The NFL Labor impasse ended last week. It was written about in all the newspapers. But it was written more eloquently on the face of Blakely Feld, who sits next to me in my Mass Media in Society Class.
Blakely, a 21-year co-ed from Alabama, fairly bounced into class that Monday afternoon, smiling broadly.
“The lock-out is over!’’ she said. “I’m so excited!’’
No doubt, NFL fans everywhere were excited when the NFL owners and players reached an agreement on a 10-year collective bargaining agreement, insuring that the 2011-12 season will proceed without delay or interruption.
Even so, few of us have what you would call a vested interest in the matter.
And that sets Blakely Feld, who will finish her undergraduate degree in Communications/Public Relations next week, apart from most of us. Blakely Feld met a boy soon after arriving at Mississippi State four years ago, an MSU football player, it turns out. They were married last year.
Her husband, Aaron Feld, is not a household name, not even on the MSU campus. You won't find his name on an All-American list or even on the All-SEC team. He was never a team captain and hardly ever was deemed important enough to be interviewed during his years at MSU.
And yet Feld is one of the few MSU players who will have a chance to join that elite group of people who can call themselves NFL players.
Feld’s opportunity relies on one simple skill: He snaps a football. Feld has snapped the ball for MSU on kicks and punts since his freshman year. That tells you one very important – you could say essential – fact. He has done his job consistently well.
And for snappers, doing their job consistently well is the critical factor. Other players can miss an assignment or make a mistake without jeopardizing their careers, provided their successes exceed their failures.
But snappers have no room for error. During a typical game, they’ll snap the ball maybe a dozen times and, if all goes as expected, hardly anyone will note their performance. But one bad snap can alter the outcome of a game. You mess up as a snapper and your job prospects cloud considerably.
When I first met Blakely and she told me about her husband, I asked her if she had read the book, “The Long Snapper.’’ She said she had heard of it, but hadn’t read it. I told her I had the book, but when I got home I realized that book was in storage at my sister’s house in Tupelo.
The book is about former LSU football player Brian Kinchen, who has spent 13 seasons in the NFL, primarily in the role of long snapper. The story begins with Kinchen back in his native Lousiana, teaching at a middle school and out of the game for three years.
In December of 2003, The New England Patriots lost their long snapper a few days before the playoffs started and called Kinchen for a tryout. The story follows Kinchen’s experience with the Patriots, from beating out another long snapper who had been called in for a tryout to the Super Bowl, where – as fate would have it – Kinchen, tormented by fears he would make a critical mistake, was called upon to make a snap on what proved to be the game-winning field goal.
“I need to read that book,’’ Blakely Feld after I told her what the book was about.
In the days after the lockout ended, Blakely gave us regular updates on her husband’s situation. There were several teams who had expressed some interest in signing her husband to a free-agent contract. She seemed equally excited about each team. Even the thought of her husband playing in frigid Buffalo seemed wonderful to her, although she did fret about her inadequate wardrobe for such a harsh climate.
Then, last Thursday, Blakely sorta levitated her way into class.
“He signed with Tampa Bay!’’ she squealed.
Blakely is s sweet girl, and it was fun to see her so excited.
Now, I have no idea how her story will turn out. The fact is that half of the players under contract today will be out of a job within a month. Tampa’s long-snapper last year was injured, so there is an opening for the job. But there are, of course, no guarantees and I am certain that Feld won’t be in the only long-snapper the Bucs will be auditioning this month. It’s not a sure thing but any means.
Of course, that is a possibility I am sure Blakely Feld is well aware of. And if she was not aware, there was no inclination on my part to point out the sobering prospects.
By the middle of the week, Blakely Feld will finish school and fly to Tampa to join her husband at training camp. How long the Felds will be there, I don’t know.
I’d like to think that her husband will get the job and have a long career. If he does, he’ll make probably in the neighborhood of $350,000 per year, which is a heckuva lot better pay than most recent graduates could even hope to make.
But he may also find that his NFL dream lasted only a few short weeks.
In either case, I think the Felds will do just fine. They are young, in love and both have college degrees. It’s probably a long shot, this NFL dream. But it’s a shot.
If it doesn’t work out, the Felds will have to find a new dream, even if the new dream seems dull by comparison to this one.
But life is like that sometimes.
Whether it is love or a career or any number of things that shape a person’s life here on earth, you have to let go of an old dream before you can dream a new one.
That’s been my experience, at least.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
July 10: "Joy''
A few of you have noted that presence of a certain fetching brunette on my Facebook photo gallery, whose company I am enjoying of late.
Her name is Joy and she lives in Alabama, about 20 miles from Columbus near a town whose name mysteriously evades me, even though I’ve been through it several times on visits to see her and I’ve heard the name of the town many, many times since Joy and I began seeing each other about six weeks ago. It starts with a “C’’ and, somehow, I can never remember the name of the town. There may be some pathology associated with this. I find that I am mystified by meaningless things these days.
For example, I had a Spanish test on Friday. In that test, we were supposed to conjugate verbs in the past tense according to the “fill in the blank’’ sentence. We were given the verb in English, so we had to know the Spanish verb and be able to conjugate it according to person, gender and number. As fate would have it, the one verb I could not recall wound up in three different questions. It was the verb “to arrive.’’ I guessed “salir’’ and conjugated the verb accordingly in each of the questions. But I am not sure at all that “salir’’ is the Spanish verb for “to arrive.’’
And two days later, I’m still not sure what the verb is. You would think I would have looked it up, but oddly enough I haven’t. Last night, I dreamed about whether “salir’’ is or isn’t the Spanish verb for “to arrive.’’ I cannot tell you how often I have worried over this matter during the past 48 hours. And yet, even now, I don’t look it up.
So, yes, I may have some “mental health’’ issues.
But my mental state is not the purpose of this post. The purpose of the post is to tell you about my new friend.
As I said, her name is Joy. I have no idea what the town is where she lives. I’m pretty sure it’s not “Salir, Alabama’’ though.
The first thing you might notice about Joy, should you meet her, is that she is tall and lean. She says she’s 5-11. I say she’s 6-foot. We went to dinner last week and she wore heels. She TOWERED over me and I’m 5-foot-11.
She is the youngest of four girls and lives in a little house that is part of her family’s 140-acre spread.
She is an independent contractor, an expert on nuclear power plants and has been all over the U.S. and the world with her work. In a decidedly man’s world, she commands respect.
