Well, this blog of mine has ended up pretty much like I thought it would. I never write here. I'd like to blame my lack of initiative on the fact that we "share" our internet with a neighbor (or, rather, he "shares" with us) and we kind of have to wait to get online for a wind to blow the signal in the right direction. But, truthfully, I don't write in my paper journals either. Of course, I didn't have to announce that to everyone who might be reading this (I'm assuming that's no one at this point, so I guess it's okay to confess away).
I never stick to projects and I am absolutely horrible at organizing time. I used to tell people in high school that my problem is that I have undiagnosed ADD. Maybe that's true. It doesn't really matter though. If I've been undiagnosed this long I think I'll just stay that way. I think the last time I went to write in this blog I had actually written something very long and kind of depressing but then I accidentally deleted it all and figured that it just wasn't worth it to re-write everything.
I think I've changed my mind about that. I need to write to keep myself sane. I talk to myself incessantly (not out loud of course) but the thing is my blathering is always in the form of a narrative and usually when I'm going on like that I think about where I should place commas. There are no real sentences, but I see the words in my head. I've always had trouble with commas. Am I losing it? Probably not. Probably never had it to begin with. I hope no one is reading this because this is me talking to myself tonight.
But somehow organizing the random thoughts in my head into visible sentences and putting it on virtual paper seems better than just thinking about typing notes on virtual paper and posting it up in this virtual space, I think.
Oh, well. Hopefully the wind will blow this way more often. I can't say that I'll be ready for it, though.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Monday, April 12, 2010
I am going to do something different in this blog. Truth be told, I don't really read too many blogs, so I'm not quite sure how to write one. I think that my postings have been rather random. There is no theme that really ties this blog together other than the fact that each post is supposed to be one more step toward alleviating my paralyzing fear of letting the things I write be read by others. These posts are the products of the really random meanderings of a bored mind. If you are actually faithful about reading this blog, I applaud you. You have more stamina than I do.
The different thing that I am going to do with this blog post is to post a poem. I am not a poet, but I did take a few poetry workshops in college. I bet that sentence really made you cringe, didn't it? That's what someone says (or, actually, it's probably the thing they don't say) at open mic night at the coffee shop right before they read something wretched. And you can't laugh out loud at them, because that's rude. And that's the worst part of being at open mic night at the coffee shop. But, if you laugh out loud at this poem, I won't know the difference because you're far away and I can't hear you.
Anyway, putting all the slap-happiness I feel tonight aside, this poem is one that I wrote for one of those poetry workshops. It's a persona poem, (meaning: I found a picture of a human being that I thought was interesting a wrote a poem that is supposed to give a voice to that silent human in the photo).
I like pictures of people that capture their humanness. I am a fan of Shelby Lee Adams and would love to someday write a piece to accompany one of his photographs. This poem, however, gives a voice to a picture taken by Dorothea Lange, entitled (I believe) Texas Panhandle 1938. Printed just below the picture is a quote: "If you die, you're dead - that's all." A persona poem, my workshop leader told me, is more about projecting something of your own voice onto the picture. It must be about the silent human, but what you write will not be human if it is not personal to you. Thus the mention of Appalachia, a place I earnestly wish was my home.
It's not a poem that is in league with Dickinson, Plath, or even the worst of William Wordsworth. Probably not even that stupid James Wright poem about the Indian ponies. But, it's what I've got to share.
I will post some questions you can feel free to answer in a comment at the bottom.
Dirt Men
Oil fields. Corn fields. Wheat fields.
Flat as a new checkerboard.
I look down the long dirt road
And I can see all my neighbors.
Each plain white house like each new day.
I look down the long dirt road and I can see all
The days of my life, lined up straight, plain and white.
At home, we could not see our neighbors. We could not see the horizon
No matter where we turned. The foothills and distant mountains of Appalachia
surrounded us like the walls of Jericho. Like the monstrous water walls
of the Red Sea. My only bright hope in coming here was to see that horizon
all around me. That thin bright strand - the meeting of heaven and earth.
But here, the dead grass kills us.
The unruly earth takes to the sky to fill our mouths, our throats, our hearts
with such despair. And we are offered up openly to an angry God.
He punishes us for our sins.
My little daughter died, crouched on her hands and knees.
My fingers were not so nimble that I could pull the dust
from her throat. Ashes for ashes. Dust, Lord, dust.
I think of my mother's bones joining themselves
with the Greenup, Kentucky mud. And my father's bones,
and his father's bones. And so on.
My bones will be devoured by this sandy, barren ground.
"If you die, you're dead - that's all," Richard keeps saying. But
not even he believes his lies.
"Woman," he said to me as we left our home for this place, "you'll be salt
if you keep looking backward."
I am not salt. Not salt or sand
or wild prairie dust.
I was made from the dirt of the foothills.
I have been the muddy river clay.
I am the lonesome rock breaking
the waters of a dying mountain stream.
These question are copied word for word from the assignment sheet handed out by my workshop leader. Feel free to answer them, or ponder them.
1. You've read about diction, image, rhetoric. (okay, so you, the readers of my blog haven't read about them from the assigned text, but let's pretend...) Which element seems to be primary engine in the poem? Is it used to its best effect? How could it be improved?
2. Did the writer create a believable character? Why or why not? Is the character convincing in speech?
3. Does the poem incorporate enough imagery? If so, why? If an image can be developed further, how can it be developed further?
4. Do you thing the writer went as far as possible in exploring the possibilities of the photograph? If not, what might you suggest?
The different thing that I am going to do with this blog post is to post a poem. I am not a poet, but I did take a few poetry workshops in college. I bet that sentence really made you cringe, didn't it? That's what someone says (or, actually, it's probably the thing they don't say) at open mic night at the coffee shop right before they read something wretched. And you can't laugh out loud at them, because that's rude. And that's the worst part of being at open mic night at the coffee shop. But, if you laugh out loud at this poem, I won't know the difference because you're far away and I can't hear you.
Anyway, putting all the slap-happiness I feel tonight aside, this poem is one that I wrote for one of those poetry workshops. It's a persona poem, (meaning: I found a picture of a human being that I thought was interesting a wrote a poem that is supposed to give a voice to that silent human in the photo).
