of various stripe, and typically are no more successful here than in other areas of social conformance. There are places in America where the cultivation of a few marijuana plants can yield a stiffer sentence than for murder, especially if the violent criminal has had a difficult childhood and finds a good lawyer.
The issue is more complex than many would care to admit. Why should I care if some biker wears a helmet? Well, every time I get a hospital bill that charges me $15 for a 25-cent disposable thermometer, I care, understanding that the price is inflated by the care provided to uninsured bikers.
But soon, one way or the other, we will have universal health care, where no one need worry about such trivial issues as cost. Issues of quality may replace those concerns, but then we must pay a price for progress. I have walked the dark, dingy, halls of British hospitals, and was fed aspirin for a week by a French dentist who did not possess the skill to diagnose that I had a tooth cracked to the root, so I know something of which I speak.
#####
And more metaphors taken from actual high school student essays:
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.
Even in his last years Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut
Next time I will be somewhere else...the adventure continues...
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Sunday, April 20, 2008
MONTANA 003
I can’t believe I missed it. Actually, I can’t believe my liberal acquaintances allowed me to miss it. Grace of my newfound relationship with the Public Library, I recently read Garrison Keillor’s Homegrown Democrat. And I thought that after Running with Scissors, nothing new could induce the high vapors.
Published just before the 2004 presidential election, and undoubtedly intended to influence it, the book accomplishes what together Air America, Move-On.org, the Times’ of NY and LA, and Media Matters have been unable to achieve. The normally passive Minnesotan stages an attack on Republicans that words like savage, vicious, spiteful, and malicious cannot begin to accurately portray. Lest you think I exaggerate:
“The party of Lincoln and Liberty was transmogrified into the party of hairy-backed swamp developers and corporate shills, faith-based economists, fundamentalist bullies with Bibles, Christians of convenience, freelance racists, misanthropic frat boys, shrieking midgets of AM radio, tax cheats, nihilists in golf pants, brownshirts in pinstripes, sweatshop tycoons, hacks, fakirs, aggressive dorks, Lamborghini libertarians, people who believe Neil Armstrong’s moonwalk was filmed in Roswell, New Mexico, little honkers out to diminish the rest of us, Newt’s evil spawn and their Etch-A-Sketch president, a dull and rigid man suspicious of the free flow of information and of secular institutions, whose philosophy is a jumble of badly sutured body parts trying to walk. Republicans: The No.1 reason the rest of the world thinks we’re deaf, dumb and dangerous.”
Keillor is described as an obsessive workaholic on the road some 32 weeks a year who arrives on location with Prairie Home Companion entourage on Monday, and stays locked in a hotel room subsisting on fast food and writing his Saturday script until emerging sometime Thursday for rehearsal. He rarely smiles. Little wonder. Homegrown Democrat clearly shows that this American wit has lost his grasp of humor.
Now I can visualize the smirks and a bit of giddiness out there, but look for a moment at what we have here. Keillor makes abundantly clear, consistently throughout the book that he is talking not about Bush, Gingrich, DeLay and Company, but all Republicans. He allows that there may have been a few passable ones around the time of Lincoln, but they’re long dead, and not since Teddy Roosevelt has there been a smidgen of compassion or basic humanity in the black hearts (Republicans apparently don’t have souls) of any who associate with the Grand Old Party.
Be ye liberal and excessively so, (and assuming this weapon does not already grace a prominent position on your bookshelf) you should run, not walk, to Barnes & Noble or your favorite used bookshop – the library won’t do, as you’ll surely want to read and re-read, then circulate it to all your friends, and yes, place it between the covers on cold winter nights as it will surely warm your toes as it has your psyche. Others may find the library an acceptable alternative and thus not be confronted with disposal options at its conclusion.
I recall in my lifetime when great political orators like Everitt McKinley Dirkson, James William Fulbright, Robert C. Byrd, Daniel Patrick Moynahan, Mike Mansfield, Howard Baker, and a legion of others could argue for hours with passion and conviction, and then repair to Jim Wright’s commodious House office for bourbon and branchwater, further debate, and finally, in comity, to hammer out a compromise acceptable to all and good for the Nation. And they went away proud of their accomplishments and not incensed over what they had given up.
Somewhere at some time all that changed. I trace the beginning of the end to January 3, 1995, when, after 40 solid years of Democrat legislative rule, the other guys finally got a chance. And it has been downhill from that date. It seems that the folks who ruled the playground were in no mood to share, and that has led to what we have today, a mentality (on both sides of the political aisle) where “my team is perfect and the other side is composed of naught but scum-sucking low lifes”.
