Renewal

I spoke earlier of transitoriness. Today I am reveling in rebirth. Is it simply a lawyer's tautological fault to now wonder if rebirth and newness are not exactly the same thing? After the dogs roused me from sleep this morning, demanding that I get my lazy backside out of bed, let them out and feed them, I made a cup of coffee and went to sit on the deck. It's quite early by Sunday morning standards, and the raucous excitement of the day has yet to begin (read: the neighbors haven't fired up their lawn tractors and other gasoline powered yard tools). What I do have is an incredible symphony of birdsong from the heavily-wooded ridge behind my house.  The flutes and oboes of the little songbirds, the percussion of the woodpecker, and just now two Sandhill cranes flew over and added an untuned bassoon note. I don't think I had ever consciously considered the sound of cranes. At first I thought it must be a young crow, but it was the cranes. Although we had a gullywasher of a rainstorm day before yesterday, there are no frogs in the chorus today.  When I have early morning moments of birdsong, I always recall Vienna. One morning, about 200 years ago, I was up early and sitting on the minuscule balcony of my room in a pension. It was spring, so it was probably quite early as the sun tends to make an appearance earlier there than in our southern climes. I recall being truly enchanted by the sound of nothing (it seemed) but birdsong in the middle of that very old, very lived-in city. It was a feeling I have had many times throughout my life of being part of an experience familiar to millions over the history of mankind. Birdsong in the morning. Sun on your face in the afternoon. The sound of the ocean outside the window. It's rather a wonderful feeling of connectedness. Of being part of the human experience.

Rebirth, you say, let's get to the rebirth part. So, I'm sitting here on the deck and I suddenly realize (being in a contemplative mood) that the big lavender plant in the blue pot has come back like gangbusters and there are actually tiny blossoms starting on the tips of some of the branches. The hydrangea plant, still in its plastic nursery bucket, which I fully intended to throw away last summer, has a fine crop of new leaves and will probably be fine if I get busy and properly pot or plant it in the ground. The huge pot of several heuchera plants that I planted several years ago has survived another winter and is putting out a fine crop of various colored leaves. I believe there is already one blossom inflorescence popping up, too. My tautological question is this; are these something truly new and different this year or are they a rebirth of the same being from an earlier time? Or is it too lovely a day to be splitting those hairs?

My corgis are looking distinctly seedy at the moment. Their contribution to new birth is to shed impossible quantities of their rather fabulous coats. This requires a solemn and Herculean effort to remedy (if one is of a tidy bent) and the final disposition of the fluffy piles of dog hair so removed is a real poser. Pumpkin, the antique miniature dachshund, is strutting around with a smug expression on his wizened little face; his ancient coat is so fine and thin that he requests we refer to him as "Slick." He is a strange little fellow. The corgis all have fine white feet, it is a breed characteristic. The gardener comes regularly now and part of his routine is to cut the grass in the dog yard. We also have had a good deal of spring rain lately. So, in this season of rebirth or new life, the corgis all have a slightly green tinge to their fine white feet where they are not sporting a rusty tinge of red from the clay walk around the edges of the dog yard. It's all quite vernal and interesting. "Slick" keeps his dainty little paws quite shiny and black; they remind me of the descriptions of Hercule Poirot's patent leather pumps ...

I stayed up too late again last night doing something, the importance of which completely escapes me this morning. I had every intention of slogging through the dog routine this morning then going back to bed until a civilized hour. It is my intention to drive to Chattanooga today for the gala annual opening of the Sunday Market. I am hoping there are some vendors there with interesting plants for the deck. And to see what spring vegs are on offer for my table. In this season of rebirth and new life, I think I'm glad I stayed up to hear the morning concert.

This picture I cheerfully admit I have appropriated from the collective works (or mindless wanderings) of David Brian Williamson of St. Helens, Oregon. Hey, Dave, if you're gonna put it on Face Book, assume it has gone public! I'm not sure if this is rebirth, renewal or Seaside, Oregon Rock Stars; I just know it's a great photo and I wanted to share it. And it's better than that duck butt one he posted earlier. Well, it's a bit more ethereal ...

Yet it is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succor of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evils in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they may have is not ours to rule. (Tolkien, LOTR)

Transitoriness

Today we speak of the inevitability of change. I will be the first to admit that I simply loathe change for change's sake. And the older I get, the more I long for some sort of stability. Some promise that things will be as they were. To be honest, though, the older I get, the more I realize that this is probably just a form of fear and laziness in equal parts.

I was sitting on the deck this afternoon after work, knitting my little heart out (there's a baby on the way and I adore the mother, so I have to do something personal), and listening to The Milk Carton Kids. If you are a fan of early Simon and Garfunkel you must look these kids up. They are a wonderful duo who play and sing and startle me with their percipience. I suspect I know a lot more than is ever

swimming close to the surface of thought, but these kids actually put this stuff into prose and sing it. Because it was, initially, background noise to what I was doing (mindmush after court) I didn't realize how closely I was listening until one of the lyrics smacked me upside the head (as they say in The South) like a mallet. It was something to the effect that you must let it go before you can see where it is going to go. How do the young know these things so long before someone as ancient and craggy as I figure it out? Are they that much more sensitive? Are they that much smarter? Do they read that much more? Or have I just been so fearful that "letting go" (whatever that means) is simply too frightening to contemplate?

I have a lovely framed document in my bathroom (that temple of serenity where I find the strength to face the day) which says, essentially, that I must take the leap. I see this every morning as I sluice off the dross of the previous day and consider the immediate future. I wonder, though, if I really see this as an affirmation of my choice for change? My former cousin and now girlfriend-forever, Carol, regularly posts bits from a website called The Tiny Buddha, which usually make a good deal of sense. They usually say something to the effect that change is inevitable and it behooves us to allow the river to continue to flow. If this is a fact of life, why is it so very hard to accept?

