veggies of the Veneto
2 days ago
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Or, consider this morning. On a small side street of this neighborhood, a sculptor has set up a workshop. Out of fragments of 2000 year old stone found on Venetian islands, he chisels faces, true to images painted on ancient clay pots.
It was indeed love at first sight – with the man and his art. And, I loved the fact that he began his passion at the age of fifty (I’m only one year behind schedule in finding my own creative passion; no, the blog does not count; yes, I did start it when I was fifty; come on, I can do better than a blog!) – before, he had worked in monument restoration.
Yes, against great protest from within, I purchased something that weighs a ton but is so beautiful that I could not resist it. [Again, please do NOT tell me if you don’t find it so exceptionally striking.]
It was indeed love at first sight – with the man and his art. And, I loved the fact that he began his passion at the age of fifty (I’m only one year behind schedule in finding my own creative passion; no, the blog does not count; yes, I did start it when I was fifty; come on, I can do better than a blog!) – before, he had worked in monument restoration.
Yes, against great protest from within, I purchased something that weighs a ton but is so beautiful that I could not resist it. [Again, please do NOT tell me if you don’t find it so exceptionally striking.]
Today’s walk was through a neighborhood that used to be a favorite. Now it’s somewhat gentrified – you can tell by the appearance of expensive locks on the perfectly painted doors. Still it has the beautiful colors of Venetian houses and it is also home to a favorite, fantastic, phenomenal pizza place – worth returning to as many times as is humanly possible.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Fa la nanna e la nanna faremo (go to sleep and then we can all go to sleep)
Finally! Venice.
I am indeed sleepy and tired and jet-lagged; and today was my first day on the continent; and the computer hook up at the hotel is ... awful. Still, I can manage a few plain and basic words and a few photos from the day.
And I have to say that a memorable flight brought me here because, from the time of my first boarding of a commercial plane from Warsaw to Sofia in 1959 ‘til now, I have never had a woman pilot (and the captain of the crew no less). Never. Thus today, when I heard a female voice on the loudspeaker (this is on the Paris – Venice flight), I was sure that we were hearing from a flight attendant. Of course. Shame on me. AND NO, THAT'S NOT FUNNY --SHE DID NOT MISS THE RUNWAY! Obviously she was the best of the best.
The hotel I’m in was once the residence of a biology professor at Padua University (sigh, how times have changed!). The place is in a corner of Venice where there are almost no tourists. Venice is like that: it has the grand, the spectacular, the magnificent and eye-catching sights and vistas like this:
I am indeed sleepy and tired and jet-lagged; and today was my first day on the continent; and the computer hook up at the hotel is ... awful. Still, I can manage a few plain and basic words and a few photos from the day.
And I have to say that a memorable flight brought me here because, from the time of my first boarding of a commercial plane from Warsaw to Sofia in 1959 ‘til now, I have never had a woman pilot (and the captain of the crew no less). Never. Thus today, when I heard a female voice on the loudspeaker (this is on the Paris – Venice flight), I was sure that we were hearing from a flight attendant. Of course. Shame on me. AND NO, THAT'S NOT FUNNY --SHE DID NOT MISS THE RUNWAY! Obviously she was the best of the best.
The hotel I’m in was once the residence of a biology professor at Padua University (sigh, how times have changed!). The place is in a corner of Venice where there are almost no tourists. Venice is like that: it has the grand, the spectacular, the magnificent and eye-catching sights and vistas like this:
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Pre-travel notes, part 5
If there is another pre-travel post after this, then I will have missed my bus because I am dangerously close to the time when I should be ON the bus.
My overnight flight from Chicago lands me at CDG airport in Paris from where I surely will miss the connecting flight to Venice. Still, once on the continent, one can manipulate oneself over to the right place in no time. [As usual, I have an interesting array of transport systems ahead of me – from bus to planes to boat and eventually, later in the week, to train and then to car. Have I covered them all?]
This, then, is an announcement of a 24 hour lull in blogging. Most people worry about getting to their destinations in one piece, with suitcase in hand, more or less on schedule. Once there, they worry about getting into the new currency mode and not getting hopelessly lost in strange cities. Me, I worry about enabling my computer and finding a WiFi source and in the alternative, figuring out the local dial-up options. The Internet has taken over my soul!
“Ocean” is officially in repose as I make my way over the bigger, bluer, wetter Ocean...
My overnight flight from Chicago lands me at CDG airport in Paris from where I surely will miss the connecting flight to Venice. Still, once on the continent, one can manipulate oneself over to the right place in no time. [As usual, I have an interesting array of transport systems ahead of me – from bus to planes to boat and eventually, later in the week, to train and then to car. Have I covered them all?]
This, then, is an announcement of a 24 hour lull in blogging. Most people worry about getting to their destinations in one piece, with suitcase in hand, more or less on schedule. Once there, they worry about getting into the new currency mode and not getting hopelessly lost in strange cities. Me, I worry about enabling my computer and finding a WiFi source and in the alternative, figuring out the local dial-up options. The Internet has taken over my soul!
“Ocean” is officially in repose as I make my way over the bigger, bluer, wetter Ocean...
Pre-travel notes, part 4
karaoke?
Perhaps sane people would not have chosen to attend a karaoke event on the eve prior to their departure on an extended trip. But I could not resist. For one thing, there were 5 bloggers present. That’s virtually a blogger flood. Then, too, it was a sociology happening and even though I am no longer a sociologist per se, I feel a great attachment to the people in that discipline.