That’s one side of her.
The other side of Joy is revealed only when she is back “home’’ in Alabama. The woman works like field hand – she can handle any repair job you can think of. She’s comfortable with almost any tool or piece of equipment you put in front of her and it’s not uncommon to see her soaked with sweat and smiling through an inch of dust and grime from a long day’s work on “the property.’’ She can shoot a deer, catch a fish, build a duck blind, drive a tractor and bush-hog a field.
And yet, she can knock your eyes out in a cocktail dress and rock a bikini in a way that women 20 years younger can only envy. She is bronzed from the sun and strong from hard manual labor. But she is in every way as feminine as any model.
In fact, she was a model. She was featured in magazines and sales fliers and was the month of May in a “Girls of LSU’’ swimsuit calendar in the mid-80s when she was living in Baton Rouge, even though she never attended a class at LSU (She got her degree from MUW).
She is a woman of remarkable energy; a vibrant, passionate, caring woman.
And she likes me, which I find as perplexing as Spanish verbs.
Her name is Joy and she lives in Alabama, about 20 miles from Columbus near a town whose name mysteriously evades me, even though I’ve been through it several times on visits to see her and I’ve heard the name of the town many, many times since Joy and I began seeing each other about six weeks ago. It starts with a “C’’ and, somehow, I can never remember the name of the town. There may be some pathology associated with this. I find that I am mystified by meaningless things these days.
For example, I had a Spanish test on Friday. In that test, we were supposed to conjugate verbs in the past tense according to the “fill in the blank’’ sentence. We were given the verb in English, so we had to know the Spanish verb and be able to conjugate it according to person, gender and number. As fate would have it, the one verb I could not recall wound up in three different questions. It was the verb “to arrive.’’ I guessed “salir’’ and conjugated the verb accordingly in each of the questions. But I am not sure at all that “salir’’ is the Spanish verb for “to arrive.’’
And two days later, I’m still not sure what the verb is. You would think I would have looked it up, but oddly enough I haven’t. Last night, I dreamed about whether “salir’’ is or isn’t the Spanish verb for “to arrive.’’ I cannot tell you how often I have worried over this matter during the past 48 hours. And yet, even now, I don’t look it up.
So, yes, I may have some “mental health’’ issues.
But my mental state is not the purpose of this post. The purpose of the post is to tell you about my new friend.
As I said, her name is Joy. I have no idea what the town is where she lives. I’m pretty sure it’s not “Salir, Alabama’’ though.
The first thing you might notice about Joy, should you meet her, is that she is tall and lean. She says she’s 5-11. I say she’s 6-foot. We went to dinner last week and she wore heels. She TOWERED over me and I’m 5-foot-11.
She is the youngest of four girls and lives in a little house that is part of her family’s 140-acre spread.
She is an independent contractor, an expert on nuclear power plants and has been all over the U.S. and the world with her work. In a decidedly man’s world, she commands respect.
That’s one side of her.
The other side of Joy is revealed only when she is back “home’’ in Alabama. The woman works like field hand – she can handle any repair job you can think of. She’s comfortable with almost any tool or piece of equipment you put in front of her and it’s not uncommon to see her soaked with sweat and smiling through an inch of dust and grime from a long day’s work on “the property.’’ She can shoot a deer, catch a fish, build a duck blind, drive a tractor and bush-hog a field.
And yet, she can knock your eyes out in a cocktail dress and rock a bikini in a way that women 20 years younger can only envy. She is bronzed from the sun and strong from hard manual labor. But she is in every way as feminine as any model.
In fact, she was a model. She was featured in magazines and sales fliers and was the month of May in a “Girls of LSU’’ swimsuit calendar in the mid-80s when she was living in Baton Rouge, even though she never attended a class at LSU (She got her degree from MUW).
She is a woman of remarkable energy; a vibrant, passionate, caring woman.
And she likes me, which I find as perplexing as Spanish verbs.
Monday, June 6, 2011
June 6: "Estudiante''
I’m not sure what I expected summer school to be.
Whatever it was, it was wrong.
As of Monday, I have now attended each of my two classes – Spanish I and History of the U.S. After World War II – four times. Already, I’ve had one major test (in Spanish) and two quizzes (history) with my first essay due on Wednesday and my second Spanish test on Thursday.
What I am discovering if that summer school is not day camp. It’s work, and lots of it - daily reading assignments in history and web assignments for Spanish, which are due on Friday each week.
Unlike the classes I took during the spring semester, you never had a day between classes to finish your assigned work. When you have assigned reading on Tuesday, you had better be able to discuss in on Wednesday.
Far more than is the case during the spring semester, summer school requires daily homework.
I guess, had I thought about it, I would have understood why it must be so. Obviously, when you are compressing a semester’s worth of material into fewer than five weeks, the pace is accelerated. In fact, by the end of the week, I’ll be 40 percent finish with the courses.
One benefit of summer school – small classes. There are 16 students in my Spanish class, just 12 in my history class.
I am really enjoying the history class, since it touches on a subject that I had already gravitated toward. About a month ago, I finished reading David Halberstam’s “The Best and the Brightest,’’ a masterful examination of how the U.S. became hopelessly, tragically entangled in Vietnam.
And just this week, I finished reading Michael Korda’s “ Ike: An American Hero’’ a thorough, if fawning, biography of Dwight Eisenhower.
Both books are of obvious relevance to the course.
There is another cause for optimism as far as the course is concerned: All the quizzes and tests are essay-style. In fact, our three main tests and the Final are really three-page essays that we get to write from home, using our notes, on the day before the test is due. I’ve always felt that essay-writing plays to my strength, so I feel very confident about this class.
Spanish is going well, too, although the pace is alarming. Still, I’ve picked up enough Spanish in my years in Arizona to have at least mastered things like pronunciation.
I’ve also met a couple of friend in the class – Lauren is 22 and from Tupelo; Susan is 31 and is a grad student from Belmont. We meet at the library on the night before tests to study.
Hasta luego!
Whatever it was, it was wrong.
As of Monday, I have now attended each of my two classes – Spanish I and History of the U.S. After World War II – four times. Already, I’ve had one major test (in Spanish) and two quizzes (history) with my first essay due on Wednesday and my second Spanish test on Thursday.
What I am discovering if that summer school is not day camp. It’s work, and lots of it - daily reading assignments in history and web assignments for Spanish, which are due on Friday each week.