This is a concern of the moment because I was in attendance at a function last night as a judge (of sorts) and suddenly realized that another judge, a woman who I considered a good friend for many years, is now no more than an acquaintance. Nothing momentous happened. Nothing irrevocable was said or done. It was simply borne in upon me that our friendship had simply run its course and we no longer had anything in common. We had nothing to talk about that would hold either's attention for more than 27 seconds. It was with great sadness that I took a deep breath and ... let it go. I shall always treasure the time as friends. I shall always be grateful to her for being a friend when a friend was needed. I hope I was the same for her. But, alas, it is done.

And, so, we move forward because anything else is impossible. Change will take us, whether we invite it in or not. Best to be philosophical about it and see what it wants. Eh?

You can have fantasies about having control over the world, but I know I barely have control over my kitchen sink. That is the grace I'm given. Because when one can control things, one is limited to one's own vision. 

(Kiki Smith; artist)

No Tiaras for Car Wrecks

Today I am to speak to the high school seniors, et al., about the legal consequences of vehicular homicide. Annually the local schools participate in what are charmingly referred to as "Mock Crashes" at the beginning of the prom season. The reasoning, as I understand it, is to try to make them more aware of the dangers of being irresponsible on prom night where motor vehicles are concerned. I suppose they have some sort of instruction about all the other ways they can be irresponsible that night, but today we are only staging a car wreck. There will be people there from the Emergency Services Department, the Tennessee Highway Patrol, local law enforcement, etc. And the Old Bat in Black to talk about what can happen after all of those people have had to deal with the physical mess of a car wreck in which people were killed.

What on earth do you say to a bunch of old children/young adults who feel they are on the verge of doing mighty things? After years (and years and years and ...) of dealing with teenagers in and out of court, the one thing I know is that they think they are invincible. Not in an arrogant, psychotic fashion, but in that way that youth has always been. Death and disfigurement are things that happen to "other people", "old" people, or at least to people you don't know. When it has intruded into their lives at all, they react like thunder and then move on. It is not my intention to belittle or diminish in any way the very real grief they feel, but like many other things associated with the teen years, it passes away in the rush toward adulthood that most other young feelings do.

I wrote the bit above a few hours ago. Now I have had an opportunity to consider the matter after the fact. I was impressed anew at the amount of hard work that went into staging this thing. The scenario included two couples in the car, each a boy and a girl. We are not yet to the point in this small Southern town that we might consider something else. It appears that the young man driving had been drinking

The Wreck

something and flipped the car in a one-car accident. A boy and girl were killed in the crash and the driver and the other girl survived, although both were seriously injured. There was lots of shouting and running about. Sirens were making a great deal of noise as the sheriff department arrived, the big fire/emergency truck arrived, the State Highway Patrol arrived, the EMS ambulance arrived. I was certain my dogs were positively wailing while all this was going on. The officers leapt into action, taking statements, moving bodies and doing field sobriety tests. I was standing on the side watching with a dispatcher from the sheriff department and the doctor, who is our local medical examiner. I observed to the dispatcher part way through all of this that she and I were watching what the police people were doing and Dr. Roberts was watching what the medical people were doing. We all agreed that we needed to find a way to expand our horizons! We also noted that it never goes that fast. But I'm not sure that it would hold the attention of a bunch of digital-age teenagers if they had to stand around for the hours and hours it really takes to work one of these messes.

The Assembly

Thereafter we wandered into the gymnasium (since the local high school does not run to an auditorium) and the assembled speakers were lined up in a row of metal folding chairs. Each chair had a piece of paper on the seat with the proposed occupant's name on it. However, since the name most approximating mine was spelled incorrectly, I felt I had every right to move the tags around and sit where I wanted to. The whole thing reminded me too much of the execution of James Connolly by the British after the Easter Rising in Dublin in 1916. Adding to the somewhat surreal aspect of the proceedings was a vigorous sprinkling of orange shirts throughout the assembly. You must understand that our corrections department uses orange scrubs/t-shirts for the prisoners. So, when I see a whole bunch of them together, my mind registers "inmates." Each of us took a few moments to explain to the kids what our role in an event like this would be. By the time they got to me, I told them that I and the attorney sitting next to me were the only ones who probably had never been to the accident site and never actually saw any of the carnage firsthand. I think they were starting to glaze over when I started talking about sentencing ranges and where a convicted defendant, juvenile or not, would be incarcerated. I may have got a couple of them back when I told them about the possible effect of a felony conviction on future background checks. By and large, though, I got the impression that they were thinking that this was all very interesting, but what does it have to do with me? I am, as you know invincible and immortal. I am Teenager. Alas.

And now I'm doing the mental calisthenics required to go teach at the college this evening. Blessedly, it is the last night of proper classes. Next week we have a field trip to that yearly mock trial exercise that the criminal justice department enacts at the courthouse. Very invigorating and exciting unless you happen to work there all the time. Oh well. I had two prosecutors and a defense bar attorney in the class last week speaking about their jobs and educational background. I asked one of the students who is involved in the mock trial to explain the fact situation; after which we lawyers all looked at each other and said, "It sounds like a game of Clue!" Again ... oh well. The week following that is final exams and then I am free as the proverbial bird (after I slog through grading).  I shall be thrilled.

Sharing the With of Others

The Journey

Some years ago, when I was either set adrift alone or struck out bravely on my own (the characterization depending entirely on how tired I am or how many glasses of wine I've had), my therapist suggested several good titles to assist me in finding my bearings as a single woman. Being the magpie-like collector of interesting bits and bobs I have always been, I started writing down things that I thought were Deathless Prose then. That list has now expanded to 500 entries. Well, actually, it presently has 499 entries but I always type in the next number so I don't have to go back looking for it if I am working on the small screen of my iPhone. So, on the occasion of the 500th entry, I want to share some of these beauties. They started out mirroring my bereavement over the death of my marriage, they went on to illustrate my disillusionment with romantic relationships in general, and they have evolved into wonderfully funny things (to my admittedly somewhat quirky sense of humor). If it catches my attention or tickles my fancy, I save it. And the beauty of a collection on an electronic medium is that it doesn't take up nearly as much space as shoes, scarves or large musical instruments.

