Word Play and the Lawyer's Perfect Skin

There are some words you remember how to spell with simple euphemisms such as dessert is spelled with two Ss – easy to remember because you want two of them, desserts that is. Why would you want two deserts? Unless you were a camel or there were vast underground oil reserves. Similarly, I remember hearing teachers perhaps say that principal is easy to remember how to spell because he is you pal. It sounds far-fetched but it is true.

I had a principal in high school who would come over to the basket where I was shooting in high school practice and shoot with me. He would either retrieve my balls or I would pass him a few shots. His jump shot, in his three piece suit and wing tips, was not bad. Not bad at all. He was my pal for a few minutes in practice and I was one lonely kid. He smiled at me and showed a small interest in my well-being. Thanks Dr. Brady.

Now how do you remember how to spell principle? I don’t have a clue but at least you will know how to spell the one with the ‘pal’ in it and by process of elimination you may remember the other.

Lawyers have nice skin

I don’t think I will visit the lawyer anymore. It put me in a very bad mood and probably cost me in excess of $250.  It was just like the first day of school where they tell you all the work you will be doing over the course of the semester – homework, exams, major projects – the syllabus is overwhelming. And to top it all off, there are multiple lawyers in multiple states and I didn’t get a clear answer about who is doing what. I was fine before I went in there. I think I am better off doing much of the work myself and saving the estate a buck or two. 

But as I was feeling overwhelmed, I suddenly noticed the lawyer’s skin. Now she has a good 10-12 years on me, easy. But her skin, especially on the back of her hands, was like a newborn’s. Now I am exaggerating somewhat, but compared to my skin, it was positively spanking new. The backs of my hands were weathered and age spots were noticeable. I had working man hands while her hands were white as the driven snow and not a blemish or a line in site. The same for her face and probably the rest of her body (though I did not let my mind go there). Wow, she has great skin. And I tried to justify my weathered, leather body I remembered all the sun filled days at the beach and the pool and outside playing sports. She probably hasn’t been outside a day in her life as she sits slumped at her computer screen. Now I exaggerate again, but her skin, that skin. It looked like it had never seen the light of day. Good for her. Good for her skin. But my skin, was the skin of a well lived life. Cancer be damned. 

Unrelated thoughts

• ·         “Cross Country is like going in the ocean. At first you don’t want to and then you are glad you did.” Michael McGovern summer 2014
• ·         “Mom, that is the least of my worries”. . . after I wondered what Michael’s college roommate would think about his clothes all over the floor.
• ·         I thought if I gave you two laundry baskets you could use one for your clean and one for your dirty clothes. “But then I can’t see my clothes.” Michael McGovern summer 2014
• ·        “I am eating like 5,000-6,000 calories a day and I am not gaining weight.” Matt McGovern fall 2014. You will young man. You will. 

Trifecta

After a true trifecta of bad luck – my mother died (I found the body), my father-in-law died (I lost my support network of my husband for a while), I lost my job (due to an evil boss) – suddenly there were subtle signs of recovery, about two months after the grisly discovery. I pulled into a parking spot on South Main Street outside my lawyer’s office (yes I have a lawyer to help me with my unjust lay off) realizing I had about 35 cents in my wallet for the meter (this excludes the $3.50 in 50 cent pieces I have been carrying around to spend when the coin dealer told me they are each worth precisely 50 cents each). Lo and behold, there were 28 minutes on the digital display. Good because the meter doesn’t take 50 cent pieces and the 35 cents will buy me all of 11 minutes. Hallelujah I thought. O.K. things are looking up.

Just the day before, I was making copies of a proposal I was writing (to fill the void left by my job loss) and I am at the copier in Staples. Lo and behold, the copy machine is open for business without the insertion of my credit card. I figured out that someone’s card was already in the card reader (and was ready to eject and turn it in like the good person I am) but when I ejected it, I also realized it was a Staples card with $10 of credit on it. Hallelujah it was my lucky day (by the end of this I may learn how to spell Hallelujah correctly but I know from church there are multiple spellings – I can latch onto one). So I said to myself, would you turn in a $20 bill (even though this was only $10 of credit) if you found it on the floor in Staples? Of course you wouldn’t. You would thank your lucky stars and say thank you or hallelujah (is this word always capitalized?) or some other positive interjection. So I made copies of my proposals and still had 99 cents left on the card, which I stuck in my wallet.

I didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t feel guilty at all. Because when the universe gives you a gift you don’t smack a gift horse in the mouth, you say thank you God, Hallelujah, and pass on the positivity. So I was feeling it - these subtle signs that my luck was changing.