It is late and I am just hours away from my departure, but I have to put in a plug for the misaligned in my previous post Dorotha and JFW – they were the propelling forces behind the karaoke night and I don’t care how sinister and cool they want to appear, they were magnificent karaoke-ists.
So it was all worth it. Except that once home, I realized that I had left my camera back at the Karaoke Kid. I really don’t mind driving back and forth on a night like this, but jeez, can’t I ever be more in control of my possessions when the schedule gets tight?
Perhaps sane people would not have chosen to attend a karaoke event on the eve prior to their departure on an extended trip. But I could not resist. For one thing, there were 5 bloggers present. That’s virtually a blogger flood. Then, too, it was a sociology happening and even though I am no longer a sociologist per se, I feel a great attachment to the people in that discipline.
It is late and I am just hours away from my departure, but I have to put in a plug for the misaligned in my previous post Dorotha and JFW – they were the propelling forces behind the karaoke night and I don’t care how sinister and cool they want to appear, they were magnificent karaoke-ists.
So it was all worth it. Except that once home, I realized that I had left my camera back at the Karaoke Kid. I really don’t mind driving back and forth on a night like this, but jeez, can’t I ever be more in control of my possessions when the schedule gets tight?
Monday, August 09, 2004
Pre-travel notes, part 3
A poll
I do not have time to figure out how to set up a poll on the blog, so I will just ask: who here (except for Dorotha Harried, who, by her own admission, is aiming for a “cruel” label, read about it here, and JFW who, in comments to Ms. Harried, indicated that "cruel is awesome" and there’s no such thing as “too cruel”), okay, let me start again: who here would find it terrifically funny to hide my passport just to see how long before I convulse into a state of complete desperation and crippling apoplexy?
No one?See! I told you no one would find it funny. You are mud! You know who you are!
I do not have time to figure out how to set up a poll on the blog, so I will just ask: who here (except for Dorotha Harried, who, by her own admission, is aiming for a “cruel” label, read about it here, and JFW who, in comments to Ms. Harried, indicated that "cruel is awesome" and there’s no such thing as “too cruel”), okay, let me start again: who here would find it terrifically funny to hide my passport just to see how long before I convulse into a state of complete desperation and crippling apoplexy?
No one?See! I told you no one would find it funny. You are mud! You know who you are!
Pre-travel notes, part 2
Where is the "leisure" part?
Are there people who, on the day prior to a trip, leisurely sit in front of their closet and contemplate which little number to pack for that special special evening during the forthcoming vacation? Or is everyone scrunching sun-dresses into change purses and praying to God that the calamities calling for their immediate and undivided attention will at some point stop and they can start rummaging for important things like a passport? (Did I even check to see if the expiration date was July 2004 or July 2005? It’s one or the other, I’m absolutely certain of it).
Ooops
I just got an email from my contact in Italy (we are renting a farmhouse from him) informing me that we are traveling to his place during a major holiday and so we can expect everything to be closed that day, including places to eat within a 1000 mile radius it seems. Cloyingly he asks – would I like him to place some of life’s essentials in our refrigerator for our arrival? And maybe ask a friend in town to possibly fit us in that night for a pizza or something?
Did I really forget that we will be making our way to Umbria on August 14th, the worst travel day of the year in Italy? Yes, I really forgot. [To my travel companions: ha ha ha, I regard the joke that we will be spending a week in ‘Slumbria’ as extremely funny. Ha ha ha. It happens to be an undiscovered paradise with great towns and villages within shooting distance. You’ll eat your words yet, all of you. I think.]
Thank you, Signore Bruno. Now if you could also assure me that you really do exist and you do have a farmhouse, that it is legitimate, that you didn’t just take the money and run to Corsica, and that the photos on the Net are those of your place and not some random neighbor’s – then I would feel so much more confident.
I am a trusting sort. Mostly, people making travel deals with me in far away places have not let me down. Mostly.
Are there people who, on the day prior to a trip, leisurely sit in front of their closet and contemplate which little number to pack for that special special evening during the forthcoming vacation? Or is everyone scrunching sun-dresses into change purses and praying to God that the calamities calling for their immediate and undivided attention will at some point stop and they can start rummaging for important things like a passport? (Did I even check to see if the expiration date was July 2004 or July 2005? It’s one or the other, I’m absolutely certain of it).
Ooops
I just got an email from my contact in Italy (we are renting a farmhouse from him) informing me that we are traveling to his place during a major holiday and so we can expect everything to be closed that day, including places to eat within a 1000 mile radius it seems. Cloyingly he asks – would I like him to place some of life’s essentials in our refrigerator for our arrival? And maybe ask a friend in town to possibly fit us in that night for a pizza or something?
Did I really forget that we will be making our way to Umbria on August 14th, the worst travel day of the year in Italy? Yes, I really forgot. [To my travel companions: ha ha ha, I regard the joke that we will be spending a week in ‘Slumbria’ as extremely funny. Ha ha ha. It happens to be an undiscovered paradise with great towns and villages within shooting distance. You’ll eat your words yet, all of you. I think.]
Thank you, Signore Bruno. Now if you could also assure me that you really do exist and you do have a farmhouse, that it is legitimate, that you didn’t just take the money and run to Corsica, and that the photos on the Net are those of your place and not some random neighbor’s – then I would feel so much more confident.
I am a trusting sort. Mostly, people making travel deals with me in far away places have not let me down. Mostly.