For your edification, amusement and enlightenment I offer the following from my Shoebox of Wonder:

1. Vengence is a lazy form of grief (from The Interpreter) As you can see, I was not a happy camper when the list began ...

5. Today is not won by old victories nor lost by old defeats. (Vita Sackville-West)

15. Things rarely go according to the youthful, heroic master plan. Sometimes walking away is not only the easy thing, it's the right thing. (The Matchmaker)

16.  Once in love, you're never out of danger.

17. Unconditional Love ~ you don't have to love me back. (this works for Jesus Christ, but it's a bit dodgy for the rest of us)

18.  Small pleasures must correct great tragedies. (Vita Sackville-West)

23.  Abandonment: The end of a life, but without the mercy of oblivion.

24.  You grieve until you are exhausted. Then rest restores enough strength to be hurt again.

These, obviously, collected at a rather grim time ...

40. It is like the taste of a passion that has passed its noon and turned to weariness. The only thing to do is to recognize bravely that it is dead, and put it away. (Dorothy Sayers)

41. Tennessee Williams said, "A high station in life is earned by the gallantry with which appalling experiences are survived with grace."

42.  If life is a muddle, we can't look for love to make it all come right. (P.D. James)

43.  And wasn't this the stuff of nearly all the world's poetry, the transitoriness of life and love and beauty, the knowledge that time's wingéd chariot had knives in its wheels? (P.D. James)

One of the reasons I like to reread my favorite authors is that, depending upon the circumstances of my life at the various times of reading a piece, I always find new bits of their wisdom to speak to me. 

63. " 'Sides, men being wha' dey are, you c'n always get one, you lower your standards enough.  " (Elizabeth George)

64. "She wasn't so foolish as to call what she was feeling for the young man love, although another woman might have done so. She knew it was basic animal stuff: the ultimate trick a species plays upon its members to propagate itself." (supra)

65. "She was, in short, a victim of the myth that has been foisted upon women since the time of the troubadours: Love conquers all; love saves; love endures." (supra)

I confess that I never reread this particular book (What Came Before He Shot Her) because it was so troubling; however, I've used these lines many times since that first reading!

76. So BE lonely, Liz. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person's body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings. (Elizabeth Gilbert)

89.  "'Be careful, Tuppence, this craving for vulgar sensation alarms me.'", [Agatha Christie, Partners In Crime]

90. "'I may be, mon cher, an artistic and competent liar- you seem to think so. But it is not my idea of ethical conduct. I have my standards.'", [Agatha Christie, Five Little Pigs]  

I may have started collecting bits that just amused me ... this had to be a good sign!

101. "But don't you think," I persist, "that it's better to be extremely happy for a short while, even if you lose it, than to be just OK for your whole life?" (Audrey Niffenegger; The Time Traveler's Wife)

102. "Things die, too, you know. And so, if they too have to die, well there it is, it's so much better to let them go. That has much more style about it, apart from everything else, don't you agree?" (Giorgio Bassani; The Garden of the Finzi-Continis) 

103. "This is now, not then, and the only direction you can go is forward." (Elizabeth Peters; The Snake, the Crcodile & the Dog)

A deep breath in the course of time and then to follow Elizabeth Peters' advice ... she is one of my favorite authors, anyway.

106. "[T]hat perfect safety is not to be found in this imperfect world and that facing danger is sometimes less dangerous than trying to avoid it." (Elizabeth Peters; Lord of the Silent)
107. "[W]e must make the best of what fate has to offer, and accept the good with gratitude and the bad with fortitude." (Elizabeth Peters; The Golden One)
108. "There is nothing so destructive of romance than continued proximity." (Elizabeth Peters)

Told ya she was good!

117. "I think his lies hurt most of all because they stripped down the possibility of belief. I guess that's what betrayal does." (Florence Falk, On My Own)

118. "It is very growing up to find that someone you loved all your life never existed at all." (Josephine Tey, To Love and Be Wise)

119. Always do the right thing and let the consequences take care of themselves ... Unless you plan to play God, one has to take the simple way. (Josephine Tey, Miss Pym Disposes)

120. Broken hearts heal ~ you just kinda walk with a limp.

Curiously enough, a lot of the things I saved to document the steps of my own recovery from abandonment have been useful in explaining the process to other people going through it (although we never actually seem to hear the wisdom until later). 

152. Niels Bohr described wave and particle as the two aspects of a single reality. An unknowable reality [because you can measure one or the the other, but not both at the same time]. (so which am I today?)

153. Sometimes you have to lose your way to find yourself.

154. "... I wanted to be steadfast, you wanted to be released." (Mary Black; Where Did We Go Wrong)

155. "It takes a long time before we cease to feel proud of being wanted. Though God knows why we should feel it, when we look around and see who is wanted too.", [Alan Furst, The Book of Spies]

I'm not sure why I collect the things I do, perhaps to convince myself that other people have survived and I will, too?

183. I don't know what they taught you in France but rude and interesting are not the same thing. (French Kiss; I love this movie!)  Well, yes!  :O)

187. "Her house awaited her, large and empty, which she knew was the result of choices she had made, but which perhaps were not entirely to be laid at her door. She had not deliberately chosen to fall in love so completely, and so finally, that thereafter no other man would have done. That was something which had happened to her, and the things that happen to us are not always of our making.", [Alexander McCall Smith, The Sunday Philosophy Club]
Do I seek these characters out or do they find me? Fortunately, this one (in a later book) did find love again. Hurrah for the fictional characters!


