Open Heart

“Your stress test indicates that we need to look a little further, Mr. Gallegos”, said the cardiac surgeon. “It’s a simple procedure.” The procedure was a coronary angiogram which involved stuffing a tiny camera into a vein in his wrist and shoving it all the way to where the mass of veins and arteries come and go, in and out of the heart. The camera peeked at all the plumbing and found the culprit, an artery 100% blocked. When a surgeon says “simple procedure” I must remember that it’s all relative. And indeed, what followed was very complicated.

On the last day of September Dr. Yassin performed a miracle. He “unzipped” my husband’s chest, split open the sternum, found the slacker artery, did some snipping and sewing and attached a new stretch of healthy artery. Then he rejoined the sternum halves with wire and sewed him shut. Now two months later, we are both recovering well, he with his zipper scar, me with a few more gray hairs.

Roberto with friend he held tight when he had to cough

This is something that happens every day to hundreds of lucky people in this country, but not all are so lucky to be treated at the Raymond G. Murphy VA Regional Medical Center in Albuquerque, New Mexico. There are those that were surprised by Roberto’s choice. The VA? Isn’t that a substandard, problem-plagued system? Why wouldn’t you go to a “real” hospital if you were able? I can understand this reaction, given that the only time you hear about the VA, it’s bad. But I am here to tell a very different story.  

Roberto is a Viet Nam combat veteran and his medical provider of choice is the VA. It’s where he feels he belongs and is understood.  It’s where he can ride in the elevator and know that he shares something significant with the person next to him. I’ve seen those subtle nods between them. The clinic in Santa Fe and the hospital in Albuquerque are also efficient, well-oiled machines. The care is excellent and the paperwork, records, orders, schedules, test results, prescriptions – all is handled behind the scenes, seamlessly as far as the patient in concerned. Roberto has a Veterans Administration card with his number on it. He presents it wherever he goes in the system, no co-pay, no deductible, nor forms to fill out. Blood drawn, x-rays taken, counseling session, dental cleaning, hearing aids, and yes, open heart surgery, they are ready for him. Prior to checking in for surgery, he had blood drawn, echocardiogram, x-rays. We went from one department to the next, showed the card, and bingo, it happened. I hardly had time to get a cup of coffee at the Starbucks in the lobby.

Raymond G. Murphy VA Hospital, Albuquerque

As soon as the surgery was over, the surgeon’s assistant, came to report to me that everything had gone very well, and I would be able to see Roberto in intensive care soon. He asked if I had any questions, and I had many. He spent a long time with me, educating me on the workings of the heart, preparing me for what to expect, reassuring me that the future looked bright. I, of course, cried with relief and gratitude, and he dropped the professional role and gave me a big hug.

This compassion and caring were typical of our interactions with all VA staff, from maintenance workers to the techs, the nurses, and the doctors. In the ICU, it seemed that there was nothing that surprised the nurses, nothing that upset or angered them. They could handle anything, they were unflappable. A hard-to-find vein, a malfunctioning monitor, a dropped lunch tray, nothing fazed them. I wondered if they were veterans themselves, or simply had absorbed that “we can do this” attitude from their veteran patients. Most that we met had family members who were veterans and had a very warm spot in their hearts for those who have served.

I spent time walking the halls, to give myself and Roberto a break, and to enjoy the nature photographs on the walls. I was admiring a bear when a youngish woman in scrubs came by and stopped to chat. She was a doctor and had come to the VA for her residency and knew that she would never leave. Her grandfather was a World War II veteran, and she grew up knowing that he was a hero and sensing that he had suffered considerable trauma. She was drawn to veterans.

One of dozens of wildlife photos in the hospital halls

“I want to hear their stories, and I have some from my father to share with them. They like that. They trust me. They know I understand.” She confessed that she could make a lot more money at any other hospital in Albuquerque, but it wouldn’t be worth it. “I want to be a doctor, and here I can do that. I can spend time with patients, I can treat the whole person. I couldn’t do that anywhere else.” With a big smile she told me that she had a patient in intensive care who had been there 3 weeks. No one could figure out a diagnosis. “This morning I finally solved it! It’s a very rare disease, and he’s got it. Now I can help him. Where else,” she added, “could a hospital afford to keep a patient that long, or could a doctor take the time to figure it out?”