Feed the company, starve the infant
When I posted a photo of a demonstration last Saturday in support of breastfeeding, I noted that farmers were wondering where the issue was. At the time I thought that the protesters were referring to the old problem of promoting the use of formula in economically depressed nations. (In her blog post here, Ann suggested work place accommodation issues that would also justify the protest.) But no, I was wrong. Today’s reading of the Washington Post indicates that at least on the east coast, women are marching in front of Starbucks due to a recent incident whereby a woman nursing her infant was asked to cover herself while inside the café (read about it here). Not surprisingly, therefore, the protest I photographed was taking place right in front of our own Starbucks on the Square.
Starbucks does not have a national policy concerning nursing and so local coffee shops are free to establish guidelines concerning breast-exposure of nursing women. [It should be noted that some states do have laws that bar an establishment from prohibiting or restricting breastfeeding, but most do not and even where such laws exist, private businesses are often exempt from the mandate.]
I have to say that I am very glad that I did not know, back in the days when I nursed my own infants, that I could actually be asked to stop or leave the premises. It never struck me that this is something that anyone would want to restrict. In my experience, women are uniformly discreet in their nursing practices and one would really have to stare hard to get beyond the infant’s head and see even a fragment of the offending (!) piece of flesh. How strange (and sad) that the practice of nursing would be viewed as offensive and in violation of laws against indecent exposure!
Starbucks does not have a national policy concerning nursing and so local coffee shops are free to establish guidelines concerning breast-exposure of nursing women. [It should be noted that some states do have laws that bar an establishment from prohibiting or restricting breastfeeding, but most do not and even where such laws exist, private businesses are often exempt from the mandate.]
I have to say that I am very glad that I did not know, back in the days when I nursed my own infants, that I could actually be asked to stop or leave the premises. It never struck me that this is something that anyone would want to restrict. In my experience, women are uniformly discreet in their nursing practices and one would really have to stare hard to get beyond the infant’s head and see even a fragment of the offending (!) piece of flesh. How strange (and sad) that the practice of nursing would be viewed as offensive and in violation of laws against indecent exposure!
Sunday, August 08, 2004
Pre-travel notes, part 1
Timeliness
When taking off on my most recent international trip, I nearly missed the Van Galder bus to Chicago’s O’Hare. The chain of disastrous events that would have ensued as a result of this tardiness was of such great magnitude, that right then and there I promised myself I would never again commit the Folly of Treating the Day of Departure as a Normal Day. I would treat it as a day during which my one and only obligation will be to grab my belongings and speed over to the Union bus stop.
Therefore, packing, blogging, going to my office (forget past sins where I would pause there thinking that, after all, it’s so close to the Union and the bus doesn’t depart until 11:30 am… no no! wrong train of thought! No detours this time!) – all these would have to be done in advance.
Packing
Since I am leaving on Tuesday, logic has it that I should open my (new and spiffy) suitcase today and start packing.
But I don’t especially like packing. I regard it as a frustrating experience, one which spotlights my most shameful insecurities and weaknesses. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I am not one to pack lots and lots of clothes for all weather options and social situations. In fact, I have been tempted sometimes to just take my summer sun dress (which should be called the beach-to-bar dress, because it is lovely and suitable for both) since I can literally roll it up into a ball and stuff it in my change purse and be done with the whole clothes issue.
Clothes are easy, especially in the summer time (traveling to Poland in December is another matter: if it’s warm, wooly and snuggly, I take it! I can never have enough of the warm and snuggly in those months). But it’s the THINGS that I must take now that drive me insane.
For instance, in the suitcase I must find room for:
books to read recreationally;
books about the historical significance of where I am heading;
books guiding me to the optimal eating establishments;
dictionary type-books;
papers proving my confirmed reservations (this is especially important when traveling to Italy. When hotel proprietors want to close down for le vacanze, they will do so and your only friend then is the piece of paper documenting their prior commitment to providing you with shelter – Italians are respectful of paper, preferably with an official stamp at the bottom, but any paper will do);
cameras (yes, this year it’s cameraS because there’s the big SLR and the little digital);
umbrellas (I’ll surely lose one along the way);
cosmetics (time to look presentable; after all, I’m leaving the borders of the most casual town in the world where people actually go for walks in torn t-shirts and gym shorts -- I’ve seen them!);
the computer (yes, certainly, of course);
sunglasses, extra reading glasses (an accoutrement of the ELDERLY, I am told);
maps (there’s car travel ahead);
laundry detergent (have to wash that beach-to-bar dress each night);
earphones (I have learned that my ears are not the same size as economy class French ears. The earphones on Air France should fit snugly in the ear canal, but for me, they do not. They pop out. Now, on the occasions that I have been upgraded by nice nice super nice Air France crew to business, or when a funding source that is not my own pocket is footing the business class ride, I have found Air France ear phones perfectly comfortable. I have concluded that my ears are thus closer in size and shape to wealthy French ears. This time, however, I am back there with the populace and so I must pack my own earphones);
a tote bag (does anyone besides me remember the agony of carrying portables each day in a torn Gap bag during my Japan travels in spring?)…
Alright, I’ve made my point. There is a lot of STUFF in that suitcase and it frustrates me no end that I may have only one spare dress rolled up in my change purse, yet still look like the classic traveler who has over-packed and is now lugging a heap of unnecessary clothing items all over the country.
Anticipation
I have to note also that I am not in agreement with the saying that “anticipation is even better than the trip itself.” Anticipation may be great after one has just returned from a vacation (my strongest urge to think about planning the next one comes on the return flight of the one in progress), but on the days just before travel, anticipation is tantamount to frantic and bizarre behavior where I run around doing a million odd things without my usual mental clarity or attention to detail.
When Anxiety Mounts…
I can retreat to blogging. I have tomorrow, after all. And if push comes to shove, I can crank in some last minute things into the morning of the departure.