189. "But she did not want to think about him now because she realized that time was doing its healing, and he seemed to have become more and more distant. And she liked the feeling of forgetting, of the slow conversion into the state of his being just another person, somebody whom she could think about, if he came to mind, without feeling a pang of loss and longing." (Alexander McCall Smith; Friends, Lovers, Chocolate)

191. "What failure of imagination had caused me to forget that life was full of other possibilities, including the possibility that eventually I would fall in love again?" (Nora Ephron, I Feel Bad About My Neck)

That's what they keep telling me. I must assume it may be true ...

218. "The past must go. If we seek to keep the past alive, we end, I think, by distorting it. We see it in exaggerated terms - a false perspective." (Agatha Christie, Hercule Poirot's Christmas)
219. "It does not do, Harry, to dwell on dreams and forget to live." (Harry Potter & the Sorcerer's Stone)
220. "And a continual atmosphere of hectic passion is very trying if you haven't got any of your own." (Dorothy Sayers, Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club)
Well, there you have it; if Dumbledore says it is so, it must be so.


246. "In the end it seems to me that forgiveness may be the only realistic antidote we are offered in love, to combat the inescapable disappointments of intimacy." (Elizabeth Gilbert, Committed)
247. Marriage is what happens "between the memorable." (Jack Gilbert)
248. "One divorce may be regarded as a misfortune, but two begins to smack of carelessness." (Oscar Wilde)
249. "There's always another explanation." (Indiana Jones)
I have no idea over what period of time these were collected, but don't they fit together nicely?


258. "I was sorry I'd quit smoking. Then I remembered I had another bad habit. I went to the mini bar and selected two small bottles more or less at random. At that point I didn't care what I drank as long as it was alcoholic."  (Elizabeth Peters, Laughter of Dead Kings)
259. "No, she is afraid of serious emotions," Schmidt explained. "We who love her accept this."  (Elizabeth Peters, Laughter of Dead Kings)
Yep, I love her characters!


293. "Lying in bed would be an altogether perfect and supreme experience if only one had a coloured pencil long enough to draw on the ceiling." (G.K. Chesterton)

304. "The wit of your remark," he said, "wholly escapes me." (G.K. Chesterton, Tremendous Trifles)


320. "People change and they forget to tell each other." (Lillian Hellman)
321. "I've been married three times and each time I married the right man." (Margaret Mead)
322. "Send me love and light every time you miss me. Then let it go. It won't last forever. Nothing does." (Eat Pray Love, the movie)
323.  "I stopped looking to the horizon. Nobody was coming to save me."
324.  "I miss you more than I can bear, but we had our time together and I have to let you go." (Inception)
325.  "Let's drink to a rise in frivolity." (A Small Death in Lisbon)
326. "If you love, you grieve and there are no exceptions - only those who do it well and those who don't." (Thomas Lynch, The Undertaking)
327. "Nothing was ever what you expected. That was the beauty and the terror of life." (Christopher Fowler, White Corridor)
Again, I'm not sure over what period of time these came to me; but they set out the ups and downs rather nicely ...

328. "My dear chap," said Bryant, "everyone is younger and fitter than us. What have we got on our side? Decrepitude, mid-afternoon narcoleptic attacks and ill-timed lapses of memory. Although, being the oldest, I am of course less afraid of dying and therefore liable to do anything, no matter how uncalled-for and dangerous." (Christopher Fowler, White Corridor) this made me laugh out loud

331. "With increasing age, the grace notes of temperance, balance, harmony and gentility are supposed to appear in the human heart. This was not entirely true, however, in Arthur Bryant's case. He remained acidulous, stubborn, insensitive and opinionated" (Christopher Fowler, Bryant & May Off the Rails) [I just love Arthur]

332. "I'm sorry, I forgot you exist in an alternate universe where everything has to be slowly explained to you." (Christopher Fowler, Bryant & May Off the Rails) [again, I just love Arthur!]

336. He looked like the chief villain in an Italian opera. (just found it funny)

347. "Your questions regarding that gentleman are very delicate, very subtle, very much like being smacked in the head with a mallet." (Mary Ann Shaffer, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society)
352. "Despite itself being a barefaced whopper of some considerable magnitude..." (Michael Dibdin, Back to Balogna) 
354. "History teaches us that men behave wisely once they've exhausted all other alternatives." (Still Crazy)
355. "Adhere to the truth where possible. Lie as a last resort." (Daniel Silva, Portrait of a Spy)
357. "Did everyone see that? Because I shall not be doing it again." (Jack Sparrow in On Stranger Tides)
358. "... where British colonials had played cricket and drunk gin while the empire collapsed around them." (Daniel Silva, Prince of Fire). [yeah, I've had days like that!]

361. "... a pair of neurotic terriers that patrolled the perimeter of the stables with the fervor of holy warriors." (Daniel Silva, Moscow Rules)
376. "I allowed her to slip a hefty and illicit drop of whiskey into the cup of tea before me, and downed the tepid atrocity in one draught. It hit me like a swung punching bag, but when the top of my head had settled back into place, I found that the impulse to pull out my revolver and begin shooting had subsided as well." (Laurie King, The Language of Bees)

Frivol While You May

378. I set my tea-cup back into its saucer, that I might lean forward and examine my husband's face. I could see no overt indications of lunacy. No more than usual. (Laurie King) 
374. " the dog turned and galloped like a clumsy weasel down the hallway to the front door." (Laurie King, Play the Fool)
382. "He looked about as alert as a doped tree sloth." (Phillip Kerr, March Violets)

383. "Close your eyes and pretend it's all a bad dream. That's how I get by." (Jack Sparrow in At World's End)

453. "... causing your forehead to wrinkle like a lizard's elbow."

454. " [He] had the face of an elderly sea turtle who had just found something it didn't like on the seabed." (Simon Brett, Twinks & Blotto ...)

