Hobble Creek Review
| Paul Handley |
from Like A Wild Sockeye
Pocatello
My Dad was at the door. He had driven 2000 miles to visit me, but I
was no longer in the lower 48. I was in Alaska, dreaming of fish.
My wife Brenda later recounted the conversation, which she vividly
remembered because of the unreal circumstance. She said to them,
through what I imagined was not a fully opened door, “Oh my gosh,
he’s not here.” Then giggled. My Dad was with his significant other
named Lieve, who immediately took charge, “Will he be home soon?”
“He’s in Alaska working. I’m sorry. Did he know you were coming?”
she nervously giggled again, though this time with concern. When it
was apparent that Brenda wasn’t going to invite them in, Lieve
suggested, “Why don’t you meet us at that restaurant down the
street once you have a chance to get yourself together? I know you
weren’t expecting company. We wanted to surprise you and Paul.”
Dad was busy looking miffed the way he often did when a situation
wasn’t running along as smoothly as his operating room. Dad was
Lieve’s second neurosurgeon husband or husband to be, so she had a
handle on their general predispositions. Besides, they had been
engaged when Dad was in college, so Lieve also had some history to
fall back on when it came to his expectations.
The restaurant was literally down the street. When we had moved to
Pocatello, Idaho about eight months earlier, I wasn’t able to drive
my rear wheel drive Thunderbird up the hill to our new apartment
surrounded by our Mormon neighbors. I had to park on the side of
the street and trudge up the hill to our new home. A block and a
half away from home was a Mormon temple, although I didn’t know
that because their sign said Church of Latter Day Saints.
Brenda met up with them at the restaurant that we had never been
to because it was out of our price range. They charged money.
Inside the restaurant the patron and music noise level was
challenging my Dad’s hearing and Lieve had to keep repeating
Brenda’s soft-spoken replies such as “He’s been gone just over a
week.” He did not have any trouble with Lieve’s self-assured tones
and there was not any need to hear any of Brenda’s assertions or
questions, since she didn’t have any beyond perfunctory responses.
So, despite the obstacles, Dad really had it good as far as following
the conversation.
I have trouble with background noise now and can be sympathetic.
The Black and Blue tour consisting of the power duo of Black
Sabbath and Blue Oyster Cult, I suspect, was particular hard on my
ears the two times I saw it. Up in Alaska, I was becoming very
familiar with Judas Priest.
I imagine the waitress serving lunch was one of the most polite, Dad
and Lieve had ever experienced in their life, if not the sophisticated
gentility that they experienced in a really “good” restaurant. Over a
period of five years I made it to some restaurants and uniformly the
waitresses in Pocatello were unbelievably nice. I could have picked
my nose with the one end of the tine of a fork and then very
deliberately thrown it onto the floor mat at the entrance while
staring menacingly at a waitress and I’m sure perturbulance would
be in the air, but in the end I would get a clean fork back with a
forced smile.
This was the last time my Dad ever came to my home anywhere.
* * *
Newly married after living together for five years, I took great pride
that I was married in the same church as Michael Jordan. I was sick
and there is a picture of me looking peaked wearing a tuxedo rented
from a shop just behind the Golden Nugget casino. I’m eating a
chocolate covered strawberry that my Mom was nice enough to have
sent to our room and sporting a five-dollar haircut that was
purchased from a home with a sign out front. It was down the street
from the store I was working that was actually called The Five and
Dime. Elvis played in the background at the ceremony and we
shared the limo with another couple that was getting hitched after
us. Conversation was stilted. “I’m not feeling too well,” I said as I
lay my head against the headrest.
I had been working nights as a security guard at a motel and
conducting surveys over the phone. My bosses at the security job
disliked me. I was thin and looked about five years younger then my
age of thirty.
“You should grow a mustache,” one of them suggested.
“I don’t think so. I don’t think a mustache is really me.”
“ At least start eating more and put on some weight.” I didn’t bother
telling him that I had been trying that for years. On my training
night I met my trainer and the guard we were relieving. We sat at a
booth in the motel’s darkened restaurant drinking free coffee.
One of them said, “So Art is some hotshot because he was supposed to
be in Special Forces.”
“Was he” I asked?
“That’s what he says,” said the other guy.