I like pictures of people that capture their humanness. I am a fan of Shelby Lee Adams and would love to someday write a piece to accompany one of his photographs. This poem, however, gives a voice to a picture taken by Dorothea Lange, entitled (I believe) Texas Panhandle 1938. Printed just below the picture is a quote: "If you die, you're dead - that's all." A persona poem, my workshop leader told me, is more about projecting something of your own voice onto the picture. It must be about the silent human, but what you write will not be human if it is not personal to you. Thus the mention of Appalachia, a place I earnestly wish was my home.
It's not a poem that is in league with Dickinson, Plath, or even the worst of William Wordsworth. Probably not even that stupid James Wright poem about the Indian ponies. But, it's what I've got to share.
I will post some questions you can feel free to answer in a comment at the bottom.
Dirt Men
Oil fields. Corn fields. Wheat fields.
Flat as a new checkerboard.
I look down the long dirt road
And I can see all my neighbors.
Each plain white house like each new day.
I look down the long dirt road and I can see all
The days of my life, lined up straight, plain and white.
At home, we could not see our neighbors. We could not see the horizon
No matter where we turned. The foothills and distant mountains of Appalachia
surrounded us like the walls of Jericho. Like the monstrous water walls
of the Red Sea. My only bright hope in coming here was to see that horizon
all around me. That thin bright strand - the meeting of heaven and earth.
But here, the dead grass kills us.
The unruly earth takes to the sky to fill our mouths, our throats, our hearts
with such despair. And we are offered up openly to an angry God.
He punishes us for our sins.
My little daughter died, crouched on her hands and knees.
My fingers were not so nimble that I could pull the dust
from her throat. Ashes for ashes. Dust, Lord, dust.
I think of my mother's bones joining themselves
with the Greenup, Kentucky mud. And my father's bones,
and his father's bones. And so on.
My bones will be devoured by this sandy, barren ground.
"If you die, you're dead - that's all," Richard keeps saying. But
not even he believes his lies.
"Woman," he said to me as we left our home for this place, "you'll be salt
if you keep looking backward."
I am not salt. Not salt or sand
or wild prairie dust.
I was made from the dirt of the foothills.
I have been the muddy river clay.
I am the lonesome rock breaking
the waters of a dying mountain stream.
These question are copied word for word from the assignment sheet handed out by my workshop leader. Feel free to answer them, or ponder them.
1. You've read about diction, image, rhetoric. (okay, so you, the readers of my blog haven't read about them from the assigned text, but let's pretend...) Which element seems to be primary engine in the poem? Is it used to its best effect? How could it be improved?
2. Did the writer create a believable character? Why or why not? Is the character convincing in speech?
3. Does the poem incorporate enough imagery? If so, why? If an image can be developed further, how can it be developed further?
4. Do you thing the writer went as far as possible in exploring the possibilities of the photograph? If not, what might you suggest?
Friday, March 26, 2010
A Rambling Meditation on my Job
Well, today marks the end of my first week at my new job as a runner for Lexington Family Practice. I am exhausted physically, but I feel a contentment. Perhaps it is this small bit of security I have been given after months of feeling up in the air. Or, perhaps it is the feeling of being back in a medical office. Most people dread that visit to the doctor. I can't say that I enjoy being a patient either, but I do enjoy working in medical offices. Something about it refreshes my spirit.
I have been offered two jobs that would guarantee better pay than my current position. I would have my own desk and my own computer (something that I am not afforded at the Family Practice), but I couldn't accept them. When I think about the perks of these other office jobs, I wince a little and wonder if I've made the right choice. And after I consider everything, I think I have.
The promise of better pay and perks is always tempting. I think a great deal about money, a habit I picked up from my mother, as I think I mentioned in some earlier post. I have never worked at a job that paid well. Athens was not the sort of town that had really good jobs. You accepted anything that paid and you liked it because you didn't have a choice. There didn't seem to be much of a choice for me here in Columbia until just recently. Now, this relatively unskilled Office Space reject who has never made $10 an hour in her life is being offered jobs that have a starting wage of at least $12/hr.
I feel like an idiot for turning these offers down. But the truth is, I tire of those jobs so quickly. I can't help it. I don't have a head for business at all. I have been born with the soul of...well, I was going to say an artist, but that sounds so cliche and stupid. I have never been satisfied with office work, not unless there is something behind it. Something that makes it worth the mindless punching of the keyboard or calculator. Many of the places I've worked require a passion to grow a business that is not my own. The law office where I worked in Ohio occasionally provided a spiritual draw. There were people who were genuinely in need and, in rare moments, we were able to help them. More often than not, though, what we could do, the solace and sanctuary provided by the law, was not enough. Some of the most heartbreaking moments in my recent memory occurred at that office. I will never forget the look that a woman gave me as I sat in to witness the signing of her will. It was such a strange look and because I had no idea that she was dying, it disconcerted me - I didn't know what could prompt a look like that. A month later, when we received the news that she had died and we would be handling her estate, I realized what that look was. It was a look of acceptance, desperation, envy and perhaps pity. I remember how her husband fell apart in our hands. He called over and over to ask the same questions. We gave him the answers slowly each time and spoke to him like a child.
There was the case of the aging father who created a pitifully small trust fund to ensure the continued financial care of his mentally disabled son after his passing. He was not in bad health. We told him there was still time to put money into the fund, but he knew he would never make enough to create the kind of savings that would keep his son comfortable. One by one he blotted his other children and stepchildren out of his will in order to direct their inheritance into the trust. We adjusted and readjusted his will as he sat in the conference room, waiting. Each time we brought him a new copy, he would wring his hands and make one more change. His disabled son sat with him, smiling the entire time. The attorney and I joked with the son, trying to enjoy his laughter and hoping the father would find some joy in it, too. This son, the youngest of his siblings, was his father's namesake.
There was also the paperwork that I was forced to complete to ensure that our clients with DUI's could get their licenses back for "driving to and from work." This kind of paperwork served as a quick way to make a buck or two. It also served as a favor to our clients. Most DUI's, underage consumption charges and the like were thrown at us by our big dollar clientele or by so called friends of the attorney who liked to play the "scratch my back" game. Their idiot children kept cash in the till.
And then there were the eviction notices that we handed out like candy canes at Christmas.
There were so many days that I cried the entire way home. I cried and grew bitter, realizing that the law is the last place to look for justice. I think the attorney that I worked for realized the same thing a long time ago, but refused to admit it to himself. This denial took seemed to only add to his stress. The toll was obvious, not only in that he had suffered from a stress-related stroke, but in certain obsessive tendencies that he developed, and which seemed to grow worse with age.
