Stevens Hardware, Annapolis, MDReal work requires effort. Real work is made of pitchforks and wheelbarrows. Axes and hammers. Real work is physical.

Or, is it?

I spent the morning laboring with a pitchfork and lawn and leaf bags. The work was physical, somewhat onerous, repetitive, slow and methodical. I was picking up leaves from the gutter that have been sitting there since October. Despite the fact that I’d been lazy about getting around to the task, I was very alive. The crisp, damp air reminded me of my physicality. The sharp pain in my lower back reminded me that I was not young and limber. The earthy smell of the decaying leaves reminded me that I would someday become dirt. I was alive and keenly in touch with my primordial existence.

This afternoon I presented on a network access solution to a well-known university in Washington, DC. The work was mental, somewhat onerous, somewhat repetitive, fast paced and far from methodical. I was peppered with questions. I was thinking on my feet. I was very alive and yet it didn’t feel like work. It wasn’t physical, I wasn’t aware of the temperature of the room, nothing hurt.

Was this really work?

Of course it was work. I was not presenting on the solution out of a genuine love of the customer — indeed, I’d never met the customer before. I was presenting because it was the task at hand. I was going to get paid for it.

Does getting paid for performing a task make it work? Or, more directly, if you don’t get paid is it still work?

The answer to both questions is maybe. Sometimes, getting paid for performing a task constitutes work, other times, I believe, we get paid for things that really, when it comes down to it, are not worthy of cash.

So, what is real work?

At the end of the day, defining work is difficult. What I did this afternoon, was certainly work, but it was far from strenuous even though it was rewarding. What I did this morning was certainly work, it was strenuous, rewarding in some respects, but I certainly won’t get paid for clearing the gutters.

Though, I’m pretty sure the neighbors will appreciate it.

No not the kind you smoke, the kind you eat at.  A dive, a hole in the wall, a place that is not quite clean, but hasn’t been shut down by the health department.  Yeah, that kind of Joint.

There are a lot of Joints in the Baltimore area.  Duda’s in Fells Point, Davis Pub in Annapolis, and my personal favorite Attman’s Deli on Lombard Street.  Recently, I had the opportunity to take some friends to Attmans and share a real Baltimore experience with them.

I’ve been going to Attmans since I was knee high to a grasshopper.  There are only two things on the menu that I’ve ever ordered — hot dogs and corned beef on rye with mustard.  That’s it, why try anything else, when these two items are perfection?  (Oh, there are about 200 options on the menu for those who don’t like my choice.)

The kibbitz room is basically the same as it was when I was a boy.  Not quite clean, but not dirty, and walls filled with picture frames.  Although, some of the more — ahem — questionable material is no longer on the walls.  Somehow it feels like coming home every time I go in.

And that is the definition of a Joint — a place that is unpretentious where you feel like you’re at home.

 

innocently wild

my two-year old son runs

exuberantly, naked in the upstairs

hallway between three rooms

blond hair streaking around

corners, small heels hammering

out a ragged beat on the

old wooden floor — he exudes

an innocent wild childhood freedom

that will be lost as he ages

Nearly a year ago I wrote about Lost Talents.  I wrote about poems that I had written in college.  Shortly after that post, my good friend sent me scans of many (but not all) of those poems.  I was blessed, but many of them were incomplete drafts. I started hunting on old hard drives at that point.  This week, another friend booted up an old server “alpha.tincanalley.com” which had my home directory from 2004.  And that was a goldmine I found a directory called “files” which had all my poems from college and some other interesting things as well.

Here is a poem I wrote over the course of many weeks in 1992.  I’ll be posting several over the next couple of weeks.   I wrote this for a woman who I’ve known since fourth grade.  We’ve largely lost touch, but I think of her every time I see a horse farm.

A Letter to Laura

Remember that Friday night,

In August of nineteen-ninety?

The air was cool and unseasonable,

More like autumn.

I had stopped to see you

The last time before leaving

For college the next day.

The fields around your house

Seemed secluded; but they weren’t.

The first stars appeared

In the eastern sky, while the sun

Dropped below the Blue Ridge range.

Our summer ended,

And lives began once again in mystery.

As the blue-black night settled around us,

The light in the garage

Cast our shadows

On all those little rocks,

In the driveway.

We didn’t have time to spare,

No reminiscing, philosophizing,

Or long goodbye’s that night.

Inside, your family waited;

Packing for the day.

I had to get home myself,

But could not leave you.

I hoped that something more

Than a simple goodbye

Might bring us together that night.

I looked into your eyes as I often had,

Not knowing what to expect.

You smiled, but a tear still formed

In the corner of your eye.

You whispered some phrase

That only God knows now.

But your tight, forced smile

Would not allow fear or sadness,

We had to be strong, again.

Like the sister I never had,

You held me tightly.

And in that moment,

I saw the sparks of an old romance

That never caught fire,

Flicker and fade.

You said leaving was hard

And it was damned hard

As I walked slowly to the car

And began the drive down

The gravel into the dark, night.

Blind Contour - Mr. Grey

  • Finish Coffee
  • Shower
  • Dress
  • Meet with colleague re Global WAN Project
  • Meet with Supervisor re All My Projects
  • Finish BOM for GWAN Project
  • Meet with Team re Scheduling for WAN Upgrades when I return
  • Meet with colleague re Firewalling requirements
  • Cut Lawn
  • Pack
  • Talk to Mrs. TKD re items she needs me to bring down
  • Load Car
  • Purchase sweat gutr if I can find one locally
  • Meet up with the most influential teacher from my HS days
  • Eat something at some point
  • Drive to Lewes