Unlike the classes I took during the spring semester, you never had a day between classes to finish your assigned work. When you have assigned reading on Tuesday, you had better be able to discuss in on Wednesday.
Far more than is the case during the spring semester, summer school requires daily homework.
I guess, had I thought about it, I would have understood why it must be so. Obviously, when you are compressing a semester’s worth of material into fewer than five weeks, the pace is accelerated. In fact, by the end of the week, I’ll be 40 percent finish with the courses.
One benefit of summer school – small classes. There are 16 students in my Spanish class, just 12 in my history class.
I am really enjoying the history class, since it touches on a subject that I had already gravitated toward. About a month ago, I finished reading David Halberstam’s “The Best and the Brightest,’’ a masterful examination of how the U.S. became hopelessly, tragically entangled in Vietnam.
And just this week, I finished reading Michael Korda’s “ Ike: An American Hero’’ a thorough, if fawning, biography of Dwight Eisenhower.
Both books are of obvious relevance to the course.
There is another cause for optimism as far as the course is concerned: All the quizzes and tests are essay-style. In fact, our three main tests and the Final are really three-page essays that we get to write from home, using our notes, on the day before the test is due. I’ve always felt that essay-writing plays to my strength, so I feel very confident about this class.
Spanish is going well, too, although the pace is alarming. Still, I’ve picked up enough Spanish in my years in Arizona to have at least mastered things like pronunciation.
I’ve also met a couple of friend in the class – Lauren is 22 and from Tupelo; Susan is 31 and is a grad student from Belmont. We meet at the library on the night before tests to study.
Hasta luego!
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
May 31: "Law school?''
It’s been a month since the end of my first semester back in school. During that time, I’ve been working at a convenience store and worrying – needlessly, it turns out – about whether I would get the financial aid required to attend summer school. I’ve also been waiting for Mississippi State to release the President’s List.
I will confess that I’ve been sort of glorying in finishing the spring semester with a 4.0 GPA. I don’t really need the President’s List notification to confirm this – it’s a part of my student record now – but being on the list somehow makes it seem more official.
But Wednesday, I begin summer school classes, so this is probably a pretty good time to put last semester behind me. If you know me, you realize I have a strong tendency to sort of live in the past, mostly to my detriment. Most of that past, at least for the past five years, has been a painful memory. Even the things that began sweetly and still stir my heart, ended badly. And I can’t seem to give that up entirely.
So shifting my focus to what lies ahead is not as easy as you might assume. I just can’t seem to let well enough alone, as the saying goes.
But there is good reason to look forward.
About a month ago, I met a beautiful, talented, smart woman. I won’t go into any other details because it’s always been my policy on this blog to protect the privacy of those people I meet for whom a fair amount of privacy is in order.
But I will say that this woman is an attorney and through out conversations, an idea has emerged – an idea that is almost as frightening as it is exciting.
This woman – I’ll call her Lisa – is an attorney. In fact, she went to Law School in her late 30s after working as a bank examiner for many years.
Law School. I confess that I’ve been toying with the idea ever since my Media Law professor at MSU suggested that I had “missed my calling.’’
And in some respects, my interest in Law goes back to my childhood. I remember as a child, the Daily Journal ran a syndicated “Ask the Lawyer’’ type column. I would cut these articles out of the paper, consider the question and the answer supplied and think about why the lawyer gave the advice he gave. I liked the idea of being a lawyer.
But somewhere along the way, I got the writing bug and I can’t say my interest in Law was something that stayed with me, at least not consciously.
But now, as I consider my future, I wonder if going to Law School might be a worthy pursuit. I have to confess that writing briefs and making arguments before the court has an enormous appeal. Of course, like any job, the good stuff is often a small part of the job. The practice of law is mostly drudgery. Then again, what isn’t? We endure the drudgery to get to the “good stuff,’’ in almost every occupation.
But there are some serious obstacles I would have to clear if I were to go off in this direction. Some are practical, others psychological.
Practically speaking, I would have to assume even more debt to go to Law School. I figure, I’d be anywhere from $50,000 to $70,000 in the hole at the end of the process.
You could look at that as an investment in my future, I suppose. But at the same time, could I make enough as a practicing lawyer to pay back those loans? There’s a saying that goes, “Some artists deserve to starve!’’ and the same applies to attorneys. Lord knows, there is no shortage of them and Lord knows there are an awful lot of them that are making next to nothing.
So if were to make the commitment to becoming a lawyer, I’d have to be a successful one, and that means long, long hours for lots of years. I have always dreamed that someday, I’d spend my “Golden Years’’ enjoying myself to some degree, doing a bit of traveling, working in the yard, playing golf, visiting my as yet-to-be-born grandkids.
But it looks as though I’ll be working hard until I drop. Of course, this is likely no matter what occupation I chose.
Becoming an attorney would also mean finding a firm that would hire a middle-aged recent Law School grad with a felony record or, failing that, the ability to develop my own clients, which is also a risky venture.
Of course, I could be getting ahead of myself. First, I’d have to take the LSAT (the exam that all prospective Law School candidates must take before admission) and knock it out of the park. I’d have to score very, very high.
The main reason for that is my academic record. My years of being an indifferent student are coming back to haunt me in this regard. By my calculations, the best GPA I could finish with would be a 3.47, which is pretty good – unless you are applying for law school. In that case, it’s near the bottom. To compensate for that “low’’ GPA, I’d have to ace the LSAT.
And, of course, there is the matter of even getting to that 3.47. To achieve that GPA, I would pretty much have to maintain a 4.0 GPA the rest of the way – that means I would have to make an A in both summer school terms and the fall and spring semesters.
That’s a tall order and it dawns on me that my 4.0 in the spring is merely the first step. I would need to do it again. And again. And again. And again.
It’s a challenge, to put in mildly.
Then there is another matter, one more psychological than anything else – three more years of school. Do I really want to commit to something like that?
Ever since I went to prison, I’d lived in equal parts past and present – reliving the awful nightmares of the past while clinging to the dream of a future when I was working, in a loving relationship, living in a place where I knew I would be more than a year or so, a life where I didn’t ever had to be lonely anymore and I would have the simple things that most people take for granted at my age but have eluded me for so many years.
Live in the moment? I’ve hardly ever allowed myself to do that. Or perhaps, I’m just not capable, anymore. I spend my life regretting the past and hoping for the future. I fear I am damaged beyond redemption.
