Recently I've taken a little pride in the mathematics that if you include the time I spent in seminary, 2008 marks the beginning of the third decade I have spent in "ministry," broadly defined. But just to put that in context, today one of my "messmates" here at 75 State Street celebrated is 93rd birthday...which means that he has been RETIRED from his career as a US Postal Service letter carrier (and supervisor) for longer than I've served in mine. Which is humbling, to say the least.
And such a great guy too -- sharp as a tack and with lots of stories to tell, a huge family he is enormously proud of, a good appetite, and (to paraphrase John Huston from "Chinatown") he still has a few teeth in his head...and a few friends in town. His biggest complaint? Same as mine, really -- impatience that it is taking him so long to recuperate from his most recent stay in the hospital....
My two other messmates (I'm not really certain what else to call them) are also interesting in their own right: John is also in his 90's, also a retired letter carrier, and also has stories to tell...although he is really more of an observer than a storyteller, and thus a wealth of information about other people here in this community. Jeff is kind of a mystery -- younger, I think, even than me, and not especially forthcoming about anything that matters, although always with something to say about sports, the menu, the weather, whatever. Not even John has him figured out yet. And they've been eating together at that table a lot longer than I have.
In any event, that's really all the news I have from here at the moment. Happy Birthday Jim! I'll see you tomorrow at breakfast.
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3 comments:
hi tim
thinking about you . not sure you go to chemo on wednesday. if so, hope you are comfortable there. another movie , perhaps.
we are away for a week and will check in with you on our return.
jeanne
Happy to hear that you and your mess mates are making a good connection. They sound like great guys, just like you. Hope all is well and stay on top of those meds! ~Lin
Tim, Glad to read that yer shipping out with a few tellers of tall tales. Unlike Ishmael, you'll not be abandoned in the desert nor we ye be driven to search for hydration. Hang in there with the chemo lad; it sounds like a ride pitch poled. Here's to you and yer mates...
CHAPTER 5
Breakfast
I quickley followed suit, and descending into the bar-room accosted the grinning landlord very pleasantly. I cherished no malice towards him, though he had been skylarking with me not a little in the matter of my bedfellow.
However, a good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce a good thing; the more's the pity. So, if any one man, in his own proper person, afford stuff for a good joke to anybody, let him not be backward, but let him cheerfully allow himself to spend and to be spent in that way. And the man that has anything bountifully laughable about him, be sure there is more in that man than you perhaps think for.
The bar-room was now full of the boarders who had been dropping in the night previous, and whom I had not as yet had a good look at. They were nearly all whalemen; chief mates, and second mates, and third mates, and sea carpenters, and sea coopers, and sea blacksmiths, and harpooneers, and ship keepers; a brown and brawny company, with bosky beards; an unshorn, shaggy set, all wearing monkey jackets for morning gowns.
You could pretty plainly tell how long each one had been ashore. This young fellow's healthy cheek is like a sun-toasted pear in hue, and would seem to smell almost as musky; he cannot have been three days landed from his Indian voyage. That man next him looks a few shades lighter; you might say a touch of satin wood is in him. In the complexion of a third still lingers a tropic tawn, but slightly bleached withal; he doubtless has tarried whole weeks ashore. But who could show a cheek like Queequeg? which, barred with various tints, seemed like the Andes' western slope, to show forth in one array, contrasting climates, zone by zone.
"Grub, ho!" now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we went to breakfast.
They say that men who have seen the world, thereby become quite at ease in manner, quite self-possessed in company. Not always, though: Ledyard, the great New England traveller, and Mungo Park, the Scotch one; of all men, they possessed the least assurance in the parlor. But perhaps the mere crossing of Siberia in a sledge drawn by dogs as Ledyard did, or the taking a long solitary walk on an empty stomach, in the negro heart of Africa, which was the sum of poor Mungo's performances- this kind of travel, I say, may not be the very best mode of attaining a high social polish. Still, for the most part, that sort of thing is to be had anywhere.
These reflections just here are occasioned by the circumstance that after we were all seated at the table, and I was preparing to hear some good stories about whaling; to my no small surprise nearly every man maintained a profound silence. And not only that, but they looked embarrassed. Yes, here were a set of sea-dogs, many of whom without the slightest bashfulness had boarded great whales on the high seas- entire strangers to them- and duelled them dead without winking; and yet, here they sat at a social breakfast table- all of the same calling, all of kindred tastes- looking round as sheepishly at each other as though they had never been out of sight of some sheepfold among the Green Mountains. A curious sight; these bashful bears, these timid warrior whalemen!
But as for Queequeg- why, Queequeg sat there among them- at the head of the table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle. To be sure I cannot say much for his breeding. His greatest admirer could not have cordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him, and using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it, to the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks towards him. But that was certainly very coolly done by him, and every one knows that in most people's estimation, to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.
We will not speak of all Queequeg's peculiarities here; how he eschewed coffee and hot rolls, and applied his undivided attention to beefsteaks, done rare. Enough, that when breakfast was over he withdrew like the rest into the public room, lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and was sitting there quietly digesting and smoking with his inseparable hat on, when I sallied out for a stroll.
--from Moby-Dick, 1847
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