This gem, from today (Monday, November 19), should probably be filed under ABOUT FORTY YEARS TOO LATE:
China Joins Race to Moon
Monday, November 19, 2007
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Problems and difficulties, and solutions...
This is a passage from Jacques Barzun's book of education essays, Begin Here, in an essay entitled "Television and the Child -- But Not What You Think" (p. 46). His essay was about how true-false/multiple choice exams are a poor tool to test learning, but this passage, from a discussion of John Dewey, goes a lot deeper than mere pegagogy:
...the greater part of thought does not deal with problems. We have all got into the habit of calling every purpose or difficulty a problem... A problem is a definable difficulty; it falls within certain limits and the right answer gets it. But the difficulty --not the problem-- the difficulty of making a living, finding a mate, keeping a friend who has a jealous, cantankerous disposition, cannot be dealt with in the same way -- it has no solution. It calls for endless improvisation, some would say "creativity." So we come to the conclusion that the mind at its best thinks not like (a) scientist, but like an artist. Art is achieved not by problem-solving, but by invention, trial and error, and compromise among desired ends."
...the greater part of thought does not deal with problems. We have all got into the habit of calling every purpose or difficulty a problem... A problem is a definable difficulty; it falls within certain limits and the right answer gets it. But the difficulty --not the problem-- the difficulty of making a living, finding a mate, keeping a friend who has a jealous, cantankerous disposition, cannot be dealt with in the same way -- it has no solution. It calls for endless improvisation, some would say "creativity." So we come to the conclusion that the mind at its best thinks not like (a) scientist, but like an artist. Art is achieved not by problem-solving, but by invention, trial and error, and compromise among desired ends."
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
A lovely thought from Thomas Merton
I always love when I open a book to a random passage and it turns out to be exactly what I needed to read, when I needed to read it. This happened yesterday, when I opened Thomas Merton's No Man Is An Island to this passage on page 53:
"God's will is not an abstraction, not a machine, not an esoteric system. It is a living concrete reality in the lives of men, and our souls are created to burn as flames within His flame. The will of the Lord is not a static center drawing our souls blindly toward itself. It is a creative power, working everywhere, giving life and being and direction to all things, and above all forming and creating, in the midst of an old creation, a whole new world which is called the Kingdom of God. What we call 'the will of God' is the movement of His love and wisdom, ordering and governing all free and necessary agents, moving movers and causing causes, driving drivers and ruling those who rule, so that even those who resist Him carry out his will without realizing that they are doing so..."
Part of me is tempted to argue semantics, but another part of me --perhaps that flame burning within the flame-- is just tempted to shout AMEN!
So AMEN!
"God's will is not an abstraction, not a machine, not an esoteric system. It is a living concrete reality in the lives of men, and our souls are created to burn as flames within His flame. The will of the Lord is not a static center drawing our souls blindly toward itself. It is a creative power, working everywhere, giving life and being and direction to all things, and above all forming and creating, in the midst of an old creation, a whole new world which is called the Kingdom of God. What we call 'the will of God' is the movement of His love and wisdom, ordering and governing all free and necessary agents, moving movers and causing causes, driving drivers and ruling those who rule, so that even those who resist Him carry out his will without realizing that they are doing so..."
Part of me is tempted to argue semantics, but another part of me --perhaps that flame burning within the flame-- is just tempted to shout AMEN!
So AMEN!
AOL Welcome Screen Headline of the Week
The best AOL Welcome Screen Headlines give us not only a glimpse at the news; they give us a perspective on the day's pertinent stories that we might not have otherwise considered. This week's winner, about the California wildfires which have displaced over a half million residents and destroyed untolled amounts of property, is no exception. While I'm sure that many homes, schools, churches, businesses, farms, woodlands, and historic landmarks lie in the path and in the smoldering wake of the fires, this headline (the only link to a wildfire story on their main page) really drove home (in my eyes, anyway) exactly why we all should care about the disaster:
Fire Shuts Down Many TV Shows
Fire Shuts Down Many TV Shows
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
So... Stowe.
Except for my little item about the garbage collectors, when last you heard from me, I was in Burlington, griping about the futility of my job search in a new city.
Well... as I write this, I am at my friend Shawn and Chantal's bed and breakfast in Stowe, Vermont, about 40 miles southeast (mostly east) of Burlington. Shawn is at work till 11:30 this morning; Chantal is at a meeting till 12:30; their two boys just told me about 15 minutes ago that they were going out to play in the back yard... yet as I look out the back window of the inn, the yard is Astoundingly Devoid Of Boys.
Uh-oh.
So... how did I get HERE?
From the beginning...
When I moved to Burlington, I moved into a sublet on Elmwood Avenue, in a section of the city called the Old North End. Tina, the woman whose name was on the lease, found a new place starting on September 1, but her old lease didn't end until October 1, so she wanted a subletter for her room in this two-bedroom apartment so it wouldn't be a total loss. We emailed, then talked, and sight unseen I decided to move in: I paid her $250 for three weeks and slept on an air mattress, the whole time with the understanding that I would have to move out once October first came.
Unfortunately, I couldn't seem to find the next place... at least not a next place in the city. I came up to Vermont on Amtrak, sans car, and while there were plenty of places in the "suburbs" of Burlington and beyond, I'd seen during my job hunt that living outside of the city really limits your work options. Plus, I liked being within walking distance of the downtown: I'd started attending Quaker Meeting every week and the meeting house was within walking distance; all of the bookstores and cafes and record stores and grocery stores were within a short walk. I really didn't want to leave the gravity of downtown and have to rely of the bus (which only runs until about 9 pm; most of the routes have no Sunday service).
However, I'd been in touch with Pat, a woman with a room for rent in South Burlington, on and off for about five weeks... before I firmed things up with Tina, I'd actually considered just moving into her place. As I explored Burlington, I found myself glad that I hadn't taken her place, because of all the reasons enumerated above. I really really really didn't want to live out in South Burlington.
But as the first of October ticked closer, and I hit wall after wall finding a place in the city, I got a little more desperate, and I made sure I stayed in touch with Pat as a backup plan, just in case I didn't find anything else. We played phone- and email-tag... and when it became clear that I wasn't going to find a place in the city, I called her, and asked her if she still had a room for rent (she did), and could I come out and see it (not only could I come see it, but she offered to drive into the city, pick me up, drive me out so I could see the place, and then drive me back "home."
So I rode out with her to see the place, near the Burlington airport... saw the house, met her family, looked at the room. I have to admit: I wasn't thrilled. Not only was the room kind of crummy (an unfinished room in an unfinished basement), but I had an inexplicable bad feeling about it.
Something here isn't right, but I don't know what.
I consoled myself (talked myself out of my bad feeling) by telling myself that Pat's daughter had an 18-month-old daughter (her grown son, daughter and granddaughter lived there) and that the granddaughter was now in daycare, which was $160 a week. So the $100 I'd be paying for my room would help them out.
So... I told Pat that I'd take the room; we shook hands, agreed that I'd pay her $200 to move in (two weeks' rent), and that I'd be out there sometime around 5:30 pm Monday to move in. She said fine, good. I didn't give her any money.
Good thing, too.
On Monday I was sitting at the Burlington library, working on my writing... and at 1:30 I felt my cell phone vibrating in my pocket... I couldn't answer, since I was inside the library... so I went outside and checked my messages.
This is the message she left:
"Hi, Max... this is Pat. We spoke yesterday. I had a long discussion with my son last night after you looked at the place. He is very hesitant to have someone moving in here and renting. I'm sorry about the short notice, but he's really hesitant to have someone move in, so I'm afraid I can't rent the room out. Please call me to let me know you've gotten this message. Bye."
Four hours before I was ready to move in.
I was sorry about the short notice too... seeing as I'd packed up everything I had at the sublet, and it was all sitting in Tina's car, waiting for me to meet her at 5 so I could make the move.
So... I called Pat back. I said "I got your message" and then "Are you serious?"
She said yes, she was, and "sorry about the inconvenience, but my son really doesn't want to do it, and I have to live with him, so..."
Sorry for the "inconvenience." She's telling me I don't have a place to stay, and that's an "inconvenience."
I said "Well, you realize that I'm all packed and ready to move in. I'm moved OUT of the old place. My friend's car is packed. Your room was where I was going to move next. I don't have anyplace else to go."
"Well, I'm sorry, but... I've gotta live with my son, so..."
So... I was evicted before I even moved in. I guess you could say I was homeless.
Fortunately... I'd been going to Quaker Meeting pretty regularly since I'd come up to Burlington, and had put a call out to the meeting that I was looking for a "next place to live" and could anyone help out? Zed, a person from the meeting, told me that if I didn't find a place, I could sleep on his couch for a couple nights... which is what I ended up doing for two nights. Meanwhile, I emailed my friend Shawn, he of Goddard's MFA program, Name The Boy, and Auberge de Stowe, and told him what had happened. Right before I got the HEAVE HO phone call, he had emailed me about a place in South Burlington (aptly named The Pour House), near Pat's house, where I could go get a beer and cheap food and watch the Phillies in the playoffs.
I told him what happened... and he wrote back...
Well, forget about the Pour House then. You're on your own for the ballgame.
But seriously, Max, you're scaring me. Just tell me when and I'll come get you and you can sleep on the futon downstairs and get a job here for a while.
Which I felt hesitant to do, for a lot of reasons: mainly, that Shawn and Chantal have a family and run an inn, and it's BUSY SEASON RIGHT NOW (tourists, fall foliage). The last thing I wanted to do is go down there and be underfoot.
So... I was just kind of praying that I find some sort of answer.. and then I went out walking for breakfast and it hit me...
What kind of job would I get in Stowe? Inn work? Working a front desk, cleaning rooms, cooking, etc....
And... what kind of help could Shawn and Chantal possibly need during their busy season, and which I might actually be able to swap to them in exchange for a place to stay? Working a front desk, cleaning rooms, cooking etc
Hmmmmm....
So... I wrote Shawn back and told him I'd be hesitant to take him up on his offer if I was just staying there underfoot... BUT... I knew that it was their busy season... so in exchange for a place to stay, I'd give him part-time help at the inn: cleaning rooms, handyman help, front desk, answering the phone, running for groceries, etc.
He wrote back and said Yes, that'd be great.
So that's what I'm doing and where I am. I'm at Shawn and Chantal's in Stowe, helping them with the inn (the boys are back, by the way... making griled cheez sammiches... phew) and sleeping on the futon in the basement.
As an aside related to my job hunting post of a couple weeks ago: I spent three weeks in Burlington, applying and interviewing for jobs, and I'd barely made a dent... I had leads and interviews but no firm prospects... yet one afternoon in Stowe and Chantal made two phone calls, and the next evening, I had a job: bussing tables at a restaurant down in the village. It's a different kind of work than I'm used to: instead of sitting in front of a computer, surfing the net and basically being ON CALL, I'm actually BUSY. It pays $6.50 an hour plus tips, which doesn't sound like it'd be a lot, but if you saw this place's menu, you'd understand how I was able to take home $130 in cash for about six hours of work last Saturday night
Couchsurfing is a nice romanticized fun-sounding Vermont name for what I did, but homeless is homeless.
And yet, the whole time it was happening, I didn't feel any panic or fear. I thought "OK, this is what needs to be done... this is who I need to call... this is what I have to do next." And I did it... and now here I am in Stowe. I don't know if I'm going to stay here longterm, but for now, it works.
Burlington may yet be in my future, but if I try it again, I'm going to make sure I have a signed lease in hand before I make the move.
Mainly, though, when I have a bad feeling about something, I'm not going to talk myself into going the other way, which is basically what I did with the room in South Burlington.
Well... as I write this, I am at my friend Shawn and Chantal's bed and breakfast in Stowe, Vermont, about 40 miles southeast (mostly east) of Burlington. Shawn is at work till 11:30 this morning; Chantal is at a meeting till 12:30; their two boys just told me about 15 minutes ago that they were going out to play in the back yard... yet as I look out the back window of the inn, the yard is Astoundingly Devoid Of Boys.
Uh-oh.
So... how did I get HERE?
From the beginning...
When I moved to Burlington, I moved into a sublet on Elmwood Avenue, in a section of the city called the Old North End. Tina, the woman whose name was on the lease, found a new place starting on September 1, but her old lease didn't end until October 1, so she wanted a subletter for her room in this two-bedroom apartment so it wouldn't be a total loss. We emailed, then talked, and sight unseen I decided to move in: I paid her $250 for three weeks and slept on an air mattress, the whole time with the understanding that I would have to move out once October first came.
Unfortunately, I couldn't seem to find the next place... at least not a next place in the city. I came up to Vermont on Amtrak, sans car, and while there were plenty of places in the "suburbs" of Burlington and beyond, I'd seen during my job hunt that living outside of the city really limits your work options. Plus, I liked being within walking distance of the downtown: I'd started attending Quaker Meeting every week and the meeting house was within walking distance; all of the bookstores and cafes and record stores and grocery stores were within a short walk. I really didn't want to leave the gravity of downtown and have to rely of the bus (which only runs until about 9 pm; most of the routes have no Sunday service).
However, I'd been in touch with Pat, a woman with a room for rent in South Burlington, on and off for about five weeks... before I firmed things up with Tina, I'd actually considered just moving into her place. As I explored Burlington, I found myself glad that I hadn't taken her place, because of all the reasons enumerated above. I really really really didn't want to live out in South Burlington.
But as the first of October ticked closer, and I hit wall after wall finding a place in the city, I got a little more desperate, and I made sure I stayed in touch with Pat as a backup plan, just in case I didn't find anything else. We played phone- and email-tag... and when it became clear that I wasn't going to find a place in the city, I called her, and asked her if she still had a room for rent (she did), and could I come out and see it (not only could I come see it, but she offered to drive into the city, pick me up, drive me out so I could see the place, and then drive me back "home."
So I rode out with her to see the place, near the Burlington airport... saw the house, met her family, looked at the room. I have to admit: I wasn't thrilled. Not only was the room kind of crummy (an unfinished room in an unfinished basement), but I had an inexplicable bad feeling about it.
Something here isn't right, but I don't know what.
I consoled myself (talked myself out of my bad feeling) by telling myself that Pat's daughter had an 18-month-old daughter (her grown son, daughter and granddaughter lived there) and that the granddaughter was now in daycare, which was $160 a week. So the $100 I'd be paying for my room would help them out.
So... I told Pat that I'd take the room; we shook hands, agreed that I'd pay her $200 to move in (two weeks' rent), and that I'd be out there sometime around 5:30 pm Monday to move in. She said fine, good. I didn't give her any money.
Good thing, too.
On Monday I was sitting at the Burlington library, working on my writing... and at 1:30 I felt my cell phone vibrating in my pocket... I couldn't answer, since I was inside the library... so I went outside and checked my messages.
This is the message she left:
"Hi, Max... this is Pat. We spoke yesterday. I had a long discussion with my son last night after you looked at the place. He is very hesitant to have someone moving in here and renting. I'm sorry about the short notice, but he's really hesitant to have someone move in, so I'm afraid I can't rent the room out. Please call me to let me know you've gotten this message. Bye."
Four hours before I was ready to move in.
I was sorry about the short notice too... seeing as I'd packed up everything I had at the sublet, and it was all sitting in Tina's car, waiting for me to meet her at 5 so I could make the move.
So... I called Pat back. I said "I got your message" and then "Are you serious?"
She said yes, she was, and "sorry about the inconvenience, but my son really doesn't want to do it, and I have to live with him, so..."
Sorry for the "inconvenience." She's telling me I don't have a place to stay, and that's an "inconvenience."
I said "Well, you realize that I'm all packed and ready to move in. I'm moved OUT of the old place. My friend's car is packed. Your room was where I was going to move next. I don't have anyplace else to go."
"Well, I'm sorry, but... I've gotta live with my son, so..."
So... I was evicted before I even moved in. I guess you could say I was homeless.
Fortunately... I'd been going to Quaker Meeting pretty regularly since I'd come up to Burlington, and had put a call out to the meeting that I was looking for a "next place to live" and could anyone help out? Zed, a person from the meeting, told me that if I didn't find a place, I could sleep on his couch for a couple nights... which is what I ended up doing for two nights. Meanwhile, I emailed my friend Shawn, he of Goddard's MFA program, Name The Boy, and Auberge de Stowe, and told him what had happened. Right before I got the HEAVE HO phone call, he had emailed me about a place in South Burlington (aptly named The Pour House), near Pat's house, where I could go get a beer and cheap food and watch the Phillies in the playoffs.
I told him what happened... and he wrote back...
Well, forget about the Pour House then. You're on your own for the ballgame.
But seriously, Max, you're scaring me. Just tell me when and I'll come get you and you can sleep on the futon downstairs and get a job here for a while.