When taking off on my most recent international trip, I nearly missed the Van Galder bus to Chicago’s O’Hare. The chain of disastrous events that would have ensued as a result of this tardiness was of such great magnitude, that right then and there I promised myself I would never again commit the Folly of Treating the Day of Departure as a Normal Day. I would treat it as a day during which my one and only obligation will be to grab my belongings and speed over to the Union bus stop.
Therefore, packing, blogging, going to my office (forget past sins where I would pause there thinking that, after all, it’s so close to the Union and the bus doesn’t depart until 11:30 am… no no! wrong train of thought! No detours this time!) – all these would have to be done in advance.
Packing
Since I am leaving on Tuesday, logic has it that I should open my (new and spiffy) suitcase today and start packing.
But I don’t especially like packing. I regard it as a frustrating experience, one which spotlights my most shameful insecurities and weaknesses. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I am not one to pack lots and lots of clothes for all weather options and social situations. In fact, I have been tempted sometimes to just take my summer sun dress (which should be called the beach-to-bar dress, because it is lovely and suitable for both) since I can literally roll it up into a ball and stuff it in my change purse and be done with the whole clothes issue.
Clothes are easy, especially in the summer time (traveling to Poland in December is another matter: if it’s warm, wooly and snuggly, I take it! I can never have enough of the warm and snuggly in those months). But it’s the THINGS that I must take now that drive me insane.
For instance, in the suitcase I must find room for:
books to read recreationally;
books about the historical significance of where I am heading;
books guiding me to the optimal eating establishments;
dictionary type-books;
papers proving my confirmed reservations (this is especially important when traveling to Italy. When hotel proprietors want to close down for le vacanze, they will do so and your only friend then is the piece of paper documenting their prior commitment to providing you with shelter – Italians are respectful of paper, preferably with an official stamp at the bottom, but any paper will do);
cameras (yes, this year it’s cameraS because there’s the big SLR and the little digital);
umbrellas (I’ll surely lose one along the way);
cosmetics (time to look presentable; after all, I’m leaving the borders of the most casual town in the world where people actually go for walks in torn t-shirts and gym shorts -- I’ve seen them!);
the computer (yes, certainly, of course);
sunglasses, extra reading glasses (an accoutrement of the ELDERLY, I am told);
maps (there’s car travel ahead);
laundry detergent (have to wash that beach-to-bar dress each night);
earphones (I have learned that my ears are not the same size as economy class French ears. The earphones on Air France should fit snugly in the ear canal, but for me, they do not. They pop out. Now, on the occasions that I have been upgraded by nice nice super nice Air France crew to business, or when a funding source that is not my own pocket is footing the business class ride, I have found Air France ear phones perfectly comfortable. I have concluded that my ears are thus closer in size and shape to wealthy French ears. This time, however, I am back there with the populace and so I must pack my own earphones);
a tote bag (does anyone besides me remember the agony of carrying portables each day in a torn Gap bag during my Japan travels in spring?)…
Alright, I’ve made my point. There is a lot of STUFF in that suitcase and it frustrates me no end that I may have only one spare dress rolled up in my change purse, yet still look like the classic traveler who has over-packed and is now lugging a heap of unnecessary clothing items all over the country.
Anticipation
I have to note also that I am not in agreement with the saying that “anticipation is even better than the trip itself.” Anticipation may be great after one has just returned from a vacation (my strongest urge to think about planning the next one comes on the return flight of the one in progress), but on the days just before travel, anticipation is tantamount to frantic and bizarre behavior where I run around doing a million odd things without my usual mental clarity or attention to detail.
When Anxiety Mounts…
I can retreat to blogging. I have tomorrow, after all. And if push comes to shove, I can crank in some last minute things into the morning of the departure.
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Return of the sweet green monster
Time to replace the suitcase. My trusty dusty broke its handle in Asia and I need a new one. It has to be: light, not too expensive, NOT BLACK! If I see another 26 inch upright roll off the belt, to be snatched by a person who is not the TRUE OWNER , I’ll go mad (okay, okay, MADDER).
Today I found one! It’s green. A steely, almost light-toned green. And on sale. And XXLight. Wow! I’m in love with it, it is like getting a new backback at the beginning of the school year.
But but but, wait a minute. Nostalgia! I once had a green suitcase. I've gone through many 26 inch uprights in my life and I remember a green one some two suitcases ago. Wasn’t it the one that was once ridiculed at the airport (“sweetie, not that one, that one’s GREEN!”), lost and forgotten in some strike of European baggage handlers (now that Poland has a market economy, will baggage handlers strike there as well? During my visits? NO!)? Wasn’t it the one that refused to give up even though it was called the “skinny belonging to ninny?” (Oh, did I not admit that in grad school I was affectionately given the nickname of “ninny”? No, it was NOT a reflection of the smartness thing (see post yesterday). At least, I think not. I mean, would you really call a person with intellectual deficiencies a “ninny?” Of course not! You’d reserve the nickname for those who were thought to be truly BRILLIANT! (Chalk it up as additional evidence..) [btw, the “ninny” stuck. However, if you are a student, you are NOT ALLOWED TO CALL ME THAT EVER! Others? At your own risk.]
Suitcase purchased. Tomorrow, thoughts about packing begin.
Today I found one! It’s green. A steely, almost light-toned green. And on sale. And XXLight. Wow! I’m in love with it, it is like getting a new backback at the beginning of the school year.