One day, while he was in one of his good moods, he tried to thank me for something. He began to say "thank you," and couldn't stop. Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou He must have said it like that for ten seconds straight. It made my blood run cold. His head ticked slightly to the side each time he started the "thank you" over again. It was always hard not to take his bad moods personally, especially since I, too, was under duress from eight to five every day. But after that episode, I found it a little easier to simply pull the receiver away from my ear as he screamed at me from the other end of the line. It was easier, better, just to let him scream. Better to let him spew his garbage on me than to have to rush him to the emergency room for a second time. Better than his chilling Howard Hughes impressions.
There was a bird that frequently flew into the windows of that office that I wanted to write about while I was there. It was a little red cardinal. Sometimes it was accompanied by another bird which looked to be a cardinal, but since it had all of the feathers on its head, it was hard to tell. Most mornings beginning at about 8:30, our little winged friend would begin his routine. bam...Bam...BAM would sound from the conference room, his favorite place to come knocking. Everyone in the office was surprised that this poor bird lived day after day. He slammed himself into the windows as hard as he could and nothing that we did - not closing the blinds, not turning off the lights - ever stopped him. There was no direct light that hit that window, I don't think he saw his reflection in the glass. What drew him to this daily ritual no one could figure out. Sometimes, when he was tired of beating his brains out, he would sit on the sill and peck gently, a knock that always drew me in to see him. I felt his spiritual significance. This bird was a metaphor for something, but I couldn't write about him while I was there. I had no idea what he stood for. It wasn't until I had left that I realized that this bird was Bill, the attorney. He seemed like such a nice creature when he was quiet and thoughtful, but he was bent on killing himself and that was that.
I decided this time around that I'm tired of beating my head against the wall. I have accepted a job I think I can love. Of course there is bureaucracy in medicine, we have drug reps from all the major pharmaceutical companies in the office everyday. But we don't accept their clipboards and pens. We let them buy breakfast and lunch for the entire office and we take their samples if we feel like it.
I am nothing but a runner. I make little more than minimum wage. Today one of the staff brought her baby granddaughter into the office to show her off. The tiny girl had just come in for an examination and was diagnosed with an ear infection. We had expected her to be crying and screaming with pain, but she smiled at everyone.
I have nothing but the feeling that I participate (however minimally) in the maintenance of Life. It is wonderful.
I have been offered two jobs that would guarantee better pay than my current position. I would have my own desk and my own computer (something that I am not afforded at the Family Practice), but I couldn't accept them. When I think about the perks of these other office jobs, I wince a little and wonder if I've made the right choice. And after I consider everything, I think I have.
The promise of better pay and perks is always tempting. I think a great deal about money, a habit I picked up from my mother, as I think I mentioned in some earlier post. I have never worked at a job that paid well. Athens was not the sort of town that had really good jobs. You accepted anything that paid and you liked it because you didn't have a choice. There didn't seem to be much of a choice for me here in Columbia until just recently. Now, this relatively unskilled Office Space reject who has never made $10 an hour in her life is being offered jobs that have a starting wage of at least $12/hr.
I feel like an idiot for turning these offers down. But the truth is, I tire of those jobs so quickly. I can't help it. I don't have a head for business at all. I have been born with the soul of...well, I was going to say an artist, but that sounds so cliche and stupid. I have never been satisfied with office work, not unless there is something behind it. Something that makes it worth the mindless punching of the keyboard or calculator. Many of the places I've worked require a passion to grow a business that is not my own. The law office where I worked in Ohio occasionally provided a spiritual draw. There were people who were genuinely in need and, in rare moments, we were able to help them. More often than not, though, what we could do, the solace and sanctuary provided by the law, was not enough. Some of the most heartbreaking moments in my recent memory occurred at that office. I will never forget the look that a woman gave me as I sat in to witness the signing of her will. It was such a strange look and because I had no idea that she was dying, it disconcerted me - I didn't know what could prompt a look like that. A month later, when we received the news that she had died and we would be handling her estate, I realized what that look was. It was a look of acceptance, desperation, envy and perhaps pity. I remember how her husband fell apart in our hands. He called over and over to ask the same questions. We gave him the answers slowly each time and spoke to him like a child.
There was the case of the aging father who created a pitifully small trust fund to ensure the continued financial care of his mentally disabled son after his passing. He was not in bad health. We told him there was still time to put money into the fund, but he knew he would never make enough to create the kind of savings that would keep his son comfortable. One by one he blotted his other children and stepchildren out of his will in order to direct their inheritance into the trust. We adjusted and readjusted his will as he sat in the conference room, waiting. Each time we brought him a new copy, he would wring his hands and make one more change. His disabled son sat with him, smiling the entire time. The attorney and I joked with the son, trying to enjoy his laughter and hoping the father would find some joy in it, too. This son, the youngest of his siblings, was his father's namesake.
There was also the paperwork that I was forced to complete to ensure that our clients with DUI's could get their licenses back for "driving to and from work." This kind of paperwork served as a quick way to make a buck or two. It also served as a favor to our clients. Most DUI's, underage consumption charges and the like were thrown at us by our big dollar clientele or by so called friends of the attorney who liked to play the "scratch my back" game. Their idiot children kept cash in the till.
And then there were the eviction notices that we handed out like candy canes at Christmas.
There were so many days that I cried the entire way home. I cried and grew bitter, realizing that the law is the last place to look for justice. I think the attorney that I worked for realized the same thing a long time ago, but refused to admit it to himself. This denial took seemed to only add to his stress. The toll was obvious, not only in that he had suffered from a stress-related stroke, but in certain obsessive tendencies that he developed, and which seemed to grow worse with age.
One day, while he was in one of his good moods, he tried to thank me for something. He began to say "thank you," and couldn't stop. Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou He must have said it like that for ten seconds straight. It made my blood run cold. His head ticked slightly to the side each time he started the "thank you" over again. It was always hard not to take his bad moods personally, especially since I, too, was under duress from eight to five every day. But after that episode, I found it a little easier to simply pull the receiver away from my ear as he screamed at me from the other end of the line. It was easier, better, just to let him scream. Better to let him spew his garbage on me than to have to rush him to the emergency room for a second time. Better than his chilling Howard Hughes impressions.