I find this not promising for the Nation nor any of its individual constituencies. Screeds are not helpful to a national dialogue. We are becoming more like the Bloods and the Crips, the Jets and the Sharks. No one wins in gang warfare. Not for long, anyway.
Those wishing a more reasoned dialogue might read Daniel Patrick Moynahan’s Miles to Go. The (now departed) New York Senator was considered one of the twentieth century’s most liberal politicians, yet he was a scholar, a statesman, a great thinker and master of compromise. He was what we were; now we are Keillor. Those were the days, my friends.
#####
There was a time I found it unsettling to so enjoy the immense musical talents of Streisand and the sparkling humor of Keillor, when their personal views seemed so shaped by hatred and single-minded values. And then it came to me that in the same way that the physically challenged find compensation elsewhere – the blind with an acute sense of smell, the deaf with exceptional sight or touch, and the mentally challenged, sometimes called savants, who can multiply eight-digit numbers accurately to six decimal places -- Mother Nature (or your preferred deity) has elected to compensate for deficiencies by assigning advantages.
And so it must be that great artistic talents are penalized in other areas. This surely explains Hollywood, and allows me to freely enjoy the strains of “The Way We Were” or the Sunday humor of Prairie Home Companion.
#####
And, as promised, more metaphors chosen from actual high school essays:
“They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with a picket fence that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.”
“The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.”
…the adventure continues…
Published just before the 2004 presidential election, and undoubtedly intended to influence it, the book accomplishes what together Air America, Move-On.org, the Times’ of NY and LA, and Media Matters have been unable to achieve. The normally passive Minnesotan stages an attack on Republicans that words like savage, vicious, spiteful, and malicious cannot begin to accurately portray. Lest you think I exaggerate:
“The party of Lincoln and Liberty was transmogrified into the party of hairy-backed swamp developers and corporate shills, faith-based economists, fundamentalist bullies with Bibles, Christians of convenience, freelance racists, misanthropic frat boys, shrieking midgets of AM radio, tax cheats, nihilists in golf pants, brownshirts in pinstripes, sweatshop tycoons, hacks, fakirs, aggressive dorks, Lamborghini libertarians, people who believe Neil Armstrong’s moonwalk was filmed in Roswell, New Mexico, little honkers out to diminish the rest of us, Newt’s evil spawn and their Etch-A-Sketch president, a dull and rigid man suspicious of the free flow of information and of secular institutions, whose philosophy is a jumble of badly sutured body parts trying to walk. Republicans: The No.1 reason the rest of the world thinks we’re deaf, dumb and dangerous.”
Keillor is described as an obsessive workaholic on the road some 32 weeks a year who arrives on location with Prairie Home Companion entourage on Monday, and stays locked in a hotel room subsisting on fast food and writing his Saturday script until emerging sometime Thursday for rehearsal. He rarely smiles. Little wonder. Homegrown Democrat clearly shows that this American wit has lost his grasp of humor.
Now I can visualize the smirks and a bit of giddiness out there, but look for a moment at what we have here. Keillor makes abundantly clear, consistently throughout the book that he is talking not about Bush, Gingrich, DeLay and Company, but all Republicans. He allows that there may have been a few passable ones around the time of Lincoln, but they’re long dead, and not since Teddy Roosevelt has there been a smidgen of compassion or basic humanity in the black hearts (Republicans apparently don’t have souls) of any who associate with the Grand Old Party.
Be ye liberal and excessively so, (and assuming this weapon does not already grace a prominent position on your bookshelf) you should run, not walk, to Barnes & Noble or your favorite used bookshop – the library won’t do, as you’ll surely want to read and re-read, then circulate it to all your friends, and yes, place it between the covers on cold winter nights as it will surely warm your toes as it has your psyche. Others may find the library an acceptable alternative and thus not be confronted with disposal options at its conclusion.
I recall in my lifetime when great political orators like Everitt McKinley Dirkson, James William Fulbright, Robert C. Byrd, Daniel Patrick Moynahan, Mike Mansfield, Howard Baker, and a legion of others could argue for hours with passion and conviction, and then repair to Jim Wright’s commodious House office for bourbon and branchwater, further debate, and finally, in comity, to hammer out a compromise acceptable to all and good for the Nation. And they went away proud of their accomplishments and not incensed over what they had given up.
Somewhere at some time all that changed. I trace the beginning of the end to January 3, 1995, when, after 40 solid years of Democrat legislative rule, the other guys finally got a chance. And it has been downhill from that date. It seems that the folks who ruled the playground were in no mood to share, and that has led to what we have today, a mentality (on both sides of the political aisle) where “my team is perfect and the other side is composed of naught but scum-sucking low lifes”.