But but but, wait a minute. Nostalgia! I once had a green suitcase. I've gone through many 26 inch uprights in my life and I remember a green one some two suitcases ago. Wasn’t it the one that was once ridiculed at the airport (“sweetie, not that one, that one’s GREEN!”), lost and forgotten in some strike of European baggage handlers (now that Poland has a market economy, will baggage handlers strike there as well? During my visits? NO!)? Wasn’t it the one that refused to give up even though it was called the “skinny belonging to ninny?” (Oh, did I not admit that in grad school I was affectionately given the nickname of “ninny”? No, it was NOT a reflection of the smartness thing (see post yesterday). At least, I think not. I mean, would you really call a person with intellectual deficiencies a “ninny?” Of course not! You’d reserve the nickname for those who were thought to be truly BRILLIANT! (Chalk it up as additional evidence..) [btw, the “ninny” stuck. However, if you are a student, you are NOT ALLOWED TO CALL ME THAT EVER! Others? At your own risk.]
Suitcase purchased. Tomorrow, thoughts about packing begin.
Wait, did we really have those lazy hazy crazy days this year?
It is the last summer market for me (I will not be in Madison during the next three Saturdays) and so I foraged forever (this is in my “I’m wearing the L’Etoile hat now” capacity) just to get my fill (ten times around the Square, six hours total). Some of the farmers wont be back by the time I return to my buying in September. Kind of sad.
The question asked at each stand was the same: was there even a summer this year?
Ultimately, the market is, of course, all about food. Though I don’t know why I post pictures of potatoes and apricots and crab apples. It befuddles me too. I think, for me, the lure is in the color of it all. So many tones, so many fantastic tones!
Some people have blog rolls, here I go with my market food roll. Last week it was the bees and honey, this week it’s birds and milk. Milk?? Sure enough, today there was a demonstration in favor of breastmilk. As one farmer asked me – who here is against breastmilk??
The question asked at each stand was the same: was there even a summer this year?
Ultimately, the market is, of course, all about food. Though I don’t know why I post pictures of potatoes and apricots and crab apples. It befuddles me too. I think, for me, the lure is in the color of it all. So many tones, so many fantastic tones!
Some people have blog rolls, here I go with my market food roll. Last week it was the bees and honey, this week it’s birds and milk. Milk?? Sure enough, today there was a demonstration in favor of breastmilk. As one farmer asked me – who here is against breastmilk??
My political commitments are being challenged today
At the closing luncheon for the Law School's Summer Program (a course of study for foreign attorneys), I spoke to one lawyer who was anxious to return to his home base in Venezuela. Under normal circumstances, he would have liked to stay in the States for a bit, but he tells me he wants to be back in time for next week’s referendum in order to put in his vote to oust the corrupt leadership in his country. I asked what the chances of a success are and he told me 60 – 40.
Would I fly back hurriedly, almost as if attending to a sick family member, simply to cast my vote where the odds where already strongly in favor of a win? Honestly, would I?
Maybe. If I were engaged enough, if the referendum or election significantly changed the political framework, if I wished desperately that damage from the past could be arrested, or even reversed...
Wait a minute. I think that now. I guess no matter where I am in the first week in November, it will be close to a polling booth.
Would I fly back hurriedly, almost as if attending to a sick family member, simply to cast my vote where the odds where already strongly in favor of a win? Honestly, would I?
Maybe. If I were engaged enough, if the referendum or election significantly changed the political framework, if I wished desperately that damage from the past could be arrested, or even reversed...
Wait a minute. I think that now. I guess no matter where I am in the first week in November, it will be close to a polling booth.
Friday, August 06, 2004
I dabble in twaddle?
Dang it all, as if this week didn’t offer enough fretting and worrying to last me a lifetime, here’s a fragment of a message I just got from a prof I know:
Unless they're put in front of me, I do not read blogs as I tend to view them as self-indulgent twaddle.
Self-indulgent. Okay, I guess I just am. Throw me down the tunnel to hell’s doors, I indulge the self in my desire for a creative outlet, for a stab at good, honest writing, for friendship, for community, for all of that – I am guilty!!
But do I really twaddle?
Unless they're put in front of me, I do not read blogs as I tend to view them as self-indulgent twaddle.
Self-indulgent. Okay, I guess I just am. Throw me down the tunnel to hell’s doors, I indulge the self in my desire for a creative outlet, for a stab at good, honest writing, for friendship, for community, for all of that – I am guilty!!
But do I really twaddle?
Some are born smart, some achieve smartness and some have smartness thrust upon them
The thing about bloggers is that they have such wonderful “take me back to the old days” impulses. Here I am, posting about ancient dusty trunks and days when mail was gold (see earlier post), and fellow bloggers (here and here) are speculating about what can-should-could-might be used as measures of presidential candidates’ smartness.
Why is this a throw back to the old years? Why I remember this discussion! In my first year in law school, and my extended years putzin’ around graduate school, EVERYONE talked about who is and who is not smart. [Now there’s MY marker of smartness: anyone else ready to boast that they ‘wasted’ 6 years on graduate school, to walk away with an MA and an ABD – which, to my knowledge, is an unrecognized by the accreditation chiefs (who does decide these matters anyway?), useless credential – meaning something I can line my bookshelf with, if indeed I had a bookshelf since I may not be smart enough to READ books given my lackluster grad school credential-procurement record*. But I can post all this and remain unfazed because I KNOW I am brilliant. Basis for this? My parents told me! I don’t place much weight on a lot of their claims, but on this one assertion, I’m going to go out on a limb and stick with you, Mom and Dad!]