457. "It's all very slippery-snakery," she said. "But not necessarily sinister, my dear," he replied.  (Patricia Graham, Faithful Unto Death)
479. You're merely indulging your vivid imagination in a gallop over a wholly speculative course. (Agatha Christie, Tragedy In Three Acts)
495. He was a meteor who turned out to be an incandescent fart. (Louis de Berniéres, Corelli's Mandolin)
496. ... and our rulers were mainly ebullient and dishonest eccentrics in the authentic Italian mould. (supra)
497. ... and [he] had reached that dangerous age when a man was only susceptible to an innocent little cutie or to an experienced floozie. (Len Deighton, Mexico Set) 
499. No matter how weasel-like or vomit-worthy he may be, he has come to us for a solution. (Stephen Fry in Kingdom) 

These all just struck me as funny ... maybe you had to be there.

393. (for Mike & Emily's wedding) We sat side by side in the morning light & looked out at the future together.

        (for Jayne & George) I remember sitting side by side and planning our future, the joy of the life we built, and the great sorrow of the loss. but it was a heck of a ride, and i wouldn't change a thing,  besides the ending. RIP my love

These were both from Brian Andreason's Story People.  Somehow I saw them on the same day.

397. "Always prepare for the unexpected and face the unthinkable. There is no orthodoxy to follow now. Everything is in a state of flux." (Christopher Fowler, Full Dark House)

398. Sameness is easily achieved and highly unmemorable.

399. I know right now I look like something that belongs on the wall of a second-rate cathedral, but I'm stronger than I appear. (Christopher Fowler, White Corridor) 

400. [S]he seemed to exist somewhere between post-menopausal and post-mortem.

(Christopher Fowler, The Memory of Blood)

401. Losing your mind is a small price to pay for an interesting life.

403. "I'm a police officer, I can do whatever I want," replied Bryant. "It's fabulous being me. Look, I'll show you." (Christopher Fowler, The Memory of Blood)

Honestly, how can you help but love the character, Arthur Bryant? He gives me new hope for old age!

412. I said, "Why don't we do this kind of thing any more? Why don't we talk like this any more?" "Because we're not those people any more," he said. "We're not supposed to be." (James Ireland Baker)
413. It takes a strong heart to love, but it takes an even stronger heart to love after it's been broken.
414. "Because if I tell the story, I control the version. Because if I tell the story, I can make you laugh, and I would rather have you laugh at me than feel sorry for me. Because if I tell the story, it doesn't hurt as much. Because if I tell the story, I can get on with it." (Nora Ephron, Heartburn)
415. "Don't mind if I fall apart, there's more room in a broken heart." (Carly Simon, Coming Around Again)
416. "[She] exaggerates, but only enough to enjoy herself." (Mary Ann Shaffer, The Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society)

Yet again, no idea over what period of time these appeared ... but they constitute a nice thought.

429. "I once spent a rather diverting part of my debauched existence there." (Two Fat Ladies)
430. "Yes, but I am large. I contain multitudes." (Jill Patton Walsh, The Attenbury Emeralds)
431. Very few vices left ... and those depend upon whether or not he takes his trousers off. (Clarissa  ~ 2 Fat Ladies)
432. "God give me strength to bear this mighty freedom." (Elizabeth, The Golden Age)
If you haven't seen "Two Fat Ladies", the humor of the presenters is worth the price of the ticket - whether you cook or not!

There are days I drop words of comfort on myself like falling leaves & remember that it is enough to be taken care of by myself. (Brian Andreas)

These are excellent words of wisdom with which to leave this project ... (for the moment).

The sun always comes out ... eventually

Just Because You Can Doesn't Mean You Should

This morning, in a sad attempt to avoid getting down to doing the things people actually pay me to do, I decided that I would attempt to set some form of organization upon the approximately twelve gazillion photographs I have on my iPhones and now on my computer. I have an appointment tomorrow with some pointy-headed little technoperson at the Apple Store to begin the cumbersome project of guiding me through the intricacies of dealing with my new computer. Because I could not find time for the appointment until then, I have been bumbling about with it, trying to figure out what I could on my own. Keeping in mind that I was thrilled to be able to work an electric pencil sharpener, I think I've done a fair job of reinventing the wheel several times with this beast. I have, more or less, figured out how to move the images from the phone to the computer. And now I have, more or less, figured out how to arrange them in some form that might actually let me find what I may some day look for. Which brings me to the point of this brief scribble. 

Why on earth do I have so many pictures on my phones and computers? What is this mania for capturing some instant of eternity on film or digitally? I have, literally, thousands of them and what do they add to my life? I have shelves full of photograph albums that chronicle my adult life from about 1980 to about 1992. I know those are the dates because all the albums from before that went to one of my ex-husbands in the divorce (I got all the boxes and boxes of slides and the projector); and after that date I moved to Tennessee with another future ex-husband and the medium started to change from film & chemicals to digital. I have boxes and boxes of unfiled photographs and the accompanying floppy discs. I have storage bins of floppy discs that may tell stories of family trips and times abroad. There are later storage boxes of CDs full of images of family, friends, events, and places. There are several old telephones sitting around, unrecycled, because I want to get the pictures off them before I ditch them. Some have been sitting around for years. And I have nothing on which to run floppy discs ...

Do I take pictures for the same reason I write? Trying to make sense of the world around me? Trying to remember some significant event in my life? Surely a slender volume of aides-mémoire would do the job as well. Remarkable writers and artists (including photographers) have been able to do this in centuries past without grabbing everything, magpie-like, and stashing it away. Or do I simply not know about their lumber rooms full of junk, physical and mental, because only the fine, final work has survived? People pay loads of money for working manuscripts and preliminary sketches of masters gone by. I suppose the difference is actually having some plan for what to do with all this material. Rather like having some idea of exactly when I might ever wear all the jewelry I buy. And knowing when to throw out the stuff that isn't really good. I have nearly 200 pictures of my furkids on my current phone. How many pictures do I really need of Scooter sleeping with her paws over her eyes? Or of Owen on full alert gazing out the front window like a miniature Rin Tin Tin? 