I find this not promising for the Nation nor any of its individual constituencies. Screeds are not helpful to a national dialogue. We are becoming more like the Bloods and the Crips, the Jets and the Sharks. No one wins in gang warfare. Not for long, anyway.
Those wishing a more reasoned dialogue might read Daniel Patrick Moynahan’s Miles to Go. The (now departed) New York Senator was considered one of the twentieth century’s most liberal politicians, yet he was a scholar, a statesman, a great thinker and master of compromise. He was what we were; now we are Keillor. Those were the days, my friends.
#####
There was a time I found it unsettling to so enjoy the immense musical talents of Streisand and the sparkling humor of Keillor, when their personal views seemed so shaped by hatred and single-minded values. And then it came to me that in the same way that the physically challenged find compensation elsewhere – the blind with an acute sense of smell, the deaf with exceptional sight or touch, and the mentally challenged, sometimes called savants, who can multiply eight-digit numbers accurately to six decimal places -- Mother Nature (or your preferred deity) has elected to compensate for deficiencies by assigning advantages.
And so it must be that great artistic talents are penalized in other areas. This surely explains Hollywood, and allows me to freely enjoy the strains of “The Way We Were” or the Sunday humor of Prairie Home Companion.
#####
And, as promised, more metaphors chosen from actual high school essays:
“They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with a picket fence that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.”
“The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.”
…the adventure continues…
Thursday, March 27, 2008
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.
##########
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.
##########
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.
##########
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.
##########
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.
##########
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.
##########
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
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.
##########
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.
##########
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.
##########
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.
##########
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.
##########
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.
##########
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
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
MONTANA 001
The peripatetic scramble subsides for the moment, as I curl up at the foot of the Montana Bridger mountains. Although it should be known that I have received a tentative cat-sitting offer in Paris for mid-April, confirming my suspicion that if one hangs about long enough a suitable métier might just pop into view.
The most dispiriting news is that on return from France my cheese was confiscated, not by the ever-vigilant U. S. Agriculture police and their olfactorilly-advanced canines, but by French security. It seems in France fromage falls into the “liquids and gels” category, particularly, I suspect, if your larder is bare and you don’t want to be inconvenienced by a detour to the fromagerie on the way home from security detail.
Protestation was (predictably) to no avail, and a request to speak to a supervisor was met with a blunt and smirky “non.” I then offered my bagette to M. le Cheese Police, reasoning that he could hardly enjoy the dairy without the wheat. “Non, zees cheese goes wis ze garbage,” he replies, and I respond “yes, I know, that is why I wanted you to have the bread.”
His English was quite good, advanced enough in fact to catch the idiomatic slur, and I trundled off in haste lest La Belle France insist on extending my stay under circumstances far less attractive than the Marais from which I had just departed. But I fret over the dangerously slipshod application of French security measures, considering that I have passed unmolested with similar contraband at least a half dozen times in the past several years (I was assured that the “no cheese” policy had been in force “for many years”).
#####
I had occasion to pass several hours today in the local community hospital. I consider it an odd phenomenon that in our citadels of wellness and healing the majority of its practitioners and staff are overweight, some grossly, others morbidly. Not to mention those clothed in whites or scrubs huddled in freezing doorways puffing on Sir Walter Raleigh’s gift to England and all the civilized world. I am certain that this observation has offended one or more of you, and so I add my standard disclaimer “present company excepted.”
#####
I am attempting a noble but daunting experiment. My current digs are tubeless, devoid of the vast electronic wasteland. I know that Blitzer, Cooper, Matthews, O’Reilly, Olberman, et al will survive nicely in my absence. Less certain is how this former news junkie will fare. One day at a time…
I do have a new library card, an interesting experience for one (correctly) described as a “reluctant reader.” But my lack of literary knowledge has already gotten me into trouble. Thinking I was checking out “Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten,” I somehow ended up with “Running with Scissors.” I am now faced with the task of inventing a new English-language word to describe the book. All suggestions appreciated.
#####
I attended (but did not participate in: I'm working at getting back into shape) a local 10-k race this past Saturday. It highlighted yet another difference between the civilized Coasts and the wild west. All the races I have attended (mostly in the east) were surrounded by masses of flags, cones, police cars re-directing traffic, ambulances at critical junctures, water stations, mile markers, communications vehicles ready to detail any possible disaster, and so much more.
This event was run partly on snowy, muddy trails, with not a single official vehicle or personage in sight. A teenage volunteer with a ratty handheld “Stop” sign attempted (mostly without success) to limit traffic near the finish, and small children ran into the path of exhausted runners to cheer on Mom or Dad in their final 50 paces.
