“One more day of vacation. One more day of vacation. One more day of vaca-a-tion. Da dah da dah da dah.” That would be The Engineer (or maybe it was me, fer kee-reist, I can’t really remember) singing to Grandroobly as he walked down to the beach on the last day of his annual two-week vacation. (Where the heck is Frooggy when I need him to sing? I guess he’s sleeping off another drunk. Laundry detergent with a Listerine chaser or whatever.) Oh yeah, that little ditty is sung to the tune of The Bear Went Over the Mountain in case you couldn’t figure that out.
You can talk about banker’s hours from here to kingdom come. They are not what you think they are. At least they were not in those days. (We won’t talk about these days. Keep throwing that cow manure down, you old coot.) The *bank* may have only been open from 10 to 3 or whatever but the *bankers* had to be there before and after to, uh, count the money. And balance things all over the place. And that is work and if things did *not* balance, the bankers would have to stay until they found the error. I do have to say though, that Grandroobly never got called out of holiday dinners or in the middle of the night to go deliver babies or sew people’s noses back on, etc., like his brother did. Grandroobly would only get called in the middle of the night (by the police) if the Sault Ste. Siberian night watchman discovered that the bank doors were not locked. (Uh, was there really a night watchman in the town or am I dreaming? Mrs. Commander?) What I *do* remember is that when my uncle was called in the middle of the night or a holiday dinner or whatever, he just packed up and left. Quickly. No complaints. He had a job that he loved and he did it well.
I’ve digressed but I’m not sure what I’ve digressed from because I didn’t start out with anything more than an old photo that got scanned by one o’ them thar Sherman boys, so I guess I am just rambling. Oh yeah. I *was* thinking that the old coot didn’t really have it so bad in some ways with his two week vacation. Because his cabin was close enough to his bank that he could actually move out to his cabin for the whole summer and drive into his work at the bank every day. A vacation is a valuable thing but, as much as I love the Landfill, there sure are days that I wish I could just drive home to the cabin after work. Swim, kayak, walk the beach, have a ‘hattan on the deck, watch the boats go by. Four hours and forty minutes away on the best of days with dry roads, no jaffic trams, no major stops, and just a weeee bit o’ careful speedin’? Can’t do it.
Yours in eternal blather,