When I walked into the State agency to turn in the proposal, there was nary a soul to be found. No receptionist. No employee in the designated cubicle. So I asked a young woman if the designated person had a mailbox and before I knew it people are scurrying around to help me and my old boss (who I didn’t recognize after almost 15 years and well, more than 15 pounds of weight gain) emerges and says my name with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm. After asking me how I am (I mention the rough summer, my mother dying etc.) she says “So Galen, what are you doing now?” (A spider literally just crawled out of my keyboard so I will keep you posted on this luck changing thing.) Now I take this to mean, what are you doing workwise but it could have been literal – I am delivering this proposal to you right now. What do you think I am doing?

I feel deflated and tell her I worked with ABC Company for a while but they had some difficulties……………..I trail off. Did I miss something here? Did I miss another positive sign? Was this my chance to find work? Was she looking for someone?

We talk (or should I say she talked) about her daughter who is a senior in college and calling home to ask about how to cook pasta. I remember asking my mother how to cook a baked potato. I laugh. When I told her there was no receptionist and I just wandered in, she said something about that’s how it is at the State these days. Decimated. Deflated. Injured.

I just want a job. I wanna feel good. But I am determined not to grovel. I am determined not to be desperate. I feel like someone is gonna offer me a job without my even having to look hard. I will bump into someone and they will say “Wanna job?” And it will seem interesting and I’ll think what do I have to lose? The universe will provide and at the risk of sounding like my new age sister, it will feel right.

But this wasn’t the day. (The spider just crawled out by the Esc key and I blew it away, across the room somewhere). It wasn’t the day in this time warp of a State agency. Where everyone is still doing the same thing they were 15 years ago and everyone still sits in the same cube.

This wasn’t the day. But I am still thinking my day will come. What I need to know, am I crazy? You see all this goal setting and visioning isn’t working for me. I think I am due. After the trifecta, a friend said go buy a lottery ticket. I didn’t but I appreciated the sentiment. Things come in threes. The bad luck is over and the next time I wander into an office, perhaps they will offer me a job. An unsolicited job offer – like finding a $20 bill while doing something grueling like jogging on a 95 degree day. Hallelujah.

The spider is gone and my luck runneth over. 

The Buckies Are Back

The buckies were running all last week in the mighty Saugatucket River in Wakefield. They are also called river herring, buckeyes or alewifes. Perhaps you saw the volunteers and DEM workers netting them, scooping them up over the dam. Every once in a while, as the nets were emptied, a fish slipped back and went over the dam with the continuing flow. The RIDEM even brought a tank truck and a ‘bucket brigade’ of nets filled up the tank to drive the fish up stream.

These fish are anadromous. They return from the sea each spring and swim up area rivers to spawn and then some die, some return to the sea. In the fall, the juveniles migrate back to the salt water where they spend their adult years. The survival rate for these juveniles is very low (1 percent, I am told).  

It all had me wondering, what these fish did to survive before people were netting them on their way up stream or in very luxurious fashion, driving them up stream. When the several mills were operating along the Saugatucket, were the fish able to swim up the sluice ways? When hundreds of mills were operating all over New England, how did the buckies return to upstream waters to spawn - before fishladders and volunteers could coax them on their way?

Apparently, the fish ladder in Wakefield has a design flaw and in addition when the fish miss the ladder, they will not move from their position at the dead end of the dam. That’s where volunteers and workers filled their nets, in the riffles below the dam.  

The two young boys I was with, both avid fishermen, scurried down the bank to look under the Main Street bridge. There in the shadows of the overpass, hundreds of fish pooled and rested for the continuing journey. You had to look closely to see them camouflaged in the shadows and blending with the rocks.

I told the boys there were Indian camps near this site along the Saugatucket - to harvest the herring in the spring. I also told them about a nearby store who sold smoked herring on a stick out of big barrels. They didn’t seem all that impressed but I realized I was witnessing an ancient ritual, as ancient as the sea. This return to spawn and retreat had been going on hundreds and maybe even thousands of years. If we dug along the banks of the Saugatucket, we would find remnants of Indian camps and fires for smoking and drying the fish. The years sent a shiver up my spine as we watched heavy ladened nets hoisted over the dam. But the boys just shrugged, wishing all the while with envy that they had their rods or better yet, a net or two. Then my reverie was shaken as I heard them speak of permits and fishing licenses.

But upstream from the dam, a dozen cormorants dove and resurfaced, gorging themselves on the buckies. No permit required. I wondered how many fish a cormorant could eat “in one sitting.” My son referred to this stretch of water as a gauntlet. A gauntlet indeed, between the cormorants, the dams, the obstacles and their own mortality.

Still, the boys didn’t tire of watching and wanted to stay longer. My thoughts meandered and returned to the Indians who probably marveled at this migration each spring and depended on it. And they told their forbearers who told theirs, until the traditions were altered by mills, dams, sluiceways. But still, the buckies return each spring.