Oh, and the race ended at a pub. Each runner got a free beer. I love this place.
…the adventure proceeds apace…
The most dispiriting news is that on return from France my cheese was confiscated, not by the ever-vigilant U. S. Agriculture police and their olfactorilly-advanced canines, but by French security. It seems in France fromage falls into the “liquids and gels” category, particularly, I suspect, if your larder is bare and you don’t want to be inconvenienced by a detour to the fromagerie on the way home from security detail.
Protestation was (predictably) to no avail, and a request to speak to a supervisor was met with a blunt and smirky “non.” I then offered my bagette to M. le Cheese Police, reasoning that he could hardly enjoy the dairy without the wheat. “Non, zees cheese goes wis ze garbage,” he replies, and I respond “yes, I know, that is why I wanted you to have the bread.”
His English was quite good, advanced enough in fact to catch the idiomatic slur, and I trundled off in haste lest La Belle France insist on extending my stay under circumstances far less attractive than the Marais from which I had just departed. But I fret over the dangerously slipshod application of French security measures, considering that I have passed unmolested with similar contraband at least a half dozen times in the past several years (I was assured that the “no cheese” policy had been in force “for many years”).
#####
I had occasion to pass several hours today in the local community hospital. I consider it an odd phenomenon that in our citadels of wellness and healing the majority of its practitioners and staff are overweight, some grossly, others morbidly. Not to mention those clothed in whites or scrubs huddled in freezing doorways puffing on Sir Walter Raleigh’s gift to England and all the civilized world. I am certain that this observation has offended one or more of you, and so I add my standard disclaimer “present company excepted.”
#####
I am attempting a noble but daunting experiment. My current digs are tubeless, devoid of the vast electronic wasteland. I know that Blitzer, Cooper, Matthews, O’Reilly, Olberman, et al will survive nicely in my absence. Less certain is how this former news junkie will fare. One day at a time…
I do have a new library card, an interesting experience for one (correctly) described as a “reluctant reader.” But my lack of literary knowledge has already gotten me into trouble. Thinking I was checking out “Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten,” I somehow ended up with “Running with Scissors.” I am now faced with the task of inventing a new English-language word to describe the book. All suggestions appreciated.
#####
I attended (but did not participate in: I'm working at getting back into shape) a local 10-k race this past Saturday. It highlighted yet another difference between the civilized Coasts and the wild west. All the races I have attended (mostly in the east) were surrounded by masses of flags, cones, police cars re-directing traffic, ambulances at critical junctures, water stations, mile markers, communications vehicles ready to detail any possible disaster, and so much more.
This event was run partly on snowy, muddy trails, with not a single official vehicle or personage in sight. A teenage volunteer with a ratty handheld “Stop” sign attempted (mostly without success) to limit traffic near the finish, and small children ran into the path of exhausted runners to cheer on Mom or Dad in their final 50 paces.
Oh, and the race ended at a pub. Each runner got a free beer. I love this place.
…the adventure proceeds apace…
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
French Letters 004
Back from the USA as I continue my ping-pong volley across the Atlantic. Montana to Virginia to Paris in 1½ giant steps, trying not to give the appearance of a bon vivant, but neither a mechant vivant.
Back to the Marais I left less than a month ago, to take advantage of a friend’s generosity before her apartment is rented for the coming year. Back, it seems, to where I left off weather-wise, a steady drizzle and bone-numbing cold. The kind of day that makes you wish you were in London! The kind of day where even reprobates like myself carry, and use, an umbrella. The kind of day that gives you an excuse to have a glass of wine at 10am, returning from the marche bedraggled, besodden (not yet besotted), yet fortified with brie, bleu d’Auvergne, several odd-shaped chevres, a lettuce for one Euro, twice the size of the one at the Leesburg Farmer’s Market that cost $5.50, assorted olives, farm butter cut from a 20 lb. block, walnuts for the salad, and a tradition noix, a bagette festooned with nuts.
For several decades and more the friend mentioned above has with exceptional generosity made various digs around the city available for visits of varying length. I first signed on as a cat-sitter, but when Petit Gris and Chat Botte departed for their grande somme in that great sandbox in the sky, I became just a sitter.
This friend has asked nothing in return save the occasional request to transport small items unavailable in France. In earlier days when our homeland didn’t require securing, this was a chore of no moment, but now with miscellaneous agents rummaging through tightly packed valises, how does one explain 5 changes of underwear and 15 packages of Butter Lover’s popcorn? Bounce (the stuff women put in dryer’s to make freshly laundered clothing…bounce?...) caused a raised eyebrow or two in voyages past. Yet miraculously this trip the 3 pounds of bacon and two loaves of raison bread did not set off bells at either end of the trip. I had visions of replacing the infamous Richard Reid – the shoe bomber -- as the diabolical chemist who discovered the volatile connection between pig and raison, and terrorized the civilized world therewith.