There was a bird that frequently flew into the windows of that office that I wanted to write about while I was there. It was a little red cardinal. Sometimes it was accompanied by another bird which looked to be a cardinal, but since it had all of the feathers on its head, it was hard to tell. Most mornings beginning at about 8:30, our little winged friend would begin his routine. bam...Bam...BAM would sound from the conference room, his favorite place to come knocking. Everyone in the office was surprised that this poor bird lived day after day. He slammed himself into the windows as hard as he could and nothing that we did - not closing the blinds, not turning off the lights - ever stopped him. There was no direct light that hit that window, I don't think he saw his reflection in the glass. What drew him to this daily ritual no one could figure out. Sometimes, when he was tired of beating his brains out, he would sit on the sill and peck gently, a knock that always drew me in to see him. I felt his spiritual significance. This bird was a metaphor for something, but I couldn't write about him while I was there. I had no idea what he stood for. It wasn't until I had left that I realized that this bird was Bill, the attorney. He seemed like such a nice creature when he was quiet and thoughtful, but he was bent on killing himself and that was that.
I decided this time around that I'm tired of beating my head against the wall. I have accepted a job I think I can love. Of course there is bureaucracy in medicine, we have drug reps from all the major pharmaceutical companies in the office everyday. But we don't accept their clipboards and pens. We let them buy breakfast and lunch for the entire office and we take their samples if we feel like it.
I am nothing but a runner. I make little more than minimum wage. Today one of the staff brought her baby granddaughter into the office to show her off. The tiny girl had just come in for an examination and was diagnosed with an ear infection. We had expected her to be crying and screaming with pain, but she smiled at everyone.
I have nothing but the feeling that I participate (however minimally) in the maintenance of Life. It is wonderful.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
One of those days
Well, I had what I thought was a fabulous post on what it means to be an American descendant of an Irish ancestor. It was about how my family sold out, gave up their Catholicism, the Gaelic language, even sold their tartan and became Anglicans to please the English colonizers, to preserve some personal or real property that is no longer in our family's possession (we don't even know what it was they were trying to protect), and how all of this knowledge shaped my year of study abroad in Belfast, NI. BUT, there was some stupid glitch in my computer and the post, which was impossibly long, was wiped out. Not even the automatic "save" feature saved it.
I spent hours working on that post. It was beautiful. It was going to be the first in a series of posts centering on my study abroad trip to Northern Ireland, both as a belated tribute to St. Patrick's day and as a tribute to the dear friends I made in Belfast. I hope to see you all soon in Charleston!
I was going to try to rewrite it, but today is one of those days. I am laying here in bed, typing all of this when I promised Elisha I would be resting. I am trying to fight off a nasty cold by tomorrow, the first day of my new job (Yay!!). I don't have enough energy for a do-over post and yet, I worked so long today that to post nothing would be to accept utter defeat.
So, here goes, I'm going to post every thing I know about starfish (first thing that came to mind):
- starfish digest their prey outside of their body by dropping their stomachs out of their mouths and enveloping their prey. Stomach acids then dissolve prey and the stomach is pulled back into the body.
-starfish can regenerate lost limbs
-starfish have no natural predators. (I'm pretty sure, anyway)
-there are 1,800 different species of starfish.
-starfish are echinoderms, not fish.
- starfish have tiny eyes at the end of each of "arm", the eye allows them to see movement and distinguish between light and dark
- starfish are never found in fresh water.
-starfish use their suction cup-like tube feet to pry open the shells of clams and oysters, its main prey.
Okay, so I looked some of those up on a website for elementary school kids. That's all for now.
I suppose I'll just have to start my Belfast blog series tomorrow. Right now, I am in desperate need of a shower, and some sleep.
I spent hours working on that post. It was beautiful. It was going to be the first in a series of posts centering on my study abroad trip to Northern Ireland, both as a belated tribute to St. Patrick's day and as a tribute to the dear friends I made in Belfast. I hope to see you all soon in Charleston!
I was going to try to rewrite it, but today is one of those days. I am laying here in bed, typing all of this when I promised Elisha I would be resting. I am trying to fight off a nasty cold by tomorrow, the first day of my new job (Yay!!). I don't have enough energy for a do-over post and yet, I worked so long today that to post nothing would be to accept utter defeat.
So, here goes, I'm going to post every thing I know about starfish (first thing that came to mind):
- starfish digest their prey outside of their body by dropping their stomachs out of their mouths and enveloping their prey. Stomach acids then dissolve prey and the stomach is pulled back into the body.
-starfish can regenerate lost limbs
-starfish have no natural predators. (I'm pretty sure, anyway)
-there are 1,800 different species of starfish.
-starfish are echinoderms, not fish.
- starfish have tiny eyes at the end of each of "arm", the eye allows them to see movement and distinguish between light and dark
- starfish are never found in fresh water.
-starfish use their suction cup-like tube feet to pry open the shells of clams and oysters, its main prey.
Okay, so I looked some of those up on a website for elementary school kids. That's all for now.
I suppose I'll just have to start my Belfast blog series tomorrow. Right now, I am in desperate need of a shower, and some sleep.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Loss and Real Loss
Well, I haven't written anything lately. I have had a few things in mind to write, but to be perfectly honest. I was just too depressed.
You see, Friday, February 26th, my temp job ended. It wasn't the best job, but it paid the bills and wasn't a complete drudgery. It was an office job at a title insurance corporation. I couldn't have worked there long term because I have too many ideals. Even if they had offered (and I had accepted) a permanent position, I would have been plotting my escape from the place. I cannot work for a corporation or organization whose main purpose is to make money. I do like to make money, but I prefer that the paycheck is an added bonus to an already rewarding occupation. And, for me anyway, an occupation is only truly rewarding when it's chief end is to do good in some capacity. One could say that a title insurance company does do good in some capacity. My response to this would be: Yes, but... Yes, title insurance does protect the bank and sometimes the buyer of a new home against law suits if the title search performed on a piece of property is faulty, but this is not a performance of good for goodness' sake, it is merely symbiosis. You must pay for the protection you receive. They make money, and you are insured against losing money in a lawsuit. Each party's goals are met. It is the relationship of a clown fish and an anemone.
I don't want to be a clown fish. I feel like enough of a clown. I need something better to do.
