How Rasa Was My Tabula

A gray, wintry spring day, cold wind and a light snow falling on the daffodils. I'm looking out the window, about to be swept into the day's duties, thinking about brewing some tea.

And suddenly I remember a morning years ago, my first newspaper job, bustle in the newsroom as we near deadline for the morning edition. A early spring snow had fallen, and the cocky young photographer who'd recently won a regional award for his work was sent out to get a picture of snow on the flowers. He came back with photos of snowdrops, appropriately enough, with a cap of snow on their heads. But somehow the photos didn't work, they didn't come together and tell the story well enough. The managing editor held the prints and gave the photographer a sarcastic, sidelong look. He wasn't much of a whiz at managing a daily newspaper but he'd studied film in college and knew a lame photo when he saw one. "So," he said, "this is what our prize winner came up with, huh?"

It wasn't said in a mean way, though; it was more a sort of comradely sneer, a friendly taunting over a subpar performance from someone you know can do better. The photographer grinned back: He didn't care. He lived to take pictures of fires. He loved house fires particularly. They would use the term "dwelling" on the police radio, and when the photographer talked about the kind of fires he liked to shoot, he would say that term "dwelling" with a kind of lustful, debauched delectation, leaning back and smiling, almost licking his chops like an animal.

That was how it was: You'd do a mediocre job one day, but that day went "poof" and the next one came, and you had a new opportunity to do a spectacular job. A blank slate every morning, and absolution for the previous day's sins. Yesterday droopy snowdrops, today a dwelling on fire, flames blasting out the windows of the row home, firefighters directing a white arc of water at the top floor, residents on the sidewalk, crying in each other's arms. The rock 'n' roll of the writing world. I never got paid less or enjoyed a job more. Every day fresh and new. And I still feel that way a little. So pardon me now, gotta start writing.