I needed a job for the summer. Idaho is a “right to work state”,
which essentially means that unions are toothless, disconnected
treadles, vanities in a dark room, ceiling fans in the winter spin
cycle. Hence, pay was miniscule. My wife, who had attended the
prestigious University of Chicago, was employed for several years
selling cosmetics at the mall. I had not been offered a fellowship or
tuition waiver yet. I felt that at the age of thirty, I was too old to be
going to school and certainly too old to being doing shitty summer
jobs.
The month before I went to Alaska, I had read a report stating that
Alaska had the highest work-related fatalities during the previous
decade, mostly within the commercial fishing business. I was
unaware of this tidbit when I had signed on. I had heard rumors
about large amounts of cash to be made by working on fishing boats
in Alaska. Unfortunately, the detail I missed was that you had to
get a job with a company that paid a percentage of the catch and not
per hour. I often overlooked details like that in my rush to not lose
momentum.
Before the motel gig, I even staked out a woman that worked at a
school for a couple of days, that her husband expected of having an
affair. Sneaking off for a quickie during a study period perhaps.
The school was on a Bannock Indian reservation that had hardly any
traffic. When she went out to lunch and traveled home after school I
tried to use techniques I had garnered from the countless TV and
movies I had seen with detectives tailing their “mark.” As far as I
could tell, I was never detected and I never detected a whiff of
indiscretion.
Back at the school, I had let the head of the doctorate program know
that I had signed up for a summer of fun in Alaska. He later picked
up the name of Purple Haze from one of the more caustic students
because of the violet sunglasses he wore.
He said “Ed Freitas used to go up there every summer.”
“Really. I don’t think I know him,” I replied, thinking it was
possibly one of the other professors I had just met two doors away.
“He just recently left the department. Maybe I could put you in
touch with him.”
“No, I don’t know him, but that’s ok. Thanks.” Then I got up and
left. I understood later that Dr. Freitas had left the department
under less than favorable circumstances and I wondered why Purple
Haze would try to put me in touch with this guy.
The first time I met Purple Haze he was visibly uncomfortable.
After a few minutes of awkward conversation, he walked me to
another office. He tried to pawn me off on the chair of the
department, who gave him a long look of dismay that appeared to be
completely lost on P.H. After leaving me with the chairman, he
ambled back to his office. I was not deterred that easily and walked
back into his office after meeting with the chairman for a few
minutes to try and pin down some specifics of the program and did he
have any recommendations. It turned out that he did.
I asked him about a seminar that he agreed would be a good thing to
take. I found out later that this particular seminar was the make or
break class of the entire program and should only be taken after
numerous other classes that would act as prerequisites. This was my
first semester. I sat in on the first class and during the two and half
hours I became increasingly agitated about my suitability for the
program. I saw my fourteen hour days of driving a cab to pay for the
move, the actual move, studying for and taking the GRE, along with
everything else coming to naught. I mentally catalogued my options
with my worst concluding with taking up residence as a mountain
man in central Idaho and sleeping in a bloody bear carcass, because I
wouldn’t know how to skin them or dry the skin or whatever the hell
survivalists do. Later when I heard students mock those that did
poorly in that class, I would nod and realize how close I had come to
being fodder for just this kind of conversation.
I took a twenty-four hour greyhound bus ride to Seattle so I could
catch a flight to Alaska. We drove north and made our first stop in
Idaho Falls. Idaho Falls was truly ugly, with boring housing tracts,
interspersed by potato fields, and had the any town USA look with
all the usual chain stores. Southeast Idaho is semi-desert and a
beauty that took me some time to appreciate, but the towns did not
make any attempt at quaintness, uniqueness, or anything remotely
interesting.
The Mormons that dominated southeast Idaho, to an even greater
extent than Salt Lake City, established communities that were
decorated and built like upscale Amish. The inside of their houses
were a cornucopia of roadside tourist knick knacks and plates
ordered from Parade magazine advertisements with pictures of
Ronald Regan, never to be besmirched with au gratin potatoes. It
was as if the scenery around was too wondrous and the owners had
created their own version of ugly to keep the wonders around them
from becoming overwhelming. Wreaths of fake flowers, flowers
stenciled on walls and shelving, precious moments, plaques with
inane statements on them, cross-stitched throw pillows, floral
valances. Have I mentioned a flowers theme existed?