Regardless, however, of my dissatisfaction with the position I was upset when I found out that I was losing it. Since Elisha is back in school, I have been the primary provider and since job hunting in Columbia has turned out to feel a little more like snipe hunting, the little bit of security I felt in that temporary position made up for most of its flaws. It wasn't so much the loss of the job as the loss of both the solid routine and ease of knowing that we could pay our bills that devastated me. I have always been very uneasy about money. I grew up poor, not destitute, just poor. I lived in a community of poor people and for the most part, no one really noticed or cared how little we actually had. There were a few who did care, of course. There were also a few who really cared. And then, there was my mother, a woman who had grown up in real poverty, in no-running-water-or-electricity-eating-jiffy-pop-popcorn-for-a week-straight-because-there-was-no money-for-food poverty.
My mother is a loan officer in a bank. She is well-liked and everyone whom I have met who has worked with her has praised her astuteness as a banker. Once, she was promoted to the position of branch manager, but the position took up time that she was used to spending with her kids in the evenings and so she demoted herself. She hasn't really looked for career advancement since that time. She is only lower middle class, but she has come a very long way. She never forgets this. Not for one moment. Money, her lack of it, her possible return to destitution, is always at the forefront of her mind. Her fear rubbed off on me. I am terrified to be uncertain about money. I am a person who simultaneously hates the mindless pursuit of money and is terrified of being really poor.
So, I lost my job. I was sad to lose the routine that made life in Columbia seem normal, I was freaked out about money. And, because it was Friday, Elisha was in Washington, D.C. for his weekly seminar at the Folger Shakespeare Library. I was alone.
I laid in bed for nearly an hour that afternoon whining and crying to myself. I tried to call Elisha so that I could whine to him, but he was in class and didn't pick up. As I was fiddling with my phone I pressed a button (what button I couldn't tell you, I'm really not tech savvy in the least) and my phone asked me this question: End All?
And people say God doesn't have a sense of humor.
You see, Friday, February 26th, my temp job ended. It wasn't the best job, but it paid the bills and wasn't a complete drudgery. It was an office job at a title insurance corporation. I couldn't have worked there long term because I have too many ideals. Even if they had offered (and I had accepted) a permanent position, I would have been plotting my escape from the place. I cannot work for a corporation or organization whose main purpose is to make money. I do like to make money, but I prefer that the paycheck is an added bonus to an already rewarding occupation. And, for me anyway, an occupation is only truly rewarding when it's chief end is to do good in some capacity. One could say that a title insurance company does do good in some capacity. My response to this would be: Yes, but... Yes, title insurance does protect the bank and sometimes the buyer of a new home against law suits if the title search performed on a piece of property is faulty, but this is not a performance of good for goodness' sake, it is merely symbiosis. You must pay for the protection you receive. They make money, and you are insured against losing money in a lawsuit. Each party's goals are met. It is the relationship of a clown fish and an anemone.
I don't want to be a clown fish. I feel like enough of a clown. I need something better to do.
Regardless, however, of my dissatisfaction with the position I was upset when I found out that I was losing it. Since Elisha is back in school, I have been the primary provider and since job hunting in Columbia has turned out to feel a little more like snipe hunting, the little bit of security I felt in that temporary position made up for most of its flaws. It wasn't so much the loss of the job as the loss of both the solid routine and ease of knowing that we could pay our bills that devastated me. I have always been very uneasy about money. I grew up poor, not destitute, just poor. I lived in a community of poor people and for the most part, no one really noticed or cared how little we actually had. There were a few who did care, of course. There were also a few who really cared. And then, there was my mother, a woman who had grown up in real poverty, in no-running-water-or-electricity-eating-jiffy-pop-popcorn-for-a week-straight-because-there-was-no money-for-food poverty.
My mother is a loan officer in a bank. She is well-liked and everyone whom I have met who has worked with her has praised her astuteness as a banker. Once, she was promoted to the position of branch manager, but the position took up time that she was used to spending with her kids in the evenings and so she demoted herself. She hasn't really looked for career advancement since that time. She is only lower middle class, but she has come a very long way. She never forgets this. Not for one moment. Money, her lack of it, her possible return to destitution, is always at the forefront of her mind. Her fear rubbed off on me. I am terrified to be uncertain about money. I am a person who simultaneously hates the mindless pursuit of money and is terrified of being really poor.
So, I lost my job. I was sad to lose the routine that made life in Columbia seem normal, I was freaked out about money. And, because it was Friday, Elisha was in Washington, D.C. for his weekly seminar at the Folger Shakespeare Library. I was alone.
I laid in bed for nearly an hour that afternoon whining and crying to myself. I tried to call Elisha so that I could whine to him, but he was in class and didn't pick up. As I was fiddling with my phone I pressed a button (what button I couldn't tell you, I'm really not tech savvy in the least) and my phone asked me this question: End All?
And people say God doesn't have a sense of humor.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Tonight I am trying to imagine snow. It was something like seventy degrees here in Columbia today and frankly, I am disappointed. It is supposed to be winter and winter, in my mind anyway, is a failure without snow.
I think I was born in the snow. I learned that my birthday was technically in the fall in first grade or so. I was utterly disappointed. December 21st is the first day of winter, I was born 4 days shy of being a winter baby. But, in Ohio we expect early snows. Snows that preceed winter itself.
The one thing people kept telling me when we decided to move to South Carolina is that I would love the winters. You can go outside on Christmas day without a coat. It can be up to 70 degrees! I kept wondering why on earth that would be appealing. Christmas afternoon is for sledding, for spending huddled up with family inside, looking out on my parent's back yard, a sloping white hill, the branches of the trees encapsulated by ice. When the sun comes out, the brightness is almost too much for sunglasses to tame. It is radiant.
Maxine used to quote some superstition that I think her father taught her when she was young. A green Christmas means a fat cemetery. She is full of superstition, but I the more I think about it, the more superstition seems to have its roots in something solid. The idea that a snowless Christmas portends an unusually high number of deaths in the coming year seemed ridiculous to me as a child. Then I experienced a few. There is nothing more depressing to me than a green Christmas. Winter, and especially the holidays, has a higher number of suicides than the rest of the seasons. The color washes out of the Ohio landscape in the winter. Color doesn't go away completely, but the land begins to look like one of those old black and white photographs that has had color added to it later. The slope downward into Seasonal Affectation Disorder is a steep and slippery one when looking at a scene like that.
Snow blankets our wet, dead misery. The accompanying ice makes even the most mundane objects shine. The iron gray sky, so deeply sad, loses its power against the force of bright white.