And let me throw out some more tailored-to-my-own needs markers of slam-dunk geniusness: I got into every law school I ever applied to (all of one)! And, hold on now, I’m on a roll --I was ranked in the 101 percentile for my TOEFL (the test for non-native speakers of English) scores! I swear! I have the paper to prove it! No, I do not understand what that means either unless perhaps, having passed 100 you are to retreat to the beginning, so it’s like back to square zero and one point into the game. But I got into all kinds of cool grad schools with it so it can’t be that dismal. Okay, I must qualify: I did NOT get into one grad school (it shall remain unmentioned – I hate the place! At least twelve students were preferred over ME! It pains me even now to recognize my inferiority) and at least one school on this short list of a mere five was NOT ranked high on the scale of intellectual coolness (has anyone ever even heard of Carleton University in Canada? I thought it might be fun to live up in Ottawa for a while. I had such interesting criteria of selection, ‘elite’ being conspicuously absent I guess.)
I’m digressing. Back to smartness. I love this! I feel young again! Carter was soooo smart, and Kerry – let’s tally up his smartness assets: hmm, there’s ‘Skull and Bones’ (Skull and Bones? My God, the man should be running for president!), BUT IS HE SMART??
Anyway, I wanted to join the discussion and be part of the blogger gang, so here I am with my very own post on whether or not Kerry is smart. My conclusion: YES HE IS! Basis? I don’t know, he just seems smart.
* Immediately after posting this I received the following email:
Client#: 266Email ID: nlcamic@wisc(dot)edu
Dear Sir/Maddam;From our records we understand that you are qualified in your profession andwe are going to offer you a 1 time offer. Our Univsersity can offer you a Pre-Qualified degree.To obtain your degree with valid transcripts follow this link:http://1highereducation.com Sincerly;Pearlie IngramAdministration Office
I am not about degrees, guys! I'm like Kerry! I have a proven record already!
Why is this a throw back to the old years? Why I remember this discussion! In my first year in law school, and my extended years putzin’ around graduate school, EVERYONE talked about who is and who is not smart. [Now there’s MY marker of smartness: anyone else ready to boast that they ‘wasted’ 6 years on graduate school, to walk away with an MA and an ABD – which, to my knowledge, is an unrecognized by the accreditation chiefs (who does decide these matters anyway?), useless credential – meaning something I can line my bookshelf with, if indeed I had a bookshelf since I may not be smart enough to READ books given my lackluster grad school credential-procurement record*. But I can post all this and remain unfazed because I KNOW I am brilliant. Basis for this? My parents told me! I don’t place much weight on a lot of their claims, but on this one assertion, I’m going to go out on a limb and stick with you, Mom and Dad!]
And let me throw out some more tailored-to-my-own needs markers of slam-dunk geniusness: I got into every law school I ever applied to (all of one)! And, hold on now, I’m on a roll --I was ranked in the 101 percentile for my TOEFL (the test for non-native speakers of English) scores! I swear! I have the paper to prove it! No, I do not understand what that means either unless perhaps, having passed 100 you are to retreat to the beginning, so it’s like back to square zero and one point into the game. But I got into all kinds of cool grad schools with it so it can’t be that dismal. Okay, I must qualify: I did NOT get into one grad school (it shall remain unmentioned – I hate the place! At least twelve students were preferred over ME! It pains me even now to recognize my inferiority) and at least one school on this short list of a mere five was NOT ranked high on the scale of intellectual coolness (has anyone ever even heard of Carleton University in Canada? I thought it might be fun to live up in Ottawa for a while. I had such interesting criteria of selection, ‘elite’ being conspicuously absent I guess.)
I’m digressing. Back to smartness. I love this! I feel young again! Carter was soooo smart, and Kerry – let’s tally up his smartness assets: hmm, there’s ‘Skull and Bones’ (Skull and Bones? My God, the man should be running for president!), BUT IS HE SMART??
Anyway, I wanted to join the discussion and be part of the blogger gang, so here I am with my very own post on whether or not Kerry is smart. My conclusion: YES HE IS! Basis? I don’t know, he just seems smart.
* Immediately after posting this I received the following email:
Client#: 266Email ID: nlcamic@wisc(dot)edu
Dear Sir/Maddam;From our records we understand that you are qualified in your profession andwe are going to offer you a 1 time offer. Our Univsersity can offer you a Pre-Qualified degree.To obtain your degree with valid transcripts follow this link:http://1highereducation.com Sincerly;Pearlie IngramAdministration Office
I am not about degrees, guys! I'm like Kerry! I have a proven record already!
These days the mail carrier brings only junk mail and bills
This most definitely is a “how times have changed” type of a post. I feel I ought to be writing it from a rocking chair, positioned next to my steamer trunk of faded memories.
Because, in fact, I do have a large steamer trunk (see photo below) filled with letters from my young adult years --letters sent to me when I returned to live in the States to finish my studies here. Apparently, instead of attending to my studies, I attended to my correspondence because there are literally hundreds, possibly thousands of letters there, dated from the years 1973 – 1977 (end of college, beginning grad school – up until the point when I got married; the cessation of correspondence at that moment is in itself a sad statement about how we treat our friends at moments of transition.)
What should I do with them? I am typically not a keeper of paper. It overwhelms me – there is always too much of it and I can’t remember where and what most of it is. These days I throw out as much as I can. I think I can safely say that I do not regret having discarded 99% of all that is now decomposing in a landfill or being recycled into grocery bags.
But the trunk of letters is another matter. It holds all sorts of personalities in one heap of faded paper. There is a small stack from a good university friend who committed suicide shortly after writing me his last letter. I feel I ought not throw that stack away. And the rest?