I was treated to one mild day where the sun considered making an appearance then demurred. Then we were back to damp and dank. Stayed on the 96 bus past St. Germain des Pres when drizzle turned to serious rain. Near Montparnasse a group of 8 Spanish teenage lasses (i.e. teenage lasses speaking Spanish) ascended, surrounding me with intermittent giggles and comments on my hat (which Europeans appear to associate with gangsterism).
As I was clearly the center of attention, I felt the need to do something, and so began humming, semi soto voce the Beatles “Yellow Submarine,” quite uncharacteristic for one who eschews public displays of anything. Soon they were all in the act (much louder than I), including an enthusiastic 6-year old several rows away, whose mortified grandma tried unsuccessfully to shush him into silence. It sounded something like “dum dum dum dum yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine, dum dum dum dum yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine"...reprise.
As the bus approached its terminus at Montparnasse and I descended, the happy chorus followed, like nubile serpents trailing St. Patrick out of Dublin. For a moment I wondered whether I had acquired this appendage for some extended period, but the sound dwindled, and as I turned they were waving good-bye. Not only in Paris, but not too often elsewhere.
Today snow is predicted, but the sun is out casting brilliance and warmth across the Marais. But wait, I see a cloud...it's now snowing, I swear...a full 10 minutes from sunshine to neige.
…the adventure continues…
Back to the Marais I left less than a month ago, to take advantage of a friend’s generosity before her apartment is rented for the coming year. Back, it seems, to where I left off weather-wise, a steady drizzle and bone-numbing cold. The kind of day that makes you wish you were in London! The kind of day where even reprobates like myself carry, and use, an umbrella. The kind of day that gives you an excuse to have a glass of wine at 10am, returning from the marche bedraggled, besodden (not yet besotted), yet fortified with brie, bleu d’Auvergne, several odd-shaped chevres, a lettuce for one Euro, twice the size of the one at the Leesburg Farmer’s Market that cost $5.50, assorted olives, farm butter cut from a 20 lb. block, walnuts for the salad, and a tradition noix, a bagette festooned with nuts.
For several decades and more the friend mentioned above has with exceptional generosity made various digs around the city available for visits of varying length. I first signed on as a cat-sitter, but when Petit Gris and Chat Botte departed for their grande somme in that great sandbox in the sky, I became just a sitter.
This friend has asked nothing in return save the occasional request to transport small items unavailable in France. In earlier days when our homeland didn’t require securing, this was a chore of no moment, but now with miscellaneous agents rummaging through tightly packed valises, how does one explain 5 changes of underwear and 15 packages of Butter Lover’s popcorn? Bounce (the stuff women put in dryer’s to make freshly laundered clothing…bounce?...) caused a raised eyebrow or two in voyages past. Yet miraculously this trip the 3 pounds of bacon and two loaves of raison bread did not set off bells at either end of the trip. I had visions of replacing the infamous Richard Reid – the shoe bomber -- as the diabolical chemist who discovered the volatile connection between pig and raison, and terrorized the civilized world therewith.
I was treated to one mild day where the sun considered making an appearance then demurred. Then we were back to damp and dank. Stayed on the 96 bus past St. Germain des Pres when drizzle turned to serious rain. Near Montparnasse a group of 8 Spanish teenage lasses (i.e. teenage lasses speaking Spanish) ascended, surrounding me with intermittent giggles and comments on my hat (which Europeans appear to associate with gangsterism).
As I was clearly the center of attention, I felt the need to do something, and so began humming, semi soto voce the Beatles “Yellow Submarine,” quite uncharacteristic for one who eschews public displays of anything. Soon they were all in the act (much louder than I), including an enthusiastic 6-year old several rows away, whose mortified grandma tried unsuccessfully to shush him into silence. It sounded something like “dum dum dum dum yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine, dum dum dum dum yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine"...reprise.
As the bus approached its terminus at Montparnasse and I descended, the happy chorus followed, like nubile serpents trailing St. Patrick out of Dublin. For a moment I wondered whether I had acquired this appendage for some extended period, but the sound dwindled, and as I turned they were waving good-bye. Not only in Paris, but not too often elsewhere.
Today snow is predicted, but the sun is out casting brilliance and warmth across the Marais. But wait, I see a cloud...it's now snowing, I swear...a full 10 minutes from sunshine to neige.