As we moved farther north the landscape became magnificent with
rugged mountains and green fields dotted with stands of yellow
mustard seed. Swift rivers with lots of whitewater form the rocks
and vice versa. We closed in on Montana, which meets and exceeds
all my benchmarks for the most beautiful state in the country. For
somebody who grew up in a Chicago suburb and had spent the last
five years in Indianapolis, the landscape was amazing. We stopped
in Missoula to change drivers, use the bathroom and pick up more
passengers going to Seattle. One of the reasons I had moved to the
Mountain West was the movie A River Runs Through It, which was
set in the 1920s largely in and around Missoula. The
cinematography made and reflected the beauty of the place. But the
blocks around bus stations managed to even make Montana look
appalling. The bus station was every hardscrabble, white ghetto of
people that had rejected, couldn’t understand, or had been beaten by
the rules.
I had moved to out there to be a part of the lovely, peaceful area that
I had seen on the screen. My GRE scores were good enough to get
into a decent PhD program, but I had felt burnt out on school before
I even started. I decided that I would enjoy my master’s program
and not kill myself for grades since I believed that I would never be
going to school again. I slid through with a B average, which in grad
school is sliding. Idaho State also had really cheap tuition. I had a
fantastic experience there, outside of the dopey students who were
intent on creating ideological factions. That and I never actually
graduated. That’s not quite true. I did get an MPA so I would come
away with something, but was abd in my doctorate program. I was
fried from school and could never find a topic that I could hang with
long enough to complete. At least that’s my excuse.
We picked up a large contingent in Montana. I managed to do a
convincing enough job of being asleep, so that I didn’t have to share
a seat with anyone else. I had my butt pressed against the window
side and lay my head down in the aisle seat. I justified my ploy
because I’m 6’5” and wanted the space. I wish Greyhound could get
the kind of luxury and comfort of the Mexican buses I have been on.
They are the best. Really, comfortable seats with enough leg room
for the average 1 ½ Mexicans and your own TV set where they play
movies of about the same quality as on a long airline trip.
When I was able to look around, I saw that most of the people that
had boarded looked scroungy. The men had an assortment of facial
hair and “of course” mega flannel. The women had smeared eyeliner,
wore work boots and baby doll dresses.
These people intrigued me. Why? This was a time when grunge was
huge and at the same time, literally dying. Kurt Cobain had shot
himself two months earlier. Still, grunge was big and I was young
enough not to be jaded about his group of Seattleites or so I assumed
(ass of you and me) since that’s where we were headed. A guy one
seat in front of me even looked like Kurt Cobain, according to my
predisposed perception of a Seattleite tinged with excruciating
boredom.
“That place was the shit. Those people know how to live”.
“Yeah, but it will be good to get back to the city, baby” replied his
cute girlfriend.
Their conversations were spiced with adamant, anti-materialistic
assertions, usually in the form of mocking others. The term yuppie
was still a few years from antiquity. If I didn’t know what a yuppie
was and didn’t have any context, I would have thought from the
vehemence in their tone that it could have been used
interchangeably with Maoist cleansing.
Later that night it started to rain very hard. I had always had a
problem with heights, even when in a car. Driving through the
mountains on this huge bus on the wet highway, with constant
curves as we weaved through the passes put me on edge. The dykey
bus driver, who had taken over the controls somewhere in Montana,
seemed bored. She did not exhibit the slightest trace of fear or what
I would have described as a sense of prudent caution. I tried to sleep
so I wouldn’t think about the bus sliding over a cliff and hanging
precipitously over a ledge. While everyone screamed inside and
turned on the others in a scramble to get to the other end of the bus,
so that I ended up with a face full of flannel that hadn’t been washed
in “corporate” detergent for days.
Once, the bus driver pulled off the road and said “we’re not moving
until its put out”. I couldn’t smell anything, but the bus driver had
been on board about 14 hours less than I had. There was silence.
She was satisfied after a long three minutes and pulled the bus back
onto the highway.
We started through the Cascade Mountains late that night and they
appeared in the dawn. The sun was out and reflected the water on
all the greenery that was around. It seemed like a magical rain
forest to me after living the last few months in the semi-desert areas
of Idaho. The land was as beautiful as the forests in the Arthurian
movie, Excalibur.
Pocatello
My Dad was at the door. He had driven 2000 miles to visit me, but I
was no longer in the lower 48. I was in Alaska, dreaming of fish.