Here in Columbia, none of that matters. It is warm, and the plants have retained their greenness. The leaves continue to grow on the trees. I feel as if I have missed winter altogether.
The morning after the only snow that has fallen here this year, I woke up entirely energized. The night before had been a big night, more because of the snow than because of the Sanford signing. The backyard of the triplex where we live looked like a wonderland, a totally different place than the frightening tangled mess of bushes and brambles I am accustomed to. Everything was illuminated, covered in snow which reflected back the city lights. Elisha and I made snowballs from the accumulation on our steps and threw them at nothing. At the car and the neighbor's fence. And that next morning the bedroom was bright in the way that a room can only be in the winter, as the sun reflects off the snow. Light falls from the sky and bounces off of the ground. Radiant.
I knew God was smiling on me. I knew He was remembering, just as I was, the blizzard of my second grade year. My mother made us dress for twenty minutes before letting us go out that winter. There was always another layer she could add to our clothes. We ran like maniacs through drifts that came up to our thighs and waists. Mom helped us build our own igloo, and at Maxine's, Darrell and Daddy Bill helped us pack down the snow on their hill into sleek sled tracks. Our little plastic sled disks always hit the piles of snow at the bottom, throwing us a few feet into more piles of snow, which served as cushioning for the crash. One of the best winters of my life.
The winter of 2007-2008, right after Elisha and I were married, my family decided to go to the lake to sled down the dam. A bunch of bored college students were already at the dam. None of us, including the college students, had real sleds. It was mostly pool equipment (intertubes, inflatable pool rafts, and boogie boards) and some of it we covered with cheap trash bags for added velocity. We nearly killed ourselves. Our inflatables popped, trashbags ripped and we continued rolling down the incredibly steep hill. We screamed out our laughter the entire time, our faces red and frozen.
Last winter, the year of disastrous ice storms, Elisha and I became trapped on top of Carriage Hill, the steep hill where our apartment complex was located. It was dangerous just to try to walk down that hill. Everyone who tried to drive up or down ended up just another car in the 7+ car pile up at the bottom. The apartment manager attempted to get a snow plow for us, but the plow, complete with chains on the tires, slid back down the hill as well. Since the ice and snow had shut down the city of Athens for a day, Elisha and I snuggled up warm together on the couch, eating the gourmet olives I had splurged on and watching a day long marathon of the X-files.
I don't love warm winters, as a matter of fact. It seems like something has gone out of the natural order of life. I don't have any complaints against snow. Even the time my car did doughnuts down the highway after hitting a skid, I was sad to see the snow that caused the skid melt away.
There are compromises no matter where you live. Honestly, snow is something necessary for a good winter. A good winter is necessary for a good year.
This has been Columbia's coldest year in a while. I think perhaps my earnest desire for something homey and familiar has stayed the warm weather. God is smiling on me. Columbia may be in for it after all.
I think I was born in the snow. I learned that my birthday was technically in the fall in first grade or so. I was utterly disappointed. December 21st is the first day of winter, I was born 4 days shy of being a winter baby. But, in Ohio we expect early snows. Snows that preceed winter itself.
The one thing people kept telling me when we decided to move to South Carolina is that I would love the winters. You can go outside on Christmas day without a coat. It can be up to 70 degrees! I kept wondering why on earth that would be appealing. Christmas afternoon is for sledding, for spending huddled up with family inside, looking out on my parent's back yard, a sloping white hill, the branches of the trees encapsulated by ice. When the sun comes out, the brightness is almost too much for sunglasses to tame. It is radiant.
Maxine used to quote some superstition that I think her father taught her when she was young. A green Christmas means a fat cemetery. She is full of superstition, but I the more I think about it, the more superstition seems to have its roots in something solid. The idea that a snowless Christmas portends an unusually high number of deaths in the coming year seemed ridiculous to me as a child. Then I experienced a few. There is nothing more depressing to me than a green Christmas. Winter, and especially the holidays, has a higher number of suicides than the rest of the seasons. The color washes out of the Ohio landscape in the winter. Color doesn't go away completely, but the land begins to look like one of those old black and white photographs that has had color added to it later. The slope downward into Seasonal Affectation Disorder is a steep and slippery one when looking at a scene like that.
Snow blankets our wet, dead misery. The accompanying ice makes even the most mundane objects shine. The iron gray sky, so deeply sad, loses its power against the force of bright white.
Here in Columbia, none of that matters. It is warm, and the plants have retained their greenness. The leaves continue to grow on the trees. I feel as if I have missed winter altogether.
The morning after the only snow that has fallen here this year, I woke up entirely energized. The night before had been a big night, more because of the snow than because of the Sanford signing. The backyard of the triplex where we live looked like a wonderland, a totally different place than the frightening tangled mess of bushes and brambles I am accustomed to. Everything was illuminated, covered in snow which reflected back the city lights. Elisha and I made snowballs from the accumulation on our steps and threw them at nothing. At the car and the neighbor's fence. And that next morning the bedroom was bright in the way that a room can only be in the winter, as the sun reflects off the snow. Light falls from the sky and bounces off of the ground. Radiant.
I knew God was smiling on me. I knew He was remembering, just as I was, the blizzard of my second grade year. My mother made us dress for twenty minutes before letting us go out that winter. There was always another layer she could add to our clothes. We ran like maniacs through drifts that came up to our thighs and waists. Mom helped us build our own igloo, and at Maxine's, Darrell and Daddy Bill helped us pack down the snow on their hill into sleek sled tracks. Our little plastic sled disks always hit the piles of snow at the bottom, throwing us a few feet into more piles of snow, which served as cushioning for the crash. One of the best winters of my life.
The winter of 2007-2008, right after Elisha and I were married, my family decided to go to the lake to sled down the dam. A bunch of bored college students were already at the dam. None of us, including the college students, had real sleds. It was mostly pool equipment (intertubes, inflatable pool rafts, and boogie boards) and some of it we covered with cheap trash bags for added velocity. We nearly killed ourselves. Our inflatables popped, trashbags ripped and we continued rolling down the incredibly steep hill. We screamed out our laughter the entire time, our faces red and frozen.
Last winter, the year of disastrous ice storms, Elisha and I became trapped on top of Carriage Hill, the steep hill where our apartment complex was located. It was dangerous just to try to walk down that hill. Everyone who tried to drive up or down ended up just another car in the 7+ car pile up at the bottom. The apartment manager attempted to get a snow plow for us, but the plow, complete with chains on the tires, slid back down the hill as well. Since the ice and snow had shut down the city of Athens for a day, Elisha and I snuggled up warm together on the couch, eating the gourmet olives I had splurged on and watching a day long marathon of the X-files.
