I can’t even imagine the mileage, voice minutes and shoe leather he’s gone through.įor Rich who, this past month, has stood up with me in some gracious towns, and with me again in hostile ones. He’s worked tirelessly since the beginning. It was his voice that finally woke up the sleeping towns around Middleboro. Will a casino steal your stars and your wishes?įor Frank, a man nearly impossible to say no to. I wonder if you and your children will ever get to have similar memories. When I think of you now, I am only reminded of those nights my children and I, wrapped in layers of fleece, freezing in the dark and comforted with only a thermos of hot chocolate and the promises of meteorologists, waited in the back yard for stars to make a wish on. Someone with a deep and sincere appreciation for this rural landscape of ours. To Jim, who I've known on and off since childhood. To Jacquie, our valiant and admittedly unlikely leader, who became a friend along the way – if you hadn’t been the one to step up and hold us together, Jacquie, this all really would have been a done deal. So with these last few hours of uncertainty, I’d like to say a few words about the people I’ve worked along side with these past three months.
I know most of you won’t get to read it until Sunday or later, and by then you’ll already have the benefit of knowing what happened. I’m writing this on the evening of the historic town meeting in Middleboro tomorrow. In a nightly ritual, he turns his head slightly to the side, checking to ensure that his three-digit birthmark isn’t visible. Somewhere, Adam Bond finishes brushing his teeth, peers into the bathroom mirror and winks. And late-shift workers are, at this moment peeling the flattened carcass of Patrick ‘Tank Man’ Rogers off the pavement. Somewhere, Steven Spataro rests on a credenza, crumpled like a ventriloquist's dummy, pondering what life could have been life but for a few certain decisions. Wayne Perkins won’t be tossing in his sleep tonight, what with that mind of his locked securely in a vault a Fort Knox. I envision Marsha Brunelle soothed to sleep on fluffy purple pillows with visions of sending the gavel down on anyone who dares to interfere with her Zanex buzz tomorrow. I imagine that right now the town moderator and ten chosen speakers are downing gallons of Maalox in preparation. Why Gladys will never vote for Stephen Lynch again.
0 kommentar(er)
