Voice Mail Archives

It’s one of my favorite complaints to say that the village I grew up in on Cape Cod was utterly bereft of kids of my age. And it’s true, more or less. For most of my youth, there were maybe two or three kids who lived within a mile or so of my house who were roughly my age. Of course we all understand that the degree of forgiveness for what counts as “my age” when you’re young is very, very small. You’d have to be no more than one or two grades above or below me to qualify. Hey, I don’t make the rules.

Here is what I remember.

I'll be boarding a plane in a few hours to San Francisco. My company is sending me to a week-long conference that regularly draws over 20,000 attendees. I'll be very busy, and it's tremendously exciting of course, but it does feel a bit strange to be going to a conference and not be presenting anything -- usually I'm involved in some form of public speaking or teaching, so I'm feeling a little at loose ends about it all.

I graduated from grad school yesterday, and was officially granted all the rights and privileges, as they say, of the degree of the Master of Business Administration. It was a glorious day, all bright blue sky and golden sparkling water on the Boston waterfront.

It is way too cold in my house. I am all wrapped up in two blankets with my fleece pullover pulled over my chin. I keep trying to convince my boycat to come sit on my feet to warm my toes but he is having none of it.