One evening just when the shift was changing, three emergencies came in at once. Magically, everyone was taken care of, squared away in a room, clean sheets and gown, vitals taken, hooked up to the right things, relatives calmed, doctors briefed. The off-duty nurses stayed late to help the next shift, no one complained, not even a sigh or a groan. It was understood that they support each other, work together to handle the next crisis.  They were professional and compassionate, committed and caring, not only to the patients but to each other.

Roberto was medically ready to be discharged after 5 days. He was a star, all the functions running smoothly…enough. We were nervous, not feeling ready to leave for Santa Fe, after such a major event.  Assuming that the bed was needed and he would be wheeled to the curb for me to pick up, imagine our surprise when the doctor said, “But of course you can stay until you’re ready to go home. It’s important you feel ready.” We didn’t abuse the privilege, staying just two more days.

I think about our experience with open heart surgery at the VA. Dr.Yassin, with humility and expertise, performed a miracle, bypassing that artery and giving Roberto another chance, and for that I am very grateful. But there is another miracle we experienced, and that is the “open heart” of those who cared for us. I tear up remembering the kindness, the encouragement, the good humor that we received from those loving, open hearts.

One of many peaceful spots on the VA hospital grounds, this one near the counseling building
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Going Home: A Story of Rematriation

I live in a remarkable community. Seton Village is a few miles outside the Santa Fe city limits and was founded (haphazardly) by Ernest Thompson Seton, conservationist, artist, writer and educator, who moved here from the east coast in the late 1920s. Apparently very charismatic, Seton attracted followers from the east and elsewhere who joined him, first in tipis, later in box cars, and finally in poorly built shelters that eventually became the houses we villagers are in today. The “Chief,” as he called himself, came to the southwest to learn the “Indian way.” He and his wife Julia believed that if we all lived more like Indigenous people, we would be healthier and happier and our communities would be more cohesive and caring. To spread this belief, he developed a program on Native American culture that included folk lore stories, songs and dances, and bits of Native sign language which he had learned from tribal communities in Canada and the northeast.

Ernest Thompson Seton

His interest was sincere and well-intentioned. He hoped to educate and enlighten fellow Whites to the humanity of the “Red Man” (a novel idea at the time) and the superiority of the Native way of life. He hoped to contribute to a shift in the way people lived and how they related to nature and to each other. An early co-founder of the Boy Scouts, he came to see that effort as hierarchical and militaristic, and abandoned it in favor of his Indigenous-based movement which he called the Woodcraft League. The Woodcraft League had minor success in the US, but flourished in Czechoslovakia, Japan and Brazil, where there are avid followers of the Chief to this day. Seton’s life was a story in itself – from trapper to animal advocate, for instance – which is told beautifully in Ernest Thompson Seton: The Life and Legacy of an Artist and Conservationist by David Witt.

Example of Seton’s artwork, at the Academy for the Love of Learning

Seton died here in 1946, and in 2003 the Academy for the Love of Learning, a nonprofit committed to revitalizing learning for both teachers and students, purchased the property from Seton’s daughter, Dee Barber Seton. The Academy folks have been stellar neighbors to the roughly 20 families that live in Seton Village, opening their facilities to us, sharing in their programs, and respecting our needs. In addition, their Seton Legacy Project stewards and cares for a portion of Seton’s vast collections of books, music, artwork, and Native American textiles, pottery, and other culturally significant items which came with the property.

And here it gets interesting.  Aaron Stern, Academy founder, and others on the Academy team, soon realized that Seton’s legacy was complex and that as partial stewards of this legacy they and their board and staff needed to carve a path that honored Seton and his efforts, while also being accountable to the reality and impacts of “cultural misappropriation” on Native people and communities. Difficult questions arose:  What if cultural misappropriation was committed in an era before the term and the concept existed? What if the intentions of the cultural appropriator were well-meaning – does that make a difference?  What if the impact of the Native appropriation was beneficial, educating people and raising understanding and respect for Native people?  