Which I felt hesitant to do, for a lot of reasons: mainly, that Shawn and Chantal have a family and run an inn, and it's BUSY SEASON RIGHT NOW (tourists, fall foliage). The last thing I wanted to do is go down there and be underfoot.
So... I was just kind of praying that I find some sort of answer.. and then I went out walking for breakfast and it hit me...
What kind of job would I get in Stowe? Inn work? Working a front desk, cleaning rooms, cooking, etc....
And... what kind of help could Shawn and Chantal possibly need during their busy season, and which I might actually be able to swap to them in exchange for a place to stay? Working a front desk, cleaning rooms, cooking etc
Hmmmmm....
So... I wrote Shawn back and told him I'd be hesitant to take him up on his offer if I was just staying there underfoot... BUT... I knew that it was their busy season... so in exchange for a place to stay, I'd give him part-time help at the inn: cleaning rooms, handyman help, front desk, answering the phone, running for groceries, etc.
He wrote back and said Yes, that'd be great.
So that's what I'm doing and where I am. I'm at Shawn and Chantal's in Stowe, helping them with the inn (the boys are back, by the way... making griled cheez sammiches... phew) and sleeping on the futon in the basement.
As an aside related to my job hunting post of a couple weeks ago: I spent three weeks in Burlington, applying and interviewing for jobs, and I'd barely made a dent... I had leads and interviews but no firm prospects... yet one afternoon in Stowe and Chantal made two phone calls, and the next evening, I had a job: bussing tables at a restaurant down in the village. It's a different kind of work than I'm used to: instead of sitting in front of a computer, surfing the net and basically being ON CALL, I'm actually BUSY. It pays $6.50 an hour plus tips, which doesn't sound like it'd be a lot, but if you saw this place's menu, you'd understand how I was able to take home $130 in cash for about six hours of work last Saturday night
Couchsurfing is a nice romanticized fun-sounding Vermont name for what I did, but homeless is homeless.
And yet, the whole time it was happening, I didn't feel any panic or fear. I thought "OK, this is what needs to be done... this is who I need to call... this is what I have to do next." And I did it... and now here I am in Stowe. I don't know if I'm going to stay here longterm, but for now, it works.
Burlington may yet be in my future, but if I try it again, I'm going to make sure I have a signed lease in hand before I make the move.
Mainly, though, when I have a bad feeling about something, I'm not going to talk myself into going the other way, which is basically what I did with the room in South Burlington.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Of course, nothing against garbage collectors, mind you...
I loved this... from an article in today's (Tues October 7 2007) PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER about how a couple who was wed by a minister in the Universal Life Church (which does some online ordinations) had their marriage declared invalid because of the online ordination:
...Adam Johnston...had been ordained online just so he could perform the Aug. 24, 2006, ceremony. And the judge ruled that as an online officiant, Johnston did not have "a regularly established church or congregation" as the law requires. Therefore, he was unauthorized and the marriage invalid.
It was the first time that legal argument had been made in Pennsylvania, according to David Cleaver, solicitor for the statewide Association of Registers of Wills and Clerks of Orphans Court...
...There is growing discontent among those who think online ordinations make a mockery of marriage. "The problem with Internet ordinations," Cleaver says, "is that you don't know who you are ordaining. You open the door for convicted pedophiles, rapists, even your garbage collector, to officiate at weddings."
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Interview
I moved up to Vermont 15 days ago, and since then, have put in at least a dozen (and probably more) job applications for every sort of work ranging from newspaper copy editor to grocery store stockperson; from substitute teacher to deli counterperson. I've attached a resume with some of these applications, and have tried to be as honest as possible about my current situation:
Just moved to Burlington from Pennsylvania. Came up here to write and to do whatever work I need to do to support my writing until my writing supports me. Looking for full-time or part-time work. Available immediately.
I've tried to state these facts without sounding desperate (which I've bordered on at times the last two weeks, as I've watched my available cash slowly dwindle) or uninterested in a long-term full-time job doing something that, given my writing and my master's degree (and the possibility that I'll be teaching someplace in the spring), probably wouldn't constitute much more than a temporary fix, a way to bring in money right now, until I can do what I REALLY want to do.
The first interview I had (with a temporary agency) didn't really surprise me. It's the nature of a temp agency to place qualified (and sometimes OVER-qualified) people in jobs they might not take otherwise with the understanding that it's not gonna be forever, because, after all, that's why they're a TEMP agency, and not a job placement service. I had no qualms about telling the recruiter at this agency that I might be teaching in the spring, etc etc etc, and she certainly didn't seem surprised to hear it.
The only sticking point was that I couldn't begin work immediately, not until I furnished them with a copy of my social security card (proof of my eligibility to work), which I lost LONG ago. I went straight from the agency to the library to print out a couple Important Supporting Documents, and then walked to the Social Security Administration offices over on Pearl Street to get a duplicate card. I was prepared for an hour-long or more wait, followed by a Gubmint Song-n-Dance routine, but the whole thing, including the wait, took maybe ten minutes.
With my proof of eligibility to work in hand, I called the agency and told them I had my documentation and that I could take the bus out there and drop it off with them that afternoon. And the woman's response kind of took me aback: "There's no hurry on that. You don't need to drop that off right away." I said no, it's no problem, I'll bring it right out, and I hung up.
Her response struck me as odd as soon as she said it. If the only way I can start working is to drop this documentation off to them, I thought, then why are they telling me there's "no hurry?"
I DID tell them I wanted to get working right away, right?
Perhaps NOT surprisingly, it's been over a week and I haven't gotten a callback from this agency since.
The second interview I had was at a grocery store downtown. Since one of the biggest priorities wherever you live is to EAT, one of the first things I did two weeks ago today when I awoke was FIND A GROCERY STORE. I liked this co-op from the moment I stepped inside. As I wrote in an earlier post, this move north has felt like the closing of a cycle that, in some ways, started in 1992 when my first wife left, but in other ways in 1997, when I decided to leave Gettysburg and move back to the Philly burbs... thus, in a cool piece of cyclical synchronicity of the type that has seemed to accompany my every step on this move, I noticed outside of this market on my second visit that some produce was stacked on overturned crates from HOLLABAUGH BROTHERS ORCHARD, in Adams County, right outside of Gettysburg. Seeing those crates felt right and good.
More than that, though, the market seemed to embody my affinity for locally owned non-chain stores. That was why I liked Henning's so much. I knew that even if the prices were a little higher at this co-op, I'd be doing most of my shopping there, and more than that, it seemed like it'd be a cool place to work. Thus, when I saw a posting for open positions, I applied... and a few days later, got a call from the grocery manager, telling me she was interested in interviewing me. I called back and the woman seemed to be enthusiastic --"I'm REALLY interested in interviewing you"--and so we set an interview up.
The interview itself went well. I liked the woman I interviewed with; I tried to be candid about my long-term plans and immediate availability, and what hours I could work (there were overnight shifts available; a lot, I told her, was contingent on where I'd be living come October 1; if I was living in town within walking distance or relying on the bus). None of my candor seemed to bother the woman; she expressed some concerns regarding my lack of grocery store experience, but all in all, I left with a good feeling about the store and about my prospects. She told me I could possibly start work the next day; "I just need to check your references."
O.K.
Never... heard... another... word... back.
Not even after I called her and left a voicemail message telling her that I appreciated talking to her, and that she should call me if she had trouble getting hold of any of my references, or if she had any questions... leaving her ample opportunity and excuse to CALL ME BACK. I've heard nothing. For a while, I wondered what had happened between her telling me I could start the next day and NOW. Had one of my references dissed me?
As Marty McFly said in Back To The Future, "What happened, Doc? Did we turn into assholes?"
The third interview was at a big chain book-and-music-store-and-cafe down on Church Street. (Not to give you too many clues, but anyone who knows Burlington will know where this was.) On one of my many walks past the store that weekend, I spotted a BARRISTA WANTED sign in the window, and when I went into the store to inquire, I got Bad Sign Number One. "Here," the clerk said, handing me a card with a URL printed on it. "This is all done online."
I went online to fill out an application, and after the requisite requests for previous work experience, education, etc, I was channeled into (what was at least) a 10-page, multiple-choice psychological profile that was probably one of the most ridiculous pre-employment screening activities I'd ever undertaken. Each question was actually a statement with four choices of response--Strongly agree, Agree, Disagree, Strongly disagree-- and really, some of the statements were literally one step removed in tone from I think killing babies is really cool or It's OK to steal from an employer if you don't get caught.
I mean, really.
For a fucking BARRISTA position.
I need work, I thought, and so I filled out the form and hit SUBMIT.
A few days later, I got a call from the store's manager (or one of the store's managers) asking me to come in for an interview, which I did on Tuesday. Again, I tried to be forthright and candid about my availability and the reasons I wanted to work there. I had library experience and I liked the environment of the store... liked being around books... liked being in a position where I could help people. I told her I could work at any position in the store, and she said that the cafe positions were the ones that need filled; I said OK, fine. I stumbled a little bit when she asked me what my holiday availability would be (I told her I wanted a week off at Christmas, since my family's in PA), but then told her that if I had to take limited time off on holiday weekends, that would be no problem, I understood how retail worked, I'd work around it.
She then asked me what the best part of working at the library was (I told her the people I worked with, and helping the students) and what the WORST part was (I told her that the short-staffing at my last job was stressful, distracting and exhausting). Everything seemed to be going well...
...and then... I don't remember what I said to elicit this response, but she said "Well, I certainly appreciate your honesty."
I don't know what unseemly truth made her say that, but it was then that I knew I was screwed.
What, I thought, did she expect I'd be DIShonest? Does she figure that people are going to LIE and say things that she wants to hear just to get a great eight dollar an hour job in her cafe or bookstore??
I realized, as I left the interview, that it probably wasn't going to happen; that she said "she'd call me" but I'd better not hold my breath.
I also realized, as I walked home, that really, there was no job that would ever be worth lying to get.
Which brings me to interview four, this morning, at a cafe on one of the downtown side streets that feeds Church Street. I'd found this place the second day that I'd been in town; saw the sign in the front door that said FULL TIME COUNTER HELP NEEDED; and stopped in. One of the owners of the place told me that they had someone in mind for the position, but that they weren't sure that the person was going to accept, and could I stop back after Tuesday? If the job was still open then, we could talk.
Sounded good to me. I kept this cafe in the back of my mind, and in the middle of last week, passed by and saw that the sign was indeed still in the door. I stopped in, and was told that they were busy, but could I stop in to talk to the owner the next day before 10 am. Unfortunately, I couldn't get down there the next day... I thought I'd blown it... but yesterday, when I walked past again, the sign was still there, and I went in and asked, and got the same response: Stop in tomorrow before 10.
Which I did this morning. After waiting a few minutes, one of the owners came out and talked to me. I could tell that he was very involved and serious about filling his position, and again, I was forthright with him about my short-term and long term plans, and my availability (evenings might be problematic because of transportation). He asked me some great questions, including "Why should I want to hire you?" I told him I thought I had the kind of personality that would be good for his place; I'd get along well with the staff and the customers; I was outgoing and friendly without being pushy.
And then he said "Do you have any questions for me?" I asked him what time I would be there to open, was he the owner or a manager... and then I asked him the big one, the one I've wanted to ask three other prospective employers the last fourteen days:
"What would make you NOT want to hire me?"
He looked a little surprised, not unpleasantly so, and then he took a breath. "Well, honesty can sometimes be a little hard to take. I think you'd be great. You've got a nice face, a good personality, I think you'd get along well with the customers. But..." He took a breath. "Something about you scares me."
He said that he knew that my writing was my passion and that I would probably be most passionate about THAT... which didn't seem to be a problem... but then he said he needed to bring someone in that he knew wouldn't be "just short term." And I said "Well, I'd be lying if I said that I was going to be here long term. I mean, I'm already looking for teaching jobs for the spring." Hell, for this fall: the one interview and job thing that has seemed to proceed without a hitch is my application to substitute teach for the Burlington School District.
It was probably the best interview I've ever had, because I felt like I knew what he was thinking... his answer eliminated the post-interview non-callback second-guessing. I knew why, even though he probably COULD hire me, he probably wasn't going to take the risk. He needed someone full-time, long-term. I wasn't that person. We both knew it. It felt refreshing to know, to have it out in the open.
When I shook his hand and said I was glad to have talked to him, I didn't mean it the way I said "Nice to meet you" at the temp agency or the grocery store or the bookstore. I sincerely meant it.
When I left the cafe, I walked to a diner and got breakfast, and as I waited for my order, I wrote him the following note:
Dear (not gonna put his name in here),
It feels odd to write a THANK YOU note to someone who's interviewed me for a job I'm probably not going to get, but nonetheless, I wanted to write you and say THANK YOU for talking to me this morning about the position at your cafe.
I've noticed, in a few of the interviews I've had, that I got a feeling from the interviewer that something wasn't quite clicking... and then, when I got no callback. found myself wondering what I did or said ("Was my body language wrong? Did I need to wipe something off my nose or the corner of my mouth?" etc etc) or didn't do or didn't say. Talking to you, though, gave me a lot of insight.
I am certain, as I told you, that I'd be a good counterperson there; certain that the other staff would enjoy working with me, and that the customers would enjoy seeing me and dealing with me; confident that I could handle the schedule, the pay, the hours, and whatever skills I needed to pick up to do the job well.
What I am not confident or certain of is that I could come into a full-time position knowing that I was ultimately going to be a short-timer. But I'm looking for teaching positions and other writing work, and since that's my passion, as you observed, that will come first.
So a full-time position would not work out for either of us, unless I took it with the shared understanding that eventually, I'd be leaving for something else.
Anyway, when I asked you why you might not hire me, I'm glad you answered the way you did, and I wanted to let you know that I really appreciated it. To me, anything but my writing will be "just something to earn money until my writing can support me." To you, though, your restaurant is much more than that, and I totally understand your wariness (fear) of hiring someone who's ultimately "not that invested."
So, again, thank you.
If you should find that you need part-time help of any kind on evenings or Saturdays, let me know. As with Burlington at large, I got a good feeling from your place and from our talk, and I would be happy to give you a few hours a week if needed.
Take care and best of luck!
In reading over this, I am reminded (as I often am) of a passage from Walden, where Thoreau writes...
Not long since, a strolling Indian went to sell baskets at the house of a well-known lawyer in my neighborhood. "Do you wish to buy any baskets?" he asked. "No, we do not want any," was the reply. "What!" exclaimed the Indian as he went out the gate, "do you mean to starve us?" Having seen his industrious white neighbors so well off - that the lawyer had only to weave arguments, and, by some magic, wealth and standing followed - he had said to himself: I will go into business; I will weave baskets; it is a thing which I can do. Thinking that when he had made the baskets he would have done his part, and then it would be the white man's to buy them. He had not discovered that it was necessary for him to make it worth the other's while to buy them, or at least make him think that it was so, or to make something else which it would be worth his while to buy...
In some ways, I've approached my job search in much the same way this apocryphal Indian approached his baskets. I've assumed that since I am here and want to get whatever job I can get as soon as I can, that someone will just accommodate me.
Talking to the cafe owner reminded me that I need to take a little bit more of a balanced view of this whole process.
In that sense, it was another typically Vermont experience for me. I went into this whole thing looking for a job, and in that interview, got something quite a bit more valuable.
Insight.
Just moved to Burlington from Pennsylvania. Came up here to write and to do whatever work I need to do to support my writing until my writing supports me. Looking for full-time or part-time work. Available immediately.
I've tried to state these facts without sounding desperate (which I've bordered on at times the last two weeks, as I've watched my available cash slowly dwindle) or uninterested in a long-term full-time job doing something that, given my writing and my master's degree (and the possibility that I'll be teaching someplace in the spring), probably wouldn't constitute much more than a temporary fix, a way to bring in money right now, until I can do what I REALLY want to do.
The first interview I had (with a temporary agency) didn't really surprise me. It's the nature of a temp agency to place qualified (and sometimes OVER-qualified) people in jobs they might not take otherwise with the understanding that it's not gonna be forever, because, after all, that's why they're a TEMP agency, and not a job placement service. I had no qualms about telling the recruiter at this agency that I might be teaching in the spring, etc etc etc, and she certainly didn't seem surprised to hear it.
The only sticking point was that I couldn't begin work immediately, not until I furnished them with a copy of my social security card (proof of my eligibility to work), which I lost LONG ago. I went straight from the agency to the library to print out a couple Important Supporting Documents, and then walked to the Social Security Administration offices over on Pearl Street to get a duplicate card. I was prepared for an hour-long or more wait, followed by a Gubmint Song-n-Dance routine, but the whole thing, including the wait, took maybe ten minutes.
