Ladies and gentlemen, the lede in a piece in Vanity Fair.
Never mind the cliche, and never mind the ghastliness of "appropriately dark and stormy" - how can we know it was "appropriately dark and stormy" without any other information? Can a night be "inappropriately dark"? It gets better:
We all have our moments, but that's what editors are for.
Sunny day. Yesterday’s torrents were a tonic for the greenery, and everything in the backyard seems to have thrust up half a foot. Not unusual for late April - we’ve had snow on the first of May, albeit a few hated flakes that somehow had the moral character of loose asbestos - but I can’t remember a time when the plants in the back have been so thick.
Which reminds me to order those balcony planters. Maybe I will. A nice green spot out above the industrial landscape.
The trees are budding.
It’s the time of the year around here when your heart just soars with joy and relief: we made it! Winter is over. Winter has left. Everything now feels as if it’s about to burst into glorious song, and not some mad Pan pagan shout, but a great massed choir of a million voices, from the sturdy trunks to the thinnest limbs, from the billion-blade chorus of grass to the solo note of a single tulip. A great Mahlerian hymn of gratitude and grounded optimism. I really, really wish I could feel the words I am writing, you know? I’m quoting the guy who used to live in this place, used to live in this skin.
Birdsong and airplanes, as always.
Lawn mowers and kids playing in the back yard.
So far today I made a trip to the charity place to dump off donations, a trip to Problem Waste to get rid of solvents, a trip to Sister-in-Law’s to drop off things and pick up two boxes I’d stored there, and also to vent, and a trip to the hardware store to get glue for the bracket that held the silver bar, the repurposed California Closets rod QQTBF put in a narrow gap between the stove and the stone backsplash. The gap had always bothered her. She was delirious with joy when the bar fit and covered up the gap. But one of the brackets fell, so I had to pull the oven out and go get glue. Ran back to the Fred to do a radio interview, trying to tamp down the incandescent anger. I had, by the way, told QQTBF not to interpret my taciturn qualities today as a sign “I didn’t want to help or felt put upon asked to help,” and she said “well I think there’s some of that.” To which I shouted, with surprising force because I shout about twice a year, that I had said not to think that because it was not the case. I left it at that. Let her wrack her brain about why I’m silent. What could possibly be the matter?
Because I’m going back and forth about whether you get a hug goodbye. That’s what’s in my head. You’re concerned, and properly so, about cleaning out the empty drawers. The whole “goodbye” thing on Friday when you hand off the dog probably isn’t in the mental mix, because that comes later, and first there is this. Practical and logical and sensible and fucking bloodless.
I was given a bag of more things to take to FredBase 1, and I know have plastic wrap enough for life. The dog will die before he eats all the treats she bought him. I got two more boxes at sis-in-law’s house, as mentioned, and I’ve no idea where that stuff goes. Last night I started sorting some boxes to consolidate the things for which I once had space, and were fun to have around - seven Star Trek ships, Christmas ornaments, hanging in the closet where I had all my magazines and old items I’d plucked from the Great Stream to rest for a while. Those go in cold storage now. Five or so months ago I’d started putting together a box for her, things she’d need - cords and adapters - but then I found old letters, one of the wedding-top ceramic couples (there were two), a shell from a trip here, a magnet from a trip there, the Department of Justice Zippo she got me -
And then I just said nah, and stopped. That box goes in the bigger box along with the pride of Starfleet.
Anyway. She went to take Birch to the dog park, which she loves to do, and this will probably be the last time for them. The last time for him off the leash, because I don’t do off-leash. That’s how, and where, she lost the other dog. While her car was out I was asked to sweep the garage. This I did. Also, the patio, which had some detritus. See, this is why she’s divorcing me: I don’t see it.
I don’t look at this and think it has to be swept.
While I was in the garage a neighbor came over to say goodbye, and asked “Where are you guys going?” And I started to explain, and awww dammit, fludgetz, waterworks, but at least the dam did not burst. Ended up getting a sorrowful hug from someone I barely know except to wave and chatter about the weather. At this late date. AT THIS LATE DATE! I thought I was done with that.
When they get back I will drive to FredBase 1, but first, Zork Storage for three boxes put away, maybe. Then a fast shallow nap, underscored by guilt since I am no doubt being resented on the other side of town for not pulling my weight AGAIN in this final clean-up, but as I have freely noted before I am content for my contribution to the construction of the guillotine consist of handing someone a hammer, and perhaps a few nails.
On the other hand, Tuesday is an ice-cream night. It’s the small things.
It’s 1951.
We are in Boonville, and we are Enquiring. “Filled with news about people you know.”
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People you know, except for this guy. |
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Nothing comes up on Google except references to his book about Labor Economics.
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The smart Congressman wrote home weekly and gave the town paper something to put on the editorial page.
"A long life of public service," says his bio. There were so many of these guys. |
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Who? |
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This guy:
Roger Ward Babson (July 6, 1875 – March 5, 1967) was an American entrepreneur, economist, and business theorist in the first half of the 20th century. He is best remembered for founding Babson College. He also founded Webber College, now Webber International University, in Babson Park, Florida, and the defunct Utopia College, in Eureka, Kansas.
Babson's success as an investor was based on unorthodox views of the operation of markets. According to his biographer John Mulkern, Babson attributed the business cycle "to Sir Isaac Newton's law of action and reaction... (with a) pseudoscientific notion that gravity can be used to explain movement in the stock markets."
And more, of course. Ran for President in 1940 on the Prohibition Party. It was still around in 1951? you say. Friend, it’s still around today.
I hate putting on my mud lowers to do chores.
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A glimpse into an oft-romanticized life, right here. |
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Not an uncommon column in a newspaper. In fact, you'd see them more often than not.
We found this wandering around, and it didn't have any tags.
“In order to give the rural folks an opportunity, no phone calls before 1 PM.”
Whose farm was it? Guess away in the comments!
Kidding.
We'll end with a beaut of a beer ad:
“For refreshed tomorrows!” Seems an odd thing to promise. Quite possibly could have the opposite effect.
More here, including the building. The brand went kaput in 1967. There was talk of bringing it back; don’t know if it worked, and if so, if it’s still around. So let’s go back to the era of this page:
That will do. Two more days. Two more.
NOTE: rare Free Wednesday Substack, just to give non-paying customers a look at what they're missing.
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