Dan McGinley

Day 153: Wedesday, March 10, 2010: Your birthday wish was for a bigger cake.

I started the postal academy today, and things are much better.

No, really.

Stop laughing.

No, like, we have two other people in our class who are as desperate as me, and a lifer teaching us who is really cool, and reminds me exactly of my old high school science teacher, which immediately flashed the odor of formaldehyde up my nostrils like a packet of Peruvian marching powder back in the eighties, which spawmed another flashback that just compounded things even more, and here’s a picture of my friend’s musky:

The Alien Was Spawned in my Arm Pit!

He was bringing a perch up to the hole when this Musky CREATURE gulped the perch, and Ike brought in to the atmosphere with a six pound test line.  It measured 45 inches and he had to let it go because it was out of season.  This is a lake in Minnesota, and Ike (Ikola) was a childhood friend.  His dad is Williard Ikola, the winningest high school hockey coach in history, and an Olympic goalie from 1956, when they won the silver.  Cool, huh?  Like ice . . . .

Hope you liked my flashbacks!  Let’s open up a frog!

Day 152: Tuesday, March 9, 2010:  The vacuum blew again.  It can’t handle the food crumbs.

Yesterday, I took my daughter to see Jack Hanna’s “Into the Wild” at the Jorgenson Theater, even though his animal show shares the same title as a book and movie, whereas some poor college grad named McCandless starved to death in Alaska, trying to rough it.

Jack kind of missed that one. 

Anyway, Jack brought an Asian Palm Civet, which produces the most expensive coffee in the world at up to $100.00 a cup here in the U.S.  The civet eats coffee berries for the pulp and poops it out a day and a half later, in a convenient bean shape.  It’s digestive system does weird ensyme chemical stuff to the berries, and they have a chocolate flavor when processed.  I’ll stick with Swiss Miss, thanks.  Maybe I’ll set the Havahart trap with some coffee berries and see if a mouse does something similiar.  Perhaps the Chinese will buy it for a lot . . .

Or not. 

They thought of it first.   

If I drink cream and sugar it's ready-mixed!

Day 151: Monday, March 8, 2010:  None of these fat comments are insulting; you just nod in agreement. 

Jumping a lot of hoops lately, and falling into a Belichick state of mind:

Do my job (to get a job), jump those hoops to the best of my ability, and take one day at a time.  Never look ahead too far, and never dwell on yesterday, unless study questions were involved.

The federal government is hiring us as postal workers for a very low wage and no benefits, for an indefinate period of time.  The training is two weeks of intensive classroom and field testing, with defensive driving and real world situations on city streets, with stern instructors.

Yay.  I’m not nervous or intimidated, and will just do my best and be grateful for a shot at what appears to be the only ray of hope in this area for employment.  There are many veiled promises and other things at the USPS, but I could end up sacrificing a lot to stay afloat, and these situations are becoming common place now.  No benefits or decent pay, just be damn glad you have a job, and put up or shut up.  Kiss health benefits good-bye when COBRA runs out soon.  Your family is now in jeopardy, and we ask that you continue slaving away into the indefinate future.  Keep your kid off the damn playscape. 

I will absolutely not:

Kiss anyone’s butt.

Believe any promises of future employment or security.

Make any promises I can’t deliver.

Take sides or be bullied, intimidated, or messed with.

Stop looking for a better situation.

Writing my butt off.

So far so good.  I do look forward to a right-hand drive jeep-like vehicle, just because weird is fun.  Otherwise, one day at a time.

Day 150: Sunday, March 7, 2010:  You don’t shower; you use a power washer to purge the creases.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Day 149: Saturday, March 6, 2010:  Indians tried to tie you to a stake, but ran out of rope.

Another good Mac Story:

I remember him sitting in that porch chair like it was yesterday, with Boston traffic going by outside, telling me “The Dock Story”:

Shortly after World War I, a guy named McCree drowned while working the docks with Mac, so they wrapped the body and put it in a horse-drawn cart, after informing the police.  Their boss had been a foreign diplomat at one time, so they asked if he would tell McCree’s wife what happened, and he agreed, but they stopped at a bar first and bought each other liquid courage.