With my proof of eligibility to work in hand, I called the agency and told them I had my documentation and that I could take the bus out there and drop it off with them that afternoon. And the woman's response kind of took me aback: "There's no hurry on that. You don't need to drop that off right away." I said no, it's no problem, I'll bring it right out, and I hung up.
Her response struck me as odd as soon as she said it. If the only way I can start working is to drop this documentation off to them, I thought, then why are they telling me there's "no hurry?"
I DID tell them I wanted to get working right away, right?
Perhaps NOT surprisingly, it's been over a week and I haven't gotten a callback from this agency since.
The second interview I had was at a grocery store downtown. Since one of the biggest priorities wherever you live is to EAT, one of the first things I did two weeks ago today when I awoke was FIND A GROCERY STORE. I liked this co-op from the moment I stepped inside. As I wrote in an earlier post, this move north has felt like the closing of a cycle that, in some ways, started in 1992 when my first wife left, but in other ways in 1997, when I decided to leave Gettysburg and move back to the Philly burbs... thus, in a cool piece of cyclical synchronicity of the type that has seemed to accompany my every step on this move, I noticed outside of this market on my second visit that some produce was stacked on overturned crates from HOLLABAUGH BROTHERS ORCHARD, in Adams County, right outside of Gettysburg. Seeing those crates felt right and good.
More than that, though, the market seemed to embody my affinity for locally owned non-chain stores. That was why I liked Henning's so much. I knew that even if the prices were a little higher at this co-op, I'd be doing most of my shopping there, and more than that, it seemed like it'd be a cool place to work. Thus, when I saw a posting for open positions, I applied... and a few days later, got a call from the grocery manager, telling me she was interested in interviewing me. I called back and the woman seemed to be enthusiastic --"I'm REALLY interested in interviewing you"--and so we set an interview up.
The interview itself went well. I liked the woman I interviewed with; I tried to be candid about my long-term plans and immediate availability, and what hours I could work (there were overnight shifts available; a lot, I told her, was contingent on where I'd be living come October 1; if I was living in town within walking distance or relying on the bus). None of my candor seemed to bother the woman; she expressed some concerns regarding my lack of grocery store experience, but all in all, I left with a good feeling about the store and about my prospects. She told me I could possibly start work the next day; "I just need to check your references."
O.K.
Never... heard... another... word... back.
Not even after I called her and left a voicemail message telling her that I appreciated talking to her, and that she should call me if she had trouble getting hold of any of my references, or if she had any questions... leaving her ample opportunity and excuse to CALL ME BACK. I've heard nothing. For a while, I wondered what had happened between her telling me I could start the next day and NOW. Had one of my references dissed me?
As Marty McFly said in Back To The Future, "What happened, Doc? Did we turn into assholes?"
The third interview was at a big chain book-and-music-store-and-cafe down on Church Street. (Not to give you too many clues, but anyone who knows Burlington will know where this was.) On one of my many walks past the store that weekend, I spotted a BARRISTA WANTED sign in the window, and when I went into the store to inquire, I got Bad Sign Number One. "Here," the clerk said, handing me a card with a URL printed on it. "This is all done online."
I went online to fill out an application, and after the requisite requests for previous work experience, education, etc, I was channeled into (what was at least) a 10-page, multiple-choice psychological profile that was probably one of the most ridiculous pre-employment screening activities I'd ever undertaken. Each question was actually a statement with four choices of response--Strongly agree, Agree, Disagree, Strongly disagree-- and really, some of the statements were literally one step removed in tone from I think killing babies is really cool or It's OK to steal from an employer if you don't get caught.
I mean, really.
For a fucking BARRISTA position.
I need work, I thought, and so I filled out the form and hit SUBMIT.
A few days later, I got a call from the store's manager (or one of the store's managers) asking me to come in for an interview, which I did on Tuesday. Again, I tried to be forthright and candid about my availability and the reasons I wanted to work there. I had library experience and I liked the environment of the store... liked being around books... liked being in a position where I could help people. I told her I could work at any position in the store, and she said that the cafe positions were the ones that need filled; I said OK, fine. I stumbled a little bit when she asked me what my holiday availability would be (I told her I wanted a week off at Christmas, since my family's in PA), but then told her that if I had to take limited time off on holiday weekends, that would be no problem, I understood how retail worked, I'd work around it.
She then asked me what the best part of working at the library was (I told her the people I worked with, and helping the students) and what the WORST part was (I told her that the short-staffing at my last job was stressful, distracting and exhausting). Everything seemed to be going well...
...and then... I don't remember what I said to elicit this response, but she said "Well, I certainly appreciate your honesty."
I don't know what unseemly truth made her say that, but it was then that I knew I was screwed.
What, I thought, did she expect I'd be DIShonest? Does she figure that people are going to LIE and say things that she wants to hear just to get a great eight dollar an hour job in her cafe or bookstore??
I realized, as I left the interview, that it probably wasn't going to happen; that she said "she'd call me" but I'd better not hold my breath.
I also realized, as I walked home, that really, there was no job that would ever be worth lying to get.
Which brings me to interview four, this morning, at a cafe on one of the downtown side streets that feeds Church Street. I'd found this place the second day that I'd been in town; saw the sign in the front door that said FULL TIME COUNTER HELP NEEDED; and stopped in. One of the owners of the place told me that they had someone in mind for the position, but that they weren't sure that the person was going to accept, and could I stop back after Tuesday? If the job was still open then, we could talk.
Sounded good to me. I kept this cafe in the back of my mind, and in the middle of last week, passed by and saw that the sign was indeed still in the door. I stopped in, and was told that they were busy, but could I stop in to talk to the owner the next day before 10 am. Unfortunately, I couldn't get down there the next day... I thought I'd blown it... but yesterday, when I walked past again, the sign was still there, and I went in and asked, and got the same response: Stop in tomorrow before 10.
Which I did this morning. After waiting a few minutes, one of the owners came out and talked to me. I could tell that he was very involved and serious about filling his position, and again, I was forthright with him about my short-term and long term plans, and my availability (evenings might be problematic because of transportation). He asked me some great questions, including "Why should I want to hire you?" I told him I thought I had the kind of personality that would be good for his place; I'd get along well with the staff and the customers; I was outgoing and friendly without being pushy.
And then he said "Do you have any questions for me?" I asked him what time I would be there to open, was he the owner or a manager... and then I asked him the big one, the one I've wanted to ask three other prospective employers the last fourteen days:
"What would make you NOT want to hire me?"
He looked a little surprised, not unpleasantly so, and then he took a breath. "Well, honesty can sometimes be a little hard to take. I think you'd be great. You've got a nice face, a good personality, I think you'd get along well with the customers. But..." He took a breath. "Something about you scares me."
He said that he knew that my writing was my passion and that I would probably be most passionate about THAT... which didn't seem to be a problem... but then he said he needed to bring someone in that he knew wouldn't be "just short term." And I said "Well, I'd be lying if I said that I was going to be here long term. I mean, I'm already looking for teaching jobs for the spring." Hell, for this fall: the one interview and job thing that has seemed to proceed without a hitch is my application to substitute teach for the Burlington School District.
It was probably the best interview I've ever had, because I felt like I knew what he was thinking... his answer eliminated the post-interview non-callback second-guessing. I knew why, even though he probably COULD hire me, he probably wasn't going to take the risk. He needed someone full-time, long-term. I wasn't that person. We both knew it. It felt refreshing to know, to have it out in the open.
When I shook his hand and said I was glad to have talked to him, I didn't mean it the way I said "Nice to meet you" at the temp agency or the grocery store or the bookstore. I sincerely meant it.
When I left the cafe, I walked to a diner and got breakfast, and as I waited for my order, I wrote him the following note:
Dear (not gonna put his name in here),
It feels odd to write a THANK YOU note to someone who's interviewed me for a job I'm probably not going to get, but nonetheless, I wanted to write you and say THANK YOU for talking to me this morning about the position at your cafe.
I've noticed, in a few of the interviews I've had, that I got a feeling from the interviewer that something wasn't quite clicking... and then, when I got no callback. found myself wondering what I did or said ("Was my body language wrong? Did I need to wipe something off my nose or the corner of my mouth?" etc etc) or didn't do or didn't say. Talking to you, though, gave me a lot of insight.
I am certain, as I told you, that I'd be a good counterperson there; certain that the other staff would enjoy working with me, and that the customers would enjoy seeing me and dealing with me; confident that I could handle the schedule, the pay, the hours, and whatever skills I needed to pick up to do the job well.
What I am not confident or certain of is that I could come into a full-time position knowing that I was ultimately going to be a short-timer. But I'm looking for teaching positions and other writing work, and since that's my passion, as you observed, that will come first.
So a full-time position would not work out for either of us, unless I took it with the shared understanding that eventually, I'd be leaving for something else.
Anyway, when I asked you why you might not hire me, I'm glad you answered the way you did, and I wanted to let you know that I really appreciated it. To me, anything but my writing will be "just something to earn money until my writing can support me." To you, though, your restaurant is much more than that, and I totally understand your wariness (fear) of hiring someone who's ultimately "not that invested."
So, again, thank you.
If you should find that you need part-time help of any kind on evenings or Saturdays, let me know. As with Burlington at large, I got a good feeling from your place and from our talk, and I would be happy to give you a few hours a week if needed.
Take care and best of luck!
In reading over this, I am reminded (as I often am) of a passage from Walden, where Thoreau writes...
Not long since, a strolling Indian went to sell baskets at the house of a well-known lawyer in my neighborhood. "Do you wish to buy any baskets?" he asked. "No, we do not want any," was the reply. "What!" exclaimed the Indian as he went out the gate, "do you mean to starve us?" Having seen his industrious white neighbors so well off - that the lawyer had only to weave arguments, and, by some magic, wealth and standing followed - he had said to himself: I will go into business; I will weave baskets; it is a thing which I can do. Thinking that when he had made the baskets he would have done his part, and then it would be the white man's to buy them. He had not discovered that it was necessary for him to make it worth the other's while to buy them, or at least make him think that it was so, or to make something else which it would be worth his while to buy...
In some ways, I've approached my job search in much the same way this apocryphal Indian approached his baskets. I've assumed that since I am here and want to get whatever job I can get as soon as I can, that someone will just accommodate me.
Talking to the cafe owner reminded me that I need to take a little bit more of a balanced view of this whole process.
In that sense, it was another typically Vermont experience for me. I went into this whole thing looking for a job, and in that interview, got something quite a bit more valuable.
Insight.
Monday, September 24, 2007
The Railrodder
On the same day that I signed out a beautiful photobiography of Buster Keaton from the Burlington Library, I found this clip (or, rather, these three clips) on YOUTUBE.
According to that book (Buster Keaton Remembered by Eleanor Keaton, who was Keaton's third wife, and Jeffrey Vance), The Railrodder was made in 1965. Eleanor Keaton writes that her husband "had a ball making The Railrodder. It was directed by Gerald Potterton, who had asked Buster to go to Canada to make the short film for the National Film Board of Canada. Buster agreed, and for six weeks in the autumn of 1964 we traveled more than four thousand miles across Canada from Halifax, Nova Scotia, to Vancouver, British Columbia. The plot of the film is simple: Buster stumbles upon a 'speeder' (a small, motorized rail car) and drives it across the country.
"At one point in the film, there is a scene where Buster's little speeder travels across a very high trestle bridge. At that moment, the large map Buster has been reading blows up into his face, completely enveloping him. It is a great gag-- but very dangerous. Gerry Potterton and buster argued about it for over an hour. Gerry did not want Buster to put himself in danger, but Buster was stubborn and would not give in. Finally, they did the gag the way Buster wanted it, and it is one of the best scenes in the film. Buster never had an ego, but in moments like this, he just knew what he was doing -- it was as simple as that.
"Although The Railrodder would not be Buster's last film, it proved to be his last film in the classic silent style of filmmaking. Indeed, The Railrodder, completed at the twilight of Buster's career, plays much like one of his early two-reelers (silent comedy shorts from the 20s--mhs)... Only three months after The Railrodder was released, Buster Keaton, who began his career as a knockabout child prop and completed it on the harrowing high rail, was finally at peace. Yet, as long as the films of Buster Keaton endure and new generations continue to embrace his genius, the great Keaton, once and forever silent, shall never be stilled."
Here is The Railrodder in three parts: part one...
...part two...
...and part three.
According to that book (Buster Keaton Remembered by Eleanor Keaton, who was Keaton's third wife, and Jeffrey Vance), The Railrodder was made in 1965. Eleanor Keaton writes that her husband "had a ball making The Railrodder. It was directed by Gerald Potterton, who had asked Buster to go to Canada to make the short film for the National Film Board of Canada. Buster agreed, and for six weeks in the autumn of 1964 we traveled more than four thousand miles across Canada from Halifax, Nova Scotia, to Vancouver, British Columbia. The plot of the film is simple: Buster stumbles upon a 'speeder' (a small, motorized rail car) and drives it across the country.
"At one point in the film, there is a scene where Buster's little speeder travels across a very high trestle bridge. At that moment, the large map Buster has been reading blows up into his face, completely enveloping him. It is a great gag-- but very dangerous. Gerry Potterton and buster argued about it for over an hour. Gerry did not want Buster to put himself in danger, but Buster was stubborn and would not give in. Finally, they did the gag the way Buster wanted it, and it is one of the best scenes in the film. Buster never had an ego, but in moments like this, he just knew what he was doing -- it was as simple as that.
"Although The Railrodder would not be Buster's last film, it proved to be his last film in the classic silent style of filmmaking. Indeed, The Railrodder, completed at the twilight of Buster's career, plays much like one of his early two-reelers (silent comedy shorts from the 20s--mhs)... Only three months after The Railrodder was released, Buster Keaton, who began his career as a knockabout child prop and completed it on the harrowing high rail, was finally at peace. Yet, as long as the films of Buster Keaton endure and new generations continue to embrace his genius, the great Keaton, once and forever silent, shall never be stilled."
Here is The Railrodder in three parts: part one...
...part two...
...and part three.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Love, Brian
O.K., enough pissing and moaning, weeping and wailing about the move and the logistics and where am I gonna work, what am I gonna do? It's Thursday, September 20, 2007, and Brian Wilson is not only alive and well... he has a new song out. Somehow, he always comes along with a sublime new piece of beauty at the very moment I need to hear it, and his music lifts me out of myself. Click click here for a link to the stream:
Brian Wilson's new song: "Forever She'll Be My Surfer Girl"
Coaxed a tear out of me this morning as I listened. Yes, life is good indeed.
And in case you missed the one before this one, here's a link to the stream for that one. It's a track from his forthcoming suite based on Antoine de Saint-Exupery's The Little Prince, a collaboration with Van Dyke Parks: That Lucky Old Sun.
Brian Wilson: "Midnight's Another Day"
As one who's been following the Beach Boys since 1975, and has seen all of the group's (and Brian's) ups and downs, peaks and valleys, all I can say is: there were a couple times in the 70s and 80s where it really looked like Brian was going to be the next Elvis. So to hear great, artistically relevant and challenging NEW material coming from Brian Wilson in 2007 is indeed a blessing.
Wow.
Brian Wilson's new song: "Forever She'll Be My Surfer Girl"
Coaxed a tear out of me this morning as I listened. Yes, life is good indeed.
And in case you missed the one before this one, here's a link to the stream for that one. It's a track from his forthcoming suite based on Antoine de Saint-Exupery's The Little Prince, a collaboration with Van Dyke Parks: That Lucky Old Sun.
Brian Wilson: "Midnight's Another Day"
As one who's been following the Beach Boys since 1975, and has seen all of the group's (and Brian's) ups and downs, peaks and valleys, all I can say is: there were a couple times in the 70s and 80s where it really looked like Brian was going to be the next Elvis. So to hear great, artistically relevant and challenging NEW material coming from Brian Wilson in 2007 is indeed a blessing.
Wow.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Cleaning out a wallet...
Until this morning, my wallet was about three inches thick, stuffed with photos, loose papers, receipts, and (mainly) cards of practically every type you can imagine: grocery store discount club cards, credit cards, debit cards, membership cards...
...until this morning. This morning, as I searched in vain for my social security card (which the Social Security Administration recommends you NOT keep in your wallet, incidentally), I decided to sort through all the junk in my wallet, which is now deflated to a limp, more manageable one inch thick. I may even be able to follow my mother's advice and PUT IT IN MY POCKET.
("That's a worry, Max... you carrying your wallet around in your hand like that.")
So... since I know you're dying to know, and since I know you'd ask if you, uh, CARED... here's what was in my wallet.
First, what I got rid of, in no particular order:
* Two PC reservation receipt slips from the Fletcher Library in Burlington.
(Seeing as I just moved to Burlington last Wednesday and first visited the library here last Thursday, these are obviously recent additions to the effluvia. But when I yanked the stack out of the envelope, they were on top, so...)