…the adventure continues…
Sunday, February 24, 2008
On the road 002
If the spirit of the west is disappearing, it has not vanished. A chili cook-off led us to the Bozeman, Montana Fairgrounds, which included the additional offerings of a livestock sale, craft fair, and local adult ice hockey.
All very different from more civilized events in the sophisticated corners of our great land. Out here everyone gets to play. Four dollars a head buys it all: everyone gets to taste some 40 pots of chili and vote (in California, judges decide for us); you don’t need a bidding paddle to enter the livestock sale (one of our group pointed toward the auctioneer and almost bought a stud horse); and several hundred people sit respectfully as a dozen “youngins” nervously clutch their prize chickens and answer serious questions on the care and feeding of same. Several were hardly bigger than the animals they so proudly displayed. I wonder if they even know of Brittney and Paris; when there are stalls to muck there is less time for TV.
Many of the men wear hats similar to mine, all brim, no bill, the kind that people in the east smirk at and mock. Even the jalapeno pepper eating contest was fun to watch. No gorging on hot dogs or cramming lemon meringue down the pie-hole, just a dozen college kids trying to win dinners for their girlfriends. Good fun, clean fun. In the same way that comedians like Dick Van Dyke made us laugh without being rude, crude, disgusting, or vicious, so have these folk found ways to enjoy life without resorting to excess. They’re not boisterous, they don’t laugh much, but they are content.
The day ended in a geothermal hot spring high in the mountains off a road half-way to Yellowstone. In return for promising not to pee in the pool, you are allowed to relax waist-deep in steaming water, sip adult beverages and gaze at crystal clear sky and stunningly bright stars as evening falls. The kind of day that leaves a smile on your face as you slip into contented slumber.
Sunday morning was reserved for walking down main street Bozeman in bright sunlight and 20 degree temperatures. Families, teens, collegegeans, all out for a stroll and possibly a light brunch. Simple, unadorned, and glorious.
Sitting recently in a doctor’s office, I became aware of a previously unheralded benefit of the chronic tardiness of the medical profession. Perusing 3 to 6 month old news magazines, I was told how McCain was dead, the Clinton juggernaut was about to make mincemeat of Obama, and a plethora of startling predictions that turned out so incorrect as to be snickerfodder. But the most telling observation was how forcefully the pundits put forth their prognostications. Few maybes and hardly a perhaps. And, today, of course, these same geniuses, with nary a guilty glance rearward, are bloviating a new batch of prophesy with the ring of absolute certitude. That we rush to consume their drivel says perhaps more about us than them.
Walking across the sprawling Montana State U. campus today, I was struck by how many of the students had cell phones glued to their ears. In a totally unscientific poll I observed the next 20 that passed me by, and 9 were in conversation.
I remember clearly my grandparent’s phone, unique such that neighbors asked to make use of it for a variety of (mostly) imagined life and death communications. Black, heavy, no dial. You lift the receiver, stare into it for a second or two, depress the button several times, and wait. “Good evening, Hilda, this is Harry,” announced my grandfather in an exaggerated tone of seriousness. “No, Harry from 3rd Street. Can you connect me with George?” “No, George from Walnut St.” “Thank you Hilde. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Long distance calls could take hours as mysterious “circuits” were untied. You place the call then sit and stare at the receiver, only to jump when the loud ring announced a connection.
Bill Gates has lamented that the pace of technology proceeds agonizingly slow. Well, it is clipping along quite fast enough for me, thank you very much.
Departing Montana, and next time I will be somewhere else.
the adventure continues…
All very different from more civilized events in the sophisticated corners of our great land. Out here everyone gets to play. Four dollars a head buys it all: everyone gets to taste some 40 pots of chili and vote (in California, judges decide for us); you don’t need a bidding paddle to enter the livestock sale (one of our group pointed toward the auctioneer and almost bought a stud horse); and several hundred people sit respectfully as a dozen “youngins” nervously clutch their prize chickens and answer serious questions on the care and feeding of same. Several were hardly bigger than the animals they so proudly displayed. I wonder if they even know of Brittney and Paris; when there are stalls to muck there is less time for TV.
Many of the men wear hats similar to mine, all brim, no bill, the kind that people in the east smirk at and mock. Even the jalapeno pepper eating contest was fun to watch. No gorging on hot dogs or cramming lemon meringue down the pie-hole, just a dozen college kids trying to win dinners for their girlfriends. Good fun, clean fun. In the same way that comedians like Dick Van Dyke made us laugh without being rude, crude, disgusting, or vicious, so have these folk found ways to enjoy life without resorting to excess. They’re not boisterous, they don’t laugh much, but they are content.