Aaron & Henry c. 1980?

I have derided parents and grandparents at children's sporting events who hardly see the game/match at all because they are so busy taking pictures of it. I recall soccer matches for my son and my grandson,  on pitches with magnificent backdrops of mountains or sky, and I missed part of the scope and beauty of what was going on (which included the scrum of parents and fans on the sidelines) because I was concentrating on my viewfinder. I recall a couple of incidents of parents getting whacked in the head by rogue soccer balls because they didn't see it coming for being so busy filming their little star standing somewhere else on the field. I was sitting in the stands at a big, outdoor horse show in California years and years ago; I recall finally getting my camera out of my face long enough to look over at the riders waiting well outside the ring for their 'go' and seeing my jumping instructor and her friend, on their horses, toking away on a joint before hitting the ring. Just think of all the other hysterically funny, heartbreakingly poignant, truly interesting and useful things I've missed over the years for spending my time peering into a tiny lens in order to capture a moment. 

Could have been that trip ...

And what is truly captured? What of that moment is saved for anyone else? I recall once being completely and totally lost somewhere between Bratislava and Prague in the bad old days when it was still Czechoslovakia. We were driving along out in the back of nowhere, I had a squally kid in the back seat, and none of the very few road signs made any sense (I mean, have you ever actually seen what Czech looks like on a road sign?). But it was a gorgeous spring day and what I do remember so clearly is how brilliantly blue the sky was, how remarkably green the fields were and how happy I felt just to be there ... lost or not.  I seem to also recall that I was reading A Man Called Intrepid at the time. And you know what? There were no pictures taken that day. I recall floating down a ski run at Mammoth Mountain with numb lips and a runny nose; having the time of my life. No pictures that day either. I recall my teenage child asleep on the couch with tousled hair, a puffy face and drooling just slightly ... OK, I did take a picture of that one. 

At least when I write I have to give some thought to what I'm producing (whether the finished product seems that way or not). When I take pictures, it's just snap and go. I don't think this means that I'll stop taking pictures; maybe I'll just stop stockpiling them. 

(OK, there are some I'm glad were taken ...!)

That was the strange thing about the past: you always remembered it as being much more interesting than the present yet at the time it was happening it had  actually been rather dull. (Caroline Graham, A Ghost in the Machine)

Never Really Alone

Although I tell people that I live alone, that isn't technically true. I suppose it depends upon your definition of "alone." I do not, for example, have to answer to anyone if I don't rinse out my coffee cup immediately. Or leave my knitting project sitting on the couch. Or neglect to make my bed within five minutes of leaving it in the morning (OK, that never really happens!). And when I put a book down, it stays where I left it. The kitchen rubbish doesn't take itself out and the cats give me an evil glare if the cat box is not scrupulously tended to. Which brings me to the point of this short scribble.

With one brief exception (some time in my young childhood when my brother's perceived allergies caused a general removal of all critters for a short while), my life has always included domestic animals. Usually in multiples. My father was constantly saying that he longed for the day that it would just be he and my mother, alone again, with no kids and no pets. My mother would smile sweetly and look the other way. I think that situation actually happened once for a few weeks. Then somebody called her about a rescue dachshund and normality returned. In fact, in a salute to God's occasional sense of low comedy, the ashes of one of Mom's dogs are interred with Mom's and Dad's ashes. I am sure Dad is putting up with it with the same grace with which he tolerated his spouse's and children's love of critters while he was with us.

The last husband said he didn't think it was very funny when I would say, "Don't tell me it's either me or the dogs; the dogs are still here and I have several ex-husbands." And now I have one more. And the dogs are still here. But aren't furkids just the best? I mean, once you get past the fuzzy dust bunnies, the occasional unintentional indiscretions, the nasty surprises (e.g., somebody was chewing on the AC adapter for the phone/computer/iPad, somebody has been sleeping in the clean laundry, somebody took a flying leap off the file you left on the desk and there are now papers all over the floor, somebody mistook your slipper for the babylamb dog toy, etc.), they are simply nothing but a good time. Always glad to see you. Forever fascinating in their various pack dynamics. Hysterically funny to watch. Unendingly cuddlesome. Never disputatious (unless you count The Look when you tell the antique miniature dachshund - the one who outlived Mom - to go outside when it's cold). Leaving the intellectual conversations aside, company just doesn't get much better than this. And when I was on crutches after two surgeries, they even learned not to go bowling past me in the hall like a raiding troop of Cossacks.

So, I raise a glass (well, actually a cup of coffee) to The Furkids! Hope yours bring you as much joy.

Love and gratitude attract love & gratitude. (Sign in a little restaurant in Louisiana)