* Ticket stub from the Monday, July 31, 2006 showing of A HARD DAY'S NIGHT at the Ambler Theater.
(That was a great night. Ignoring for a second that I went to the movie ALONE, nonetheless it was a revival showing of the Beatles' first movie on a big screen. But the coolest thing about it was that the audience was about evenly divided between aging yuppies, first generation Beatlemaniacs and boomers, and KIDS... junior high and high school kids who were obviously as into the Beatles as I was at that age. Heartening. And a great movie, one that could just as easily have been made on July 30, 2006 as in 1964.)
* Two yellow DRIVER'S LICENSE UPDATE cards from Pennsylvania, both from long-ago moves, both long-since-expired.
* An ACME SuperCard Preferred Customer keychain card.
(Somehow these supermarket club keychain cards never made it onto my keychain. Just like I never really made it into Acme when I lived in Lansdale, even though there was one less than six blocks from my home. Reference Hennings Card below.)
* A 2006 Ambler Savings Bank wallet calendar, which I apparently picked up before my account was closed due to too-frequent overdrafts.
* The companion to the ACME Supercard Preferred Customer keychain card: the actual full-sized ACME Supercard Preferred Customer card.
* An expired Pennsylvania driver's license.
* Another ACME card.
(Sheez, you'd think I was Wile E. Coyote, the number of ACME cards I had. And again, like I said, I seldom shopped at the place. But when I did, I could always find a freakin' Supercard!)
* Another supermarket card, this one for Genuardi's.
(Genuardi's used to be a nice, small, family-owned supermarket chain in the Philly 'burbs... then Safeway bought them out, and they got all... how can I put it... customer service-y? Someone in Safeway Corporate wanted Genuardi's to look less like Safeway East and more like Your Friendly Hometown Market, and so they instructed the cashiers to call their customers by name, tell them how much they'd saved with their club card, and as a courtesy, ask if they needed help carrying their bags to their car.)
(Thus, I'd stop in after work for a salad and a few pieces of fried chicken, and as the cashier handed me my change, he would look down at the receipt, check how much I'd saved with my club card, get my name from the printout, and then say something like "You saved... 24 cents today, Mr... Sheck." Never pronounced my name right, not once. Now, what's worse "customer service:" stumbling over someone's name in an artificial attempt to Appear Friendly, or just being kind?)
(Of course, every now and then they'd add"Do you need help carrying that to the car, Mr. Sheck?")
(Oh, yeah... these two fried chicken thighs and four ounces of lettuce and shredded carrot are fucking BREAKING MY BACK, MAN!!!!!)
(At first, I felt afraid to go in... then I thought "I'll shop there; I just won't use my club card. That way they won't know who I am.")
(Then I finally realized: I DIDN'T HAVE TO SHOP THERE! And I never went back.)
(Henning's had better fried chicken anyway. See below.)
* A Giant Bonus Card.
(I always had a soft spot in my heart for Giant. Even though they were long ago bought out by a Swiss conglomerate, they started out as the Carlisle Food Market in my hometown, and their offices are still based there. Mom shops at Giant, so I did, too, for a while.)
* A business card from a guy who dated a girl I once had a crush on.
(All is forgiven, you prick. Ha, ha.)
* An Amtrak ticket stub from either November 6, 2005, or November 5, 2006. I think it might be 2005. Harrisburg to Philly. It must have been a trip to remember. I don't, though.
* An expired Hosteling International membership card.
("You saved... forty dollars on lodging today, Mr.... Sheek.")
* ANOTHER expired Hosteling International membership card.
* My expired and long-since-overdrawn Ambler Savings Debit Mastercard.
* An expired Paypal debit Mastercard.
* My Lansdale Public Library card. I think I returned everything that was due before I left town. It'd be totally in character, though, if I hadn't.
* An expired AAA card.
* My Guardian Dental Guard Preferred Network Plan ID card from my old job.
(Uh... about these pus-y gums...)
* Two ATM receipts
(One so old and faded that I can't even read the type; a second from a Visa gift card where I withdrew all of the available funds, apparently: $60.00 withdrawal, plus $2.00 "ATM Owner Fee" [that's always a cute one, isn't it? I am reminded of a Dead Kennedys lyric: "They just want your money/ They just want your consciousness/ They're a bunch of liars!" But I digress.] and under the $62.00 total, the cryptic line ACCOUNT ENDS. Indeed, it does.)
* An ID card from Keystone Health Plan East.
(Never used it, not once. Seriously, at least my ex- got her money's worth out of my insurance. One of us had to.)
* An Enterprise Rent-a-car card from Enterprise in Carlisle, given to me by the Chevy dealership in Carlisle after they pronounced my car dead last week.
(Funny: they always make these rental cars sound like such great deals... and then you get to the fine print. The best part of trying to rent a car last week was my call to Avis. "Thank you for calling Avis," the college kid on the other end of the line said, "where there are always cars available.")
("Yeah, I'm in Carlisle, and I need a one-way rental to Burlington, Vermont for tomorrow.")
(Long pause.)
("Uhhhh... could you please hold?")
(Another even longer pause.)
("Uh... hello... sir... we... actually... we have a shortage of cars today...")
(And that was the final word from the land where There Are Always Cars Available. And the next day, I was riding Amtrak.)
* The backing from my Keystone Health Plan East card, which I never read.
* Another freakin' Keystone Health Plan East card.
(If it had been as easy to get a referral as it had been to get a card, I might have used the card once or twice.)
* Two more health insurance cards: Personal Choice (why, thank you) and Blue Cross Prescription Program.
(Never... used... either... one. Do I get any money back?)
(Didn't think so.)
* Another business card from Enterprise, this one from Fort Washington, PA.
(This card has apparently been in my wallet for five years, because I remember when I rented a car from Enterprise... or tried to: my twentieth high school reunion, back in 2002. I had a debit card and they wouldn't rent a car to me. Apparently, when you try to rent a car with a debit card, they place a hold on your card for an amount that is more than any sane person would pay for a rental car.)
(But at least they always have cars available.)
* My handwritten instructions for accessing the voicemail on some long-ago phone number, written in pencil on half of a catalog card from the library.
* My dentist's business card. Think it's too late to call for an appointment?
* A laminated Ambler Savings account information card.
* A ticket stub from the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, for a show called "American Sublime."
(I swear I remember nothing about this show, except that I went with my friend Greg. We also went to the Mutter Museum, which, sadly, I remember vividly.)
* A 3x5 index card, folded in half, with the following written on the unruled side:
Hacksaw
Olive oil
Motown discs
------------
Edwin Starr?
Dustbuster plus
filter
Eureka Boss 402
filter
(Believe it or not, I know exactly what this note is: it's a shopping list for the Q-mart... the Quakertown Farmer's Market. I remember the rude woman at the vacuum repair stand as I tried to explain, with the EXACT MAKE AND MODEL NUMBER OF MY TWO VACUUMS, what I needed and she insisted no, this would work instead. After which I actually drove to WALMART to find what I needed.)
* An expired Amoco-BP credit card.
(I got six or seven fillups out of this one before I maxed it out.)
(That's a pun: Maxed it out. Ha, ha, ha.)
(BP-Amoco didn't think it was funny, either.)
* A Blockbuster membership card, from back when I had a working VCR.
* A Free Library Of Philadelphia card.
(When I was cleaning out boxes of books from my storage space, I came across a few long overdue library books from the Free Library, with due dates of 1993! I can't imagine they want them back, but I'll send them along anyway.)
* A Working Assets phone card.
(I think that this is the phone card for which I wrote down the voice mail instructions. This was yet another service that Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time. Then the bills came; they were more than I expected, and as happened so often the last fifteen years, it came down to a choice: pay the bill or eat. So I ate. I haven't been able to get long distance on my phone bill since. Another piece of karma that I hope to eradicate with this move.)
* My Bucks County Free Library Card.
(I worked at the library in Doylestown for close to four years, left for my job at Montgomery County Community College, always meant to go back and see all my old co-workers, but never did. Still feel bad about it... also feel bad about the two CDs from Doylestown I never returned: Merle Haggard's LAND OF MANY CHURCHES and Brian Wilson's eponymous 1988 debut solo album.)
O.K.... so that's what I pulled from my wallet and trashed... now, here's what stayed IN the wallet:
* My current Pennsylvania driver's license. The car is dead, but I'm still alive. This proves I am who I say I am, somehow.
* A small red paper heart that someone gave to me.
* The access phone number, PIN (which you should never write down) and instructions for my current long distance phone card (eKit, through AYH).
* My Borders Rewards card
(...which I always seemed to forget whenever I was buying books or CDs... and there it was, in my wallet the whole time, hiding between 8 different grocery store cards.)
(Which leads me to...)
* Henning's Market Preferred Customer Card and keychain card.
(I will probably never shop at Henning's again, and it breaks my heart. Henning's was my favorite grocery store in the Philly 'burbs. It's a family-owned, single-store-only supermarket in Harleysville, PA, and the selection and quality are better than any other local market, even if the prices are sometimes a little higher. I would sooner have driven 15 minutes to Henning's and paid a few cents more, knowing that my money was going into a truly local business, than walked six blocks to chainstore Acme and paid less for the same item. Which, incidentally, was never really "the same item," since Acme's quality was, in my experience, far inferior to Henning's.)
(Henning's also has a great buffet for breakfast, with UNLIMITED BACON, and great fried chicken and other comfort foods for supper. And fantastic coffee with unlimited refills. I spent many, many hours writing and revising while sitting on the mezzanine of their cafe. I daresay I wouldn't have finished my master's if it hadn't been for Henning's.)
(So, even though I will probably never shop there again, I am keeping their card in my wallet, as a reminder of one thing and place I will miss from the Philly burbs, even if the rest of my time there was, to quote Charles Emerson Winchester, "No memories; I blot it out as it happens.")
* Two stubs from Cardinal Camera in Lansdale.
(I dropped off two rolls of black and white film there about a month ago. Obviously, I won't be picking it up any time soon, but once I start working here and get some cash rolling in, I can send these slips to someone and have them pick up the pics for me.)
* A Tennessee Driver's License for Elvis A. Presley, address 3764 Elvis Presley Boulevard, Memphis, TN 38116. Expires 8-16-77.
(Why, the signature alone on this thing is probably worth a fortune!)
(And in a weird quirk of iTunes synchronicity, who came on my iTunes shuffle as I typed this paragraph? Elvis, singing "Paralyzed." What else?)
* Three baseball cards, in the wallet's photo protector sleeves: a 1992 Topps Stadium Club Cal Ripken, and 1982 Kellogg's 3D Phillies cards of Pete Rose and Mike Schmidt.
(Pete's gambling problems got him banned from the Hall of Fame, but he'll always have a place in my wallet.)
* More Amtrak ticket stubs, these from a train trip to Montreal in September 2002.
(I missed these; they should go on the other pile. No point in carrying them around with me everywhere.)
* The combination for the lock on my storage space at Carlisle Rent A Space.
(Which reminds me: I need to make a copy of my driver's license and mail it to them.)
* A card from artist Leo Sewell, www.leosewell.net, who makes the coolest sculptures out of found objects. I donated some junk to him; I hope he was able to use it.
* My shrink's card from Fort Washington.
(Margaret, I never told you this, but since I'm not seeing you anymore, I guess I can say it now: I loved you. You struck me as kind of a ditzball sometimes, yet every time I'd leave our appointments, at least one thing you said and often many, many more would resonate and I'd be transformed. I felt like we connected on a level that I really needed. [Plus, you're a hottie. There, I said it.] May our paths cross again someday. Without you, I would have never made this move.)
* Another photo protector with the following pictures and cards in it:
A picture of John Lennon standing in front of the Statue of Liberty, flashing the peace sign.
My ASCAP member card.
AGHHHHH! TWO MORE INSURANCE CARDS!! HOW'D THEY GET IN HERE??? TRASH!!
A picture of my Dad, my Grandpa and I, at my first wedding. Of all the pictures I own, this is the one I'm fondest of.
A picture of my friend Meg and her two daughters. Sigh. If only...
A picture of my part-Terrier, part-Lhasa Apso Pepper, may he rest in peace; a black and white shot I took of him for a summer photography class in high school. He's sitting on the wicker couch on the back porch, looking at a bird or squirrel or something in the yard.
A picture from my first wedding, of Stephanie and I walking down the aisle. From there, it was all downhill. Hate to sound like that, but even our honeymoon sucked. I should have known.
A picture of June, bathed in golden light. This picture was taken on a vacation in the Adirondacks.
Another picture of Meg, this one of her driving, taken by me in the shotgun seat.
* A 2006 wallet calendar reading ELECT BRAD M. DOLL MAGISTERIAL DISTRICT JUDGE. (But wait! There's more! Turn it over and it's TEST YOUR EYESIGHT. Two charts: "Hold this card at arm's length- 2 feet in front of your eyes. Test each eye separately.")
(This card is one reason I never used any of those insurance cards.)
* My current ATM and credit cards.
* Red Cross Blood Donor card
* Red Cross CPR and First Aid Certification, both expired.
* Baseball Hall of Fame membership card, with Bob Feller on the face. Free admission and ten percent off museum shop purchases.
* My current AAA card.
* A computer user card for Fletcher Free Library in Burlington. Since I can't get a library card yet (no permanent address), I have this.
* Perhaps the coolest item in my wallet is this next thing, but it's kind of a long story:
On the weekend of my 25th high school reunion, my friend Cris stayed with her family ("the time suckers") at a friend's apartment in Carlisle. The night of the reunion dinner, I walked over to the apartment to meet her and her husband so we could walk to the dinner... but they weren't ready yet. Her son (five years old) and daughter (12) answered the door, and the whole time I stood there listening to Cris explain that they'd be a little late, go ahead without them, they'd be over in about 45 minutes, her kids were EYING me...
When Cris and her husband finally made it to the dinner, Cris said, "Well, first of all, I had to explain to my son that no, you WEREN'T my date, and yes, I was still going to the dance with Daddy, we were still married... and then my daughter said 'Well, if he's going alone, he'll need to meet someone... and she's either going to be a wicked witch or a beautiful princess."
Which brings me to the Coolest Thing In My Wallet: a two-sided drawing, encased in a plastic baseball-card sleeve protector, that Cris' daughter drew for me, with a beautiful princess on one side, wide-eyed, surrounded by hearts, a flower clutched behind her back, and a wicked she-devil on the reverse, finger pointed scoldingly, forked tail and horns, scowling, surrounded by the fires of hell.
It reminds me of my friend and her family, true, but is also a tangible connection to her daughter, who is a writer. And, to get a little deeper, it also reminds me that much as I love my friends, they have identities and roles beyond being my friend. They need to be there for more people than just me. I keep that in mind any time I'm feeling neglected.
I wouldn't sell or trade this drawing for the world... and I can't wait for the next reunion, at which Cris' daughter will be 17, and this drawing may well be a valuable tool for embarrassment.
* My Temple University General Alumni association card. No expiration date on this one.
* My Goddard student ID.
* A Lifestyles condom. Hey, I can dream, can't I?
* The gift tag from the Christmas package that my sister wrapped this wallet in.
* An affirmation from an old (Monday, April 15, 2000-something) Louise Hay page-a-day calendar:
I let go of anything and everything that could delay my good in any way.
Like all the old useless shit in my wallet.
...until this morning. This morning, as I searched in vain for my social security card (which the Social Security Administration recommends you NOT keep in your wallet, incidentally), I decided to sort through all the junk in my wallet, which is now deflated to a limp, more manageable one inch thick. I may even be able to follow my mother's advice and PUT IT IN MY POCKET.
("That's a worry, Max... you carrying your wallet around in your hand like that.")
So... since I know you're dying to know, and since I know you'd ask if you, uh, CARED... here's what was in my wallet.
First, what I got rid of, in no particular order:
* Two PC reservation receipt slips from the Fletcher Library in Burlington.
(Seeing as I just moved to Burlington last Wednesday and first visited the library here last Thursday, these are obviously recent additions to the effluvia. But when I yanked the stack out of the envelope, they were on top, so...)
* Ticket stub from the Monday, July 31, 2006 showing of A HARD DAY'S NIGHT at the Ambler Theater.
(That was a great night. Ignoring for a second that I went to the movie ALONE, nonetheless it was a revival showing of the Beatles' first movie on a big screen. But the coolest thing about it was that the audience was about evenly divided between aging yuppies, first generation Beatlemaniacs and boomers, and KIDS... junior high and high school kids who were obviously as into the Beatles as I was at that age. Heartening. And a great movie, one that could just as easily have been made on July 30, 2006 as in 1964.)
* Two yellow DRIVER'S LICENSE UPDATE cards from Pennsylvania, both from long-ago moves, both long-since-expired.