My wife Brenda later recounted the conversation, which she vividly
remembered because of the unreal circumstance. She said to them,
through what I imagined was not a fully opened door, “Oh my gosh,
he’s not here.” Then giggled. My Dad was with his significant other
named Lieve, who immediately took charge, “Will he be home soon?”
“He’s in Alaska working. I’m sorry. Did he know you were coming?”
she nervously giggled again, though this time with concern. When it
was apparent that Brenda wasn’t going to invite them in, Lieve
suggested, “Why don’t you meet us at that restaurant down the
street once you have a chance to get yourself together? I know you
weren’t expecting company. We wanted to surprise you and Paul.”
Dad was busy looking miffed the way he often did when a situation
wasn’t running along as smoothly as his operating room. Dad was
Lieve’s second neurosurgeon husband or husband to be, so she had a
handle on their general predispositions. Besides, they had been
engaged when Dad was in college, so Lieve also had some history to
fall back on when it came to his expectations.
The restaurant was literally down the street. When we had moved to
Pocatello, Idaho about eight months earlier, I wasn’t able to drive
my rear wheel drive Thunderbird up the hill to our new apartment
surrounded by our Mormon neighbors. I had to park on the side of
the street and trudge up the hill to our new home. A block and a
half away from home was a Mormon temple, although I didn’t know
that because their sign said Church of Latter Day Saints.
Brenda met up with them at the restaurant that we had never been
to because it was out of our price range. They charged money.
Inside the restaurant the patron and music noise level was
challenging my Dad’s hearing and Lieve had to keep repeating
Brenda’s soft-spoken replies such as “He’s been gone just over a
week.” He did not have any trouble with Lieve’s self-assured tones
and there was not any need to hear any of Brenda’s assertions or
questions, since she didn’t have any beyond perfunctory responses.
So, despite the obstacles, Dad really had it good as far as following
the conversation.
I have trouble with background noise now and can be sympathetic.
The Black and Blue tour consisting of the power duo of Black
Sabbath and Blue Oyster Cult, I suspect, was particular hard on my
ears the two times I saw it. Up in Alaska, I was becoming very
familiar with Judas Priest.
I imagine the waitress serving lunch was one of the most polite, Dad
and Lieve had ever experienced in their life, if not the sophisticated
gentility that they experienced in a really “good” restaurant. Over a
period of five years I made it to some restaurants and uniformly the
waitresses in Pocatello were unbelievably nice. I could have picked
my nose with the one end of the tine of a fork and then very
deliberately thrown it onto the floor mat at the entrance while
staring menacingly at a waitress and I’m sure perturbulance would
be in the air, but in the end I would get a clean fork back with a
forced smile.
This was the last time my Dad ever came to my home anywhere.
* * *
Newly married after living together for five years, I took great pride
that I was married in the same church as Michael Jordan. I was sick
and there is a picture of me looking peaked wearing a tuxedo rented
from a shop just behind the Golden Nugget casino. I’m eating a
chocolate covered strawberry that my Mom was nice enough to have
sent to our room and sporting a five-dollar haircut that was
purchased from a home with a sign out front. It was down the street
from the store I was working that was actually called The Five and
Dime. Elvis played in the background at the ceremony and we
shared the limo with another couple that was getting hitched after
us. Conversation was stilted. “I’m not feeling too well,” I said as I
lay my head against the headrest.
I had been working nights as a security guard at a motel and
conducting surveys over the phone. My bosses at the security job
disliked me. I was thin and looked about five years younger then my
age of thirty.
“You should grow a mustache,” one of them suggested.
“I don’t think so. I don’t think a mustache is really me.”
“ At least start eating more and put on some weight.” I didn’t bother
telling him that I had been trying that for years. On my training
night I met my trainer and the guard we were relieving. We sat at a
booth in the motel’s darkened restaurant drinking free coffee.
One of them said, “So Art is some hotshot because he was supposed to
be in Special Forces.”
“Was he” I asked?
“That’s what he says,” said the other guy.
I needed a job for the summer. Idaho is a “right to work state”,
which essentially means that unions are toothless, disconnected
treadles, vanities in a dark room, ceiling fans in the winter spin
cycle. Hence, pay was miniscule. My wife, who had attended the
prestigious University of Chicago, was employed for several years
selling cosmetics at the mall. I had not been offered a fellowship or
tuition waiver yet. I felt that at the age of thirty, I was too old to be
going to school and certainly too old to being doing shitty summer
jobs.
