Journal Entry. September 1, 2017
Today is September 1, the official beginning of my great adventure. Although I moved in a little more than a week ago, since I’d announced my resignation from Liberty House last February my target date was September 1. I noticed the web site has kept a countdown clock which I expect has now reached zero, so I’ll try to upgrade the literary merit of these daily posts.
(Note to self: is there a verb for “to consciously try unsuccessfully”? —useful for those times when telling someone you’ll try (unsuccessfully) to remember to wipe your feet before coming in, you’ll try (unsuccessfully) to think about others’ feelings first or you’ll try (unsuccessfully) to remember to call when you’re going to be late.)
I used the telephone the other night to make a few calls.
That sentence deserves its own paragraph, because using the Warriors@45 North phone is not unlike calling home from summer camp. While Sam and I are the only ones on the property right now, and the house phone has been thoughtfully placed outdoors for us, it does mean walking across the street and standing on a porch to talk. Also, if the phone rings while I’m near it, I’m loathe to answer it, because anyone calling is likely to want answers, a product I’m plumb out of.
One of the people I talked with was George of the Ginseng Georges, the man I traveled with to Wisconsin. George filled me in on all the latest from Liberty House, where things go well. My successor, Jeff, is just the kind of man Liberty House needs, someone who starts working with the staff on a Policies and Procedures Manual the first week he’s there. After five years there, such a project hadn’t arisen on my mental horizon, and wouldn’t have in another five years. Apropos of this, George told me a Grateful Dead anecdote. It seems a journalist wandered backstage and wanted to find the person in charge. He asked one of the roadies, “Who’s the boss?” The roadie gestured at the mountains of different cords, amps and assorted equipment and said, “The situation is the boss.” The title of the management book I’ll try (unsuccessfully) to write will be The Situation is the Boss.
Another person I spoke with was JP, my chess-playing confidante and friend. JP, a political junkie who always swears he quitting the stuff, suggested my blog posts need to clarify who Sam is. Apparently I mention Sam a lot, may have talked about sleeping with Sam, going for long walks with Sam, leaving Sam outside the post office or having Sam watch me do various things.
Let me clarify: Sam is a dog. Sam is a combination boxer and Labrador retriever. Sam is a dog. Sam weighs about 50 pounds. Sam is a dog. Sam’s full name is Sam, although I occasionally call him Samson or even Sambo in a playful way. Sam is a dog.
Sam is not my lover, Samantha. Sam is not my heterosexual life partner, Samuel. Sam is a dog.
If you are an attractive single woman between 40 and 65 who is attracted by my writing and love of the outdoors, you need not fear Sam and I are a couple. Feel free to contact me and express your interest in getting to know each other.
Unless your name is Sam. That’d be weird.