* An ACME SuperCard Preferred Customer keychain card.
(Somehow these supermarket club keychain cards never made it onto my keychain. Just like I never really made it into Acme when I lived in Lansdale, even though there was one less than six blocks from my home. Reference Hennings Card below.)
* A 2006 Ambler Savings Bank wallet calendar, which I apparently picked up before my account was closed due to too-frequent overdrafts.
* The companion to the ACME Supercard Preferred Customer keychain card: the actual full-sized ACME Supercard Preferred Customer card.
* An expired Pennsylvania driver's license.
* Another ACME card.
(Sheez, you'd think I was Wile E. Coyote, the number of ACME cards I had. And again, like I said, I seldom shopped at the place. But when I did, I could always find a freakin' Supercard!)
* Another supermarket card, this one for Genuardi's.
(Genuardi's used to be a nice, small, family-owned supermarket chain in the Philly 'burbs... then Safeway bought them out, and they got all... how can I put it... customer service-y? Someone in Safeway Corporate wanted Genuardi's to look less like Safeway East and more like Your Friendly Hometown Market, and so they instructed the cashiers to call their customers by name, tell them how much they'd saved with their club card, and as a courtesy, ask if they needed help carrying their bags to their car.)
(Thus, I'd stop in after work for a salad and a few pieces of fried chicken, and as the cashier handed me my change, he would look down at the receipt, check how much I'd saved with my club card, get my name from the printout, and then say something like "You saved... 24 cents today, Mr... Sheck." Never pronounced my name right, not once. Now, what's worse "customer service:" stumbling over someone's name in an artificial attempt to Appear Friendly, or just being kind?)
(Of course, every now and then they'd add"Do you need help carrying that to the car, Mr. Sheck?")
(Oh, yeah... these two fried chicken thighs and four ounces of lettuce and shredded carrot are fucking BREAKING MY BACK, MAN!!!!!)
(At first, I felt afraid to go in... then I thought "I'll shop there; I just won't use my club card. That way they won't know who I am.")
(Then I finally realized: I DIDN'T HAVE TO SHOP THERE! And I never went back.)
(Henning's had better fried chicken anyway. See below.)
* A Giant Bonus Card.
(I always had a soft spot in my heart for Giant. Even though they were long ago bought out by a Swiss conglomerate, they started out as the Carlisle Food Market in my hometown, and their offices are still based there. Mom shops at Giant, so I did, too, for a while.)
* A business card from a guy who dated a girl I once had a crush on.
(All is forgiven, you prick. Ha, ha.)
* An Amtrak ticket stub from either November 6, 2005, or November 5, 2006. I think it might be 2005. Harrisburg to Philly. It must have been a trip to remember. I don't, though.
* An expired Hosteling International membership card.
("You saved... forty dollars on lodging today, Mr.... Sheek.")
* ANOTHER expired Hosteling International membership card.
* My expired and long-since-overdrawn Ambler Savings Debit Mastercard.
* An expired Paypal debit Mastercard.
* My Lansdale Public Library card. I think I returned everything that was due before I left town. It'd be totally in character, though, if I hadn't.
* An expired AAA card.
* My Guardian Dental Guard Preferred Network Plan ID card from my old job.
(Uh... about these pus-y gums...)
* Two ATM receipts
(One so old and faded that I can't even read the type; a second from a Visa gift card where I withdrew all of the available funds, apparently: $60.00 withdrawal, plus $2.00 "ATM Owner Fee" [that's always a cute one, isn't it? I am reminded of a Dead Kennedys lyric: "They just want your money/ They just want your consciousness/ They're a bunch of liars!" But I digress.] and under the $62.00 total, the cryptic line ACCOUNT ENDS. Indeed, it does.)
* An ID card from Keystone Health Plan East.
(Never used it, not once. Seriously, at least my ex- got her money's worth out of my insurance. One of us had to.)
* An Enterprise Rent-a-car card from Enterprise in Carlisle, given to me by the Chevy dealership in Carlisle after they pronounced my car dead last week.
(Funny: they always make these rental cars sound like such great deals... and then you get to the fine print. The best part of trying to rent a car last week was my call to Avis. "Thank you for calling Avis," the college kid on the other end of the line said, "where there are always cars available.")
("Yeah, I'm in Carlisle, and I need a one-way rental to Burlington, Vermont for tomorrow.")
(Long pause.)
("Uhhhh... could you please hold?")
(Another even longer pause.)
("Uh... hello... sir... we... actually... we have a shortage of cars today...")
(And that was the final word from the land where There Are Always Cars Available. And the next day, I was riding Amtrak.)
* The backing from my Keystone Health Plan East card, which I never read.
* Another freakin' Keystone Health Plan East card.
(If it had been as easy to get a referral as it had been to get a card, I might have used the card once or twice.)
* Two more health insurance cards: Personal Choice (why, thank you) and Blue Cross Prescription Program.
(Never... used... either... one. Do I get any money back?)
(Didn't think so.)
* Another business card from Enterprise, this one from Fort Washington, PA.
(This card has apparently been in my wallet for five years, because I remember when I rented a car from Enterprise... or tried to: my twentieth high school reunion, back in 2002. I had a debit card and they wouldn't rent a car to me. Apparently, when you try to rent a car with a debit card, they place a hold on your card for an amount that is more than any sane person would pay for a rental car.)
(But at least they always have cars available.)
* My handwritten instructions for accessing the voicemail on some long-ago phone number, written in pencil on half of a catalog card from the library.
* My dentist's business card. Think it's too late to call for an appointment?
* A laminated Ambler Savings account information card.
* A ticket stub from the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, for a show called "American Sublime."
(I swear I remember nothing about this show, except that I went with my friend Greg. We also went to the Mutter Museum, which, sadly, I remember vividly.)
* A 3x5 index card, folded in half, with the following written on the unruled side:
Hacksaw
Olive oil
Motown discs
------------
Edwin Starr?
Dustbuster plus
filter
Eureka Boss 402
filter
(Believe it or not, I know exactly what this note is: it's a shopping list for the Q-mart... the Quakertown Farmer's Market. I remember the rude woman at the vacuum repair stand as I tried to explain, with the EXACT MAKE AND MODEL NUMBER OF MY TWO VACUUMS, what I needed and she insisted no, this would work instead. After which I actually drove to WALMART to find what I needed.)
* An expired Amoco-BP credit card.
(I got six or seven fillups out of this one before I maxed it out.)
(That's a pun: Maxed it out. Ha, ha, ha.)
(BP-Amoco didn't think it was funny, either.)
* A Blockbuster membership card, from back when I had a working VCR.
* A Free Library Of Philadelphia card.
(When I was cleaning out boxes of books from my storage space, I came across a few long overdue library books from the Free Library, with due dates of 1993! I can't imagine they want them back, but I'll send them along anyway.)
* A Working Assets phone card.
(I think that this is the phone card for which I wrote down the voice mail instructions. This was yet another service that Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time. Then the bills came; they were more than I expected, and as happened so often the last fifteen years, it came down to a choice: pay the bill or eat. So I ate. I haven't been able to get long distance on my phone bill since. Another piece of karma that I hope to eradicate with this move.)
* My Bucks County Free Library Card.
(I worked at the library in Doylestown for close to four years, left for my job at Montgomery County Community College, always meant to go back and see all my old co-workers, but never did. Still feel bad about it... also feel bad about the two CDs from Doylestown I never returned: Merle Haggard's LAND OF MANY CHURCHES and Brian Wilson's eponymous 1988 debut solo album.)
O.K.... so that's what I pulled from my wallet and trashed... now, here's what stayed IN the wallet:
* My current Pennsylvania driver's license. The car is dead, but I'm still alive. This proves I am who I say I am, somehow.
* A small red paper heart that someone gave to me.
* The access phone number, PIN (which you should never write down) and instructions for my current long distance phone card (eKit, through AYH).
* My Borders Rewards card
(...which I always seemed to forget whenever I was buying books or CDs... and there it was, in my wallet the whole time, hiding between 8 different grocery store cards.)
(Which leads me to...)
* Henning's Market Preferred Customer Card and keychain card.
(I will probably never shop at Henning's again, and it breaks my heart. Henning's was my favorite grocery store in the Philly 'burbs. It's a family-owned, single-store-only supermarket in Harleysville, PA, and the selection and quality are better than any other local market, even if the prices are sometimes a little higher. I would sooner have driven 15 minutes to Henning's and paid a few cents more, knowing that my money was going into a truly local business, than walked six blocks to chainstore Acme and paid less for the same item. Which, incidentally, was never really "the same item," since Acme's quality was, in my experience, far inferior to Henning's.)
(Henning's also has a great buffet for breakfast, with UNLIMITED BACON, and great fried chicken and other comfort foods for supper. And fantastic coffee with unlimited refills. I spent many, many hours writing and revising while sitting on the mezzanine of their cafe. I daresay I wouldn't have finished my master's if it hadn't been for Henning's.)
(So, even though I will probably never shop there again, I am keeping their card in my wallet, as a reminder of one thing and place I will miss from the Philly burbs, even if the rest of my time there was, to quote Charles Emerson Winchester, "No memories; I blot it out as it happens.")
* Two stubs from Cardinal Camera in Lansdale.
(I dropped off two rolls of black and white film there about a month ago. Obviously, I won't be picking it up any time soon, but once I start working here and get some cash rolling in, I can send these slips to someone and have them pick up the pics for me.)
* A Tennessee Driver's License for Elvis A. Presley, address 3764 Elvis Presley Boulevard, Memphis, TN 38116. Expires 8-16-77.
(Why, the signature alone on this thing is probably worth a fortune!)
(And in a weird quirk of iTunes synchronicity, who came on my iTunes shuffle as I typed this paragraph? Elvis, singing "Paralyzed." What else?)
* Three baseball cards, in the wallet's photo protector sleeves: a 1992 Topps Stadium Club Cal Ripken, and 1982 Kellogg's 3D Phillies cards of Pete Rose and Mike Schmidt.
(Pete's gambling problems got him banned from the Hall of Fame, but he'll always have a place in my wallet.)
* More Amtrak ticket stubs, these from a train trip to Montreal in September 2002.
(I missed these; they should go on the other pile. No point in carrying them around with me everywhere.)
* The combination for the lock on my storage space at Carlisle Rent A Space.
(Which reminds me: I need to make a copy of my driver's license and mail it to them.)
* A card from artist Leo Sewell, www.leosewell.net, who makes the coolest sculptures out of found objects. I donated some junk to him; I hope he was able to use it.
* My shrink's card from Fort Washington.
(Margaret, I never told you this, but since I'm not seeing you anymore, I guess I can say it now: I loved you. You struck me as kind of a ditzball sometimes, yet every time I'd leave our appointments, at least one thing you said and often many, many more would resonate and I'd be transformed. I felt like we connected on a level that I really needed. [Plus, you're a hottie. There, I said it.] May our paths cross again someday. Without you, I would have never made this move.)
* Another photo protector with the following pictures and cards in it:
A picture of John Lennon standing in front of the Statue of Liberty, flashing the peace sign.
My ASCAP member card.
AGHHHHH! TWO MORE INSURANCE CARDS!! HOW'D THEY GET IN HERE??? TRASH!!
A picture of my Dad, my Grandpa and I, at my first wedding. Of all the pictures I own, this is the one I'm fondest of.
A picture of my friend Meg and her two daughters. Sigh. If only...
A picture of my part-Terrier, part-Lhasa Apso Pepper, may he rest in peace; a black and white shot I took of him for a summer photography class in high school. He's sitting on the wicker couch on the back porch, looking at a bird or squirrel or something in the yard.
A picture from my first wedding, of Stephanie and I walking down the aisle. From there, it was all downhill. Hate to sound like that, but even our honeymoon sucked. I should have known.
A picture of June, bathed in golden light. This picture was taken on a vacation in the Adirondacks.
Another picture of Meg, this one of her driving, taken by me in the shotgun seat.
* A 2006 wallet calendar reading ELECT BRAD M. DOLL MAGISTERIAL DISTRICT JUDGE. (But wait! There's more! Turn it over and it's TEST YOUR EYESIGHT. Two charts: "Hold this card at arm's length- 2 feet in front of your eyes. Test each eye separately.")
(This card is one reason I never used any of those insurance cards.)
* My current ATM and credit cards.
* Red Cross Blood Donor card
* Red Cross CPR and First Aid Certification, both expired.
* Baseball Hall of Fame membership card, with Bob Feller on the face. Free admission and ten percent off museum shop purchases.
* My current AAA card.
* A computer user card for Fletcher Free Library in Burlington. Since I can't get a library card yet (no permanent address), I have this.
* Perhaps the coolest item in my wallet is this next thing, but it's kind of a long story:
On the weekend of my 25th high school reunion, my friend Cris stayed with her family ("the time suckers") at a friend's apartment in Carlisle. The night of the reunion dinner, I walked over to the apartment to meet her and her husband so we could walk to the dinner... but they weren't ready yet. Her son (five years old) and daughter (12) answered the door, and the whole time I stood there listening to Cris explain that they'd be a little late, go ahead without them, they'd be over in about 45 minutes, her kids were EYING me...
When Cris and her husband finally made it to the dinner, Cris said, "Well, first of all, I had to explain to my son that no, you WEREN'T my date, and yes, I was still going to the dance with Daddy, we were still married... and then my daughter said 'Well, if he's going alone, he'll need to meet someone... and she's either going to be a wicked witch or a beautiful princess."
Which brings me to the Coolest Thing In My Wallet: a two-sided drawing, encased in a plastic baseball-card sleeve protector, that Cris' daughter drew for me, with a beautiful princess on one side, wide-eyed, surrounded by hearts, a flower clutched behind her back, and a wicked she-devil on the reverse, finger pointed scoldingly, forked tail and horns, scowling, surrounded by the fires of hell.
It reminds me of my friend and her family, true, but is also a tangible connection to her daughter, who is a writer. And, to get a little deeper, it also reminds me that much as I love my friends, they have identities and roles beyond being my friend. They need to be there for more people than just me. I keep that in mind any time I'm feeling neglected.
I wouldn't sell or trade this drawing for the world... and I can't wait for the next reunion, at which Cris' daughter will be 17, and this drawing may well be a valuable tool for embarrassment.
* My Temple University General Alumni association card. No expiration date on this one.
* My Goddard student ID.
* A Lifestyles condom. Hey, I can dream, can't I?
* The gift tag from the Christmas package that my sister wrapped this wallet in.
* An affirmation from an old (Monday, April 15, 2000-something) Louise Hay page-a-day calendar:
I let go of anything and everything that could delay my good in any way.
Like all the old useless shit in my wallet.
Monday, September 17, 2007
"It swells"
Well, I made it. I'm in Burlington... currently sleeping on an air mattress on the floor of an apartment at 227 Elmwood Avenue (stop by and see me sometime, why don'tcha?), looking for work, writing...
It feels good to be here. Feels right. I feel like I belong here. All I need to do is walk down Pearl Street to Battery Park and stand above Lake Champlain, and see the Adirondacks in the distance, and I know I'm where I should be.
I don't want to say it was tough getting here, but...
First of all, there was just the rigor of packing up an apartment's worth of belongings: boxing everything up to go into storage and moving it out, then cleaning the old place. As my ex- put it, "It swells. The longer you go, it swells." She was right; it did. As I posted on a message board I frequent, it seemed like for every box I filled, there were TWO boxes worth of stuff I didn't know what to do with, or where it came from. And it all had to go.
Then, added into the mix was that I had a storage space worth of things (mainly books and records, but also about 10 boxes of unsorted junk from previous moves) that needed consolidated, organized, thrown out, etc etc. I'd gone through 15 years of panic moveouts, starting with my escape from DC with Stephanie... and during nearly every one of those moveouts, when "it swelled," I found myself just tossing everything into boxes and just shutting the lids. "I'll deal with this later," I told myself.
I decided that before I left Pennsylvania for Vermont, later would be now. No more boxes of Stuff To Go Through Later. I went through all those boxes in storage and filled 15 trash bags with junk that I didn't need anymore; weeded through books and other belongings and had a yard sale; with the help of my parents and brother, packed it all into a U-haul and moved it into a storage space in Carlisle, PA; then came back and cleaned, filled the car with everything that was left (WAY too much), and drove back to Carlisle to put THAT stuff into storage and figure out what I needed to take along north with me.
Here was where it got fun.
I knew when I packed the car for my escape run from Lansdale that I had WAY too much in the car. Every inch of space was packed. I felt like an astronaut, literally shoehorned into the cabin. Before I left for Burlington, I'd need to narrow down what I really needed.
