Writing Boots

On communication, professional and otherwise.

In the Little Skiff Out on the Wide Open Water

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They say the shortest short story ever written was, "For sale: Baby shoes, never worn."

Well, the shortest story ever written by someone I know is this letter to the editor, by my friend Indaia Whitcombe. It was published Sept. 9, in the Martha's Vinyard Times:

In the first weeks of July, before the big fire, a 16-foot fiberglass skiff was taken from the Mayhew dock in Menemsha. This small boat was left to me by the late Tom Osmers, a dear friend of mine. Tom taught me how to fish in this boat and then gave it to me as my own fishing vessel for the scallop season. He built a little culling board on the port side and made for me two scallop dredges, and I fished every day I could that winter. When summer came we fished together again, just the two of us, in the little skiff out on the wide open water. On those long days, Tom taught me many things and shared with me the stories of his life.

It is most difficult to lose a good friend, and it is strange to return to the Island with him no longer here. And so, what a loss I felt even more when I found my boat was taken. It had been comforting to think of going out in our boat to all the places we had once fished together. And though I know it is just a boat to anyone else, it meant a lot to me.

It is hard letting go of what's lost, but still I cannot help but hope for my boat's return. If anyone may know of its whereabouts, please contact me, 508-xxx-xxxx.

Indaia Whitcombe
Aquinnah

Text: I’m taking the week off … subtext: please don’t fire me!

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An employee at a small company seems a little squeamish about taking the week off. Well, who doesn't feel that way in these uncertain times? And yet, vacation days must be taken. When we take them, we must show courage, and resist the temptation to simper.

In an e-mail titled "Michael This Week
" (name changed to protect the guilt-ridden), Michael announces:

Companions,

Taking some time off, the week before the week before our [Big Corporate Event] — sticking around town, doing some odds and ends that need taking care of, (also my dad has another chemo treatment this week and a few follow appts) — but I also hopefully be catching up on some books and movies I have piling up. 

My plan is to be check in first thing in the morning and then again at the end of the day for e-mails, but I will have my cell with me most of the time should anything come up — 555-555-5555. Nancy has been gracious enough to cover and answer anything urgent etc., that comes up in regards to [Project A] or [Project B], [Project C] etc., and those and any other questions or decisions needing immediate action should go Nancy's way, (but please cc me too if you would).  

You'll likely be hearing from me at some point, and again, if there is anything that you need me for, please let me know. 

Many thanks,
-M

Oh for the love of Pete!

On behalf of the the recipients of this e-mail (and the recipients of all e-mails from people who can't figure out if the Fates will afford them a few days off but are taking them anyway), I reply:

First off, Michael, we are not your gay lovers, so don't call us your "companions." If you call us by the right term (this would be "colleagues"), you're probably more likely to speak to us in a way that comes off as sane.

Secondly: Spare us the prose pie chart on percentages of time you'll be engaging in morally heroic activities vs. honorable practical pursuits vs. sensibly restful exercises in self-improvement.

Finally: By forcing us to master your vacation-time e-mail schedule, Michael, you are draining the office not only of your productivity, but ours too.

Most of the above could have been said this way: I'll be checking e-mail every day, and if something comes up that Nancy can't handle, it's OK to call my cell. And the rest? It shouldn't have been said at all.

Larry Ragan had a stock expression of farewell to attendees of business conferences. And Michael, I'd like to send you on your Sort-Of-But-Not-Exactly Staycation with these simple words:

"Go with God. But go."

September 11 on a Saturday: what a good idea this was

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I woke up not too badly hungover from Friday night's drink-up with the neighbors.

Scout came downstairs and, flipping through channels—it was rainy—I noticed there was a hell of a lot of 9/11 stuff on TV, and the date dawned on me.

For a few hours, we watched the real-time rebroadcast of the NBC coverage from that insane Tuesday morning nine years ago. I explained to Scout, almost seven, as much as I could, about airplanes and hijacking, both refreshed and befuddled by her questions. "Why did the pilots let those guys steer the plane?" (They had box-cutters?)

Scout lost interest once the towers were down. Cristie came down and fell back asleep in the armchair, and while Manhattan burned (again) and Tom Brokaw said amazingly prescient things, I dozed off on the couch.

Still in my underwear at 2:00 and having ignored several phone calls from friends, I told Scout we were going to the Irish bar around the corner to eat brunch and play Golden Tee video golf. Cristie stayed back to make a grocery list for the evening. The Mexican cook, Marta, kissed Scout on the forehead and asked her, "Don't you want brother, or sister?" Scout nodded, yes; Marta looked at me significantly; I shrugged.

While picking up the grocery list—I was making a meatloaf log with mashed potatoes inside and Cristie was making apple pie—I checked my e-mail, and also, while I was at it, Facebook. Michael Gerson, who I have friended because he used to be chief speechwriter at the White House, had posted the following:

"The world has turned over many times since 9/11. Memories fade. But I witnessed something I won't forget.  I saw a good man find greatness within him. I saw a president comfort a shaken nation, then embody its resolution.  Following 9/11, George W. Bush was America — all of its sympathy, its decency, its toughness.  I feel privileged to have shared the duties of those terrible, vivid, shining days with him."

Gerson did pen a good speech that Bush gave to a joint session of congress on Sept. 20; but he can't let 9/11 pass without giving us a chance to remember his contribution. His friends took the bait and thanked him for his service. I typed into the comment box, "My God, Michael, you are a smarmy and self-satisfied man," and stared at the words for a whole minute before erasing them. Why spend my perfectly good rancor on Facebook?

The meatloaf was undercooked and the mashed potatoes were runny as shit. But we did have fun listening to Nora Jones while we all cooked and baked, and we watched the marvelous Fabulous Mr. Fox, an hour past Scout's bedtime.

You don't say "happy nine-eleven."

But really, it was. And, whoever deserves credit for it, I am glad we're all still around.