But there is mostly pain in my past and the present if filled with uncertainty. To survive, I have had to dream that the future is somehow better than either my past or my present even though there is nothing really that guarantees that.
But I can’t stay where I’m at, so going to school – either as an undergrad as I am now or as a graduate student or Law School student – are steps toward that future I so desperately cling to give me something rather like hope. If my life is to be a disappointment, it won’t be because I didn’t try to make something out of it.
So to me, going to Law School is another three years of living in limbo. It’s a helluva risk.
I’m just not sure.
All I really know is that summer school starts on Wednesday and I have to be ready to continue this journey, even if it doesn’t amount to much more than tilting at windmills.
So here I go!
I will confess that I’ve been sort of glorying in finishing the spring semester with a 4.0 GPA. I don’t really need the President’s List notification to confirm this – it’s a part of my student record now – but being on the list somehow makes it seem more official.
But Wednesday, I begin summer school classes, so this is probably a pretty good time to put last semester behind me. If you know me, you realize I have a strong tendency to sort of live in the past, mostly to my detriment. Most of that past, at least for the past five years, has been a painful memory. Even the things that began sweetly and still stir my heart, ended badly. And I can’t seem to give that up entirely.
So shifting my focus to what lies ahead is not as easy as you might assume. I just can’t seem to let well enough alone, as the saying goes.
But there is good reason to look forward.
About a month ago, I met a beautiful, talented, smart woman. I won’t go into any other details because it’s always been my policy on this blog to protect the privacy of those people I meet for whom a fair amount of privacy is in order.
But I will say that this woman is an attorney and through out conversations, an idea has emerged – an idea that is almost as frightening as it is exciting.
This woman – I’ll call her Lisa – is an attorney. In fact, she went to Law School in her late 30s after working as a bank examiner for many years.
Law School. I confess that I’ve been toying with the idea ever since my Media Law professor at MSU suggested that I had “missed my calling.’’
And in some respects, my interest in Law goes back to my childhood. I remember as a child, the Daily Journal ran a syndicated “Ask the Lawyer’’ type column. I would cut these articles out of the paper, consider the question and the answer supplied and think about why the lawyer gave the advice he gave. I liked the idea of being a lawyer.
But somewhere along the way, I got the writing bug and I can’t say my interest in Law was something that stayed with me, at least not consciously.
But now, as I consider my future, I wonder if going to Law School might be a worthy pursuit. I have to confess that writing briefs and making arguments before the court has an enormous appeal. Of course, like any job, the good stuff is often a small part of the job. The practice of law is mostly drudgery. Then again, what isn’t? We endure the drudgery to get to the “good stuff,’’ in almost every occupation.
But there are some serious obstacles I would have to clear if I were to go off in this direction. Some are practical, others psychological.
Practically speaking, I would have to assume even more debt to go to Law School. I figure, I’d be anywhere from $50,000 to $70,000 in the hole at the end of the process.
You could look at that as an investment in my future, I suppose. But at the same time, could I make enough as a practicing lawyer to pay back those loans? There’s a saying that goes, “Some artists deserve to starve!’’ and the same applies to attorneys. Lord knows, there is no shortage of them and Lord knows there are an awful lot of them that are making next to nothing.
So if were to make the commitment to becoming a lawyer, I’d have to be a successful one, and that means long, long hours for lots of years. I have always dreamed that someday, I’d spend my “Golden Years’’ enjoying myself to some degree, doing a bit of traveling, working in the yard, playing golf, visiting my as yet-to-be-born grandkids.
But it looks as though I’ll be working hard until I drop. Of course, this is likely no matter what occupation I chose.
Becoming an attorney would also mean finding a firm that would hire a middle-aged recent Law School grad with a felony record or, failing that, the ability to develop my own clients, which is also a risky venture.
Of course, I could be getting ahead of myself. First, I’d have to take the LSAT (the exam that all prospective Law School candidates must take before admission) and knock it out of the park. I’d have to score very, very high.
The main reason for that is my academic record. My years of being an indifferent student are coming back to haunt me in this regard. By my calculations, the best GPA I could finish with would be a 3.47, which is pretty good – unless you are applying for law school. In that case, it’s near the bottom. To compensate for that “low’’ GPA, I’d have to ace the LSAT.
And, of course, there is the matter of even getting to that 3.47. To achieve that GPA, I would pretty much have to maintain a 4.0 GPA the rest of the way – that means I would have to make an A in both summer school terms and the fall and spring semesters.
That’s a tall order and it dawns on me that my 4.0 in the spring is merely the first step. I would need to do it again. And again. And again. And again.
It’s a challenge, to put in mildly.
Then there is another matter, one more psychological than anything else – three more years of school. Do I really want to commit to something like that?
Ever since I went to prison, I’d lived in equal parts past and present – reliving the awful nightmares of the past while clinging to the dream of a future when I was working, in a loving relationship, living in a place where I knew I would be more than a year or so, a life where I didn’t ever had to be lonely anymore and I would have the simple things that most people take for granted at my age but have eluded me for so many years.
Live in the moment? I’ve hardly ever allowed myself to do that. Or perhaps, I’m just not capable, anymore. I spend my life regretting the past and hoping for the future. I fear I am damaged beyond redemption.
But there is mostly pain in my past and the present if filled with uncertainty. To survive, I have had to dream that the future is somehow better than either my past or my present even though there is nothing really that guarantees that.
But I can’t stay where I’m at, so going to school – either as an undergrad as I am now or as a graduate student or Law School student – are steps toward that future I so desperately cling to give me something rather like hope. If my life is to be a disappointment, it won’t be because I didn’t try to make something out of it.
So to me, going to Law School is another three years of living in limbo. It’s a helluva risk.
I’m just not sure.
All I really know is that summer school starts on Wednesday and I have to be ready to continue this journey, even if it doesn’t amount to much more than tilting at windmills.
So here I go!
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
May 10: "In Stitches'''
It was a little bit before noon Monday and I was hammering away at an enormous section of awning that had been wrapped around a tree in the tiny little town of Woodland, Miss., trying to finish up before we broke for lunch.
I was in Woodland, a “suburb’’ of Houston, with a group of six folks from Mississippi State as we helped out with clean-up from the big tornado a couple of weeks ago.
So there I was, slinging my sledge-hammer in the bright blazing sun, trying to dislodge the long sections of sheet metal from their metal posts.
With a thunderous smash, a piece of dislodged sheet metal flies away from its support and….
