Nancy Gibbs wrote in Time Magazine about the Vatican's new sins. Yes, the Seven Deadly have grown stale; confession attendance, not to mention church attendance, is way off. In a sad attempt to remain relevant, Pope Benedict is out with sins to watch out for in the modern age. I won't give them any help in this matter by listing the new sins, but you can read them in Nancy's column which is very good.
Hypocrisy has hit an historic low with this new list. On the list is "becoming obscenely wealthy." A sin of the highest order apparently. This coming from one of the world's largest holder of real estate; this from a church of ostentatious cathedrals on every continent, save the Antarctic. The picture I've used today is a cathedral in Cartegena, Columbia that is embellished with gold. The Pope visited this place and blessed it and the crown that is the central feature of the altar. It will take years for the Catholic Church to become irrelevant, but I think we've just seen the lurch of off balance above a slippery incline.
Friends that knew me when I was a geek will be amazed by this but who is a greater positive force in the world? I think Bill and Melinda Gates far eclipse the Catholic Church of today.
Furthermore, do you remember the Rev. Sun Myung Moon of the Unification Church? The leader of the "Moonies" who competed with the Hare Krishna to sell flowers in Airports in the 1970's? Do you realize that he is a powerful figure in CONSERVATIVE REPUBLICAN POLITICS in our nation's capital?
The Rev. Moon believes that he is the Messiah. He is here to unify all religions under him; hence the church's name. Rev. Moon tried many ways to become powerful in this country. His success: The Washington Times, a newspaper more partisan than any other in the country. A trumpet for conservative beliefs and schemes that makes Fox News jealous.
I listened to a radio program today with the author of a new book, Bad Moon Rising. Apparently, Moon founded this newspaper that reports outrageous stories about conservative opponents that then get carried by conservative commentators and other rags as "it has been reported . . . " Moon gives a lot of money to Republicans and apparently some to Democrats as well. He has tremendous influence in Washington. There was a ceremony, attended by Washington elites, to celebrate and declare Rev. Moon as the Messiah. Two congressman were on had to present a crown to Moon's wife and a huge, flowing robe to Moon.
There are tales of corruption, drugs, and business empires, like a monopoly on sushi in America of all things. Check out here and here.
Driving around in the end of winter, the grey, brown, half green carpet left after the snow has receded, is depressing. It's 50 degrees but my truck is covered with road salt. Winter is gone but the freshness of Spring has not yet begun. It leaves an undead, worn out middle time.
Let alone we have Investment Banks who, in their greed, have forgotten what it means to “invest;” an International Community more concerned with being “fair” to the athletes of the world than to the Tibetans literally running for their lives. These relatively pampered athletes from relatively free countries are allowed to pursue their dreams. All the while, we mindlessly consume all manner of goods from China without giving a thought to their brutality that barely hides below the surface. World News is as dreary as the season.
And then I stop in a Rest Area in South Carolina. The sun is not quite up, but it is already warm enough for shirt sleeves . . . and I hear birds! Down by the parking lot, a staccato tweeting call; up near the building, a sing-songy throaty call. I have no skill identifying bird calls, but I know the call of Spring. The songs of birds reclaim the air from the chill of Winter.
Later in Ohio, I see the scamper of a squirrel on the shoulder. And then Butlerville, OH, I've built a shed almost as big as their Post Office. There is a roadhouse biker bar, the Kingpin, across the highway from a trailer park. They're advertising live music out here in the boondocks. I could live there. There is a carryout pizza joint in a garage next to a mobile home advertising they match competitors coupons. There may be a glimmer of hope. Some of us just keep grinding along making a good life; even out here in the sticks.
Ice! is also a great book by Tristan Jones, a maverick, mad cap skipper and raconteur.
It was a dark, starless night. I was running a heavy load of paper through the surreal landscape. Like a modern day Sisyphus, I slogged along, pushing the truck up each mountain and having it roll, sometimes fly, down the other side.
A heavy load is good for traction and to fight the wind, but careening downhill in the snow and ice, it can be a liability; especially on the curves. During the day or in traffic, you can judge the road surface by watching the spray coming off other vehicles. No spray means: Ice! At 2:00 in the morning, other traffic is rare. I'm trying to judge by the glare.