The day ended in a geothermal hot spring high in the mountains off a road half-way to Yellowstone. In return for promising not to pee in the pool, you are allowed to relax waist-deep in steaming water, sip adult beverages and gaze at crystal clear sky and stunningly bright stars as evening falls. The kind of day that leaves a smile on your face as you slip into contented slumber.
Sunday morning was reserved for walking down main street Bozeman in bright sunlight and 20 degree temperatures. Families, teens, collegegeans, all out for a stroll and possibly a light brunch. Simple, unadorned, and glorious.
Sitting recently in a doctor’s office, I became aware of a previously unheralded benefit of the chronic tardiness of the medical profession. Perusing 3 to 6 month old news magazines, I was told how McCain was dead, the Clinton juggernaut was about to make mincemeat of Obama, and a plethora of startling predictions that turned out so incorrect as to be snickerfodder. But the most telling observation was how forcefully the pundits put forth their prognostications. Few maybes and hardly a perhaps. And, today, of course, these same geniuses, with nary a guilty glance rearward, are bloviating a new batch of prophesy with the ring of absolute certitude. That we rush to consume their drivel says perhaps more about us than them.
Walking across the sprawling Montana State U. campus today, I was struck by how many of the students had cell phones glued to their ears. In a totally unscientific poll I observed the next 20 that passed me by, and 9 were in conversation.
I remember clearly my grandparent’s phone, unique such that neighbors asked to make use of it for a variety of (mostly) imagined life and death communications. Black, heavy, no dial. You lift the receiver, stare into it for a second or two, depress the button several times, and wait. “Good evening, Hilda, this is Harry,” announced my grandfather in an exaggerated tone of seriousness. “No, Harry from 3rd Street. Can you connect me with George?” “No, George from Walnut St.” “Thank you Hilde. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Long distance calls could take hours as mysterious “circuits” were untied. You place the call then sit and stare at the receiver, only to jump when the loud ring announced a connection.
Bill Gates has lamented that the pace of technology proceeds agonizingly slow. Well, it is clipping along quite fast enough for me, thank you very much.
Departing Montana, and next time I will be somewhere else.
the adventure continues…
Friday, February 15, 2008
On the Road 001
An intermittent vegetative state has descended, resulting in a dearth of fecundity in the blog department. Several restful but uneventful days in Virginia morphed into a hectic departure in advance of impending weather. A marathon 16-hour drive ended in Topeka, KS, where I had the serendipitous fortune to dine in a sports bar at the exact moment the Kansas State Jayhawk basketball team (main campus in Topeka) was shellacking the University of Kansas for the first time since John Quincy Adams ascended to the presidency.
I was hugged by a bearded man of indeterminate but intense olfactory bouquet, and had my Dos Equis toppled by a band of jubilant celebrants, who promptly bought me 3 refills, a noble gesture my already drive-mottled brain scarcely required. But apparently being the first solid cup of cheer visited on this eastern Kansas outpost in decades, I was determined to accept the revelry in good spirit.
After a short night I arrived in Silverthorne, CO at the end of a second butt-blistering 10 hour day. Snowpacked streets that will not see asphalt before spring and snowbanks that dwarf me are the order of the winter here, and the altitude, 11,000+ ft., conspires to keep the pack hard and crunchy with little slush. I suffer from a marked sensitivity when thrust skyward toward the stratosphere, and felt wobbly for several days, said condition certainly aided by generous sampling of the many craft beers that proliferate in the Rocky Mountain west.
There appear to be but two classes of citizen here: vacationers who come to drink and ski and drink some more, and “seasonals” who come to snowboard non-stop, but cursed with having to serve the vacationers in some capacity. Like virtually all service personnel in vacation spots around the globe, they distain those who provide their sustenance, and they are on balance justified. Why so many vacationers forget to pack their manners, common sense, and good will is a conundrum that has mystified sociologists throughout history. Why travel a thousand miles only to grouse that the local wine stocked in your neighborhood 7-11 is not available at your destination?
A single day on the slopes of Copper Mountain reinforced the wavering conviction that there is some juice left in the bottle. Mountains devoid of powder, bumps, wind, crowds, and snowcats are my decided preference, and I was fortunate to find all said conditions present on a bright February Tuesday morning.
My planned departure north was inconvenienced by a two foot dump on local mountain communities (Denver, 50 miles to the east got zero) and I-70 at the Eisenhower Tunnel was closed for nearly 24 hours due to avalanche potential. But one day later I scurried up I-25 to I-90 west in blowing snow, and arrived in Bozeman, MT before nightfall, a mere 11 hour drive-in-the-park.