If you saw the movie “The Outlaw Josie Wales’’ you may remember a scene at the end of the movie. Josie is finally confronted with his old regiment-leader-turned-bounty-hunter. His pursuer has had a change of heart and is content to let Josie go as his eyes drift down the Josie’s boot where drops of blood fall from a wound and splat, splat, splat on Josie’s boot.
And this is precisely what I saw. Big, fat drops of blood were splattering on my left work boat. I looked at my boot, and then looked at my left hand. It was pouring blood from a couple of gashes on the back of my hand from where that piece of sheet metal had jumped up and bit me.
I didn’t think much of it at first. The gash was at a place where the blood vessels are close to the skin, so the amount of blood was not alarming. One of my colleagues started pressing on gauze from the First Aid kit onto the wound. It took about five gauze bandages to stem the flow enough to get a look at the wound itself. It was pretty deep, pretty close to the bone.
So instead of going to lunch, I went to the emergency room at the hospital in Houston.
I had to stop by the admissions desk and fill out some paperwork and answer a few questions.
The first three questions the admissions lady asked: Do you have a living will? Do you have Power of Attorney? Are you an organ donor?
“You do realize all I have is just a cut hand, right?’’ I asked.
“Oh, it’s standard procedure,’’ she said. “We have to ask those questions to anybody who comes in.’’
After I answered her questions (no, no and yes), the ER nurse examined the wound and asked me what I had been doing when I was injured.
“I was bustin’ up a chiffarobe for Miss Mayella,’’ I answered, but it was clear she didn’t get the literary reference.
“Huh?’
“I was breaking up a metal awning with a sledge hammer and one of the pieces of sheet metal cut me,’’ I said.
She seemed satisfied with that answer. She gave me a tetanus shot, bathed the wound and set up the little table for the doctor, since it was obvious I would need some stitches.
The doctor came in and began to anesthetize my hand and prepare the sutures and he made small talk.
“You’re not from around here, are you?’’ I said, having noticed a distinct accent.
“I’m from Croatia,’’ he said.
As he was busy taking care of my hand, I began to wonder how a doctor from Croatia wound up in a hospital in Houston, Miss. I’m guessing he did not finish at the top of his class at medical school, but since it was a pretty simple procedure I wasn’t too worried.
He seemed like a nice guy and he had 11 stitches in my hand in no time. I was out the door and headed for lunch with instructions to be careful not to use the hand in such a way that it might bust loose the stitches.
I had to stop by the admissions desk again. Noting on the paperwork that I have no health insurance, she wanted to know what I could pay. I looked in my wallet.
“I have $25?’’ I said.
“That’s fine,’’ she said. “You’ll be getting some information in the mail in a few days.’’
By information, I assume she was talking about a bill.
I don’t know how much the bill will be, but I do know how much I can afford to pay. The hospital in Houston is not going to be happy, I figure.
But I’ll deal with all that when I can, as I can.
After lunch, I went back out to the clean-up site and worked one-handed the rest of the day, mainly dragging tree branches and other debris and putting them on a big pile next to the little gravel road where it could be collected later.
We were supposed to stay overnight and to finish up the project, but both of our chain saws broke down, so we packed up about 5 p.m. and headed back to Starkville.
Once we get the chain-saws repaired, we will return to finish the job, probably in a week or two.
I intend to be more careful next time. I can’t afford not to be careful, I guess.
I was in Woodland, a “suburb’’ of Houston, with a group of six folks from Mississippi State as we helped out with clean-up from the big tornado a couple of weeks ago.
So there I was, slinging my sledge-hammer in the bright blazing sun, trying to dislodge the long sections of sheet metal from their metal posts.
With a thunderous smash, a piece of dislodged sheet metal flies away from its support and….
If you saw the movie “The Outlaw Josie Wales’’ you may remember a scene at the end of the movie. Josie is finally confronted with his old regiment-leader-turned-bounty-hunter. His pursuer has had a change of heart and is content to let Josie go as his eyes drift down the Josie’s boot where drops of blood fall from a wound and splat, splat, splat on Josie’s boot.
And this is precisely what I saw. Big, fat drops of blood were splattering on my left work boat. I looked at my boot, and then looked at my left hand. It was pouring blood from a couple of gashes on the back of my hand from where that piece of sheet metal had jumped up and bit me.
I didn’t think much of it at first. The gash was at a place where the blood vessels are close to the skin, so the amount of blood was not alarming. One of my colleagues started pressing on gauze from the First Aid kit onto the wound. It took about five gauze bandages to stem the flow enough to get a look at the wound itself. It was pretty deep, pretty close to the bone.
So instead of going to lunch, I went to the emergency room at the hospital in Houston.
I had to stop by the admissions desk and fill out some paperwork and answer a few questions.
The first three questions the admissions lady asked: Do you have a living will? Do you have Power of Attorney? Are you an organ donor?
“You do realize all I have is just a cut hand, right?’’ I asked.
“Oh, it’s standard procedure,’’ she said. “We have to ask those questions to anybody who comes in.’’
After I answered her questions (no, no and yes), the ER nurse examined the wound and asked me what I had been doing when I was injured.
“I was bustin’ up a chiffarobe for Miss Mayella,’’ I answered, but it was clear she didn’t get the literary reference.
“Huh?’
“I was breaking up a metal awning with a sledge hammer and one of the pieces of sheet metal cut me,’’ I said.
She seemed satisfied with that answer. She gave me a tetanus shot, bathed the wound and set up the little table for the doctor, since it was obvious I would need some stitches.
The doctor came in and began to anesthetize my hand and prepare the sutures and he made small talk.
“You’re not from around here, are you?’’ I said, having noticed a distinct accent.
“I’m from Croatia,’’ he said.
As he was busy taking care of my hand, I began to wonder how a doctor from Croatia wound up in a hospital in Houston, Miss. I’m guessing he did not finish at the top of his class at medical school, but since it was a pretty simple procedure I wasn’t too worried.
He seemed like a nice guy and he had 11 stitches in my hand in no time. I was out the door and headed for lunch with instructions to be careful not to use the hand in such a way that it might bust loose the stitches.
I had to stop by the admissions desk again. Noting on the paperwork that I have no health insurance, she wanted to know what I could pay. I looked in my wallet.
“I have $25?’’ I said.
“That’s fine,’’ she said. “You’ll be getting some information in the mail in a few days.’’
By information, I assume she was talking about a bill.