The moonscape of the mountains at night can inspire its own panic. Like a fog bound pilot, it is sometimes difficult to tell if I am going uphill or down. Mistaking down for up, the engine bogs down and speed is lost. Mistaking up for down is insidious. Gradually, almost imperceptively, my speed creeps up. Suddenly, I realize I am flying down Snow Shoe Mountain! If I hit the brakes to hard, the trailer will come right around and all hell will break loose. I pull my foot off the accelerator, swallow the dry taste of panic, and white-knuckle glide downward. The engine brake helps to slow me down safely, but in its own time.
There's a slow truck ahead of me. He passed me a while ago. Suddenly, he has slowed way down. I follow his lead. I'm not close enough to see his spray. Turning on my four way flashers for extra light, there is no spray under my trailer! ICE!
I follow this guy for 20 miles. We are creeping up the mountains and taking it even slower down the other side. This is my first winter in a semi. It is easy to assume that everyone else out here knows better. But after four or five other trucks have passed us and disappeared into the mountains ahead, I decide that the road has gotten better but this guy has just lost his nerve. I need to get on through to me delivery in Michigan. My preplan for the next trip is Michigan to Pennsylvania; right back through all this crap. I might as well figure out how to make some time; safely. I pass him and soon can't even see the glow of his lights behind me.
I've made it as far as I can legally and pull the night. Actually, the sun is almost up, but it'll be night for me when I pull the curtains closed in the sleeper.
Later that day, morning for me, it has begun to rain in Pennsylvania. I hear on the CB the blizzard continues to rage in Ohio. I log up and get moving. Two hours down the road, my wiper motor gives out. The wipers start sweeping way wide on the windshield as if possessed. They stop a minute later splayed out to each edge, blades pointing skyward like a Pentecostal Church Lady in full tantric prayer.
Being lucky, rather than good, the very next exit has a TA Truckstop with a shop. However, it is late Saturday afternoon and they don't stock my wiper motor. Nevertheless, with a half hour to spare, they find one at a Kenworth Dealer. Without the weather it is a five hour round trip to the dealer. The dealer is closing but leaves the motor in their mailbox.
I went into the truckstop for a reuben sandwich. I mill around the shop for a few hours. The food makes me sleepy. I walk into the garage where the truck is waiting. Waving to the mechanic, I tell him I'm going to take a nap and crawl into my truck.
Several hours later, I wake to a strange alarm. The curtains are drawn, it is dark. Just then, the beeping stops and I hear the door of the truck slam shut. The alarm was the ignition being turned on but not turned over. The mechanic had just tested the new, installed, wiper motor. Not thinking it would take so long, I had slept in my clothes. It is after midnight.
I hate to repeat myself, but, as you know, I'd rather be lucky than good. It took so long to get to the Kenworth dealer and back, and then install the motor, that I've had a 10 hour break and have a full legal day, night actually, ahead of me. Not only that but driving through Ohio I've missed most of the blizzard. There are big rigs all over in the ditch but the plows have been out and the blinding snow is done.
The delivery goes fine in Michigan but it has been the whole day. I backtrack to a truckstop I saw and draw the curtains again. Tomorrow, I'll pick up about 2:00 am. Life on the Road.
It has been such a long, hard fall from radical capitalist, but my ears and eyes are open more often than my mouth lately. There are things that make me angry today that I wouldn't have listened to just a year ago. I am humble.
I listened to another radio program about a documentary film. "Burning the Future" will be on the Sundance Channel later this month. The film "is director David Novack's searing expose about how the coal mining industry in West Virginia has transformed the naturally lush mountain landscape into a wasteland, destroyed the region's fresh water supply and caused widespread health issues for area residents." [1]
Setting aside Global Warming, I think that we can agree that burning coal is not good for the environment. Or, if you must, not a net positive. See me after the meeting. The U.S. Industry has been cleaning up since the 1960's, we thought [more on that in a moment]. The drab, grey-snowed Dickensian cliche of Soviet Era Eastern Europe or 1950's England got its cheery patina from coal smoke.
The preview I got of the film, and reading their website, made me angry. The two examples I am about to give you, will make you angry. To make it worse, I'm going insist, first, that its your fault. Make no mistake, this is on us. Our insatiable appetite for inexpensive electricity is causing this to happen. From the garish lights of Times Square and Las Vegas, to your local shopping district, to the fools with their houses covered in Christmas lights, to simply that light that is on in the empty room; it is our fault. Here is the trailer for the film:
You've heard of scrubbers probably; the units installed on smokestacks to clean the smoke before it leaves. Or at least you are aware of the latest oxymoron; Green Coal is all the rage. The cousin of Lancelot Link in D.C. even spoke of Green Coal in his State of the Union Address.