Bozeman, nearly surrounded by mountains, is beautiful year round, but the lack of altitude, a paltry 5,000+ feet, yields a continual cycle of freeze-thaw, crunch and slush. Yet the crisp, dry western air is deceptively accommodating, tempting the naïve to venture out in light attire, only to find within several moments the still wet hair from the recent shower is frozen solid and the ears feel like rodents have been gnawing thereupon.
I have long felt the American west is one of the few remaining bastions of the cowboy spirit, of rugged individualism where folks are afforded the opportunity to rise and fall, succeed and fail, soar and plummet, individually reaping the rewards or misery of their actions, while much of the remainder of the planet seems intent on wealth distribution, blame allocation (always to others; never to self), and political correctness.
But with each visit I see the culture of independence slipping away. Colorado has led the way, with Boulder (where I once lived and now commonly referred to as “the Peoples Republic of…”) in the vanguard. It and other western climbs are increasingly populated by east- and west-coasters who have ruined their respective ends of the country and relocate to escape, only to participate enthusiastically in the ruination of their newfound home. Surely there should be some small patch of earth reserved for the dwindling few who wish to exist within the village without being absorbed by it.
Might not we aspire to a world where Brittney, Roger, and Paris (she, not it) grab fewer headlines and where schoolteachers, firefighters, and volunteer mentors gain a bit more visibility?
the adventure continues…
I was hugged by a bearded man of indeterminate but intense olfactory bouquet, and had my Dos Equis toppled by a band of jubilant celebrants, who promptly bought me 3 refills, a noble gesture my already drive-mottled brain scarcely required. But apparently being the first solid cup of cheer visited on this eastern Kansas outpost in decades, I was determined to accept the revelry in good spirit.
After a short night I arrived in Silverthorne, CO at the end of a second butt-blistering 10 hour day. Snowpacked streets that will not see asphalt before spring and snowbanks that dwarf me are the order of the winter here, and the altitude, 11,000+ ft., conspires to keep the pack hard and crunchy with little slush. I suffer from a marked sensitivity when thrust skyward toward the stratosphere, and felt wobbly for several days, said condition certainly aided by generous sampling of the many craft beers that proliferate in the Rocky Mountain west.
There appear to be but two classes of citizen here: vacationers who come to drink and ski and drink some more, and “seasonals” who come to snowboard non-stop, but cursed with having to serve the vacationers in some capacity. Like virtually all service personnel in vacation spots around the globe, they distain those who provide their sustenance, and they are on balance justified. Why so many vacationers forget to pack their manners, common sense, and good will is a conundrum that has mystified sociologists throughout history. Why travel a thousand miles only to grouse that the local wine stocked in your neighborhood 7-11 is not available at your destination?
A single day on the slopes of Copper Mountain reinforced the wavering conviction that there is some juice left in the bottle. Mountains devoid of powder, bumps, wind, crowds, and snowcats are my decided preference, and I was fortunate to find all said conditions present on a bright February Tuesday morning.
My planned departure north was inconvenienced by a two foot dump on local mountain communities (Denver, 50 miles to the east got zero) and I-70 at the Eisenhower Tunnel was closed for nearly 24 hours due to avalanche potential. But one day later I scurried up I-25 to I-90 west in blowing snow, and arrived in Bozeman, MT before nightfall, a mere 11 hour drive-in-the-park.
Bozeman, nearly surrounded by mountains, is beautiful year round, but the lack of altitude, a paltry 5,000+ feet, yields a continual cycle of freeze-thaw, crunch and slush. Yet the crisp, dry western air is deceptively accommodating, tempting the naïve to venture out in light attire, only to find within several moments the still wet hair from the recent shower is frozen solid and the ears feel like rodents have been gnawing thereupon.
I have long felt the American west is one of the few remaining bastions of the cowboy spirit, of rugged individualism where folks are afforded the opportunity to rise and fall, succeed and fail, soar and plummet, individually reaping the rewards or misery of their actions, while much of the remainder of the planet seems intent on wealth distribution, blame allocation (always to others; never to self), and political correctness.
But with each visit I see the culture of independence slipping away. Colorado has led the way, with Boulder (where I once lived and now commonly referred to as “the Peoples Republic of…”) in the vanguard. It and other western climbs are increasingly populated by east- and west-coasters who have ruined their respective ends of the country and relocate to escape, only to participate enthusiastically in the ruination of their newfound home. Surely there should be some small patch of earth reserved for the dwindling few who wish to exist within the village without being absorbed by it.
Might not we aspire to a world where Brittney, Roger, and Paris (she, not it) grab fewer headlines and where schoolteachers, firefighters, and volunteer mentors gain a bit more visibility?
the adventure continues…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