I don't love warm winters, as a matter of fact. It seems like something has gone out of the natural order of life. I don't have any complaints against snow. Even the time my car did doughnuts down the highway after hitting a skid, I was sad to see the snow that caused the skid melt away.
There are compromises no matter where you live. Honestly, snow is something necessary for a good winter. A good winter is necessary for a good year.
This has been Columbia's coldest year in a while. I think perhaps my earnest desire for something homey and familiar has stayed the warm weather. God is smiling on me. Columbia may be in for it after all.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
On Meeting The Woman Behind the Man Who Embarrassed a State
This blog is dedicated to Aunt Patty. Happy Birthday. (apologies for its belatedness)
When I say "the woman behind the man," I mean Mrs. Jenny Sanford. And, when I say "met," I mean I sort of stood near her for a while.
Mrs. Jenny Sanford decided, for a reason I suppose I understand, to kick off her book signing tour at the bookstore where I work. This bookstore, which I shall leave nameless, is pretty unimpressive, but it is near to downtown Columbia. I guess if you're going to stick it to your philandering husband, best to do it closest to his home and office.
We had planned to have a crowd of about 500 people attending the signing that night. We had almost every manager on staff to help direct employees and crowds and so many employees that the managers seemed to have a hard time figuring out where to put everyone. We had all been informed that there would be press there to cover the signing, which was to last two hours. Normally, store employees and managers don't take much thought about what we wear to work. We are supposed to have clothes that would be appropriate in a business casual setting. We are always more casual than business, but we have those lanyard things around our necks, so it doesn't really matter. You can tell we're employees. However, because of the camera crews and the possibility of ending up on the front of a local newspaper or on a local tv channel, we all took extra pains to ensure that we truly did look nice. Everyone had on dressy shirts and the girls wore their nicest costume jewelry. I had actually cared about my hair that day and had done my best to fix it. I also wore panty hose, an article of clothing that I loathe, to ensure that if they did get a picture of me, my chicken legs wouldn't seem so discolored and hairy.
All week we had been preparing the store for her arrival. We straightened the books with special diligence, we dusted and moved tables. The night before her arrival, I personally (with some help from a manager who was already off-duty) pulled a fallen urinal cake out of the toilet it happened to be clogging with nothing but a pair of rubber gloves and two paperclips hooked together. We couldn't wait for the cleaning crew to get it. We had to stop the mess in its tracks.
That night, I walked into the store to begin my seven hour shift, and I was eager about it. It seemed silly to me, even then, to be so excited about the event. I mean, after all, we were going to have to clean up the mess that Mrs. Sanford's fans left behind. And more than that, we were going to have to control that crowd of fans. I had learned already from a book signing by Jan Brett, the children's illustrator, that controlling these sort of fanatical people was nearly impossible. But I always love a break from the norm, no matter how difficult it may be.
I was disappointed to learn that I would be nowhere near all the hubbub. I was to be stuck behind the cash register all night, selling Mrs. Sanford's memoir to the impatient people who were getting in line for the signing. Fantastic. I hate being stuck behind the cash register. Standing in that one spot makes time move so slowly that you don't care about what time you're off, because you're pretty sure you'll be dead before then. But I wasn't alone. There were two other people acting as cashiers as well, and all of us were from places where people were used to snow. I bring that up because a forecast of snow had been given that day for Columbia and people were all jittery about it. Well, actually, they weren't really jittery at all, a fact that really let me down. I was really looking forward to mass pandemonium, you know - grocery stores being cleared out, people fighting over the last can of tuna - that sort of thing. But nobody really believed it was coming at all.
At about five o'clock the other cashiers and I discovered that if you stared out the window without blinking for about twenty seconds, you would be able to see the tiny snowflakes that happened to be falling. We laughed a little, dubbed it The Blizzard, and turned back to waiting on customers.
Time passed, and the snowflakes got bigger and kept coming. The forecasted 1-2 inches was becoming more like 5 or 6 inches. The turn out for the Sanford signing was looking like it would be pretty pathetic. And it was. At about seven o'clock I was pulled from my register and told that I had a "new job." We had to start the signing because Mrs. Sanford insisted on returning to Charleston that night instead of staying the night in a local hotel. I was given the job of standing beside Mrs. Sanford's table and taking the books from eager customers, making sure they had flipped it to the right page and then handing it to Mrs. Sanford's assistants, who in turn handed the books to her.
For over an hour I stood there, less than three feet from her as she talked with people about the snow, thanked them for their support, assured them that this book was written as a salve for women who had been through similar situations, that it was not at all written to embarrass her husband while promoting herself. And when women who almost certainly had been through similar situations stood before her trying to wipe the tears off of their cheeks before people began to notice, she took their hands and promised to pray for them. She told them they could make it if they stayed strong and true.
I found it really rather thoughtless on the part of the planning team that Mrs. Sanford's signing desk had been set up directly across from our Happy Valentine's Day display table. I didn't think that her decision to kick off her signing on Valentine's Day weekend was so surprising. I figured that it was meant to either instill pity for her or rage against her husband (or both) in her supporters. But the table being so near by was truly an accident, one that deeply amused me. There was a certain obliviousness in some of the people who showed up for the signing as well. There were quite a few husbands who came with their pregnant wives, or who came alone to have the book signed as a gift for their wives for Valentine's day. "Aren't you sweet to do that for her!" Mrs. Sanford made this comment to each husband without batting an eye. Her ability to smile at these men so sweetly and sincerely reawakened my fear of politicians.
I suppose I had a part in the irony that night as well, Right after I left Mrs. Sanford's table to go home (we were all sent home early due to weather conditions) I picked up a card for my husband. Casablanca themed.
The weather slashed the number of visitors from five hundred to less than two hundred. The hoards of press we had expected turned out to be five people, two with large cameras, one with a news video camera, one with a camera phone and one with just a note pad and pencil. One of the large camera people left the scene after about fifteen minutes, as did the video man. Two of the others, Camera Phone Man and Note Pad Lady, stayed for almost all of it. The only one who stayed the entire time was the other man with the large camera. I began to suspect, after a while, that he was actually hired by Mrs. Sanford herself. While the other reporters attempted to interview people in line about Mrs. Sanford, he took shots of her empathetically holding hands with people and he took shots of her laughing with people.
