My last and most-favorite newspaper had a major passenger/product pair of lines running past its back yard. Oh. Meetings? Took my weekends mostly Wednesday-Thursday and thus exempted me from the morbidity of weekly strategy sessions. Planning news? Like looking for the next gulp of air! Why? My publisher/editor did not so much as agree as he recognized my counterinsurgency sympathies had long-ago withered and I now was The Enemy (of good order and fat-chewing for its own sake whilst there were fish to slay, crabs to trap, shrimp to dip, gardens to hoe and beer-n-books to consume. He said sometimes to the others: get your sections out consistently 20 minutes pre-deadline, win editing, writing, columnizing and photographic awards consistently, and be a damn pain in my ass when I insist you attend and maybe you too can take mid-week off: but that would interfere with your Friday-Saturday-Sunday all-day most-night schedules, wouldn’t they. The man was pure Ho Chi Minh – or a fellow traveler at least, though he did spend WWII flying patrol craft up and down Florida’s coastlines, having escaped earlier from The University of Florida a year or so early. Yep. His dad had pull. But Bob Hudson loved that train whistle, too. Thanks, Juice. You mem’ry unplugger, you.

Cat Nap Revue

endless meetings
the far away song
of a train whistle

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