I don’t know how much the bill will be, but I do know how much I can afford to pay. The hospital in Houston is not going to be happy, I figure.
But I’ll deal with all that when I can, as I can.
After lunch, I went back out to the clean-up site and worked one-handed the rest of the day, mainly dragging tree branches and other debris and putting them on a big pile next to the little gravel road where it could be collected later.
We were supposed to stay overnight and to finish up the project, but both of our chain saws broke down, so we packed up about 5 p.m. and headed back to Starkville.
Once we get the chain-saws repaired, we will return to finish the job, probably in a week or two.
I intend to be more careful next time. I can’t afford not to be careful, I guess.
Friday, April 29, 2011
April 28: "A present from Ju''
Wednesday afternoon I was walking down the hall after my last final, a group presentation in my Mass Media Law class. If a 51-year-old guy can have a bounce to his step, I had one. We had just scored a perfect 200 on the presentation, nailing down an A for the class and completing what I am confident will be a perfect 4.0 gpa.
Not bad, considering in what my first semester after an almost 30-year break in my education.
I was turning a corner to leave the building when I heard a little voice and little steps running in my direction.
“Mr. Slim!’’ she called out.
It was Ju.
You may remember Ju from one of my first posts. She was a tiny little Korean exchange student I wrote about. I met her on my first day of class. She had lingered after the end of our Journalism Ethics class to talk to our professor. She was worried that she wouldn’t be able to pass the class. It was easy to understand her fears. The Professor would say something and she would look down on her little hand-held computer, which turned out to be a Korean/English dictionary.
After she had finished talking to the professor, I told her that I have overheard her conversation and, since I had been a working journalist for almost 30 years, I would be happy to help her in the class.
Her face brightened. She smiled and nodded – bowed, really, as is the custom of her homeland.
It turns out, I also had Ju in my Mass Media Law class.
I can’t say that I really offered her that much help, aside from asking her how she was doing and telling her how impressed I was with her work.
So when she hailed me as I was leaving, I was a little surprised.
“I have something for you,’’ she said, a little breathless from running to catch up with me.
It was a little Korean ornament of some sort. Rather than describe it, you can find a picture on the right side of this page.
“I just wanted to thank you so much!’’ she said.
I’m not sure exactly what Ju believed that I had done that warranted her thanks. Truth is, I was far more inspired by her than she could ever be by me. I remember her first days in class as she struggled with her little Korean/English dictionary. By the end of the semester, I never saw her use it at all.
Hey, college is hard enough for a young person, with all the distractions. But try it while being thousands of miles from home, studying and taking tests and notes in a language you hardly know. I’d last about a week, I figure.
So when I measured my success against Ju's, I realized that maybe I should be too self-satisifed.
Ju will be leaving for Korea early next week. She’ll finish school there and plans to stay in Korea and pursue a job in TV. I have no doubt she will succeed. She is obviously smart and profoundly disciplined.
Ju got me to thinking about some of the students I have met her in my first semester.
Specifically, I thought of which of the students I had met I would hire if I were to start my own company.
I’ll start with a guy named “Philly.’’ I met him on my first day of Geography class. He was sitting in the desk next to me.
Ten minutes into that first lecture, I looked over and noticed that Philly had no notebook, no pen and seemed to have little or no interest in what was going on.
Philly is a tall, broad-shouldered black kid from Philadelphia, Miss. That, along with the fact that I never saw him when he wasn’t wearing A Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap, is why he is known as Philly.
I figured Philly wouldn’t be around long. Surely, he would drop the class.
But he didn’t. In fact, Philly was there every day. Turns out, he was a pretty good student. Near the end of the semester, he said he would likely make a B in the class. Not bad.
I think I would hire him, not for his academic excellence, but because Philly has that “it’’ factor. In fact, it seemed as though everybody on campus knew and liked Philly. He has that sort of charm that draws all sorts of people to him.
And I could use a guy like that in my mythical company.
On the opposite end of the spectrum there is April, a 30-year-old married mom who drove to Starkville from her home in Fulton to take classes two days a week. She’s carrying a full load, also taking some online courses.
April was one of three people from my Public Speaking Class I think I would hire.
Of all the people in that class, she was the one who seemed most prepared. Her speeches were not dynamic or provocative in any way. In fact, they were pretty bland. But no one in her class was better prepared. She seemed to have every speech committed to memory and delivered them in a sure, steady voice. So while there was nothing inspiring in her work, it was obvious that she was both conscientious and well-prepared.
She would be known as a “low-maintenance’’ employee, someone who is entirely dependable. She gets the job done in a workmanlike fashion. I’d hire her.
I would hire Raj, too.
Early in the semester, I would never have considered him. A native of India, Raj always arrived late to class, his dark, thick hair a total mess and his shirt-tail hanging out. He seemed disorganized and confused.
And then he spoke.
He spoke with such a burning passion and enthusiasm that you scarcely noticed his appearance. He has the one thing that every company needs more of: Fire.
By contrast, Toshi, from Tokyo, was the model of precision. Even though he struggled with English, his speeches – like those of April – were well-prepared. He was thorough, well-prepared and surprisingly funny and self-effacing. It was clear after the first speech that Toshi is both intelligent and engaging. He’s hired.
Ju, Philly, April, Raj and Toshi: That’s a pretty good group of folks to start a company with, I think.I would hire them.
But I’m beginning to wonder if anyone will hire me.
I applied for two internships this semester and was turned down for both of them, even though the interviews themselves went about as well as an interview can go. It was obvious that the recruiters for those two positions absolutely loved me as a candidate.
But my record shot me down in both cases and the internship went to people whose credentials and experience pall in comparison to mine.
The ONLY thing that seems to matter is the person I was at my worst moment. Nothing I have achieved outside of it seems to carry any weight at all.
Unfair? It is not for me to say, of course.
I wonder if I am deluding myself in thinking that I can aspire to something beyond menial jobs. In the five years since that life-changing night that I got my last DUI, I’ve had no trouble finding menial jobs – car wash attendant, clerk, janitor.
I had imagined that when I had paid my “debt to society,’’ I might be able to go as far as my talent, drive, skills and experiences would take me.
But now I am beginning to wonder.
People believe in “second chances’’ - as long as they don’t have to provide them.
And, so, I’m back to where I was the day I walked out of prison four years ago:
Now what?
