Archive for January, 2014
….in a winter like this is surf music! From Australia, no less, and note the letter carrier on the far left:
Even extreme weather has its beauties.
Yesterday morning it was 15 degrees below zero as I left for work. There was a thin crescent of a waning moon in the eastern sky, and somehow it seemed more stark and vivid in the subzero cold, its beauty enhanced.
I had been dreading the day since I first heard the forecast last weekend: high of minus 3, windchill of 25 below. I dressed for it: wool vest over my shirt, down vest over my sweater, heavy parka, long johns, and hand warmers in my gloves and boots, and one over my heart. I braced myself and started the route.
And it wasn’t that bad. The high temperature was around zero, but the sun was shining and there was no wind at all. I remembered from my Michigan childhood that there is little difference between 10 degrees and 20 below if there is no wind. And there is about 4 inches of snow on the ground, and walking is more strenuous, so I warmed quickly. At one point I even took off my parka.
So this thing that I had been dreading turned out to be not to be so difficult in actuality. Not something I would want to do everyday, but not horrible either.
There is a lesson there…
It is so vital, so primal.
All right. I didn’t defeat the Ice Giants. But I survived.
I am pretty sure that office workers never experience the sort of exhausted triumph that those who work outside do after a day in the really harsh weather.
And today, they predict, will be much worse. Minus 10 as I write, high of maybe zero, wind chill too horrible to say.
I can do this…
I was driving to work the other day, listening to NPR, when a story aired about the state of the movement to legitimize gay marriage in Virginia. The reporter was doing “man on the street’ interviews, and a woman from Charlottesville, when asked her opinion on the subject said “I’m against it. I am a Christian, and God said that’s a No-No.”
I am sure that NPR was happy to find such a stupid comment from a professed Christian. The problem is that I suspect that they didn’t have to look too far to find it. This is precisely the sort of immature and ignorant faith that repels people, that makes them think that they are agnostics because they reject an anthropomorphic god, one with arbitrary, pleasure-denying rules, “No-Nos”, as if illicit sexual pleasure was the cookie jar or something, instead of disharmony with the created order.
You really have to wonder what that woman thought of the interview; did she think that she was somehow bearing witness to the goodness and love of God?
Her “No-No” god is every much an idol as any pagan deity, except less attractive.
Meanwhile, from the Department of Ridiculosity
Venture capitalist Tom Perkins recently wrote a letter to the Wall Street Journal comparing the Left’s push to reduce inequality in the United States to Nazi Germany’s war on Jews. Perkins, a founding member of Kleiner Perkins Caufield & Byers, asks whether a progressive Kristallnacht is coming:
“Writing from the epicenter of progressive thought, San Francisco, I would call attention to the parallels of fascist Nazi Germany to its war on its “one percent,” namely its Jews, to the progressive war on the American one percent, namely the “rich,” Perkins wrote in the letter.
He continued that he perceives “a rising tide of hatred of the successful one percent. There is outraged public reaction to the Google buses carrying technology workers from the city to the peninsula high-tech companies which employ them…This is a very dangerous drift in our American thinking. Kristallnacht was unthinkable in 1930; is its descendent ‘progressive’ radicalism unthinkable now?”
When in doubt, it is always a good idea to compare one’s perceived enemies to Nazis.
Poor, poor, persecuted rich people.
It’s Not My Imagination
I keep saying that this is the most consistently cold winter I remember since the first winter I carried mail in Holly, Michigan. That would be the winter of 1981-82. I googled around, out of curiosity, and learned that the winter of 81-82 set all sorts of records in Michigan for both snowfall and cold. I only know that I remember being very cold, and I remember waking up one morning in early April, full of longing for Spring, and looking out the window at a foot of snow. I am not sure, but I may have cried.
And it’s not over yet; Tuesday’s projected high is minus 2….
I read this to my bride in preparation for posting it, and her verdict was that today’s post is “gloomy and snarky”.
Sorry. I am facing Ice Giants this week.
I saw a piece of political mail yesterday from Mike Huckabee, with his picture on the front of the envelope. Across the middle were emblazoned the words “What you as a conservative do in the next three days is crucial!”
Mr Huckabee has been sending that same letter out for at least three years, to the same mailing list.
There is a man on my mail route, probably in his mid 30s, with the unlikely name of Dudley. I have never known anyone else with that name, and the only other Dudley I have heard of is the comic actor Dudley Moore.
Dudley is the third Dudley in his line, after his father and grandfather. He has not named any of his sons Dudley.
His last name is Scottish, and he is descended from some of the earliest settlers in Wayne County, Ohio.
