Friday 1/7/22
My mother phoned me today, and could apparently hear the foul weather in the background. First thing she says to me: "Tell me you're not outside." Second thing: "Tell me you didn't just run stairs." To which I said: "Let me ask you something. Is 'Zulu' is any way an anagram for 'soft'?" She agreed that it was not, and I said, "You have your answer."
(The word was not actually "soft," but this is a family journal, for this one entry at least, and the editor has removed profanities.)
Anyway, ran 3000 stairs. Started an Easter piece on Chimes at Midnight. Sent that card with a note to my friend's daughter. Heading out to the cafe now to do some reading for a Fourth of July piece I'll be writing on a book written by a colonial soldier.
There were no less than seven City of Boston employees tending to the Government Center stairs with its faint dusting of snow. These guys could not have been going any slower. One of them was barely moving his feet and sort of shaking the shovel with one limp hand. I hate that kind of thing. Do what you're doing, whatever it is, the right way. There was a heavyset guy, also barely moving, who was complaining about how he'd be feeling this tomorrow. Damn people are lazy. I wanted to take the shovel from him and do the stairs myself, which would have taken all of five minutes.
There's a copious amount of good work to do this weekend. More work than any of these people will do in their lives. Piece after piece, story after story, effort on behalf of book after book.
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