Eventually they drove the cart up to McCree’s house, and the former diplomat knocked hard on the door.

“Who the hell is it?” asked Mrs. McCree.

The diplomat asked, “Does the widow McCree live here?”

“I’m Mrs. McCree,” she said.  “But I’m no widow.”

He said, “The hell you’re not.  Wait till you see what we’re dragging up the stairs.”

Swear to God.  Mac would tell this story and laugh, then cry, then tell me the docks were full of tough, drunk characters.  The thing I remember most was his stand on the Vietnam war, and how he would personally “send our asses to Canada” if my brother and I were drafted.

“I know a lumber camp on the Saint John’s River,” he would tell me.  “It’s the best education you could ever have.”

God I miss you Mac.  I miss you so much.  I need to see Boston soon, and put another Red Sox hat on your grave.  They actually won another couple of World Series.  I swear.   

Day 148: Friday, March 5, 2010:  You love the movie “Grease” because of the name.

Promise I’ll post tomorrow.  I gotta study for a big test and get some sleep.  I’m wiped-out . . . ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Tonight I was working on this old Russian Mosin Nagant rifle that my father-in-law had decked out for a 32 power scope before he passed away last year.  The scope never came close to where the siting laser threw a dot, so I have a littlle grinding to do on one of the mounts, and it should be accurate for hundreds of yards.  I have no idea why this matters, but we had great times shooting up in Maine, when Pappy was still alive.  That’s good enough.

It all reminded me of my grandfather on my dad’s side, who passed away many, many years ago, when I was just a teenager.  There was a beautiful ritual involved when visiting Mack, which involved sitting on the side porch of their old triple decker in Boston while the Red Sox played and traffic moved outside, cars honking and people yelling as Mac sipped whiskey and watched the game, telling us stories about World War I and life in general.

Mac was from New Brunswick, Canada, but moved down here and enlisted for World War I.   He went over on the same ship as President Woodrow Wilson, and all the soldiers were studying French like crazy, angry that Mac wouldn’t join them, because they would be  landing in Marseilles, France.

When the boat landed, Mac greeted the children who were yelling “Viva American,” by speaking fluent French, to the point where he was immediately used as an interpreter.

He never told anyone he was from Canada, and spoke fluent French.  Mac worked the lumber camps as a boy.

He would later see a lot of action and get shot off a horse, but those stories would come after his third glass of whiskey, and I would often have to put his head back on a pillow and take the glass from his hand.  If the whiskey wouldn’t do the trick, and the game was over, Mac would find an old Nat King Cole record and we would listen together, singing along.  He asked me to bring something once, so I brought my Blood, Sweat, and Tears album, and he thought the musicians were fantastic. 

His stories were amazing and often tragic.  The one I remember most vividly was the time they found a dead American soldier, and retrieved the man’s wallet for identification.

There was a note handwritten by a small girl, asking her daddy when he was coming home.

 Mac said he saw the toughest guy in their outfit break down and cry that day.

“I asked a German prisoner why he was fighting,” Mac said.  “He didn’t have a goddamn clue.”

Mac died at 93 from liver disease, and his few remaining vet friends were sneaking shots into the hospital.  His wife Alice died at 103.  I’ll never forget them as long as I live.  Maybe I’ll tell some funny Mac stories tomorrow.  Rest his soul.  I’ve got a picture of him singing at my Uncle’s wedding, that my relatives found.  Mac is on the left, Uncle Joe is in the middle, and Uncle Paul (the lucky groom) is on the far right.  My father was probably taking the picture.  We believe they were singing “Danny Boy”.  It was one of the few songs everyone knew by heart, and maybe the reason for my name.  Fortunately, everyone but Mac is very much alive. 

Mac, Joe, and Paul

Day 146: Wednesday, March 3, 2010: Dogs bark at your thunderous approach, in other countries.

Ahhhh, the new career . . .