When I first moved here, nearly twenty years ago, I read that some of the earliest Europeans in Wayne County were Scots, but I did not see much evidence of them in the area, aside from the College of Wooster, founded by Scottish Lowlanders and once associated with the Presbyterian church, and whose sports teams are dubbed The Fighting Scots. There is a bagpipe and drum corps besides the brass marching band, and they wear kilts in the black and yellow Clan MacLeod tartan.
I know, very unhistorical and unlikely, given the Lowland background of the place.
Other than that, the area seemed devoid of much lasting impact of the early Scots, who had been eclipsed by the later English, German and Swiss immigrants.
Then, maybe 16 years ago I successfully bid on a route that included, besides half of the downtown, the southwest quadrant of the town of Wooster, a working class and poor area.
There I found people living in old houses whose names were Grant and Duncan and McClelland and McDougall.
It turns out that Dudley, who was raised on a farm south of town, is the grandson of one of the old women on my former route.
Dudley lives in the subsidized housing complex that I deliver. As he has been unemployed most of the nearly two years I have been on my this route, and as he is gregarious and likeable, I have talked a lot to him when he comes out to the cluster box to get his mail. He is an intelligent guy, a reader, and fairly radical, at least when you get him going. We have talked a lot about the socio-economic system and disparity and the plight of the displaced working class.
You know me, always fanning the flames.
He is a Freemason, and proudly displays the Masonic symbol on his living room window. We have never discussed it, but I suspect Freemasonry in his family goes back way before the first time the name “Dudley” ever appeared.
Dudley lives with a woman, and between them they have four kids. The children have several last names; I suspect the story is as convoluted as that of many families today, and not only among the poor. He says he intends to marry his girlfriend when their lives are more stable, and told me that when he does he will wear a kilt in his Clan tartan. In spite of the irregularity of his situation he is devoted to his family, and looks askance at the ways of some of his neighbors, dealing drugs and otherwise behaving badly.
There is a real sense of decency about him.
He has often spoken with frustration about the indignities of living in subsidized housing. He told me that every month they are subjected to inspections, with strangers in ties with clipboards walking through their home.
That is the sort of thing that makes me hate bureaucracy and all its works and pomps: it reminds me of the scene in Time Bandits where, after the prissy Robin Hood (played by John Cleese) distributes alms to a poor person, one of his brutish Merry Men slugs the beggar.
Dudley has often expressed his desire to get out of there and off of government assistance, to support his family on his own.
He finally got a job last winter, at a local factory. The pay was pretty crappy, around $9 an hour, but he figured it was a foot in the door. He apparently was a hard worker, and soon he was told that he was being considered for a promotion to lower management.
Then he got pneumonia. He missed two weeks of work, as well as two weeks of pay; it is a non-union shop and there is no paid sick leave.
Ah, the benevolent capitalist.
I am willing to bet, even in a smallish factory like this, that you could pay for all the annual sick days of every worker out of the CEO’s salary and he wouldn’t be hurting at all.
When Dudley got better he went back to work, but pretty soon his back gave out, fruit of an alcohol-fueled car crash in his youth. This time after a week or so off work, in a doctor’s care, he was fired.
Yes, you union critics, companies still do things like that.
In spite of these setbacks, in spite of his back pain, and in spite of being unemployed again, he was always upbeat and friendly.
That was last summer, but early this winter he got another job, this time working in a group home for disabled adults. He was pretty excited to be working, and he thought he had the qualifications to do this job well. So did I; like I said he is outgoing and friendly and it seemed like he would be good with the disabled. He told me, excitedly, that he would make a salary; I forget how much he said, but it sounded abysmal to me, not enough to raise a family.
I didn’t see him for a couple of weeks, but when I did he reported that he liked his job. A lot of it consisted of hanging out with the housemates, taking them bowling or out to dinner or on other excursions.
But there were drawbacks.
He said that at one restaurant one of the men soiled himself, and he, Dudley, had to clean the mess. Then when they got home the man did it again, leaving a trail all the way to his room.
I told him that I didn’t think I could do that job, and I resisted saying something about “shitty wages”.
Then I didn’t see him for a good while again. When I did he was wearing a tie. When I asked him how the job was going he said “Excellent!” and told me that he had been promoted to an administrative position, overseeing several group homes. I congratulated him, and then inquired if this involved a decent raise, as I am aware that management in a lot of low wage industries offers a pittance. Yes, he said, his salary would more than double, to $49,000 a year.
I shook his hand and congratulated him again. He talked excitedly about getting his family out of public housing, of being able to buy a house in the country.
I was so pleased at this development; it is a rare and happy occasion to see a workingman get an honest break, hard to come by in these days of the decline and fall of the honest break.
I sure hope he gets married in that kilt.