Making Room for the New Toys

In a fit of hysteria and aggravation (which often go hand in hand when I'm at judge camp), I finally gave up and replaced my computer this week. I was on the cusp of flinging my iPad out the 8th floor window of my hotel room in Nashville. I decided that it was probably better to hold on to it and just do something about the computer mess at my house. I last replaced all computers, of desk and lap variety, when I stepped into my solo life in 2006. I am advised that in techno-terms this is nearly forever. The desktop PC was built for me by a computer guy; the HP laptop was purchased (again at a judge camp in Nashville; wonder if it's the water ...) at a Computers R Us or some such. At some point on some trip (could have been somewhere in Louisiana with a bunch of cyclist), the laptop fried itself and has been limping along ever since with occasionally infuriating idiosyncrasies. The technician who tried to repair it for me finally said, "Try that and see if it will work for awhile." The desktop PC has been getting slower and slower and slower. All the little programs that go in and poke around for scary stuff have either been totally co-opted by the enemy or they are honest about telling that they find nothing essentially wrong. Since I am a total technophobe as well as a techno-idiot, I have no idea which it is. However, when it got to the point that the work I had taken to judge camp with me could not be completed because all the wretched electronic bits and bobs wouldn't work, I decided that it was time to bite the bullet. Lest you think me a complete wastrel, I had been doing some research (as much as you can when you don't understand 89% of what the reviewers are talking about); I had picked the brains of the technical types the state sends out to shepherd their computers in the court system; I had talked to people who had the products I was considering. Then I threw caution to the wind and skipped a business lunch to run out to the Apple Store in Nashville. I blew in to the carefully designed showroom like a Mistral, probably just as cold and unwelcome. The eleven year old greeter quickly handed me off to "Tyler", who was probably about thirteen. Tyler was sporting the standard Apple Store issue of jeans, a t-shirt with some Apple slogan on it, sneakers, a store ID on an Apple lanyard, and a lapful of small electronic devices. They were in his lap because he was in a wheelchair. Whatever the reason for the wheelchair was, it didn't inhibit his ability a whit to be just as confusing and opaque (as far as I was concerned) as every other Apple-clad child in the store. I answered the child's questions (carefully memorized in a Customer Service training, no doubt) and followed him dutifully to the appropriate blazing silver table. He showed me something which, he said, would fit my needs. I told him I wanted a bigger screen. He explained that a bigger screen would add to the price, but I told him the price wasn't really the issue if I couldn't see what I was looking at. He was gracious enough to look slightly abashed. They always think I'm younger than I really am. So, we spent about 90 seconds looking at the bigger stuff together then I said, "I'll have that one." Tyler began to tap and swipe and swish and whatever else he was doing with all that stuff in his lap and relieved me of vast sums of money in very short order. Then he disappeared into the Aladdin's Cave behind the Genius Bar (formerly referred to as the Service Desk) to select the perfect Mac for me. We then retired to yet another shiny table where he proceeded to "set me up" (which was just as well because I have no idea what he was doing). I was out of the shop in under an hour with a snazzy Apple-designed carrier box for my purchases - most of which were etherial - and a song in my heart. Tyler said I was his best customer all day. Of course, it was only lunchtime.

I've been doing battle with the new technology for several days now. I purchased some sort of personal tutorial assistance so that this expenditure will not be a total waste of resources. My first appointment isn't for another week or so, however. I am hopeful I will have figured out enough not to feel like tossing this thing out the window before then. Meanwhile, I am trying to design a better work space in my home. The cutesy computer cabinet I bought to house the desktop PC has turned into something that resembles nothing so much as the cabinet of Dr. Caligari. I really must get rid of it and find a less overwhelming space for work. I look longingly at the serene, stripped down work surfaces suggested by the organization experts and wonder where on earth they keep the Stuff that seems to accumulate with any project. Perhaps I just need to be more diligent about ruthlessly throwing things away. I am, alas, a child of that generation that was taught "you better keep it just in case ... you never know." Or, "this is a perfectly good widget, surely it can be used for something." I have jars and canisters and boxes of that kind of nonsense. We shall see.

And now I'm accumulating knitting nonsense as well. I figure it's probably better to engage in that pursuit than in drinking and smoking. I'm beginning to wonder if it's any cheaper, though. My clerk has started work on a new child, who is to be presented in September some time. So, in a fit of unaccustomed generosity, I decided to start knitting small things. I nearly went blind during judge camp trying to knit tiny green socks on toothpicks (OK, they were actually size 1.5 double pointed needles). I got so frustrated with the "heel turn" that I just stuck everything back in the bag and had a drink. I am presently taking a break by knitting another hat with chunky yarn and size 10.5 needles which are approximately the size of a Cohiba cigar. Obviously, this is not for the new child unless it is born with a head the size of a watermelon. It will fit me quite nicely, though. All of this is in aid of supporting my previous statement that I need to design a better work space. If you haven't messed with it, you have no idea how much junk you can amass with various knitting projects. I didn't have time to hit The Container Store while I was in Nashville, but I think a stop to the online site may be in order.

The musical members of the family are in dire need of a new design as well. One of the problems with the computer cabinet is that it is right next to the big harp in that room. I'm always stepping and dodging around something to get to something else. There are three harps of various sizes in that room and it can get flat scary in the dark! And you never know until you turn the office chair around whether or not there is a cat sleeping on it. I have to wriggle and contort among various instruments in that room to get to the clothes closet that is full of jackets and scarves. And the sheet music one can pile up over the years! A friend of mine once said that you may as well buy all the music you can; it's not as if it's going to go bad like bananas or something. Sometimes I question the wisdom of that philosophy. I seem to recall, however, that this same friend spent an entire spring break with her husband installing more cabinet space in their music room and trying to organize the reams and reams of sheet music. Alas, nothing is more vexing that buying a book of music that looks really interesting only to discover it was in your own library all the time. Some days the idea of just walking away from all of it is very attractive.

However, I am truly, wildly and extravagantly blessed. Our Lord has seen fit to allow me, at this time of my life, to be able to have the problem of where to put stuff. For this I thank Him. Now I just need my guardian angel to kick start me into putting this largesse in order!

Hope you are well and enjoying the bounty of grace.

"What is the use of making mistakes if you don't make use of them?" (Dorothy Sayers, Gaudy Night)

The Dreadful Calm Between the Storms

You know, the crime shows and movies never show the aggregate deadly hours of waiting for something to happen in court. I am trapped on the bench at the moment, in all my medieval costume splendor, waiting for the attorneys in a contested divorce to emerge from the conference room and tell us all whether my sage advice has moved either of their clients even a millimeter one way or the other. The errant husband in the  matter before the court today (this divorce has been hanging around since 2010) was in front of me yesterday, too. But that was for his conviction for domestic violence against the current girlfriend. Today he is resplendent in a black t-shirt emblazoned with a logo referencing some band tour and featuring either skeletons or zombies ... I can't tell from here. And they can't figure out why I don't take them seriously. Ain't love a grand thing?