The Academy wanted to be proactive, address the issue and make amends in some way. They hoped the Academy could be a model for other organizations in the same situation. But what to do? Wisely, they asked a group of local Native leaders and scholars for guidance. They generously included me as a representative of Seton Village which sits on the sites of the settlement of Seton and his followers, and of the earlier Indigenous communities back hundreds of years. The group of 12 has met for the past three years, pondering Seton, his legacy and the responsibility of the Academy. The conversations are rambling yet amazingly on point, always with a profound, if not final, conclusion. And in the process, we built our own community which we all treasure and hope can continue indefinitely.

We eventually narrowed our focus to the Seton collection’s “creations” and this word was carefully chosen to describe the great wealth of these collections. The terms “Artifacts” “Objects” “Items” “Crafts” were too cold, too lifeless, too disrespectful. Each creation was created, given life, by an Indigenous artist/craftsperson, and each needed to be treated as an individual being, even in old age when broken, worn or ridden with moth holes. These creations needed to be returned – or “rematriated,” as we said — to their communities of origin, if possible and if desired by those communities.

The Academy took the message seriously and hired two outstanding young Native women to staff the rematriation project. Laura Elliff Cruz and Ash Boydston-Schmidt have developed a process for identifying the tribal origin of over 50 creations in the Seton collection. They reach out to the leadership of those tribes with photos and offer to return the creation. If there is no response, they persist, write, email, phone, seeking out someone at the tribe who might be interested. And if there is a desire to have the creation returned, the Academy offers to bring it to the community, following instructions on how to handle and pack it in an honorable way. Or, if tribal members prefer to come and pick up the creation, the Academy will pay all travel expenses for the trip here and back. To date they have successfully rematriated 26 Indigenous creations. The experience has been thrilling and emotional both for the community recipients and for Laura and Ash.

The Academy for the Love of Learning website has a section on the Rematriation Project where they share their story of returning Native American creations to their cultural homes. They express the hope that the process developed for the return of creations “will inspire other organizations and private collectors to undertake a similar journey of reflection, learning in community, and intentional action.” They are suggesting three practices: “1) the collective questioning of cultural misappropriation; 2) the thoughtful addressing of harm, and 3) a shift in how organizations and institutions view stories — from one lens to many lenses, from narratives of colonization to indigenous lived experience and history.” They also recommend a thoughtful examination of structural racism within the organization, and partnering with local Indigenous communities for guidance and reconciliation.

Ash and Laura, who have made rematriation a reality for the Academy for the Love of Learning

These insights could have enlightened discussions in a meeting I facilitated between Tribal leaders and National Park Service curatorial staff on the eve of the passage of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA). The Act intended to mandate federal agencies, like the Park Service, to seek ways to return Indigenous collections in their possessions. The discussions were heated. Many NPS staff were passionate about preserving culturally significant creations, believing that only they could care for them properly. Did a tribe have climate-controlled facilities? Would they protect the creation from a child’s sticky fingers? Or heaven forbid would they bury it, returning it to the earth, promising certain destruction? Tribal representatives spoke equally passionately about tribal sovereignty and the tribe’s right to handle, preserve or dispose of any item that originated there. There were cultural and religious beliefs and practices that had priority, they said, over non-Indian ideas of preservation. It was a fascinating conversation with no consensus. And today I would guess the same is true. NAGPRA passed in 1990, and there have been successes. But often the efforts fail, due to lack of commitment, lack of a clear process, or perhaps the belief that the item is better cared for by the agency.

I congratulate the Academy for taking the initiative, tackling a very controversial topic, and finding a quiet path through all the noise and conflict. Until now, there has only been direction for the return of creations held by federal agencies. The Academy’s model inspires and offers a clear, practical and respectful process for any organization or individual collector that would like to return one or more creations. Whether it was a gift, a purchase or otherwise, there is a way to rematriate, and the Academy is showing you how. Please see more information and photos of joyful rematriation moments at https://www.aloveoflearning.org/our-work/program/rematriation 

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Gift from Down Under

For decades we hosted a party for friends who come every August to attend, or sell, at Santa Fe Indian Market, the biggest event of its kind in the country. In the old days, upwards of 200 people would show up, some we knew, many we didn’t. It was a lot of fun and a lot of work, and we retired the party a few years ago. But this year we had Maori visitors Rina and Tai from New Zealand and decided to make a small comeback.