What I didn't know was of a process by which coal is "washed" before it is shipped to power plants. Impurities, thus removed, allow for cleaner burning coal. Good, right?!? WRONG!!! This washing process leaves behind a toxic, greasy, black pudding called coal slurry. Much worse than my black mayonnaise. In West Virginia, where coal is king, there are retention ponds, euphemistically called impoundments, filled with this poison. There are billions of gallons, yeah, 'B' billion, of this toxic pudding behind dikes in the mountains there.
These impoundments are not lined. The stuff just sits there leaching into the ground water! Moreover, there have been dike failures, flooded hollers, and deaths already. Why are we hearing about Britney and Lindsay and not this! Google News has 473 related articles about Britney's Custody Costs; 209 about Mountain Top Removal, see below.
The people of Appalachia have always been close to the land. There are still people there who forage wild plants for food and medicinal herbs. Ginseng is a high dollar cash crop. The families of hard working coal men supplimented their income and their diets from the mountains. Now this is not just being taken away, it is being destroyed.
The latest method to extract coal is called Mountain Top Removal. Yes, it is exactly what it sounds like. Rather than the tiresome and expensive digging of coal, the coal companies literally blow off the top of the mountain and scoop the coal out like a cantaloupe. How could someone ever have thought this was a good idea?!?? Rather than by expensive mining equipment, when the dust settles, the coal can be sifted and rounded up using off-the-shelf construction and earth-moving equipment. The industry argues that this practice should be expanded. It's about jobs they say. Yet, coal mining employment is down to less than 10% what it was 20 years ago. New "modern" mining practices use much less labor.
The good people of West Virginia, many of them with current and former family connections to the coal business, have their homes shaken and their dreams, literally, shattered by the massive explosions of Mountain Top Removal. One small boy was killed when an explosion threw a rock through the roof of his room. As much as 750 feet of mountaintop can be lost to one of these operations. Further, the forests and meadows that occupied the mountain top are lost. With nothing left but rock, rain washes off the mountains in torrents. Families that used to get flooded from below when the creek backed up, now get flooded from above too. The chemical residue of the mining operations sweeps down and soaks into lower soil. Homes and land have been swept away. One woman lost about 5 acres. Land that she used to grow vegetables on.
Ironically, I have felt a connection to West Virginia. I spent a weekend there a few months ago and have driven through many times. The hardwood covered Appalachians with ubiquitous rock outcroppings poking through here and there, have a special rugged beauty. The people are wonderfully nice. I rode a City Bus into Charleston from Nitro; at least a half hour ride. I had pleasant conversations in both directions. There is an active music and arts community. Just recently, I mentioned"Mountain Stage" a fabulous PRI radio show, it comes from West Virginia. [Hi, Adam] The thought occurred to me that WV would be a beautiful place to live for a while [after the boat, after the boat, after the boat. . . ] Now, I find it is being poisoned, blown up, and defaced on an almost biblical scale.
John Prine sang of missing Muhlenberg County, Kentucky. Literally, missing it because "Mr. Peabody's coal train has hauled it away." In WV, hauled away might even be preferred to stewing in a toxic, black, greasy pudding. There is an elementary school downhill from one of those dikes. Next time, you walk by an empty room with a light burning inside, think of West Virginia and step in there to turn it out. If you can, speak out against this.
Check out John singing "Paradise" with some friends:
I delivered in Danvers, MA, a suburb of Boston, and didn't need to pick up until the next day. Lucky for me, my brother and his family live in Quincy on the southside. I haven't seen them in quite a while. My nephew is only 2 yro, so he is a whole different human than the infant I knew. My niece is 4 and cute as a button. I got to spend an afternoon with Tim and the kids and then an evening with everyone when Kathy got home. It was wonderful to see them all.
Tim and I even snuck out to catch some blues that night.
In Massachusetts, I saw one of my favorite signs. "CAUTION: Reduced Salt Area, Next Two Miles." I'm sure that it is for some watershed or other environmental reason, but I hear it is good for your heart too.
