That Glorious Rag

It is good to live in Gainesville. So far it is just the right size. It is, however, poised on the cusp of a disaster. People keep moving in and the people already here are living longer and, understandably, refuse to depart this lovely place (I'm a prime exemplar of this group). Presently our cultural, communication and service entities are a perfect match for the community in which they exist. By this I mean that our theaters - professional and amateur- are perfectly sized for their audiences, parks and athletic venues are just right (except for the southeast part of town which has never been treated fairly by the powers-that-be), our roads are strained but holding their own, our health facilities are superb and in such a robust state that they can export their services, our educational institutions are adequate and, largely, above average, our museums are extraordinary...all-in-all a good match for our size. Even our newspaper is more than sufficient. It tells us most of what we need to know about our town , our county, our state and...that is where it seems to stop. If a reader wants the bigger picture, the images and news of the world outside Gainesville he (or she) has to seek elsewhere. My elsewhere is the New York Times. That glorious rag is a window on the whole world. It helps to keep ones brain from descending into a state of habitual and narrow provencialism. Having said that, the op-ed views of the NY Times are not of particular interest to me. Virtually everything else about the paper is. Particularly the Arts section. I have been striving for the better part of three months to have the NY Times sent to my door each Sunday. I have been getting up before the break of dawn each Sunday since we ordered the paper, hoping to witness the arrival of that blessed event. Each Sunday morning I would eagerly search the front yard for the paper and each Sunday I would be bitterly dissappointed. Yesterday, I approached the window by the front door and peered blearily out , expecting only the Gainesville Sun to be resting on the lawn. Low and behold I saw two plastic wrapped parcels. Two! I scampered out the door in my evening attire (a tee shirt over jockey shorts) to find the Gotham Fishwrapper nestled lovingly next to its country cousin Gainesville Sun. The NY Times had finally come through. This occurence precipitated a hallelujah moment. My wife and I can take the nearly one pound of newsprint to Bream Lake and we don't worry about having anything to read for the better part of a whole week. Selah.