I thought I did a pretty good job, but when I got ready to leave on Monday, September 10th (my brother's birthday), I was once again shoehorned into the car. But I couldn't think of what I needed to leave behind. The underside of the car scraped as I pulled out of my parents' driveway, but as I drove north on I81, I felt like I'd escaped and was on my way north. I stopped at a rest stop north of Harrisburg and had lunch (a chicken sandwich that my Mom made for me), and as I got back on the highway, all seemed well: I had George Harrison's All Things Must Pass playing on the CD player, the engine was purring (I'd added two quarts of oil the night before) and the sun was shining bright.
Now let's go to my journal...
Well, it's about 1:30 on Monday and I am sitting on the side of the road in my car on I-81 northbound. I seemed to be purring along all right and the engine started to sputter and the oil light came on, so I pulled over. Called AAA- not sure what to do except go back to Carlisle. The car is packed- I mean PACKED...
Then, at the top of the next page, are three phone numbers. I'm not sure what the first one is, but the second one is Carlisle Auto Salvage, and the third is the phone number for the loan shark company that holds a lien on my car.
Back to my journal:
So... I packed the car full of my stuff and hit the road for Burlington at about 11 am yesterday (Monday)... stopped at a rest stop and had yunch (a chicked sandwich Mom packed for me) and then got back on the road... drove about 30 more miles and as I was coming up over a rise near exit 104, the engine kind of sputtered and then the OIL light came on... I pulled over onto the side of the road (because one thing I remember the CAR TALK guys saying was "when you see the OIL light come on, it means PULL OVER AND STOP THE ENGINE IMMEDIATELY. Which I did. And it stopped... and it will not be starting again. I didn't want to have the car towed back to Carlisle, but it's a good thing I did. According to the mechanic at Rufe (the Chevy dealership where Dad bought the car) the labor-cost involved in repairing it would be too great... and if a mechanic is saying that, you know it's a big job. Basically, because of the transverse mounted engine, in order to check and see what it is, they'd have to remove the engine... "and we could try one thing and it could be something else." So they said "Sell it for salvage."
So my car is dead.
So I'm renting a car.
Later. No, I'm not, apparently. I'm taking Amtrak. I am taking only what I need immediately. Once I start working up there and move into a more permanent place,
I didn't finish that sentence.
I'm pretty sure that what happened with my car was that I overloaded it and gave it the automotive equivalent of a heart attack! And while it was no great joy to sit broken down on the side of the road on I-81 on a downhill curve while 18-wheelers sped by me, or to have the car towed back to Carlisle and have the mechanic tell me "He's dead, Jim," or realize that whatever I'd be doing up north, I wouldn't be DRIVING, it was probably better for it to have broken down within the 100-miles-one-way-to-Carlisle-for-free-AAA-towing radius than somewhere further north, or once I'd gotten up here.
Things were lousy, but they could have been much, much, much worse. I had my family; Dad offered to pay for a rental car (too expensive) and I thought "Why not Amtrak?" So... Amtrak. God bless him and Mom: they helped pay for my moving van, DROVE the moving van to Lansdale from Carlisle and then BACK... then paid for my Amtrak ticket.
I wouldn't be up here if it hadn't been for their help.
So... the next day (Tuesday, September 11, a rainy day), I consolidated my belongings again: I had to take everything that I'd packed into the car and squeeze it down into four bags. I could only take along what I could carry on the train. And the next morning, Mom and Dad drove me to Harrisburg and dropped me off at the Amtrak station, where I caught a 5 am train to Philly to make connections with a later train north from 30th Street Station to Burlington.
One reason I felt like I needed to make the move was that, living in close proximity to home, I felt like it was too easy to be dependent on my parents for "help." And unfortunately, the last few years, I've needed a lot of "help," more than I felt a 43-year-old man should need. I love my parents, and I want to be in a position to help them. But I knew that if I stayed in Pennsylvania, within shouting distance, and tried to switch careers, they, of course, would be more than willing to offer help, and I would be more than willing to accept it. Something had to change.
Really, I feel like I had to move north to grow the rest of the way up. Whether or not that's what happens is another question entirely. But I no longer wanted to NEED them or EXPECT them to take care of me. I know that they probably will always want to, and I know that when I get to the point where I can take care of them (they're in their 70s, so it's coming soon), they probably will not want to accept. But it feels like that is the way it needs to be.
As I got on the train, I felt like a strand in the web of dependence was being cut. I love my Mom and Dad, but I've never really "left home." A lot of what I did since I graduated from college in 1986 was "for them." Moving to Vermont is for me... and, in the end, for them.
Back to my journal: after a few pages of notes and lists and phone numbers, there's a boxed-in note at the top of a fresh page, scrawled after I turned out the light on Tuesday night, and remembered something I'd forgotten to pack and didn't want to be without up north... I remember turing the light on and leaning over to the nightstand, reaching for a pen, and opening my notebook to the first clean page. Get one cup coffeemaker from box in basement.
And then, right below, the narrative picks up again:
OK... well, I got the one cup coffeemaker from the basement... and I'm sitting on the train... Mom + Dad, God bless 'em, drove me to Harrisburg to catch the 5 am to Philly so I can comfortably make connections in Philly. It's 455... the train leaves at 5... they're sitting on the platform. They kept offering to do things, carry things... Mom is fretting about everything, which is, I suppose, the way she handles things. Worrying gives her a handle on things that feel out of control to her, and my move north, I think, definitely feels "out of control" to both of them.
I wonder why I didn't adopt that way of doing things. I've got my own way.
The train just started moving. I'm on my way north. This time it feels real. Somehow on Monday when I was driving, it felt tentative. This time, I know I'm going to get there.
Elizabethtown. Still dark out.
It's so funny. When I left on Monday, I found myself thinking "It seems strange to leave Carlisle and not be going back east to Philly." And now, on the train, I'm going north through Philly.
Really didn't expect to be heading north quite like this. But in a big way, it's good. I need to have a minimum of stuff with me up there when I start out. Mobility is key. The car was packed full-- as full, really, as it was on my escape run from Lansdale. Going north now, I have five bags: a duffel with most of my clothing, a suitcase with my bedding,my computer backpack (stuffed with other things) and my "briefcase." (The fifth bag is a lunch that Mom packed!)
Mount Joy. Still dark out, although with the interior lights on, it's hard to tell, really. It's 5:25.
Anyway, taking the train, knowing that I really could only take along what I could carry, really forced me to think about what I needed. I couldn't take much that wasn't essential. And I didn't.
Symbolism, as I ponder the train heading east in the pre-dawn dark: I am heading out of darkness, leaving that life behind me.
Lancaster. 5:35. Lots of people boarding here. I'd guess that this is sort of the far western frontier for people who take Amtrak into Philly for work.
I wonder if there is any job that I'd take that could ever be worth a 90 minute commute twice a day? Or if my sense of home would ever be so strong that I'd rather do that than move closer to where I worked? The conundrum to me has always been: a lot of people who do that say that they love the area they live in, but then they spend so much time commuting and at work... do they get to enjoy it? But what constitutes "enjoyment"? Sometimes it's just the best feeling, when you've got one of those jobs, to feel like you've ESCAPED it... living in a remote (relatively speaking) area must feel like an anchor, a lifeline.
OK. Enough deep insights. It is 5:45- Mom made me three ham + cheese sandwiches, and I am now eating sandwich number one. Good, like a Mom Sandwich always is, with mustard and yellow American and butter on a grainy whole wheat kaiser roll.
This train is COLD.
Parkesburg. Sky is getting light.
I just looked at my tickets. Train arrives in Philly at 6:45; train for Vermont is scheduled to leave at 9:58! I didn't read the schedule carefully enough, apparently.
No, I did. I took the earlier train because I knew if I took a later train, I'd have only a half hour to make connections (and who knows what could happen with Amtrak); I figured better to have extra time than maybe run late and miss my connection north. Also, I didn't want to wrestle with four heavy bags on a later (rush hour) train.
Back to my journal...
Exton. 6:10 AM. In the southeast sky, there's a bright morning star. Venus? Mars?
Before I got into the car in Carlisle, I stepped out front of the house and took a look up at the stars. I felt like I'd be back someday.
It's weird how I feel like I need to do this in order to do that (come back eventually).
Paoli. 6:20.
I will miss having a car. I wouldn't have made it the last five years without one. I'm grateful and glad that I had it. But I wonder how much longer it would have lasted if it'd made it up there. There were other problems with it- it needed new shocks; there was an inexplicable ringing rattle coming from the rear driver's side every time I hit a bump; Dave (my mechanic--m) told me there was some kind of joint in the front wheels that needed replaced; he also said that when I got it inspected, it'd need a new catalytic converter to pass the emissions test... Again, it forces me to move up there and be (relatively) mobile, starting out. If I'd taken everything I had in that car, I'd be saddled... and if the car broke down after I'd made it up there with all that stuff, what then?
What I have is heavy and it's a lot to carry, but I can carry it.
Passing, but not stopping at, Rosemont. The train just crossed over the Blue Route a few minutes ago. It's 6:35; the sky is almost all the way bright.
Ardmore. The temperature on a Citizen's Bank sign we just passed read 65 degrees.
Cutting through West Philly now. The sky in the east is bright orange. It's 6:40. Five minutes to 30th Street.
O.K... it's around 7:15. I got a cup of coffee at Dunkin Donuts and I'm sitting at one of the tables off the concourse in the station.
Now it's around 9:10: two cups of decaf, a corn muffin, two newspapers a walk to the bathroom and around the concourse, a stop at the post office, and a long letter to June later, it's just about time to go get my bags from the baggage storage counter.
And now I am officially leaving. I am on the train to Vermont, heading north... leaving Philadelphia on the same tracks that I would sometimes take out of the city (when I lived here)... Running parallel to I-95, and just crossed Rt. 73... Cottman Avenue down here, but Skippack Pike where I was.
It is a beautiful bright clear blue day. Sunlight is shimmering off the surface of the Delaware- gorgeous. We are approaching Trenton.
A perfect day for new beginnings... and yet as I sit here plotting what will happen next, I find my mind thinking "OK, well, if I don't have my security deposit in hand by the end of the month, I'll just ask Mom and Dad for an advance against it..." NO! That is exactly the thinking and pattern I am moving up here to break. That I must let go now. There will be no calling home for money. I need to start bringing in money to take care of myself right away, as in this weekend. That will make me feel better.
The universe wants me to succeed at this, I am convinced. But my part is to release and bless the past, and follow my faith in good, not my fear of lack.
11 am. Coming up on Newark. In the distance, I can see the Empire State Building and the NYC skyline. Pretty, in its way.
God bless Mom and the lunch she packed me. Those whole wheat rolls are awesome. It's 11:05 and I'm eating sammich #2 now.
11;12. Secaucus.
The Empire State Building being the tallest, most dominant bulding in the New York skyline... that is as it should be.
Now in a tunnel, probably pasing under the Hudson.
12:15. The sunlight on the NYC skyline was gorgeous as we left NYC. Now in Connecticut: Greenwich... Cos Cob... Stamford is next.
12:40. The train is parallelling US Rt. 1... where I started out, a few hundred miles south and a few hundred years ago, with Steph in Alexandria, VA.
Pulling into Bridgeport (CT) now. I wish I had a map to chart my progress north.
Stratford CT now. I wonder how far inland we are. There are a lot of rivers that look like tidal inlets.
When I step back for a moment and really look at what I'm doing, I kind of can't believe that I'm doing it.
1:05. New Haven, CT. A brief layover; I ran down into the station to get a Coke and get Joe a birthday card.
Wallingford - Chris' Bar next to the RR tracks... one of the four neons in the windows is a "Yankees Game Time" Budweiser sign, with a colorful neon Yankees logo, and the other three are a Coors light, Miller Lite, and another Budweiser neon with, of all things, a Steelers logo in neon. In Connecticut.
I'm reading Shawn's Name The Boy. Wow.
2:05; Berlin, CT. Lovely old restored red brick train station.
2:20. Hartford. Another lovely old train station, this one red cut stone.
I'm four stories into Name The Boy. I really liked "Foolish Fire"... and the voices in "Clam Alley." Love the way he pieces the narrative together from the different characters' perspectives; love his sense of humor and his use of humor to pull the reader into the story. Some passages made me laugh out loud, and then a couple pages later, I've been hooked into this deep, serious scene. He doesn't sustain humor throughout, but kind of uses it as a device to soften the reader up and make his characters worthy of sympathy and empathy.
Themes and devices: drinking, men as soldiers. Characters are gritty but not in a charming way. Flawed.
Springfield, MA. Just passed the basketball hall of fame. Why here?
The tracks are running between I-91 and some river.
3:55. Had to switch seats; the train switched tracks and reversed direction, so I was going backwards. Kind of disorienting, so I crossed the aisle.
5:00. Crossed the aisle again, so now I'm back on the side I started on, but facing the sun. On the sunset side. Wow.
The train is going to be delayed at least an hour.
7:50. Just pulled out of White River Junction.
Reading a collection of letters of Thoreau's entitled Letters To A Spiritual Seeker. Why I love Thoreau: he writes this long passage which begins "Be not anxious to avoid poverty. In this way the wealth of the universe may be securely obtained," after which is a paragraph-long discourse on the "laws of earth" vs. "the laws of heaven." "Happy the man," he wraps up the paragraph, "who observes the heavenly and the terrestrial law in just proportion; whose every faculty, from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, obeys the law of its level; who neither stoops nor goes on tiptoe, but lives a balanced life, acceptable to nature and to God."
Right?
But then the next line in the letter is this:
"These things I say; other things I do."
HA! THAT is why I love Thoreau.
9:05. Approaching Montpelier.
You know what's funny? Right before the engine died on Monday, I was thinking about my phone call to (WRTI DJ) Harrison Ridley, Jr. last Sunday. Sunday, Sept 2, the last Sunday I was in Lansdale, I went out for a ride in the car and was listening to Harrison Ridley while I rode. He was featuring Max Roach- great be-bop stuff. Anyway, I thought "Man, this is the last night I'm gonna be local... I need to call him." So I did... he answered in that voice, and I said "Harrison Ridley, I've been listening to your show for years and I'm finally calling in. I'm moving to Vermont and I won't be able to listen anymore." And he said, "Well, we gon' have to stoip that movement!" And we bantered back and forth a little bit... he said "You'll have to write or call from up there and let us know how it goes," and how he hated to lose a loyal listener.
Anyway... like I said, right before the engine sputtered and the OIL light came on, just a minute or so before the car's engine went into the automotive equivalent of cardiac arrest, I swear I was thinking of him saying that, and may in fact have said it aloud: "Well, we gon' have to stop that movement."
Coincidence? Some would say.
Curse? Highly unlikely.
Synchronicity? Definitely.
An act of creative thought in action? Could be.
All I know is, I don't take shit like that lightly, and am considering it a cautionary episode.
Just have to add in here that, no, I don't believe for a second that Harrison Ridley put a hex on my move. What I'm saying is, I repeated it just before the car broke down. That's all. Nothing but a big Hmmmmmm.
Anyway...
9:27. Just pulled out of Waterbury. The conductor said 27 minutes to Essex Junction, which is... the end of the line for me. My new home. Wow.
Now I am really getting nervous. As in: I'm really doing it. "I am moving to Burlington" actually becomes "I am in Burlington" in less than a half an hour.
God bless my new life and my new way of doing things. I let go of my past failures and past successes, and I move forward with joy, love, faith and awareness.
Wow.
O.K. I'm here. The air mattress is inflated. Time to sleep. More tomorrow.
I have arrived.
And now, six days later, here I sit, at the Fletcher Library on College Street in Burlington, ready to resume my job hunt, ready to hunker down and write. I feel like I know what Henry Miller meant when he said "I have no money, no job, no prospects. I am the happiest man alive."
More later. I have to go get lunch and make some phone calls.
It feels good to be here. Feels right. I feel like I belong here. All I need to do is walk down Pearl Street to Battery Park and stand above Lake Champlain, and see the Adirondacks in the distance, and I know I'm where I should be.
I don't want to say it was tough getting here, but...
First of all, there was just the rigor of packing up an apartment's worth of belongings: boxing everything up to go into storage and moving it out, then cleaning the old place. As my ex- put it, "It swells. The longer you go, it swells." She was right; it did. As I posted on a message board I frequent, it seemed like for every box I filled, there were TWO boxes worth of stuff I didn't know what to do with, or where it came from. And it all had to go.
Then, added into the mix was that I had a storage space worth of things (mainly books and records, but also about 10 boxes of unsorted junk from previous moves) that needed consolidated, organized, thrown out, etc etc. I'd gone through 15 years of panic moveouts, starting with my escape from DC with Stephanie... and during nearly every one of those moveouts, when "it swelled," I found myself just tossing everything into boxes and just shutting the lids. "I'll deal with this later," I told myself.