We reduced the guest list to about 30 hardcore original partygoers, mostly Native. Navajo friends came and made mutton stew and frybread, a staple of the event. A friend brought beef from his homeland in South Dakota, and we made sure that vegetarians did not go home hungry. Rina and Tai tried making fry bread, amid much laughter, and ate their share. Here was a handful of Indigenous people from opposite sides of the world, together, as friends, sharing stories, finding so much common ground.

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Towhee, the Olympian

I caught the men’s gymnastics on TV and as usual was quite amazed at what those Olympians can do, flinging their bodies around, leaping, twirling, flipping, muscles rippling. I thought about the years and years of physical pain and emotional stress it takes to be that good. I also saw a snippet of women’s rugby and was quite taken with their rugged determination as they fought their way into a heap of bodies, scrambled out of a heap of bodies, someone clutching the ball and charging toward the end zone. No worries about a broken nail, or a broken nose for that matter. I loved their fierceness.  

Spotted Towhee (internet photo)

And then I went outside into our patio to check on another amazing feat. A spotted towhee has chosen a hanging flower basket in which to birth and raise her babies. I was about to spray the hose on the basket a couple of weeks ago when something fluttered and flew from among the flowers. I stopped and peeked and there was her elegant, sturdy nest, tucked into a hollow between the flowers. There were 3 eggs, and the next time I looked there were 4. I marveled at her choice of locations, about 4 feet from the ground, sheltered from sun and heavy rain by the branches of a large crabapple tree. It is a lovely nursery with yellow flowers to greet the babies, a gentle rocking when there’s a breeze. And the patio traffic is minimal, just me and Roberto making trips to vehicles, to his workshop, or to get the mail. And best of all our two indoor cats can only drool through the window.

hanging basket with hidden nest

Hers is a marathon event. She sits on the eggs 24 hours a day, without a coffee break, without checking her phone. Such stamina! She instantly flies into action when any danger comes near. Such athleticism, (and acting ability)! She is single-minded in her task to protect and hatch those eggs. Such focus! She gives everything she’s got to win that gold. Such dedication, such love!

And like an Olympic athlete, she has support. Her mate is always nearby, cheering her on with his perky birdsong. https://youtu.be/NuL885n0z8Y

mother on nest, tail straight up — look at that form!

And when she has completed her event, I’m sure her mate will be there with a nice fat beetle for her, and maybe a tiny bottle of champagne. OK, I went too far. I won’t even mention the tiny gold medal I am making for her….

I was hoping the eggs would have hatched by now, but rest assured, they will be thoroughly photographed grand-birdies!

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Mountains of Stuff

Every year our community has a giant, multi-household yard sale. It has developed a following in the greater Santa Fe area and we have many repeat customers, hovering before the 8:00 am start, hoping for early bird specials. There was the usual assortment of yard sale items, but there are always treasures to be found. This year my neighbor sold her grandmother’s hats from the 40s – fantastic, elaborate, elegant, mostly black, many with sparkly beads, a feather or two, beautifully crafted. An artist neighbor made themed packets of collage materials. We sold a monster aloe vera plant that was consuming the kitchen and a Danish wooden hanging lamp that I’d had since the 70s. Hundreds came and that is why this blog post is late. I needed a little recovery time.

Sold!

This is the good news – I divested myself of many things. The bad news is that there is so much more… stuff. How to deal with a lifetime’s collection of material goods, and in my case, not only my lifetime but my parents and grandparents and beyond. For decades I have been custodian of dishes, vases, tarnished maybe-silver baby dishes, yearbooks, report cards, letters, clippings and handmade cards and crafts that seemed to be very important to someone long ago. I have my grandmother’s wedding dress from 1900, my great grandfather’s Civil War medal, my mother’s drawings from her college years, my father’s award from the Seattle Food Lifeline which he helped found – and this is just the tip of the iceberg. I have felt it was my responsibility to save and protect this collection of family lore. These things meant enough to my ancestors to pass down to the next generation. Heaven forbid I would break the chain and fail to do my duty. And, of course, like a good ancestor I am adding my own lore, imagining that someday some descendant will be happy that I saved the little clay penguin I made in nursery school.

