There are few sacrifices we make for our families and careers that are more potentially deadly than the commute. In all sorts of weather, hounded by packs of trucks and creeps, woven through by speeders, we stay in our lanes and drive, hoping the tires hold up and the whole scene doesn’t turn to metallic carnage before we can hit the brakes, we commute. Woe to those who live so far apart from their jobs that commuting consumes too much of their lives. Joy for those who live within walking distance, but we change jobs and change residences randomly sometimes, and it ends up making little sense, yet we’re yoked to the cart of our existence, and most all of us make it home unscathed.
Marketing has a cycle, like everything else. Where I work, it’s a yearly cycle of seminar presentations and legal books – about 25 seminars and more like 30 or so books. Each needs a brochure, an email promotion, something on the Web.
When I first saw the scheduling list, I couldn’t comprehend it. Page after page of jobs, strings of deadlines, and because my position had been open a couple months, most of the projects were already late.
Now I’ve been through a year of this, and my files have the whole cycle in them. It’s an interesting feeling to get this year’s Environmental Law seminar project, for instance, and be able to pull last year’s file, update the tab, toss out the CYA stuff, and add to my own work.
Come to think of it, I’m able to do the same thing in my personal life now that I’m married to Dearest. Open the old memory file, grab what you learned, toss the rest.
Game’s over in terms of dodging the equipment. There’s no parking anywhere in our vast lot today. Not a problem, really, since there’s curbside parking on whatever that side street is, and our neighboring lots are being accommodating — all these suburban sprawl buildings have too much parking space due to well-meaning but planning policies that anticipate maximum use for every building at once. I like that everyone has to do some walking, too. Reminds me of the youthful idea I had that in order to vote, everyone had to run a mile. I was a track star at the time, of course, and looked down on those who weren’t fit. Now I think the present system of letting anyone who shows up vote is fine, since mostly the fit show up anyway, while those fit to be tied stay hung up somewhere.
After taking a look at where our morning glory plants came from yesterday, they sure look weak. But in the context of our back yard, they’re a sign of hope. I finally put up some jute twine for them to climb (remind me to look up what “jute” comes from in case it’s endangered) and found all sorts of tendrils that had wrapped around the bottom of the fence, etc.
Untangling them with great gentleness, Igot some to nearly reach the top of the fence. That will all fill in, just like my life now that I’m not an errant loner any longer, but have my own garden to take root in with Dearest, who paid us a very high compliment by remarking that she wouldn’t want to think of the future without me anymore.
Here’s where our morning glory plants come from — a self-seeded, nearly out of control monster out at the farm, as I call the house of my younger brother and his wife. They don’t farm, but there’s a working farm in their back yard.
Dearest and I hope that our transplants are as vital and self-perpetuating as this mother-ship plot is.