I decided that before I left Pennsylvania for Vermont, later would be now. No more boxes of Stuff To Go Through Later. I went through all those boxes in storage and filled 15 trash bags with junk that I didn't need anymore; weeded through books and other belongings and had a yard sale; with the help of my parents and brother, packed it all into a U-haul and moved it into a storage space in Carlisle, PA; then came back and cleaned, filled the car with everything that was left (WAY too much), and drove back to Carlisle to put THAT stuff into storage and figure out what I needed to take along north with me.
Here was where it got fun.
I knew when I packed the car for my escape run from Lansdale that I had WAY too much in the car. Every inch of space was packed. I felt like an astronaut, literally shoehorned into the cabin. Before I left for Burlington, I'd need to narrow down what I really needed.
I thought I did a pretty good job, but when I got ready to leave on Monday, September 10th (my brother's birthday), I was once again shoehorned into the car. But I couldn't think of what I needed to leave behind. The underside of the car scraped as I pulled out of my parents' driveway, but as I drove north on I81, I felt like I'd escaped and was on my way north. I stopped at a rest stop north of Harrisburg and had lunch (a chicken sandwich that my Mom made for me), and as I got back on the highway, all seemed well: I had George Harrison's All Things Must Pass playing on the CD player, the engine was purring (I'd added two quarts of oil the night before) and the sun was shining bright.
Now let's go to my journal...
Well, it's about 1:30 on Monday and I am sitting on the side of the road in my car on I-81 northbound. I seemed to be purring along all right and the engine started to sputter and the oil light came on, so I pulled over. Called AAA- not sure what to do except go back to Carlisle. The car is packed- I mean PACKED...
Then, at the top of the next page, are three phone numbers. I'm not sure what the first one is, but the second one is Carlisle Auto Salvage, and the third is the phone number for the loan shark company that holds a lien on my car.
Back to my journal:
So... I packed the car full of my stuff and hit the road for Burlington at about 11 am yesterday (Monday)... stopped at a rest stop and had yunch (a chicked sandwich Mom packed for me) and then got back on the road... drove about 30 more miles and as I was coming up over a rise near exit 104, the engine kind of sputtered and then the OIL light came on... I pulled over onto the side of the road (because one thing I remember the CAR TALK guys saying was "when you see the OIL light come on, it means PULL OVER AND STOP THE ENGINE IMMEDIATELY. Which I did. And it stopped... and it will not be starting again. I didn't want to have the car towed back to Carlisle, but it's a good thing I did. According to the mechanic at Rufe (the Chevy dealership where Dad bought the car) the labor-cost involved in repairing it would be too great... and if a mechanic is saying that, you know it's a big job. Basically, because of the transverse mounted engine, in order to check and see what it is, they'd have to remove the engine... "and we could try one thing and it could be something else." So they said "Sell it for salvage."
So my car is dead.
So I'm renting a car.
Later. No, I'm not, apparently. I'm taking Amtrak. I am taking only what I need immediately. Once I start working up there and move into a more permanent place,
I didn't finish that sentence.
I'm pretty sure that what happened with my car was that I overloaded it and gave it the automotive equivalent of a heart attack! And while it was no great joy to sit broken down on the side of the road on I-81 on a downhill curve while 18-wheelers sped by me, or to have the car towed back to Carlisle and have the mechanic tell me "He's dead, Jim," or realize that whatever I'd be doing up north, I wouldn't be DRIVING, it was probably better for it to have broken down within the 100-miles-one-way-to-Carlisle-for-free-AAA-towing radius than somewhere further north, or once I'd gotten up here.
Things were lousy, but they could have been much, much, much worse. I had my family; Dad offered to pay for a rental car (too expensive) and I thought "Why not Amtrak?" So... Amtrak. God bless him and Mom: they helped pay for my moving van, DROVE the moving van to Lansdale from Carlisle and then BACK... then paid for my Amtrak ticket.
I wouldn't be up here if it hadn't been for their help.
So... the next day (Tuesday, September 11, a rainy day), I consolidated my belongings again: I had to take everything that I'd packed into the car and squeeze it down into four bags. I could only take along what I could carry on the train. And the next morning, Mom and Dad drove me to Harrisburg and dropped me off at the Amtrak station, where I caught a 5 am train to Philly to make connections with a later train north from 30th Street Station to Burlington.
One reason I felt like I needed to make the move was that, living in close proximity to home, I felt like it was too easy to be dependent on my parents for "help." And unfortunately, the last few years, I've needed a lot of "help," more than I felt a 43-year-old man should need. I love my parents, and I want to be in a position to help them. But I knew that if I stayed in Pennsylvania, within shouting distance, and tried to switch careers, they, of course, would be more than willing to offer help, and I would be more than willing to accept it. Something had to change.
Really, I feel like I had to move north to grow the rest of the way up. Whether or not that's what happens is another question entirely. But I no longer wanted to NEED them or EXPECT them to take care of me. I know that they probably will always want to, and I know that when I get to the point where I can take care of them (they're in their 70s, so it's coming soon), they probably will not want to accept. But it feels like that is the way it needs to be.
As I got on the train, I felt like a strand in the web of dependence was being cut. I love my Mom and Dad, but I've never really "left home." A lot of what I did since I graduated from college in 1986 was "for them." Moving to Vermont is for me... and, in the end, for them.
Back to my journal: after a few pages of notes and lists and phone numbers, there's a boxed-in note at the top of a fresh page, scrawled after I turned out the light on Tuesday night, and remembered something I'd forgotten to pack and didn't want to be without up north... I remember turing the light on and leaning over to the nightstand, reaching for a pen, and opening my notebook to the first clean page. Get one cup coffeemaker from box in basement.
And then, right below, the narrative picks up again:
OK... well, I got the one cup coffeemaker from the basement... and I'm sitting on the train... Mom + Dad, God bless 'em, drove me to Harrisburg to catch the 5 am to Philly so I can comfortably make connections in Philly. It's 455... the train leaves at 5... they're sitting on the platform. They kept offering to do things, carry things... Mom is fretting about everything, which is, I suppose, the way she handles things. Worrying gives her a handle on things that feel out of control to her, and my move north, I think, definitely feels "out of control" to both of them.
I wonder why I didn't adopt that way of doing things. I've got my own way.
The train just started moving. I'm on my way north. This time it feels real. Somehow on Monday when I was driving, it felt tentative. This time, I know I'm going to get there.
Elizabethtown. Still dark out.
It's so funny. When I left on Monday, I found myself thinking "It seems strange to leave Carlisle and not be going back east to Philly." And now, on the train, I'm going north through Philly.
Really didn't expect to be heading north quite like this. But in a big way, it's good. I need to have a minimum of stuff with me up there when I start out. Mobility is key. The car was packed full-- as full, really, as it was on my escape run from Lansdale. Going north now, I have five bags: a duffel with most of my clothing, a suitcase with my bedding,my computer backpack (stuffed with other things) and my "briefcase." (The fifth bag is a lunch that Mom packed!)
Mount Joy. Still dark out, although with the interior lights on, it's hard to tell, really. It's 5:25.
Anyway, taking the train, knowing that I really could only take along what I could carry, really forced me to think about what I needed. I couldn't take much that wasn't essential. And I didn't.
Symbolism, as I ponder the train heading east in the pre-dawn dark: I am heading out of darkness, leaving that life behind me.
Lancaster. 5:35. Lots of people boarding here. I'd guess that this is sort of the far western frontier for people who take Amtrak into Philly for work.
I wonder if there is any job that I'd take that could ever be worth a 90 minute commute twice a day? Or if my sense of home would ever be so strong that I'd rather do that than move closer to where I worked? The conundrum to me has always been: a lot of people who do that say that they love the area they live in, but then they spend so much time commuting and at work... do they get to enjoy it? But what constitutes "enjoyment"? Sometimes it's just the best feeling, when you've got one of those jobs, to feel like you've ESCAPED it... living in a remote (relatively speaking) area must feel like an anchor, a lifeline.
OK. Enough deep insights. It is 5:45- Mom made me three ham + cheese sandwiches, and I am now eating sandwich number one. Good, like a Mom Sandwich always is, with mustard and yellow American and butter on a grainy whole wheat kaiser roll.
This train is COLD.
Parkesburg. Sky is getting light.
I just looked at my tickets. Train arrives in Philly at 6:45; train for Vermont is scheduled to leave at 9:58! I didn't read the schedule carefully enough, apparently.
No, I did. I took the earlier train because I knew if I took a later train, I'd have only a half hour to make connections (and who knows what could happen with Amtrak); I figured better to have extra time than maybe run late and miss my connection north. Also, I didn't want to wrestle with four heavy bags on a later (rush hour) train.
Back to my journal...
Exton. 6:10 AM. In the southeast sky, there's a bright morning star. Venus? Mars?
Before I got into the car in Carlisle, I stepped out front of the house and took a look up at the stars. I felt like I'd be back someday.
It's weird how I feel like I need to do this in order to do that (come back eventually).
Paoli. 6:20.
I will miss having a car. I wouldn't have made it the last five years without one. I'm grateful and glad that I had it. But I wonder how much longer it would have lasted if it'd made it up there. There were other problems with it- it needed new shocks; there was an inexplicable ringing rattle coming from the rear driver's side every time I hit a bump; Dave (my mechanic--m) told me there was some kind of joint in the front wheels that needed replaced; he also said that when I got it inspected, it'd need a new catalytic converter to pass the emissions test... Again, it forces me to move up there and be (relatively) mobile, starting out. If I'd taken everything I had in that car, I'd be saddled... and if the car broke down after I'd made it up there with all that stuff, what then?
What I have is heavy and it's a lot to carry, but I can carry it.
Passing, but not stopping at, Rosemont. The train just crossed over the Blue Route a few minutes ago. It's 6:35; the sky is almost all the way bright.
Ardmore. The temperature on a Citizen's Bank sign we just passed read 65 degrees.
Cutting through West Philly now. The sky in the east is bright orange. It's 6:40. Five minutes to 30th Street.
O.K... it's around 7:15. I got a cup of coffee at Dunkin Donuts and I'm sitting at one of the tables off the concourse in the station.
Now it's around 9:10: two cups of decaf, a corn muffin, two newspapers a walk to the bathroom and around the concourse, a stop at the post office, and a long letter to June later, it's just about time to go get my bags from the baggage storage counter.
And now I am officially leaving. I am on the train to Vermont, heading north... leaving Philadelphia on the same tracks that I would sometimes take out of the city (when I lived here)... Running parallel to I-95, and just crossed Rt. 73... Cottman Avenue down here, but Skippack Pike where I was.
It is a beautiful bright clear blue day. Sunlight is shimmering off the surface of the Delaware- gorgeous. We are approaching Trenton.
A perfect day for new beginnings... and yet as I sit here plotting what will happen next, I find my mind thinking "OK, well, if I don't have my security deposit in hand by the end of the month, I'll just ask Mom and Dad for an advance against it..." NO! That is exactly the thinking and pattern I am moving up here to break. That I must let go now. There will be no calling home for money. I need to start bringing in money to take care of myself right away, as in this weekend. That will make me feel better.
The universe wants me to succeed at this, I am convinced. But my part is to release and bless the past, and follow my faith in good, not my fear of lack.
11 am. Coming up on Newark. In the distance, I can see the Empire State Building and the NYC skyline. Pretty, in its way.
God bless Mom and the lunch she packed me. Those whole wheat rolls are awesome. It's 11:05 and I'm eating sammich #2 now.
11;12. Secaucus.
The Empire State Building being the tallest, most dominant bulding in the New York skyline... that is as it should be.
Now in a tunnel, probably pasing under the Hudson.
12:15. The sunlight on the NYC skyline was gorgeous as we left NYC. Now in Connecticut: Greenwich... Cos Cob... Stamford is next.
12:40. The train is parallelling US Rt. 1... where I started out, a few hundred miles south and a few hundred years ago, with Steph in Alexandria, VA.
Pulling into Bridgeport (CT) now. I wish I had a map to chart my progress north.
Stratford CT now. I wonder how far inland we are. There are a lot of rivers that look like tidal inlets.
When I step back for a moment and really look at what I'm doing, I kind of can't believe that I'm doing it.
1:05. New Haven, CT. A brief layover; I ran down into the station to get a Coke and get Joe a birthday card.
Wallingford - Chris' Bar next to the RR tracks... one of the four neons in the windows is a "Yankees Game Time" Budweiser sign, with a colorful neon Yankees logo, and the other three are a Coors light, Miller Lite, and another Budweiser neon with, of all things, a Steelers logo in neon. In Connecticut.
I'm reading Shawn's Name The Boy. Wow.
2:05; Berlin, CT. Lovely old restored red brick train station.
2:20. Hartford. Another lovely old train station, this one red cut stone.
I'm four stories into Name The Boy. I really liked "Foolish Fire"... and the voices in "Clam Alley." Love the way he pieces the narrative together from the different characters' perspectives; love his sense of humor and his use of humor to pull the reader into the story. Some passages made me laugh out loud, and then a couple pages later, I've been hooked into this deep, serious scene. He doesn't sustain humor throughout, but kind of uses it as a device to soften the reader up and make his characters worthy of sympathy and empathy.
Themes and devices: drinking, men as soldiers. Characters are gritty but not in a charming way. Flawed.
Springfield, MA. Just passed the basketball hall of fame. Why here?
The tracks are running between I-91 and some river.
3:55. Had to switch seats; the train switched tracks and reversed direction, so I was going backwards. Kind of disorienting, so I crossed the aisle.
5:00. Crossed the aisle again, so now I'm back on the side I started on, but facing the sun. On the sunset side. Wow.
The train is going to be delayed at least an hour.
7:50. Just pulled out of White River Junction.
Reading a collection of letters of Thoreau's entitled Letters To A Spiritual Seeker. Why I love Thoreau: he writes this long passage which begins "Be not anxious to avoid poverty. In this way the wealth of the universe may be securely obtained," after which is a paragraph-long discourse on the "laws of earth" vs. "the laws of heaven." "Happy the man," he wraps up the paragraph, "who observes the heavenly and the terrestrial law in just proportion; whose every faculty, from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, obeys the law of its level; who neither stoops nor goes on tiptoe, but lives a balanced life, acceptable to nature and to God."
Right?
But then the next line in the letter is this:
"These things I say; other things I do."
HA! THAT is why I love Thoreau.
9:05. Approaching Montpelier.
You know what's funny? Right before the engine died on Monday, I was thinking about my phone call to (WRTI DJ) Harrison Ridley, Jr. last Sunday. Sunday, Sept 2, the last Sunday I was in Lansdale, I went out for a ride in the car and was listening to Harrison Ridley while I rode. He was featuring Max Roach- great be-bop stuff. Anyway, I thought "Man, this is the last night I'm gonna be local... I need to call him." So I did... he answered in that voice, and I said "Harrison Ridley, I've been listening to your show for years and I'm finally calling in. I'm moving to Vermont and I won't be able to listen anymore." And he said, "Well, we gon' have to stoip that movement!" And we bantered back and forth a little bit... he said "You'll have to write or call from up there and let us know how it goes," and how he hated to lose a loyal listener.
Anyway... like I said, right before the engine sputtered and the OIL light came on, just a minute or so before the car's engine went into the automotive equivalent of cardiac arrest, I swear I was thinking of him saying that, and may in fact have said it aloud: "Well, we gon' have to stop that movement."
Coincidence? Some would say.
Curse? Highly unlikely.
Synchronicity? Definitely.
An act of creative thought in action? Could be.
All I know is, I don't take shit like that lightly, and am considering it a cautionary episode.
Just have to add in here that, no, I don't believe for a second that Harrison Ridley put a hex on my move. What I'm saying is, I repeated it just before the car broke down. That's all. Nothing but a big Hmmmmmm.
Anyway...
9:27. Just pulled out of Waterbury. The conductor said 27 minutes to Essex Junction, which is... the end of the line for me. My new home. Wow.
Now I am really getting nervous. As in: I'm really doing it. "I am moving to Burlington" actually becomes "I am in Burlington" in less than a half an hour.
God bless my new life and my new way of doing things. I let go of my past failures and past successes, and I move forward with joy, love, faith and awareness.
Wow.
O.K. I'm here. The air mattress is inflated. Time to sleep. More tomorrow.
I have arrived.
And now, six days later, here I sit, at the Fletcher Library on College Street in Burlington, ready to resume my job hunt, ready to hunker down and write. I feel like I know what Henry Miller meant when he said "I have no money, no job, no prospects. I am the happiest man alive."
More later. I have to go get lunch and make some phone calls.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Following dreams...
I have to pass on a link to this blog post by my buddy Skip Heller, from his Myspace page, for two reasons: one, he starts out with a reference to Artie Shaw, which is a great way to get my attention; and two, what he writes kind of reflects the same frame of mind I found myself in as I prepared to make my move north to Vermont.