I have been trying to remember where my favorite highway sign was. Thursday morning I drove by it again. It is somewhere around the 185 mile marker on I-80, heading east. The sign has had a few iterations, but it's final version is the greatest; the best sign I've seen all year.
Hanging from cables run across the highway is a diamond shaped sign that says "Bridge May Be Icy." Some time later, PA DOT added a small rectangle bolted to the bottom tip of the diamond. It says "3/4 Mile." The last modification was to accessorize the sign with lights. There are two yellow lights on each side tip of the diamond and a small rectangle was bolted to the bottom of the first small addition. The new says "When Flashing." Taken together it says
"Bridge May Be Icy"
"3/4 Mile"
"When Flashing."
I wonder how far away it is when it is NOT flashing.
I think the Church of the Latter Day Saints used to run a TV commercial that I'm thinking of. A young woman helps an older lady to cross the street. The camera pans to a guy in a work truck noticing significantly. Cut To: The guy from the truck helping a woman who has dropped her groceries. The camera pans to a man noticing significantly. Cut To: The second man helping someone who . . . You get the idea. And you've probably saw the commercial or one like it. I think it was the Mormons. Regardless, it was some church organization suggesting that we ought to be nice to each other; help each other; care about each other.
Many people think that Buddhism is simply "living in the moment." That is almost it but it's really just doing the right thing at this very moment. Knowing yourself well enough, dropping your trivial likes and dislikes, getting to the heart of you. Then making good choices. However, since we are all one, doing the right thing for you at this very moment is, actually, doing the right thing for the universe at this very moment. This is where I find myself agreeing with the LDS or whomever aired the ad.
It wouldn't be that hard to be a little nicer to people. Maybe its the election cycle, but I think we've lost our way. People are just being nasty. We've lost our sense of community and our honor. We need to care about and care for each other.
I pulled into a truckstop one night. I was standing in line at the fuel desk to get a shower, the girl behind the counter was Generation "Why Me." She had the thingy in her nose, and a tat on the inside of her wrist. She was having trouble and bristled with attitude. Come to find out, they had just updated the store computer and many of the items weren't in the system yet. One driver gave up when a case of bottled water just wouldn't ring up. He actually put it back on the shelf. The managers were gone, the girl was alone in the store. It wasn't all generational. She wasn't getting the support she needed. I felt her pain
The showers are being remodeled as well. All of us drivers were having to go out to a trailer in the parking lot to clean up. Not everybody was happy about that. Some drivers were letting the poor girl know their displeasure. All of us were standing around in the store with nothing to do but watch her work while we waited. She was feeling the mood in the room; it wasn't helping hers. My turn for a shower finally came and I had a great idea on the way back in.
It really is more work to be a complainer. And, it comes back on you eventually when you don't help others. It is so simple to be cheerful and helpful. And it really isn't that much extra work. Like Willie Nelson sang "It's the little things that mean a lot."
Let me tell you about an Ol' Trucker Trick I know, to show you how easy it is.
Back in the store, the poor girl was snarling in frustration. She might have had an attitude, but that night, she deserved to. I'm sure she didn't get paid nearly enough to deal with a bunch of cantankerous truckers who have to shower out in the parking lot, and can't even buy water. When a couple guys walk by with duffel bags, not believing that the showers are outside, I told them it was the hose around the corner.
Back to my fuel desk girl. She was sighing and frowning because some older trucker had brought his wife who also needed a shower. As the only woman in line, now they had to reconnoiter the trailer and the shower schedule to get her one.
"Man, I need some chocolate. What do you recommend?" I asked her.
She paused, almost not understanding, but recovered to suggest a Take Five bar.
"What are they like?" faking I've never had one.
"Oh, it's peanuts and caramel and a pretzel or something crunchy like that." She was just glad to empty her mind of the store issues. Then she gushed: "I really like them."
Bingo, I had her right where I wanted her.
"Back in the middle aisle," she shouted as I wandered toward the junk food.
I grabbed two King Size Take Five bars and headed back up front. There were five people, counting the old couple, hanging around waiting for showers. The unease hung round the place like stale cigarettes. I dropped the bars on the counter and shuffled through my wallet.
"Two Ninety Eight."
I handed her three dollars and then pushed one of the bars across the counter. "This one's for you. Maybe your night will get better."
