We here in the District They Call Columbia got more
than a dusting of snow through Sunday. I don’t know what the official tally
was, but in the People’s Republic, it felt like I was shoveling about a foot of
the stuff off my front walks.
But in the course of that activity I found my Washington Post, right where it normally
is on a Sunday morning. The cluster parking lot hadn’t been plowed and I
certainly had no intention of trying to drive anywhere, but the guy who
delivers the newspaper had done his job.
And I thought about all the people not getting
big bucks who do their jobs come day, go day, and keep things humming for the
rest of us, even when the rest of us don’t venture beyond the mailbox. The ones
who stock the supermarket shelves, repair the power lines, run the cash
register at the pharmacy and, yes, deliver your papers. In this day of elected
officials pulling down six-figure salaries (plus whatever they snarfle up at the
lobbying trough) who can’t be arsed to perform their actual Constitutional
duties, I am grateful for these folks who show up and do what they’re paid for,
no matter how little the amount.
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