I was early this time – which was a good thing – because the hard-line guy who let me in said, “I lock the door at 8:00 a.m.”, which was an alpha dog statement, whereas I replied. “Huh.”

I really like “Huh,” these days.  It can say so much with so little, as in “Whatever, it is what it is, I’m not impressed, intimidated, cowed, arrogant, mad, or trying to be a smart ass.  It just deserves a friggin’ “Huh.” 

A few things I noticed while going through this week of orientation and training:

1) Everybody who teaches us anything  starts out by saying how long they’ve worked at the USPS, and how long they have left.  And then we here it a few more times.

2)  They HATE the term “going postal”, and will explain that it’s not a common thing; it’s just that they’re so big and high-profile.  Ahem.

3)  They mention dog bites a lot.  A LOT.

4)  They hate online bill-paying, where no mail is required.

5)  They are all very, very nice, and I get a defensive driving course this Saturday, which I hope is all out hit the cones go into a skid and maybe jump over a moving train.

Or not.  I’ll keep you all posted . . .  

Day 145: Tuesday, March 2, 2010:  You fell through the ice once and survived, because it emptied the lake.

First day on the new job, and I’m freakin’ late.  I’m never late for something that big, but mapquest didn’t know that a road sign was covered by canvas (for some godforsaken reason ) and I’m screaming around Springfield, Massachusetts, finally backtracking to where I got off the highway, to retrace my steps and see that – WTF – a sign is covered right where it really mattered.

So I finally get to the big federal building that houses the post office center for like, the entire eastern universe, and I’m twenty minutes late and locked out, pacing in a small reception area, with no guard because they got rid of them months ago.

It’s a paid orientation, and I’m thinking shit, I really blew it, and now I have to crawl home and make calls and really beg for another chance, because it’s the post office, and they have roughly 700,000 employees, and another 700,000 trying to get in.  I’m depressed and mad as hell at myself for not leaving a lot of extra time for the drive, because really, there’s just no excuse short of a blown engine or nuclear war.  I can replace a flat in about eight minutes, so I should be early with a damn grateful smile pasted on my Hibernian mug. 

Then . . . cue the horn of Gabriel! I hear my name and this wonderful lady named Sara is holding the door open, smiling away, and telling me it’s okay.  They knew I was coming from out of state in a tough traffic pattern and were hoping I’d show.

WHEW.

Lots of class time and films and reading and discussion, and back tomorrow for a tour of that distribution center and more classes and on and on.

And I was just going to walk out when Sara showed. 

WHEW . . . I’ll be leaving real early tomorrow.

Oh yeah, I had to let another mouse out of the trap on my way, and a new one was waiting when I got home.  The mouse chronicles continue.

Day 144: Monday, March 1, 2010: Your place setting has a shovel instead of a spoon.

The Mouse Chronicles: continued . . .

This morning dawned on a new era of mouse trapping; a tiny little baby waiting for me in the Havahart.

My wife took our daughter out to the pet store shopping for a mouse house, while I went off to shoot at the Sportman’s club, and we both met back here in time for the phenomenal U.S vs. Canada Olympic hockey game.

When I entered the basement, the baby mouse was still in the trap.

So I came upstairs to find a big new mouse house on my daughter’s bureau, with two cute little silver mice, Silver Stream and Melody Snow.  There’s also a very ecstatic little girl.

So I had to take the little baby mouse down the road and out to the deep woods, where it scampered off to a brave new world.

Poor little thing.

A couple hours later, there’s another one in the trap.

So it was down the road and out to the woods again, and I should probably check the trap before I go to bed, but this is a whole new level of tree hugging, bordering on PETA mania.  And me at a club hours ago, with more stuffed animals staring into space than an all-you-can-eat at the Home Town Buffet.

“Just throw some damn DeCon down and call it a day,” Doc told me, but he never had kids and just got a trapping license, so there you go.  It’s like the difference betwen U.S. football and Canadian hockey.  Two different schools of thought and skill levels. 

At least the hockey team . . . almost . . . won.  Almost.  Did we scare them a little?  I wonder who will drink more beer by the end of the night; winners or losers?