Apparently the rest of the South Carolina Press was out filming The Blizzard. My co-worker told me later that she had seen a snippet of the signing on the news. It flitted on and off the screen in between shots of snow covered streets. My face appeared on a corner of the screen for about half a second. I guess the bigger news story actually won out. Politicians mess around every day. Columbia hasn't seen a snow like that in years.
When I say "the woman behind the man," I mean Mrs. Jenny Sanford. And, when I say "met," I mean I sort of stood near her for a while.
Mrs. Jenny Sanford decided, for a reason I suppose I understand, to kick off her book signing tour at the bookstore where I work. This bookstore, which I shall leave nameless, is pretty unimpressive, but it is near to downtown Columbia. I guess if you're going to stick it to your philandering husband, best to do it closest to his home and office.
We had planned to have a crowd of about 500 people attending the signing that night. We had almost every manager on staff to help direct employees and crowds and so many employees that the managers seemed to have a hard time figuring out where to put everyone. We had all been informed that there would be press there to cover the signing, which was to last two hours. Normally, store employees and managers don't take much thought about what we wear to work. We are supposed to have clothes that would be appropriate in a business casual setting. We are always more casual than business, but we have those lanyard things around our necks, so it doesn't really matter. You can tell we're employees. However, because of the camera crews and the possibility of ending up on the front of a local newspaper or on a local tv channel, we all took extra pains to ensure that we truly did look nice. Everyone had on dressy shirts and the girls wore their nicest costume jewelry. I had actually cared about my hair that day and had done my best to fix it. I also wore panty hose, an article of clothing that I loathe, to ensure that if they did get a picture of me, my chicken legs wouldn't seem so discolored and hairy.
All week we had been preparing the store for her arrival. We straightened the books with special diligence, we dusted and moved tables. The night before her arrival, I personally (with some help from a manager who was already off-duty) pulled a fallen urinal cake out of the toilet it happened to be clogging with nothing but a pair of rubber gloves and two paperclips hooked together. We couldn't wait for the cleaning crew to get it. We had to stop the mess in its tracks.
That night, I walked into the store to begin my seven hour shift, and I was eager about it. It seemed silly to me, even then, to be so excited about the event. I mean, after all, we were going to have to clean up the mess that Mrs. Sanford's fans left behind. And more than that, we were going to have to control that crowd of fans. I had learned already from a book signing by Jan Brett, the children's illustrator, that controlling these sort of fanatical people was nearly impossible. But I always love a break from the norm, no matter how difficult it may be.
I was disappointed to learn that I would be nowhere near all the hubbub. I was to be stuck behind the cash register all night, selling Mrs. Sanford's memoir to the impatient people who were getting in line for the signing. Fantastic. I hate being stuck behind the cash register. Standing in that one spot makes time move so slowly that you don't care about what time you're off, because you're pretty sure you'll be dead before then. But I wasn't alone. There were two other people acting as cashiers as well, and all of us were from places where people were used to snow. I bring that up because a forecast of snow had been given that day for Columbia and people were all jittery about it. Well, actually, they weren't really jittery at all, a fact that really let me down. I was really looking forward to mass pandemonium, you know - grocery stores being cleared out, people fighting over the last can of tuna - that sort of thing. But nobody really believed it was coming at all.
At about five o'clock the other cashiers and I discovered that if you stared out the window without blinking for about twenty seconds, you would be able to see the tiny snowflakes that happened to be falling. We laughed a little, dubbed it The Blizzard, and turned back to waiting on customers.
Time passed, and the snowflakes got bigger and kept coming. The forecasted 1-2 inches was becoming more like 5 or 6 inches. The turn out for the Sanford signing was looking like it would be pretty pathetic. And it was. At about seven o'clock I was pulled from my register and told that I had a "new job." We had to start the signing because Mrs. Sanford insisted on returning to Charleston that night instead of staying the night in a local hotel. I was given the job of standing beside Mrs. Sanford's table and taking the books from eager customers, making sure they had flipped it to the right page and then handing it to Mrs. Sanford's assistants, who in turn handed the books to her.
For over an hour I stood there, less than three feet from her as she talked with people about the snow, thanked them for their support, assured them that this book was written as a salve for women who had been through similar situations, that it was not at all written to embarrass her husband while promoting herself. And when women who almost certainly had been through similar situations stood before her trying to wipe the tears off of their cheeks before people began to notice, she took their hands and promised to pray for them. She told them they could make it if they stayed strong and true.
I found it really rather thoughtless on the part of the planning team that Mrs. Sanford's signing desk had been set up directly across from our Happy Valentine's Day display table. I didn't think that her decision to kick off her signing on Valentine's Day weekend was so surprising. I figured that it was meant to either instill pity for her or rage against her husband (or both) in her supporters. But the table being so near by was truly an accident, one that deeply amused me. There was a certain obliviousness in some of the people who showed up for the signing as well. There were quite a few husbands who came with their pregnant wives, or who came alone to have the book signed as a gift for their wives for Valentine's day. "Aren't you sweet to do that for her!" Mrs. Sanford made this comment to each husband without batting an eye. Her ability to smile at these men so sweetly and sincerely reawakened my fear of politicians.
I suppose I had a part in the irony that night as well, Right after I left Mrs. Sanford's table to go home (we were all sent home early due to weather conditions) I picked up a card for my husband. Casablanca themed.
The weather slashed the number of visitors from five hundred to less than two hundred. The hoards of press we had expected turned out to be five people, two with large cameras, one with a news video camera, one with a camera phone and one with just a note pad and pencil. One of the large camera people left the scene after about fifteen minutes, as did the video man. Two of the others, Camera Phone Man and Note Pad Lady, stayed for almost all of it. The only one who stayed the entire time was the other man with the large camera. I began to suspect, after a while, that he was actually hired by Mrs. Sanford herself. While the other reporters attempted to interview people in line about Mrs. Sanford, he took shots of her empathetically holding hands with people and he took shots of her laughing with people.
Apparently the rest of the South Carolina Press was out filming The Blizzard. My co-worker told me later that she had seen a snippet of the signing on the news. It flitted on and off the screen in between shots of snow covered streets. My face appeared on a corner of the screen for about half a second. I guess the bigger news story actually won out. Politicians mess around every day. Columbia hasn't seen a snow like that in years.
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