Full-Time Teacher/Part-Time Road Supervisor

You may not be aware that I have served several terms as a professional politician.  That’s right.  I have worked for the people for something like fifteen years, and I am drunk with power.

There are a few things you may know (or think you know) about North Dakota.  We are rural.  We are a part of the Great Plains.  We can get a wee bit chilly in January.  As with other states, our counties are divided into townships, generally a surface area of thirty six square miles, or so.  The last census states that our township population is a crowded thirty-seven.  Not hundred or thousand.  Just thirty-seven.  Let’s just call it my own little kingdom.

Not long after my little brood moved to North Dakota seventeen years ago, the local Township officials asked the Hubster and myself to consider allowing our names to run for the Township board.  Bing, bang, boom, we’re both sitting on the board.  My first elected position came with the daunting title of “Road Supervisor.”  Say WHAT?!  “Don’t worry,” the board assured me.  “It’s not difficult.  Just let us have our meetings at your house and make pie.”  This might be doable, I decided.

And so, the years have rolled along with election after election finding me in one board position or another.   And the pies (or cookies, or muffins, or on a really busy day – Girl Scout cookies) kept coming.  All this glory came with a paycheck too.  You think we politicians get wealthy off the public dime?  You are correct.  We live the high life, thanks to your tax dollars.  Our little circle of fat cats meets twice a year and for each meeting, we receive a golden check for…..

…. twenty-five dollars.

That buys a lot of cruises and vacation homes, sister.  I am sorry if you are outraged.  Let your voice be heard at the next election.

You may be wondering what I did in exchange for all that denaro, besides bake and vote.  Honestly, not that much.  The old timers drove the roads in order to fill out the annual maps that indicated which needed county maintenance.  They seemed to enjoy it.  I didn’t have the time.  I had pies to bake.

That all changed yesterday.  When I got home from school, the dishy Mr. Dahl informed me I had a phone message I needed to listen to.  I listened.  Apparently I had an angry constituent.  Well, I’ll be dogged.  That’s a first.  I had a sinking feeling I was about to earn that $25.

I won’t bore you with the details – information really too technical for you laypeople.  The Readers Digest version is that heavy trucks had torn up a section of gravel road.  Mr. Dishy had informed me before I placed the call that the company responsible was already on it and would make it right.  I shared all of that with my unhappy caller.  He seemed assuaged and at my urging, promised to call in a couple of days if things were not better.

I hung up and felt better about all of those cashed $25 checks. 

On my way home from work today, I decided to go all the way.  As I drove by that Road to Ruin I thought I should stop by and see if any work had indeed been done.  Sure enough, there were gigantic machines lumbering down an impressively long stretch of road.  I could see why my neighbor had been unhappy. 

I brought the Chrysler to a stop and stepped into the frigid wind (when had the day turned so bitterly cold?).  I idly wished I had a badge or Road Supervisor uniform, or even better, a pink hardhat with rhinestones.  I watched the massive machines smooth the road for a few minutes and before long the largest of the lot backed toward me and stopped next to me.  The operator opened his door and shouted over the noise of the engine that I could pass on by.  I shook my head and grinned.  “I’m the road supervisor,” I shouted back.  The look of shock on his face made me laugh.  He grinned back, stopped his giant toy, and hopped out of the cab.  He held out his hand and introduced himself.  He then spent ten minutes regaling me with how-to-fix-a-road details and the plans to make it better than ever.  I nodded and smiled and pretended that I was something of good road/bad road expert.  I know what a pothole is, if that counts.  I probably had that glazed over look men get when a gaggle of women swap childbirth stories.

I told him about my phone call and the safety concerns that had been expressed and now it was his turn to nod and smile.  After six minutes I was shivering in the Arctic gale winds.  After ten minutes I was sure hypothermia was setting in.  Time to wrap up the convo. 

I climbed into my rolling sauna and pulled back onto the highway.  I couldn’t help but giggle.  If you had told me twenty years ago that this St. Louis native would live on the northern prairie and drive around checking on road maintenance, I would have laughed my fool head off.  I mean, isn’t life just the absolute biggest kick?  I love it.

So if you need an expert to look your road over or need helpful tips on how to deal with burly road crews, just give me a call.  I do consulting work. 

Oh, and I’ll bring a pie too…