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I successfully built and hung a gate this week. It bears pointing out that I conquered my nemesis, the hanging of a gate, by getting the thing hung level and plumb. It swings freely and quietly both to and fro. It looks good doing it. I should be giddy, overjoyed, brimming with pride and other degrees of over-the-moonness, and yet no.
At best I feel a sort of grim satisfaction.
I was raised well before the era of participation ribbons, nobody cared about bolstering our feelings. If we wanted a sense of pride, we’d have to work for it — for years — and any attagirls and attaboys would have to c...
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