The month before I went to Alaska, I had read a report stating that
Alaska had the highest work-related fatalities during the previous
decade, mostly within the commercial fishing business. I was
unaware of this tidbit when I had signed on. I had heard rumors
about large amounts of cash to be made by working on fishing boats
in Alaska. Unfortunately, the detail I missed was that you had to
get a job with a company that paid a percentage of the catch and not
per hour. I often overlooked details like that in my rush to not lose
momentum.
Before the motel gig, I even staked out a woman that worked at a
school for a couple of days, that her husband expected of having an
affair. Sneaking off for a quickie during a study period perhaps.
The school was on a Bannock Indian reservation that had hardly any
traffic. When she went out to lunch and traveled home after school I
tried to use techniques I had garnered from the countless TV and
movies I had seen with detectives tailing their “mark.” As far as I
could tell, I was never detected and I never detected a whiff of
indiscretion.
Back at the school, I had let the head of the doctorate program know
that I had signed up for a summer of fun in Alaska. He later picked
up the name of Purple Haze from one of the more caustic students
because of the violet sunglasses he wore.
He said “Ed Freitas used to go up there every summer.”
“Really. I don’t think I know him,” I replied, thinking it was
possibly one of the other professors I had just met two doors away.
“He just recently left the department. Maybe I could put you in
touch with him.”
“No, I don’t know him, but that’s ok. Thanks.” Then I got up and
left. I understood later that Dr. Freitas had left the department
under less than favorable circumstances and I wondered why Purple
Haze would try to put me in touch with this guy.
The first time I met Purple Haze he was visibly uncomfortable.
After a few minutes of awkward conversation, he walked me to
another office. He tried to pawn me off on the chair of the
department, who gave him a long look of dismay that appeared to be
completely lost on P.H. After leaving me with the chairman, he
ambled back to his office. I was not deterred that easily and walked
back into his office after meeting with the chairman for a few
minutes to try and pin down some specifics of the program and did he
have any recommendations. It turned out that he did.
I asked him about a seminar that he agreed would be a good thing to
take. I found out later that this particular seminar was the make or
break class of the entire program and should only be taken after
numerous other classes that would act as prerequisites. This was my
first semester. I sat in on the first class and during the two and half
hours I became increasingly agitated about my suitability for the
program. I saw my fourteen hour days of driving a cab to pay for the
move, the actual move, studying for and taking the GRE, along with
everything else coming to naught. I mentally catalogued my options
with my worst concluding with taking up residence as a mountain
man in central Idaho and sleeping in a bloody bear carcass, because I
wouldn’t know how to skin them or dry the skin or whatever the hell
survivalists do. Later when I heard students mock those that did
poorly in that class, I would nod and realize how close I had come to
being fodder for just this kind of conversation.
I took a twenty-four hour greyhound bus ride to Seattle so I could
catch a flight to Alaska. We drove north and made our first stop in
Idaho Falls. Idaho Falls was truly ugly, with boring housing tracts,
interspersed by potato fields, and had the any town USA look with
all the usual chain stores. Southeast Idaho is semi-desert and a
beauty that took me some time to appreciate, but the towns did not
make any attempt at quaintness, uniqueness, or anything remotely
interesting.
The Mormons that dominated southeast Idaho, to an even greater
extent than Salt Lake City, established communities that were
decorated and built like upscale Amish. The inside of their houses
were a cornucopia of roadside tourist knick knacks and plates
ordered from Parade magazine advertisements with pictures of
Ronald Regan, never to be besmirched with au gratin potatoes. It
was as if the scenery around was too wondrous and the owners had
created their own version of ugly to keep the wonders around them
from becoming overwhelming. Wreaths of fake flowers, flowers
stenciled on walls and shelving, precious moments, plaques with
inane statements on them, cross-stitched throw pillows, floral
valances. Have I mentioned a flowers theme existed?