It’s the entirety that has me stumped: I pick up any single letter (most are from friends in Poland and other distant places) and it is mildly amusing but not much more than that. Quite a number of my friends were, let’s face it, terrible letter writers. I always longed for the personal statements, the ones that contained some small inkling to what was on their minds, an idea, a revelation, a display of weakness, an uncertainty maybe. I know I asked probing questions that sought to elicit these kinds of musings.
But more often than not there would be chronological accounts of who did what and when, gossipy stories and, especially from men, lengthy descriptions of academic work.
Yet the entirety seems to me to be some kind of testament to the transition that I went through as I slowly relinquished my links to my Polish world and connected more and more to people on this side of the ocean.
And so I can’t get myself to simply put this all in ten garbage bags and lay it out with the trash come Wednesday. Still, all that faded paper, locked in a musty trunk…
[n.b.: Though almost all the letters are addressed to me, occasionally there will be an unsent letter written by me. I’m sure I was waiting a decent amount of time to send the next one and the next one. I had firm ideas about how one ought not respond immediately and with five letters to every one that came in. I have no doubt that I violated my own rule then, just like I violate it all the time now in email.]
Because, in fact, I do have a large steamer trunk (see photo below) filled with letters from my young adult years --letters sent to me when I returned to live in the States to finish my studies here. Apparently, instead of attending to my studies, I attended to my correspondence because there are literally hundreds, possibly thousands of letters there, dated from the years 1973 – 1977 (end of college, beginning grad school – up until the point when I got married; the cessation of correspondence at that moment is in itself a sad statement about how we treat our friends at moments of transition.)
What should I do with them? I am typically not a keeper of paper. It overwhelms me – there is always too much of it and I can’t remember where and what most of it is. These days I throw out as much as I can. I think I can safely say that I do not regret having discarded 99% of all that is now decomposing in a landfill or being recycled into grocery bags.
But the trunk of letters is another matter. It holds all sorts of personalities in one heap of faded paper. There is a small stack from a good university friend who committed suicide shortly after writing me his last letter. I feel I ought not throw that stack away. And the rest?
It’s the entirety that has me stumped: I pick up any single letter (most are from friends in Poland and other distant places) and it is mildly amusing but not much more than that. Quite a number of my friends were, let’s face it, terrible letter writers. I always longed for the personal statements, the ones that contained some small inkling to what was on their minds, an idea, a revelation, a display of weakness, an uncertainty maybe. I know I asked probing questions that sought to elicit these kinds of musings.
But more often than not there would be chronological accounts of who did what and when, gossipy stories and, especially from men, lengthy descriptions of academic work.
Yet the entirety seems to me to be some kind of testament to the transition that I went through as I slowly relinquished my links to my Polish world and connected more and more to people on this side of the ocean.
And so I can’t get myself to simply put this all in ten garbage bags and lay it out with the trash come Wednesday. Still, all that faded paper, locked in a musty trunk…
[n.b.: Though almost all the letters are addressed to me, occasionally there will be an unsent letter written by me. I’m sure I was waiting a decent amount of time to send the next one and the next one. I had firm ideas about how one ought not respond immediately and with five letters to every one that came in. I have no doubt that I violated my own rule then, just like I violate it all the time now in email.]
Thursday, August 05, 2004
…Off they go to find a broader point of view
A reader was brilliantly quick at naming the song from yesterday’s post. This one (see post title) may be trickier (go ahead, guess). But it's so fitting!
I spent the better part of the afternoon with Lucy (this is not her real name and she does not read blogs). Lucy may as well be regarded as my alterego. So much of my everyday, I am sure, is odd to her. Just take our appearance: I come in a seersucker skirt to see her (I was in my office later and so it seemed fitting), she’s in purple cords. I haven’t a tattoo on any part of me, she has more tattoos on her arms than I would imagine possible. She is 16 years younger than me. She cooks dinners with a group of people, half of whom I know and they all are much like her and not at all like me, at least at the most basic level of presentation.
Lucy is an exceptionally smart person, though she doesn’t parade this. She studied philosophy and comparative literature, but she doesn’t throw either into the conversation much. Her best friend, Tom (not his name) is a brilliant comparative lit grad, and he is still younger – a mere 23 perhaps?
It may seem odd that Lucy and I are good friends, but we are. I met her when I was baking croissants at L’Etoile. At the time, she was the head baker there as she worked her way to complete her degree. Now she dabbles in cooking in a variety of places around town, most notably, helping Sofia run her East Johnson Street bakery and café (what – you haven’t been to Sofia’s? You are missing Madison’s gem).
There was a reason for today’s longish date with Lucy. She and Tom are heading for Europe this fall, just to get inspired, energized. They plan to roam there for some 3 months and want to meet up with me when I am in Poland in December. They are on a shoestring budget and so the idea of going to the mountain farmhouse I often speak of appeals to them. They wont mind the absence of indoor plumbing.
But I write now about Lucy for another reason. I sometimes wonder if by a hairpin turn, my life could have turned out to be as undefined as hers is now. Having moved between countries makes me a bit of chameleon—I adapt to wherever I am placed. Might I have wondered into a community where no one judges you by the presence or absence of tattoos? I am too wise about life’s trickery to reject the idea completely. It could have been me now, with bold patterns on my arms (Lucy did it with a friend, on an impulse) and a thousand dollars in my pocket to spend on three months in Europe.
I asked her, will she manage? She told me – “I’m taking my puppets with me. Maybe I’ll do shows to lure my way into the hearts of people we meet there.” I don’t think they need puppets. They ooze charm. They’ll manage just fine.