"Oh, WOW!" She smiled wide and chuckled. "Thanks!" It was like a whole different person showed up. Now that's magic. And I didn't have to saw anyone in half.
As I walked out the door, I heard my two pennies drop in the "Need a Penny?" dish. The trucker's wife practically misty-eyed, smiled sheepishly at me as I passed. Just as I pushed the door open, I heard the rustle of a Take Five wrapper.
Try it you'll like it. The candy bar's not bad either.
This is Part 2 of the Swamp Series. You should read Part One first, if you haven't.
When we last left our heroes, they had survived being stuck out on a road in the swamp, inside a federally designated high drug traffic zone, only to face the wrath of their justifiably worried wives. A few months later, we had built a 6'x9' thermoforming machine from scratch, developed an automotive accessory product to be manufactured from recycled plastic, and started making sales and marketing calls.
We had gradually gotten the idea, with strong hints and some independent verification, that our financial partner's money was dirty. See the previous post. We began negotiations to buy him out. He wasn't happy. Begrudgingly, he blessed a deal and told us to have our lawyer write it up. When presented with the paperwork, he got frustrated all over again and tore it up. Twice.
Then, over Memorial Day Weekend 1990, the financial partner changed the locks on the building; a boat plant where we were subleasing some space from him. He held an illegal meeting and changed the Board of Directors of the company we had started together. Thinking he had locked us out of that too, he informed us that we could now work for him or we could stuff it.
At the time, we had a young man working for us through a state sponsored program for displaced workers. Florida was paying half his wages. Dale was a good kid and a great help. Don and I knew right where he had lunch every day. We were hatching a plan and we were going to need Dale's help.
Lucky for us, the evil financial partner had, just that morning, refused to pay Dale for some overtime he had earned while working for us. There was no documentation. We never had him punch a clock or fill out a time sheet; a freedom he appreciated. We were always there earlier and stayed later than Dale anyway. We knew what we had asked him to do and how long he had been there. Down off Cattleman Road, in a deli attached to a gas station, we found Dale still simmering. He was all too happy to help us out.
The building we were locked out of had long been a boat plant. In the boat business, small and medium sized companies come and go like the tides. In building boats, there is shop work and yard work. In this particular building there were two bathrooms. Each had two doors; one from inside the shop and one from the yard. Dale helped lock up that night; acting demure and dedicated to the new situation. As we had planned, he folded the hasp on one of the outside doors back on itself, and "dummy-locked" the padlock. That was all the help we needed.
Meanwhile, Don and I had assembled a crew. We had three pickup trucks and two tandem axle trailers. At dusk, they rolled to a grocery store parking lot nearby. Don and I, in his famous powdered sugar encrusted truck, drove to an orange grove next to the shop and started our stakeout.
We could just see the glow of a light in the office. Our financial partner's senses must have been tingling. He never stayed late, but there he was. Typically, he and his aging hunting dogs would hang around, "stupervising" his boat boys. Then, on some afternoon signal, he would load up the dogs and head home. On this evening, for some reason, he just hung around.
We stood next to a chain link fence in an orange grove; swatting mosquitoes. My life then was plagued by mosquitoes. We walked back and forth trying to keep warm. Waiting. Swat. Smack. Wait. Swat. Smack. Wait.
Finally, the office window went dark. The middle stage of the plan went into action. We heard the truck rumble and pull away. Don scaled the fence, slunk across the yard and tried the door to the john. It came right open and Dale was our hero. The first thing Don tripped over in the dark was a case of toilet paper. He grabbed a half dozen rolls and quietly opened the interior door.
We were fairly sure that Dale was on our side completely. We thought that he knew he shouldn't talk about the plan. We also knew, however, that he was pissed about the money. He could have boasted that he was helping us to the boys back at the shop. Don was leery of an ambush. Inside the shop, he lurked in the darkness; listening. He started pitching toilet paper rolls around in the dark to flush out the ambush. Each roll slammed into something in the dark shop and was met with silence. After what seemed an eternity, Don came jogging back across the yard.
"Go get the guys," he panted, "I'll meet you out front."
I ran back to the truck, roared out of the grove and found the crew milling around the grocery store parking lot. The shop was at the end of a dirt cul-de-sac on the outskirts of town. I lead the convoy and flashed my lights near the end of the street. Don had moved some of the larger boat molds out of the way, and seeing my signal, he rolled up the overhead door by the office. All three trucks, the second and third with trailers, fit easily inside the building. Don closed the door behind us.