As we moved farther north the landscape became magnificent with
rugged mountains and green fields dotted with stands of yellow
mustard seed. Swift rivers with lots of whitewater form the rocks
and vice versa. We closed in on Montana, which meets and exceeds
all my benchmarks for the most beautiful state in the country. For
somebody who grew up in a Chicago suburb and had spent the last
five years in Indianapolis, the landscape was amazing. We stopped
in Missoula to change drivers, use the bathroom and pick up more
passengers going to Seattle. One of the reasons I had moved to the
Mountain West was the movie A River Runs Through It, which was
set in the 1920s largely in and around Missoula. The
cinematography made and reflected the beauty of the place. But the
blocks around bus stations managed to even make Montana look
appalling. The bus station was every hardscrabble, white ghetto of
people that had rejected, couldn’t understand, or had been beaten by
the rules.
I had moved to out there to be a part of the lovely, peaceful area that
I had seen on the screen. My GRE scores were good enough to get
into a decent PhD program, but I had felt burnt out on school before
I even started. I decided that I would enjoy my master’s program
and not kill myself for grades since I believed that I would never be
going to school again. I slid through with a B average, which in grad
school is sliding. Idaho State also had really cheap tuition. I had a
fantastic experience there, outside of the dopey students who were
intent on creating ideological factions. That and I never actually
graduated. That’s not quite true. I did get an MPA so I would come
away with something, but was abd in my doctorate program. I was
fried from school and could never find a topic that I could hang with
long enough to complete. At least that’s my excuse.
We picked up a large contingent in Montana. I managed to do a
convincing enough job of being asleep, so that I didn’t have to share
a seat with anyone else. I had my butt pressed against the window
side and lay my head down in the aisle seat. I justified my ploy
because I’m 6’5” and wanted the space. I wish Greyhound could get
the kind of luxury and comfort of the Mexican buses I have been on.
They are the best. Really, comfortable seats with enough leg room
for the average 1 ½ Mexicans and your own TV set where they play
movies of about the same quality as on a long airline trip.
When I was able to look around, I saw that most of the people that
had boarded looked scroungy. The men had an assortment of facial
hair and “of course” mega flannel. The women had smeared eyeliner,
wore work boots and baby doll dresses.
These people intrigued me. Why? This was a time when grunge was
huge and at the same time, literally dying. Kurt Cobain had shot
himself two months earlier. Still, grunge was big and I was young
enough not to be jaded about his group of Seattleites or so I assumed
(ass of you and me) since that’s where we were headed. A guy one
seat in front of me even looked like Kurt Cobain, according to my
predisposed perception of a Seattleite tinged with excruciating
boredom.
“That place was the shit. Those people know how to live”.
“Yeah, but it will be good to get back to the city, baby” replied his
cute girlfriend.
Their conversations were spiced with adamant, anti-materialistic
assertions, usually in the form of mocking others. The term yuppie
was still a few years from antiquity. If I didn’t know what a yuppie
was and didn’t have any context, I would have thought from the
vehemence in their tone that it could have been used
interchangeably with Maoist cleansing.
Later that night it started to rain very hard. I had always had a
problem with heights, even when in a car. Driving through the
mountains on this huge bus on the wet highway, with constant
curves as we weaved through the passes put me on edge. The dykey
bus driver, who had taken over the controls somewhere in Montana,
seemed bored. She did not exhibit the slightest trace of fear or what
I would have described as a sense of prudent caution. I tried to sleep
so I wouldn’t think about the bus sliding over a cliff and hanging
precipitously over a ledge. While everyone screamed inside and
turned on the others in a scramble to get to the other end of the bus,
so that I ended up with a face full of flannel that hadn’t been washed
in “corporate” detergent for days.
Once, the bus driver pulled off the road and said “we’re not moving
until its put out”. I couldn’t smell anything, but the bus driver had
been on board about 14 hours less than I had. There was silence.
She was satisfied after a long three minutes and pulled the bus back
onto the highway.
We started through the Cascade Mountains late that night and they
appeared in the dawn. The sun was out and reflected the water on
all the greenery that was around. It seemed like a magical rain
forest to me after living the last few months in the semi-desert areas
of Idaho. The land was as beautiful as the forests in the Arthurian
movie, Excalibur.
Paul Handley has had an assortment of odd jobs and extended his student
life for years. He says of himself, "I currently work for the federal government.
After forty hours of work a week I get to hang with my lovely wife, exceptional
daughter and my writing."
life for years. He says of himself, "I currently work for the federal government.
After forty hours of work a week I get to hang with my lovely wife, exceptional
daughter and my writing."
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