The Granddaughter

This matter was scheduled for all day, but I'm hoping that they will have enough sense to realize that they are going to end up paying their lawyers far more to try this case than the value of their entire, dissipated marital estate. But what is money when "principles" are at stake? Am I sounding ever so slightly jaded this morning?

I am once again deep in the slough of academia; the Women In Criminal Justice class at the college. It's an upper division course which I have taught a number of times and I still despair over the students' grasp of history, social theory and general life experience. However, as a wise colleague reminded me, they're only kids, Jayne. I try to recall what I knew (or, more to the point, didn't know) when I was 19 or 20. The memory doesn't really extend so far back. So I am yet again trying to inure myself to the deer-in-the-headlights look that seems to be the classroom-wide response to some things that I say. The most recent examples of this phenomenon include, but are not limited to:

1)  My brilliant explanation of how the historical spectrum of societal perception of women, which falls between the concepts of the Madonna and the Whore, fell to pieces around my feet when I came to discover that they had absolutely no idea who the iconic figure of The Madonna was (no, she has not recorded anything);
2)  I handed out two newspaper articles this week for them to read. One was about the remarkably patriarchal and vicious attacks still being made by media and parliamentarians on Margaret Thatcher, lo, all these years on. None of them, in a room of nearly 20 college juniors and seniors, could tell me WHO Margaret Thatcher was (is)!!!
3) I use the term "paradigm" a lot in lecture; one of the kids finally asked me what that word meant (I tell them early on to either ask or look up any word I use that they don't understand). However, this was not before someone tried to explain an archetype in an essay exam by using the word "paradiddle."

Alas, this shall all be over for awhile come May when final grades are due. And they are nice kids. Sometimes my vast age comes to haunt me ...

Ah, most excellent! The attorneys have announced that the matters at issue have been settled and have announced the parties' agreement. We are spared trial. One of the lawyers said he asked his client whether he really wanted "all that stuff to come out in a trial in front of the judge" and the client replied, "Hey, man, don't worry about it. She already knows about all this stuff." One can only smile and shake one's head ... (or, as they say in The South, bless 'em, Lord!).

There is more to be said, but not at this moment.

Now we are waiting for the gas company technician to get to the house to look at my fireplace and tell me whether he can install a remote control for it, or if I have to replace the entire unit to do that. If the brilliant construction techniques and fine materials used on the place before I bought it are any indication, it will be a new unit. The house was not finished when I bought it and I didn't know at the time that the builder was at the terminal end of his own divorce. This is only relevant because I have come to discover over the past six and a half years that the only things in the house I can be sure of are those which I purchased and had installed myself. The gas fireplace wasn't one of them. And, since the controls are tucked safely away underneath the firebox, just above the floor, turning the flippin' thing on and off is a project of Python-esque low comedy. I end up lying on the floor, fending off dogs and cats who think this is some sort of cuddle time (they must think I'm someone else ...), twisting around trying to see the tiny instructions on the card with the correct lens in my trifocal glasses, and generally feeling put upon and grumpy. The whole concept of lovely, leaping flame at the press of a button shimmers before my failing vision like a promise from a troubadour's song. For those of you who didn't get that allusion, read: lovely, romantic, and completely false! Anyway, I anticipate my knight errant shall arrive shortly in drooping jeans, a work shirt, ball cap and big ol' boots to tell me that they have a great deal for me ...

W-S finest ...

I have been having bucolic fantasies lately about gardening this spring and summer. Do not panic and think that my senile dementia is progressing even faster than you thought. I'm not considering anything more fantastic than some raised beds for a few vegs out back beyond the deck. This would involve having either the handyman or the yard guy build said raised beds (and we're talking about raised clear off the ground; I have no illusions about weeding that involves any bending) and do all the hauling and lifting before I dirty my dainty hands with seedlings (I have no patience for all that embryonic stuff) and watering cans. I'm sure the yard guy will have something to say about where the beds go; he, after all, is the one who is tasked with all the work out there. And, in truth, I see nothing idyllic about trooping across the yard out to the garden beds. I think I just want to clump down off the deck, pick what I need, and go make dinner. I was seduced by the pictures of raised beds on the back of the Williams Sonoma catalog, but I have no intention of paying the steep tariff they require for what I can get for much less at the local hardware store, even after paying The Guys to put it all together. I am making an effort to be prudent. That way I have more money to splash out on cookbooks and Le Creuset cookware that I don't need. We shall see how this stands the test of reality. I may just spend the money on a new fireplace and lie about staring out the French doors at my garden-less demesne. Which, when you come to think on it, makes a whole lot more sense. More than those trendy chicken coops Williams Sonoma was flogging, anyway ...

I am patiently waiting for the weather to improve to the point that I can once more terrorize the neighborhood with my Vespa scooter. She has been sitting patiently under her shroud all winter in the garage. Plugged in to her trickle charger and being moved a few inches ever week or so to keep the tires from flattening. I shall be interested to see if the novelty has worn off and the courthouse staff and law enforcement in general will not feel compelled to remark upon all the strange costumes I could affect and ride around town wearing. Oh well, I suppose that is far more harmless than following me around in patrol cars to make sure I don't fall over. One of my bicycles is on the trainer in the room with the TV monitor. The theory was that I could ride it while watching the endless movies on offer there. I shall be very glad when I can take it back outside and swan along the river. There is little to be enjoyed about mindlessly pedaling inside. I have been looking at bike tours and hoping for some inspiration for my granddaughter and me. We are both happier in a corner with our nose in a book or listening to music and knitting than out blasting around the countryside or playing courts. However, we are constantly harangued by her father and my son (who look remarkably alike) to get out and move. So bike trip it may be.

And, with that, I leave this blog-lette. The fireplace guy is imminent and I have to finish the study guide for the next exam before my more clingy students start calling and feigning panic. I truly hope you are all well and that life is not being any more horrid than usual to you.

Defeats are usually temporary and their effects short-lived. The battle is not the war.

(Nando Pelusi, Ph.D.)