I’m going to keep on trying, I’ll stick it out in school and believe that I can aspire to something better. Maybe it’s a foolish idea, a silly notion that there is something “better’’ out there for me.
But I have to believe it anyway.
The alternative is despair.
Not bad, considering in what my first semester after an almost 30-year break in my education.
I was turning a corner to leave the building when I heard a little voice and little steps running in my direction.
“Mr. Slim!’’ she called out.
It was Ju.
You may remember Ju from one of my first posts. She was a tiny little Korean exchange student I wrote about. I met her on my first day of class. She had lingered after the end of our Journalism Ethics class to talk to our professor. She was worried that she wouldn’t be able to pass the class. It was easy to understand her fears. The Professor would say something and she would look down on her little hand-held computer, which turned out to be a Korean/English dictionary.
After she had finished talking to the professor, I told her that I have overheard her conversation and, since I had been a working journalist for almost 30 years, I would be happy to help her in the class.
Her face brightened. She smiled and nodded – bowed, really, as is the custom of her homeland.
It turns out, I also had Ju in my Mass Media Law class.
I can’t say that I really offered her that much help, aside from asking her how she was doing and telling her how impressed I was with her work.
So when she hailed me as I was leaving, I was a little surprised.
“I have something for you,’’ she said, a little breathless from running to catch up with me.
It was a little Korean ornament of some sort. Rather than describe it, you can find a picture on the right side of this page.
“I just wanted to thank you so much!’’ she said.
I’m not sure exactly what Ju believed that I had done that warranted her thanks. Truth is, I was far more inspired by her than she could ever be by me. I remember her first days in class as she struggled with her little Korean/English dictionary. By the end of the semester, I never saw her use it at all.
Hey, college is hard enough for a young person, with all the distractions. But try it while being thousands of miles from home, studying and taking tests and notes in a language you hardly know. I’d last about a week, I figure.
So when I measured my success against Ju's, I realized that maybe I should be too self-satisifed.
Ju will be leaving for Korea early next week. She’ll finish school there and plans to stay in Korea and pursue a job in TV. I have no doubt she will succeed. She is obviously smart and profoundly disciplined.
Ju got me to thinking about some of the students I have met her in my first semester.
Specifically, I thought of which of the students I had met I would hire if I were to start my own company.
I’ll start with a guy named “Philly.’’ I met him on my first day of Geography class. He was sitting in the desk next to me.
Ten minutes into that first lecture, I looked over and noticed that Philly had no notebook, no pen and seemed to have little or no interest in what was going on.
Philly is a tall, broad-shouldered black kid from Philadelphia, Miss. That, along with the fact that I never saw him when he wasn’t wearing A Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap, is why he is known as Philly.
I figured Philly wouldn’t be around long. Surely, he would drop the class.
But he didn’t. In fact, Philly was there every day. Turns out, he was a pretty good student. Near the end of the semester, he said he would likely make a B in the class. Not bad.
I think I would hire him, not for his academic excellence, but because Philly has that “it’’ factor. In fact, it seemed as though everybody on campus knew and liked Philly. He has that sort of charm that draws all sorts of people to him.
And I could use a guy like that in my mythical company.
On the opposite end of the spectrum there is April, a 30-year-old married mom who drove to Starkville from her home in Fulton to take classes two days a week. She’s carrying a full load, also taking some online courses.
April was one of three people from my Public Speaking Class I think I would hire.
Of all the people in that class, she was the one who seemed most prepared. Her speeches were not dynamic or provocative in any way. In fact, they were pretty bland. But no one in her class was better prepared. She seemed to have every speech committed to memory and delivered them in a sure, steady voice. So while there was nothing inspiring in her work, it was obvious that she was both conscientious and well-prepared.
She would be known as a “low-maintenance’’ employee, someone who is entirely dependable. She gets the job done in a workmanlike fashion. I’d hire her.
I would hire Raj, too.
Early in the semester, I would never have considered him. A native of India, Raj always arrived late to class, his dark, thick hair a total mess and his shirt-tail hanging out. He seemed disorganized and confused.
And then he spoke.
He spoke with such a burning passion and enthusiasm that you scarcely noticed his appearance. He has the one thing that every company needs more of: Fire.
By contrast, Toshi, from Tokyo, was the model of precision. Even though he struggled with English, his speeches – like those of April – were well-prepared. He was thorough, well-prepared and surprisingly funny and self-effacing. It was clear after the first speech that Toshi is both intelligent and engaging. He’s hired.
Ju, Philly, April, Raj and Toshi: That’s a pretty good group of folks to start a company with, I think.I would hire them.
But I’m beginning to wonder if anyone will hire me.
I applied for two internships this semester and was turned down for both of them, even though the interviews themselves went about as well as an interview can go. It was obvious that the recruiters for those two positions absolutely loved me as a candidate.
But my record shot me down in both cases and the internship went to people whose credentials and experience pall in comparison to mine.
The ONLY thing that seems to matter is the person I was at my worst moment. Nothing I have achieved outside of it seems to carry any weight at all.
Unfair? It is not for me to say, of course.
I wonder if I am deluding myself in thinking that I can aspire to something beyond menial jobs. In the five years since that life-changing night that I got my last DUI, I’ve had no trouble finding menial jobs – car wash attendant, clerk, janitor.
I had imagined that when I had paid my “debt to society,’’ I might be able to go as far as my talent, drive, skills and experiences would take me.
But now I am beginning to wonder.
People believe in “second chances’’ - as long as they don’t have to provide them.
And, so, I’m back to where I was the day I walked out of prison four years ago:
Now what?
I’m going to keep on trying, I’ll stick it out in school and believe that I can aspire to something better. Maybe it’s a foolish idea, a silly notion that there is something “better’’ out there for me.
But I have to believe it anyway.
The alternative is despair.
Monday, April 25, 2011
April 25: "Tired''
I don’t think I’ve ever been as sleepy tired as I was Monday morning between my Geography final and my Journalism Ethics final.
I had about 2 ½ hours to kill between the time I finished my first final and the time for the second. My original plan was to devote that time to study. I would have a late breakfast (I finished the 9 a.m. test a little after 9:30) and review all the material for the Ethics test at noon.
But I was stumbling, bleary-eyed tired. I ate breakfast and stared blankly at my Ethics notes for about a half-hour. Then I went over to the Starbucks in the Student Union, grabbed a cup of coffee and sank into a chair and stared blankly at my Ethics notes for another half-hour. I walked around the Drill Field and notice how few students were out and about, a sure sign that it’s Finals Week.