Now I'm here, and it's something different entirely: good, like I expected, but in a different way. It's not the dream of Vermont; it's reality.
I haven't really written much on here about the actual move itself and I don't know if I will. All I know is I wanted to move north, and now here I am, in Burlington. Life right now is about taking it from there.
Now I'm here, and it's something different entirely: good, like I expected, but in a different way. It's not the dream of Vermont; it's reality.
I haven't really written much on here about the actual move itself and I don't know if I will. All I know is I wanted to move north, and now here I am, in Burlington. Life right now is about taking it from there.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Great moments in writing
Ever work as a dishwasher? Ever wonder how you should word it on your resume, so that it doesn't sound like what it actually was ("Cleaning dirty dishes for a low salary because I just needed to take whatever job I could find in a pinch, plus it was nice to get a shift meal every day")?
Try this; it's from a job description for a dishwasher job at a hotel in South Burlington, Vermont. I found it in an online posting at Jobsinvt.com.
The first sign of P.R. Writer Trouble in this posting is the use of the word "team" ("We are looking for a person to join our Kitchen team as a Dishwasher"); then, after the requisite "flexible shifts, weekends required," we get to the meat of the listing: the job description.
This person will be responsible to maintain an orderly dishwashing area and to coordinate with fellow employees an efficient flow of dishes, silver, glass, etc. through the dishwasher machine.
My only problem with this, really, is that "Dishwasher" sounds so... plebeian. I am thinking more of something like "Coordinator, Dish services," or "Supervisor, Food Service Implement Decontamination."
Something that someone who's never washed dishes for a quick buck (like, I'd guess, the author of this ad) would be proud (or not embarrassed) to put on their resume.
Like there's any shame in doing what you need to do to survive.
Try this; it's from a job description for a dishwasher job at a hotel in South Burlington, Vermont. I found it in an online posting at Jobsinvt.com.
The first sign of P.R. Writer Trouble in this posting is the use of the word "team" ("We are looking for a person to join our Kitchen team as a Dishwasher"); then, after the requisite "flexible shifts, weekends required," we get to the meat of the listing: the job description.
This person will be responsible to maintain an orderly dishwashing area and to coordinate with fellow employees an efficient flow of dishes, silver, glass, etc. through the dishwasher machine.
My only problem with this, really, is that "Dishwasher" sounds so... plebeian. I am thinking more of something like "Coordinator, Dish services," or "Supervisor, Food Service Implement Decontamination."
Something that someone who's never washed dishes for a quick buck (like, I'd guess, the author of this ad) would be proud (or not embarrassed) to put on their resume.
Like there's any shame in doing what you need to do to survive.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
AOL Welcome Screen Headline of the Week
(for week ending September 1, 2007)
No contest this week:
Grandma Skydives, Loses Teeth
The runner-up is not as funny, but more typical...
13 Foods That May Speed Death
Puh-lease.
No contest this week:
Grandma Skydives, Loses Teeth
The runner-up is not as funny, but more typical...
13 Foods That May Speed Death
Puh-lease.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Don't You Think It's Odd?
Did you know that the theme from The Odd Couple has LYRICS?? I didn't... or I did, but sometime between when I copied the lyrics from a songbook (1999) and today, when I found the copy in a box of effluvia I pulled from a storage space, I forgot it.
Is it just me, or are they best forgotten? To wit:
No matter where they go
They are known as the couple
They're never seen alone
So they're known as the couple
As I've indicated
They are never quite separated
They are peas in a pod
Don't you think that it's odd?
Their habits I confess
None can guess with the couple
If one says no it's yes
More or less, with the couple
But they're laugh-provoking
Yet they really don't know they're joking
Don't you find
When love is blind
It's kind of odd
Don't you think it's odd?
Don't you think it's odd?
Don't you think it's odd?
From the pen of Sammy Cahn, the man who brought us "Teach Me Tonight," which I find one of the most annoying "standards" in the New Real Book. "The Odd Couple," though, makes "Teach Me Tonight" sound like a Shakespeare sonnet.
Back to packing and pitching...
Is it just me, or are they best forgotten? To wit:
No matter where they go
They are known as the couple
They're never seen alone
So they're known as the couple
As I've indicated
They are never quite separated
They are peas in a pod
Don't you think that it's odd?
Their habits I confess
None can guess with the couple
If one says no it's yes
More or less, with the couple
But they're laugh-provoking
Yet they really don't know they're joking
Don't you find
When love is blind
It's kind of odd
Don't you think it's odd?
Don't you think it's odd?
Don't you think it's odd?
From the pen of Sammy Cahn, the man who brought us "Teach Me Tonight," which I find one of the most annoying "standards" in the New Real Book. "The Odd Couple," though, makes "Teach Me Tonight" sound like a Shakespeare sonnet.
Back to packing and pitching...
Thursday, August 23, 2007
AOL Welcome Screen Headline of the Week
(for week ending Thursday August 23, 2007; I'm closing this week's competition a day early.)
This week's winner, a two-tiered headline from Monday, has it all: breathy mention of (let's face it) a b-list celebrity in the first line, followed by a teaser question in the subhead. I'd say, all told, that this beauty is the prototypical AOL Welcome Screen headline:
Accident on Tom Cruise Set Hurts 11
Did Anyone Famous Fall Out Of Truck?
The runner-up was no slouch, either... I daresay that any other week, this one would have run away with the prize:
Celebs Get Fat, Too, You Know
By the way, the AOL Welcome Screen Headline I've been waiting for the past two weeks is:
Try AOL'S new webmail!
Get dialup speed and inconvenience no matter what your connection!
Really... effin'... excruciating... trying to access my web mail the past two weeks... on a broadband connection, no less.
And it's not just me... do a google using the words SLOW AOL WEB MAIL.
Congratulations to all our winners :-)
This week's winner, a two-tiered headline from Monday, has it all: breathy mention of (let's face it) a b-list celebrity in the first line, followed by a teaser question in the subhead. I'd say, all told, that this beauty is the prototypical AOL Welcome Screen headline:
Accident on Tom Cruise Set Hurts 11
Did Anyone Famous Fall Out Of Truck?
The runner-up was no slouch, either... I daresay that any other week, this one would have run away with the prize:
Celebs Get Fat, Too, You Know
By the way, the AOL Welcome Screen Headline I've been waiting for the past two weeks is:
Try AOL'S new webmail!
Get dialup speed and inconvenience no matter what your connection!
Really... effin'... excruciating... trying to access my web mail the past two weeks... on a broadband connection, no less.
And it's not just me... do a google using the words SLOW AOL WEB MAIL.
Congratulations to all our winners :-)
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Full circle
There are certain moments in life that you never forget. One such moment, for me, was a phone call in autumn 1993, at my apartment in west Philly. A year earlier, my first wife, Stephanie, and I had moved up to Carlisle (my hometown) from Washington DC; the previous four years, she'd pursued her undergrad studies at American University while I worked at whatever job I could to pay our bills. It was a rough marriage: we were both immature, with issues that we took out on each other, verbally and physically. It should have ended much sooner than it did, but when it ended was when we made the move to PA: she went to her mother's house and stayed there, and we were done. I felt cheated and robbed and betrayed: I'd helped to put her through school; now it was my turn (part of the plan in the move was that she'd work while I got my teaching licensure) and she was gone.
We were both big babies, acting like big babies. It was a bad time, bad relationship, bad all around.
When we moved back to Carlisle, we didn't take everything we owned along with us. A lot of our furniture and other belongings were in a $50-a-month space in Alexandria, VA, at American Self Storage. I kept up on the payments for a couple months, until Steph said that she and her family would go down and get our stuff some weekend. In the meantime, I sent her checks to pay for the storage, which I got back, endorsed by her and signed over to a guy she had met and would eventually marry.
So the storage was taken care of. I thought.
On that autumn night in 1993, though, about a year after we made our move and I'd last seen her, the phone conversation eventually came around to the storage. "Well," I said, thinking of the backs of the cancelled checks with Steph's PAY TO THE ORDER OF (Strange New Man) and then, underneath, (Strange New Man)'s signature, "you got the checks I sent you for the storage, right?"
"What checks for the storage?"
"The checks I sent you. To pay for the storage."
"I thought you were paying the storage."
In that moment, I realized that I'd lost it. Boxes and boxes of my history: journals... notebooks... letters from family and friends and girls I'd had crushes on... books... records... my moon globe that my parents got me when Apollo 11 landed and that I'd had in my bedroom as a kid... furniture that had been handed down to me... my high school yearbooks... all gone.
There was silence while we both processed what she was saying, and realized what it meant.
I asked her why she thought I'd sent her checks for the EXACT AMOUNT OF THE STORAGE if they weren't for the storage.
"I just thought you were sending me money" was the answer.
And then "You mean all my stuff is gone?"
So now it was About Her, and not in a Well I guess I really fucked this up for both of us way, either. Screaming and shouting ensued--one last marital argument, for old time's sake--and she hung up on me.
And from there...
The last 15 years have not been easy. I've felt, in many ways, like I've been climbing out of a dark hole. There have been good moments, but that conversation with Steph was like the last straw, the last numbing moment of five years of hell with her. In many ways, I've been reeling, numb, and trying to recover ever since. It's only really been in the past two or three years that I've finally started to shake all of it and come out into the light, so to speak: finished a novel, got my masters, and now, finally, have decided to move to Vermont because it feels right... it feels like where I need to be.
So...
Two weekends ago, at my 25th high school reunion picnic, a bunch of my classmates and I were talking about old yearbooks, and I mentioned offhand "Well, I don't have my yearbooks anymore..." and Sherri, one of my classmates, said, sort of incredulously, "HOW do you lose your yearbooks?"
"Well," I said, "let me TELL you how: you put all of your high school and college things into a shared storage space with your wife... then you break up with her... and you send her money to help pay for the storage, which she doesn't keep up on... and the next thing you know, they're cleaning out the space and your stuff is gone."
Before Sherri could even say "Awwww..." (I could tell she felt bad, but she's not really an AWWWW type!), Sally, another of our classmates, said "You know, they sell copies of our yearbook at Bedford Street Antiques downtown."
"Really?"
"Yeah. They're only, like, twenty-five bucks. They have all different years. My mom was class of '49 and we got hers there. But, yeah, they have both our junior and senior yearbooks there... around twenty-five bucks."
I didn't have time to get over to Bedford Street Antiques before they closed that afternoon, but I told my Mom and Dad about the shop, and asked them if they could go down and see...
... and today when I came home from work, there was a big padded white envelope stuck in my mailbox. I tore the top of the mailer open: a familiar book from 25 years ago...
1982 ORACLE, the green letters on the white cover read. My senior year high school yearbook... no signatures... pristine.
How fitting that I would get a clean copy of my long-lost senior yearbook back at a time when I'm preparing to move to a new state, to start a new life.
I feel like a 15-year-old curse has been lifted... that a cycle of darkness that began around the time of that phone call has come full circle and has finally ended.
Maybe next I'll get my hands on another moon globe.
We were both big babies, acting like big babies. It was a bad time, bad relationship, bad all around.
When we moved back to Carlisle, we didn't take everything we owned along with us. A lot of our furniture and other belongings were in a $50-a-month space in Alexandria, VA, at American Self Storage. I kept up on the payments for a couple months, until Steph said that she and her family would go down and get our stuff some weekend. In the meantime, I sent her checks to pay for the storage, which I got back, endorsed by her and signed over to a guy she had met and would eventually marry.
So the storage was taken care of. I thought.
On that autumn night in 1993, though, about a year after we made our move and I'd last seen her, the phone conversation eventually came around to the storage. "Well," I said, thinking of the backs of the cancelled checks with Steph's PAY TO THE ORDER OF (Strange New Man) and then, underneath, (Strange New Man)'s signature, "you got the checks I sent you for the storage, right?"
"What checks for the storage?"
"The checks I sent you. To pay for the storage."
"I thought you were paying the storage."
In that moment, I realized that I'd lost it. Boxes and boxes of my history: journals... notebooks... letters from family and friends and girls I'd had crushes on... books... records... my moon globe that my parents got me when Apollo 11 landed and that I'd had in my bedroom as a kid... furniture that had been handed down to me... my high school yearbooks... all gone.
There was silence while we both processed what she was saying, and realized what it meant.
I asked her why she thought I'd sent her checks for the EXACT AMOUNT OF THE STORAGE if they weren't for the storage.
"I just thought you were sending me money" was the answer.
And then "You mean all my stuff is gone?"
So now it was About Her, and not in a Well I guess I really fucked this up for both of us way, either. Screaming and shouting ensued--one last marital argument, for old time's sake--and she hung up on me.
And from there...
The last 15 years have not been easy. I've felt, in many ways, like I've been climbing out of a dark hole. There have been good moments, but that conversation with Steph was like the last straw, the last numbing moment of five years of hell with her. In many ways, I've been reeling, numb, and trying to recover ever since. It's only really been in the past two or three years that I've finally started to shake all of it and come out into the light, so to speak: finished a novel, got my masters, and now, finally, have decided to move to Vermont because it feels right... it feels like where I need to be.
So...
Two weekends ago, at my 25th high school reunion picnic, a bunch of my classmates and I were talking about old yearbooks, and I mentioned offhand "Well, I don't have my yearbooks anymore..." and Sherri, one of my classmates, said, sort of incredulously, "HOW do you lose your yearbooks?"
"Well," I said, "let me TELL you how: you put all of your high school and college things into a shared storage space with your wife... then you break up with her... and you send her money to help pay for the storage, which she doesn't keep up on... and the next thing you know, they're cleaning out the space and your stuff is gone."
Before Sherri could even say "Awwww..." (I could tell she felt bad, but she's not really an AWWWW type!), Sally, another of our classmates, said "You know, they sell copies of our yearbook at Bedford Street Antiques downtown."
"Really?"
"Yeah. They're only, like, twenty-five bucks. They have all different years. My mom was class of '49 and we got hers there. But, yeah, they have both our junior and senior yearbooks there... around twenty-five bucks."
I didn't have time to get over to Bedford Street Antiques before they closed that afternoon, but I told my Mom and Dad about the shop, and asked them if they could go down and see...
... and today when I came home from work, there was a big padded white envelope stuck in my mailbox. I tore the top of the mailer open: a familiar book from 25 years ago...
1982 ORACLE, the green letters on the white cover read. My senior year high school yearbook... no signatures... pristine.
How fitting that I would get a clean copy of my long-lost senior yearbook back at a time when I'm preparing to move to a new state, to start a new life.
I feel like a 15-year-old curse has been lifted... that a cycle of darkness that began around the time of that phone call has come full circle and has finally ended.
Maybe next I'll get my hands on another moon globe.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Boxes, boxes, boxes
As I go through the rigor and ritual of packing up my apartment and making a big move, a monologue from Jerry Seinfeld keeps rolling through my mind:
"When you're moving your whole world becomes boxes. That's all you think about is boxes. 'Boxes, where are there boxes?' You just wander down the street going in and out of stores. 'Are there boxes here? Have you seen any boxes?' I mean it's all you think about. You can't even talk to people because you can't concentrate. 'Shut up! I'm looking for boxes!'
"After a while you become like you can smell them. You walk into a store: 'There's boxes here. Don't tell me you don't have boxes! Dammit, I can SMELL them!...'
"You could be at a funeral. Everyone's mourning crying around, and you're looking at the casket: 'Hmmmm... that's a nice box... Does anyone know where that guy got that box? When he's done with it do you think I could get that? It's got some nice handles on it...'
"And that's what death is really. It's the last big move of your life. The hearse is like the van. The pallbearers are your close friends... the only ones you could ask to help you with a big move like that. And the casket is that one perfect box you've been waiting for your whole life!
"The only problem is: once you find it, you're in it."
"When you're moving your whole world becomes boxes. That's all you think about is boxes. 'Boxes, where are there boxes?' You just wander down the street going in and out of stores. 'Are there boxes here? Have you seen any boxes?' I mean it's all you think about. You can't even talk to people because you can't concentrate. 'Shut up! I'm looking for boxes!'
"After a while you become like you can smell them. You walk into a store: 'There's boxes here. Don't tell me you don't have boxes! Dammit, I can SMELL them!...'
"You could be at a funeral. Everyone's mourning crying around, and you're looking at the casket: 'Hmmmm... that's a nice box... Does anyone know where that guy got that box? When he's done with it do you think I could get that? It's got some nice handles on it...'
"And that's what death is really. It's the last big move of your life. The hearse is like the van. The pallbearers are your close friends... the only ones you could ask to help you with a big move like that. And the casket is that one perfect box you've been waiting for your whole life!
"The only problem is: once you find it, you're in it."
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