In lieu of a fully-developed post please accept this motley collection of thoughts.
I know I’m getting old: girls are now calling me “Mister” and “Sir.” There’s nothing worse than that for a MAWG. When a pretty young thing prefaces her lilting words to you with a “Mister” you start to feel like your father, and you feel the cliff-edge crumbling under your feet.
What happened to “I have an open-door policy”? I’ve never seen more secrecy, closed doors and whispering behind backs as I have with my new bosses here. The lackluster replacement for VW is a darker, far more perfumed version of the bible-thumping waste of skin that is our new director of nursing, but in every other way she is a boot-licking duplicate. Closed doors are her stock in trade, and it’s more annoying than a sharp stick in the eye, as is aloof, holier-than-thou looks. I’ve rarely disliked people on first impression but this one has my vote for Prime Candidate for Retroactive Abortion.
Distressing. But so is not receiving a single call from some 20 resumes and applications filed. The joy of the internet and of drawing applicants via email or electronic applications is that as distant and aloof boss you can remain behind your closed door and simply hit “delete” without having to face the person. I think that’s called “cowardice” but I’m not sure. Ours does it here, too. I’d rather be told WHY I’m not considered hiring material by a person. At least that way I can work toward fixing the real or imagined lack. It’s hard to improve yourself when there’s no feedback of any sort.
Heath Ledger died yesterday. I had to go on IMDB to see who he was, and his face is still as ambiguous as water to me. I couldn’t pick him out of a crowd if I had to but the news is working its way up to a froth over him because he was a promising young star who died, They think, of a drug overdose. People die every day of drug overdoses and of far worse things but who is going to sing their praises? I’m tired of celebrities. I’m tired of hearing about Brittney and Lindsay and Paris and Rudolph and Hillary and that other guy who reminds me of Nemiah Scudder.*
It’s raining again. Yesterday while driving to the Post Office I kept seeing the white shapes of egrets standing in the brown water of ditches and bayous. Patient, ghostly white shapes in the grey of fog and rain, expanding concentric circles of raindroplets making patterns around their dark legs. This morning I saw a mockingbird sitting on a stop-sign, all fluffed-feathers and head tucked in, looking for all the world like a grey baseball with a pair of frail sticks and a tuft of long feathers stuck in for good measure. I wonder what it must be like to have no recourse to a fireplace or a heater, no dry roof to be under. What must it be like to have to rough it when it gets really and truly cold. What must it be like when the phrase “Root, hog, or die” is literal, and what lesson can I take from that little grey bird?
I’m ready for Spring. I enjoy the coolth of Fall and the end of Winter because there’s no better time to work outside but right now I most need to be able to dig my fingers deep into the brown earth and plant some seed. It’s time to see green sprouts of okra and the lanky, trembling branches of young tomatoes reaching for the pale sun. It’s time to sweat from good, hard exertion, and time to reap the bounty Nature and I have produced.
*See Robert A. Heinlein’s Future History stories, particularly those concerning the rise of an ultra-conservative religious leader who ends up running America. The Crazy Years have been upon us, and Heinlein has never looked more like a true soothsayer.