my grandmother’s wedding dress, 1900, Webster, SD
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We All Did Our Part

If you’ve ever seen a total solar eclipse, you may be hooked. We saw one in 2017 at the Riverton City Park in Wyoming.* As the moon completed its consumption of the sun, we took off our eclipse glasses and stared at the black ball surrounded by a halo of fire. I remember saying a few intelligible things like “Oh My God” and “I can’t believe it,” followed by a lot of random sounds of awe, before bursting into tears. After I recovered and returned to planet earth, my first question was “When and where is the next one?” After that once-in-a-lifetime experience, I was eager to make it twice-in-a-lifetime. Roberto fiddled on his phone for a while. “It’s April 8, 2024, and Texas would be the closest to us.”

“2024?! Texas?! Oh, no,” I moaned. “I’ll be old, really old by then, and Texas may have seceded from the union — or at least closed their borders to us radical New Mexicans.”

But the years rolled by and before I knew it, I was plotting how to be in Texas, April 8, 1:29 pm Central Daylight Time. In January, I began the search for locations within the path of totality for viewing and lodging. Working with friends who signed on to the caravan, we chose southwest Texas, the closest drive from Santa Fe. I snagged rooms in Junction (pop. 2,514) at a Quality Inn for $398 a night (rate before and after the eclipse was $99). Roberto and I hitched a ride with our friend Carolyn, and headed for our first night in Brownfield, Texas. Excitement was high as we chatted in the restaurant with fellow eclipse travelers – all of us in our eclipse T-shirts — comparing notes on past eclipses, sharing adventures from the road, and checking the weather forecasts.

Roberto snaps view from the back seat. Carolyn at the wheel.
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When You’re an Expert…

I have a dear friend who has lived with a pretty dire medical prognosis for over a year, and in spite of moments of sadness and depression, she seems to carry on her life with remarkable energy, savoring everything worth savoring. She is a writer and enjoys organizing her time, prioritizing projects, and having a plan for the future, however short or long it may be. She divides the time ahead into three-month chunks, with a “theme” for each chunk, taking great satisfaction in finishing a 90-day period, and diving into a new one with a new theme and matching projects.

Although not a social media follower, she recently joined a chat room related to her diagnosis on the Mayo Clinic website. She kept quiet for a while, reading posts from others in her situation, careful not to jump into the sometimes highly emotional, sometimes confrontational fray. Eventually she realized that these were her people, that she did indeed belong in this chat room, much as she, and all the others, wished they didn’t. Because she is a creative, generous, engaging force, she has now graduated from participant to “volunteer mentor” and is spending many hours a week coaching and supporting others facing challenges like hers. Maybe they have just received a diagnosis and are in shock and despair, as she was a year ago. She knows what that is like and is the best possible companion in that moment. Maybe they are struggling with impossible decisions about which treatment, when and where, or decisions about whether to treat at all. She has been there, too, and although she would never make the decision for them, she can ask questions, listen, sympathize, and support. She knows what it is like to be living with a challenging, uncertain life. She is an expert, just as much so as the doctors and technicians.

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Living with Monuments

What do you think of when you hear the word monument? A man on a horse, a soldier, maybe an arch or an obelisk with a long inscription about the historic heroic acts of your countrymen, decades or centuries ago? The intent seems to be to honor and celebrate these figures and their acts of bravery. And this is where we get into trouble. Although heroes to some, to others they may represent oppression, injustice, and worse.

Robert E. Lee, with placard to honor Heather Heyer who was killed in the Charlottesville conflict 2017 (Statue was melted down in 2023)

How do we deal with the darker side of these monumental figures? The statue of Confederate General Robert E. Lee, astride his horse Traveler, in Charlottesville, VA, was recently removed and melted down in a secret location. The community and leadership struggled for years over its disposition, making the difficult decision to repurpose the massive bronze monument and create a new piece of public art appropriate for the city.