We turned on lights in the back half of the building and began collecting our stuff - stealing from ourselves; a drill press, a small milling machine, all kinds of tools, the molds we had made, plastic sheet stock, and files. We worked all night, even taking the office furniture we had bought. Everything we wanted was loaded except the machine we had built. We had been planning to wrestle it onto one of the trailers, but it was just too big for either one.
At one point during the night, we heard a car pull into the cul-de-sac! Whispered screams got the lights doused and everyone quiet. We crept through the shop to the office to peek out the window. A nondescript sedan sat there idling. It was not a new car, but just new enough to worry us. Had someone called the cops?!? Was this the ambush we feared?!? Which would be worse? It just sat there. Five of us huddled in the dark office, peeking out the small window; ready for the worst.
After almost an hour, the sedan suddenly started moving. It circled around and headed out to the main road. To this day, I think it was just a couple of teenagers necking. They weren't the only ones getting hot and bothered that night.
The first boat plant guys would be coming to work about 6:00 am; it was already 4:30. We had to make some decisions.
Our machine was no garage built vacuumformer with visegrips and baling wire. Thanks to Don's previous life specifying and selling machines, we had built a thoroughly modern machine with solenoid controls for vacuum, air assist, and to control the movement of the two platens. It was our largest asset and it was going to have to stay put. However, the most valuable part of that asset was the control panel. We unceremoniously chopped through the air lines and vacuum hoses with a Sawzall. The electrical lines were cut, brackets were unbolted and the panel was spirited away with the rest of our stuff.
We relocked Dale's dummy locked door, threw open the overhead door, and our convoy headed out. There was a personnel door right next to the main overhead door out front. This would have been the last door our evil partner had locked when he left. As a special surprise, we left that door unlocked just to plant the seed in his NFL-addled brain that maybe he had been the one who had forgotten to lock up.
Our convoy careened across town. We had breakfast with the crew and our wives; whose heads were spinning. "If taking all that stuff is the right thing to do, why did you have to break-in in the middle of the night to take it?" That night the line between right and wrong had gotten paved over. My wife (now ex) never really trusted the efficacy of the business or my intrepid business partner after that. Or me for all I know.
After breakfast, the convoy headed to a building we had already rented. In the coming days, we rebuilt a new machine, connected our precious control panel, and were back in business! A little while later, the evil partner sued us.
I only know a little law but in certain civil matters you can sue for treble damages; three times. We had signed promissory notes for $90,000. Somehow, with shared building expenses and lost revenue or something, our jilted partner had worked our tab up to $200,000; and subsequently sued us for $600,000!!
At the risk of losing some of you, imagine being married to me for just eight or nine months, having already been through among other things the long night along the old swamp road, and the night we stole stuff from ourselves. Then while I'm at work, a sheriff knocks on the door to serve you with the paperwork for a lawsuit where I'm getting sued for over a half million dollars! Count 'em; 600 Extra Large.
Turns out that that lowly sheet of notebook paper saved our bacon. Our now former financial guy hired the biggest bulldog, hard-assed lawyer in the county. Our first lawyer peed all over himself and suggested that we figure out a way to settle. I spent two full days in the county law library -- reading. I knew we were right, dammit! We needed a new lawyer. Don found a couple lawyers who just happened to have been done in by a partner once. They took our case, nearly pro bono, practically on principle. It was their greatest pleasure to balance the universe with regard to bad partners and ugly partnerships.
Our former partner had hired the Big Gun Lawyer, but only spoon-fed him; paid him just enough to write letters and to file motions. Not only did that piece of notebook paper show that all three of us were officers of the company, it also showed that he had lent the money to us. The money was in our names not the company's. The judge rebuked him and the Bulldog harshly. She declared that he had loaned the money to us and we were free to do with it as we pleased; as long as we paid it back. With their case beginning to crumble, the drug dealer and his bulldog offered to settle out of court. We settled out of court for $40,000. A win; but a win that had to be paid. In the first year of our brand new business, we had to take that $40,000 off the top.
I learned so much about business law that year, I should have just gone ahead and finished law school. I was to learn even more, and a little about life, during the rest of my time with our company. At the risk of repeating myself, that is a story for another day.