Finally, I staggered over the McComas Hall, slipped into my seat and stared at my Ethics notes until the professor showed up and the test commenced.
This was not how I planned to “go out’’ this semester – with a whimper rather than a bang.
I had already had A’s pretty well locked up in both classes, which I am sure affected my study plan. Up until now, I had been pretty diligent in my test preparations. But I needed to score only a 60 in Geography to secure my A and probably a 70 or so to nail down an A in my Ethics class.
So call it a lack of incentive. I studied my Georgraphy notes for about an hour Sunday evening before bedtime. I was going to get to be and get a good night’s rest. But instead, I stumbled across “The Passion of the Christ’’ on TV as I was flipping channels and was mesmerized. I hadn’t seen “Passion” in a couple of years, so I forgot that it was a pretty long film. By the time it was over, it’s 12:30 and I’m not even in bed.
Even so, six hours of sleep is enough, I figured.
But I am not sure how much sleep I got, to be honest. Given my condition Monday morning, I’m guessing it was far fewer that six hours.
In what I can only describe as a semi-conscious state, my conscience would give me no peace over the small amount of time I had devoted to my studies.
All night long, I kept going over the material I would be tested on. I thought maybe I was dreaming that I was studying for the test. But I was so tired Monday morning, I am pretty sure that I was awake, just awake enough to be troubled by the prospects of not knowing the growth rate of the Northwest Africa/West Asia Realm.
It turned out OK, though. I made a 96 on the Geography test, which secured for me the most points in the entire class for the semester. (All tests scores and cumulative points are posted online).
I don’t know what I made on the Ethics test, but none of the questions caught me off-guard. Truth is, I could probably take those tests without attending class, relying on almost 30 years of practical experience as a journalist.
By 12:30, I was walking out of the class.
All that stands between me and a 4.0, I figure, is my final group presentation in Mass Media Law. I like my chances in that class, too.
The other big development of the day is that I may have a date to graduation on Saturday.
Do you remember Joy, my three-hour-a-week Georgraphy buddy? She sent me a Face Book message. She’s graduating on Saturday and wanted to know if I was dating.
“Kinda weird, I know,’’ she wrote. “But my mom is coming up for graduation and I was thinking you might want to get together.’’
So I figured, “why not?’’ I haven’t had a date for graduation since 1977, after all.
Besides, it’s good to have somebody to take the pictures, right?
By Wednesday at this time, I’ll be finished with school for the semester
Then there will be a month-long break before summer school. Here’s the kicker: I don’t even know if I can get financial aid for summer school; the financial aid department has been disturbingly vague on this.
So who knows? I may be out of school until the fall. And that means I’d better be thinking about getting a job. I started a part-time job at a convenience store last week, but 20 hour a week at $7.25 per hour isn’t going to keep a roof over my head.
So I could be in a pretty tight spot and pretty soon.
But I’m not going to worry about that now.
I’m too tired.
I had about 2 ½ hours to kill between the time I finished my first final and the time for the second. My original plan was to devote that time to study. I would have a late breakfast (I finished the 9 a.m. test a little after 9:30) and review all the material for the Ethics test at noon.
But I was stumbling, bleary-eyed tired. I ate breakfast and stared blankly at my Ethics notes for about a half-hour. Then I went over to the Starbucks in the Student Union, grabbed a cup of coffee and sank into a chair and stared blankly at my Ethics notes for another half-hour. I walked around the Drill Field and notice how few students were out and about, a sure sign that it’s Finals Week.
Finally, I staggered over the McComas Hall, slipped into my seat and stared at my Ethics notes until the professor showed up and the test commenced.
This was not how I planned to “go out’’ this semester – with a whimper rather than a bang.
I had already had A’s pretty well locked up in both classes, which I am sure affected my study plan. Up until now, I had been pretty diligent in my test preparations. But I needed to score only a 60 in Geography to secure my A and probably a 70 or so to nail down an A in my Ethics class.
So call it a lack of incentive. I studied my Georgraphy notes for about an hour Sunday evening before bedtime. I was going to get to be and get a good night’s rest. But instead, I stumbled across “The Passion of the Christ’’ on TV as I was flipping channels and was mesmerized. I hadn’t seen “Passion” in a couple of years, so I forgot that it was a pretty long film. By the time it was over, it’s 12:30 and I’m not even in bed.
Even so, six hours of sleep is enough, I figured.
But I am not sure how much sleep I got, to be honest. Given my condition Monday morning, I’m guessing it was far fewer that six hours.
In what I can only describe as a semi-conscious state, my conscience would give me no peace over the small amount of time I had devoted to my studies.
All night long, I kept going over the material I would be tested on. I thought maybe I was dreaming that I was studying for the test. But I was so tired Monday morning, I am pretty sure that I was awake, just awake enough to be troubled by the prospects of not knowing the growth rate of the Northwest Africa/West Asia Realm.
It turned out OK, though. I made a 96 on the Geography test, which secured for me the most points in the entire class for the semester. (All tests scores and cumulative points are posted online).
I don’t know what I made on the Ethics test, but none of the questions caught me off-guard. Truth is, I could probably take those tests without attending class, relying on almost 30 years of practical experience as a journalist.
By 12:30, I was walking out of the class.
All that stands between me and a 4.0, I figure, is my final group presentation in Mass Media Law. I like my chances in that class, too.
The other big development of the day is that I may have a date to graduation on Saturday.
Do you remember Joy, my three-hour-a-week Georgraphy buddy? She sent me a Face Book message. She’s graduating on Saturday and wanted to know if I was dating.
“Kinda weird, I know,’’ she wrote. “But my mom is coming up for graduation and I was thinking you might want to get together.’’
So I figured, “why not?’’ I haven’t had a date for graduation since 1977, after all.
Besides, it’s good to have somebody to take the pictures, right?
By Wednesday at this time, I’ll be finished with school for the semester
Then there will be a month-long break before summer school. Here’s the kicker: I don’t even know if I can get financial aid for summer school; the financial aid department has been disturbingly vague on this.
So who knows? I may be out of school until the fall. And that means I’d better be thinking about getting a job. I started a part-time job at a convenience store last week, but 20 hour a week at $7.25 per hour isn’t going to keep a roof over my head.
So I could be in a pretty tight spot and pretty soon.
But I’m not going to worry about that now.
I’m too tired.
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