Started off abruptly last night. Suppose there should be some sort of prologue
to all this.
Starting this blog because a young woman I mistakenly took
on as a summer intern some time back says we need it. Thought I was supposed to be the mentor,
teaching her a few things about the real world of small town journalism. Turns out she thinks I need to learn a few
things too.
Anyway, introductions:
Name is Duncan. Live in Midden
Harbour, a small coastal town. Own the local newspaper, The Shoreline, and
serve as its publisher, editor, reporter, ad salesman, paper boy and trash
taker-outer. Am a senior, whatever the
hell that means. Discovered my
senior-ness a while ago when a ticket taker gave me a discount. Now it’s entrenched. Ask for discount everywhere, and get it. Could be offensive to some people; not me.
Don’t get the age thing. Last important birthday was turning 20. No longer a teenager. Had to be an adult. Still an adult, or as much of an adult as
needs be to get by. Rant Alert! Amazing to me
that age gets as much attention as it does.
Who cares how many years you’ve been on the planet in your current form—dust
to dust, and all that. Either you’re
well or you’re not well. If you’re not
well, doesn’t much matter what age you are.
If you’re feeling fine, same applies.
I’m feeling fine.
Haven’t been to a doctor since I slipped off the wharf and cracked a
couple of ribs 10 years ago. All she
said was “Can’t really do anything for that, Dunc.” Haven’t been back.
Live with my companion Butkus, a 150 pound Newfie/Lab
cross who never leaves my side. Tried
marriage a couple of times, but was dismal at it. Dog’s better; former wives think the same.
Right now, like every summer, home is my boat. Big
enough for Butkus and I and the occasional guest. Older wooden ketch that keeps me sanding and
painting. In boat years, she’s a senior,
but doesn’t really matter because like me, she’s fine.
That’s enough for today.
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