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AI, the Pancake, and Me

Grandchildren are good for a lot of things. One of them is keeping you up to date on the latest technology so you can at least bluff your way through a conversation about zoom, google.docs, tik tok… although as I write this I realize I am showing how far behind I already am. Things are happening so fast it makes my head spin. I grew up with the electric typewriter and then the word processor and then the computer, and now I’m faced with Artificial Intelligence, the infamous AI.

I turned to my grandson for help. “It’s incredible,” he began. He went on to describe the essay that AI wrote for him. “I just wanted to see what it could do,” he quickly added. “I just did it once.” [Footnote: his school in Germany now requires all written assignments to be done with pen and paper in class for obvious reasons. I feel for the teachers, correcting papers of highschoolers who never learned to write cursive, but I digress.] We chatted about AI art and how it can take a grandson’s voice and create a fake phone call that would fool a grandma. And then he asked me if I had seen the “AI Pancake”? I will include the link below if you want to see it.

This is clearly a human-made pancake… check out the AI pancakes
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I Coulda Been…

Even if you’ve had, or are still having, the perfect career, you may find yourself wondering about other options you might have taken. I have been so lucky to have spent much of my adult life mediating. Come to think of it, I spent a lot of my not-adult life mediating, too, between parents, friends, roommates. I was always the one in the middle, seeing both sides, comfortable with the gray areas, knowing that black and white was too simple. It is wonderful, challenging, fascinating work, and for someone insatiably curious about people, it is perfect. But there have been times in the midst of a seemingly unresolvable dispute, or confronted by a particularly difficult participant, when my mind has wandered down the path not taken.

What would I rather be doing, I ask myself? And for decades what has popped into my head is “delivering mail.” I drive by a mail delivery person, bag slung across shoulder, or pushing a wire basket filled with mail, moving jauntily along, and I think how relaxing it would be to walk your beat, chatting with a neighbor or two, dropping mail in boxes or slots, breathing deep, enjoying the clouds, the flowers, the sun, the rain, the falling leaves, whatever the season brings. Maybe in the spring I would wear uniform shorts, revealing well-developed calves. Maybe I would even be whistling.

I coulda been…

The appeal of this career for me is obvious: 

  • Get exercise without going to a gym
  • Uniform provided, no agonizing decisions about what to wear
  • No conflicts to resolve. If neighbors are fighting, I just whistle and move on.
  • Contact with people is superficial, which doesn’t mean that I don’t care. It just means that I don’t have to know more than I want.
  • Everyone, almost, would be happy to see me. I would smile a lot, and say “you’re welcome” to the dozens of “thank you’s” every day.
  • Permission to be nosey. Who gets which catalogs, who actually still corresponds by letter, who gets the most Christmas cards, who peeks out from behind the curtain hoping to catch the mail before it hits the floor, who has pets, babies, teens, who likes classical, rock or Taylor Swift.
  • Opportunities to be a hero. Sometimes it’s the mail carrier who notices the mail piling up, or hears a cry for help inside the house, or smells smoke, or notices the family car has a flat tire, or finds a latch key child on the porch with no key. Just google “mail carrier saves” and you’ll find amazing feats, rescuing numerous elderly women who’ve fallen, saving a dog from a snake bite, catching a baby falling from a window. The possibilities for saving the day are endless.

But wait, there’s more. No reports to write, no meeting discussions to summarize, no agendas to draft, no long phone calls with distraught disputants, no flights to DC. Yes, it would be such a relief to have each day a completed task. Fill up basket in the morning, deliver during the day, fold up empty basket, and go home. Of course, the day might start earlier than I’d like, there might bickering at the post office about whose turn it is to make the coffee, a customer might accuse me of stealing her Vogue magazine, I might develop fallen arches, the weather might be sleet, rain and snow, … but I’d be out there doing my red-blooded American duty, and I’d be proud.

And what if I had chosen that fork in the road?  By now, would I be hobbling down the sidewalk, dragging my rickety basket of junk mail behind me, wishing for a nice cushy desk job, where I could give my feet a break, look at the raging weather through a window, have friendly colleagues to banter with, get to wear something that was red or purple or green for a change?

I’ll never know, cuz at my age the civil service examiner would burst out laughing. Or maybe she would offer me a nice desk job, in HR, mediating office squabbles.

No thanks. I’ll stay where I am.

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