I spent the better part of the afternoon with Lucy (this is not her real name and she does not read blogs). Lucy may as well be regarded as my alterego. So much of my everyday, I am sure, is odd to her. Just take our appearance: I come in a seersucker skirt to see her (I was in my office later and so it seemed fitting), she’s in purple cords. I haven’t a tattoo on any part of me, she has more tattoos on her arms than I would imagine possible. She is 16 years younger than me. She cooks dinners with a group of people, half of whom I know and they all are much like her and not at all like me, at least at the most basic level of presentation.
Lucy is an exceptionally smart person, though she doesn’t parade this. She studied philosophy and comparative literature, but she doesn’t throw either into the conversation much. Her best friend, Tom (not his name) is a brilliant comparative lit grad, and he is still younger – a mere 23 perhaps?
It may seem odd that Lucy and I are good friends, but we are. I met her when I was baking croissants at L’Etoile. At the time, she was the head baker there as she worked her way to complete her degree. Now she dabbles in cooking in a variety of places around town, most notably, helping Sofia run her East Johnson Street bakery and café (what – you haven’t been to Sofia’s? You are missing Madison’s gem).
There was a reason for today’s longish date with Lucy. She and Tom are heading for Europe this fall, just to get inspired, energized. They plan to roam there for some 3 months and want to meet up with me when I am in Poland in December. They are on a shoestring budget and so the idea of going to the mountain farmhouse I often speak of appeals to them. They wont mind the absence of indoor plumbing.
But I write now about Lucy for another reason. I sometimes wonder if by a hairpin turn, my life could have turned out to be as undefined as hers is now. Having moved between countries makes me a bit of chameleon—I adapt to wherever I am placed. Might I have wondered into a community where no one judges you by the presence or absence of tattoos? I am too wise about life’s trickery to reject the idea completely. It could have been me now, with bold patterns on my arms (Lucy did it with a friend, on an impulse) and a thousand dollars in my pocket to spend on three months in Europe.
I asked her, will she manage? She told me – “I’m taking my puppets with me. Maybe I’ll do shows to lure my way into the hearts of people we meet there.” I don’t think they need puppets. They ooze charm. They’ll manage just fine.
True fame
If in academia fame comes from a history of prolific writing and publishing, in the world of food it must come from having products named after you. I read that Capriole Goat Cheeses has named one of their cheeses after Odessa Piper of L’Etoile (read about it here). There’s also a farmer that has named a potato “the Odessa.” In the world of plants, true recognition of your growing talents comes when you have a flower bearing your signature. I know a Madison woman who has a daylily named in her honor.
I’m more likely to have a weed named after me at this point, as I seem to have cultivated them in abundance this summer. There’s a song floating around out there in CD land that was written in my honor, but “Nina” is conspicuously absent from its title so I suppose that doesn’t count. I have to be grateful with what I can get. So, thanks, JFW for at least giving my name Net recognition (here). I know it’s not quite a household word yet, but then neither is the Odessa potato.
I’m more likely to have a weed named after me at this point, as I seem to have cultivated them in abundance this summer. There’s a song floating around out there in CD land that was written in my honor, but “Nina” is conspicuously absent from its title so I suppose that doesn’t count. I have to be grateful with what I can get. So, thanks, JFW for at least giving my name Net recognition (here). I know it’s not quite a household word yet, but then neither is the Odessa potato.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
How long ‘til my soul gets it right…
The last Concert on the Square, a tough day, two wonderful young women who keep me going… (one of them pictured here, helping me along).
Nothing beats an endless drive where you are not the driver but your daughters take charge, with their lovely voices adding to the old tapes from years gone by.
Does anyone else recognize this: how long ‘til my soul gets it right? How long indeed…
Nothing beats an endless drive where you are not the driver but your daughters take charge, with their lovely voices adding to the old tapes from years gone by.
Does anyone else recognize this: how long ‘til my soul gets it right? How long indeed…
This day belongs with the trash bags that went out on garbage day
Might it improve still? Please? Memorable moments from the a.m.:
* Getting up in the morning without much sleep under the belt. It was one of those nights where no one in the household slept. Maybe we had poisonous gasses leaking somewhere and our minds clicked into the self-preservation mode, I don’t know. Mainly, though, no one slept, me included;
* Finding that the first thing on my calendar was an early dental check up during which the hygienist kept telling me that she hated her job (it was only her first month of work, btw) and wished she lived in England;
* Learning from the dentist that some of the cheap dental work that I had done way way back in the years of poverty (grad school) was done incorrectly and there are many who would be oh so willing to fix things and start afresh; yes, that’s indeed what I want – a Fall affair with the dental office;
* Discovering that I had created morning email messes galore, some fixable, some – jury’s still out; understanding that in the future, attempting to write at 4:30 am when one can’t sleep, hasn’t slept, will not sleep is perhaps not a clever idea;
* Getting a call from the “Rejects” Office of the IRS (the name tells you something right off the bat) telling me that I owed hundreds of dollars because I had failed to properly compute some figures on one of their complicated stupid tables inside. Had I done so, I would have correctly concluded that a line on the 1040 should have had something other than a “0” on it;
* Being late for a meeting simply because I was late for a meeting; I have no other good reason to offer.
And so on.
But, as always, the mood is like a bouncing little ping pong ball and so I’m submitting this as counter evidence to the general atrociousness of the day:
* It’s sunny outside, isn’t it? I mean, let’s not be picky here, I need to fill that cup at least to the half-way point;
* My old law school friend whom I last saw in Arizona in February (she now lives in Texas) is here for a few days and the first thing SHE got out of me was a long long whiney walk and talk, where I enumerated all my disgruntlements, one by one. After all, what are friends for. She was a saint, she did not once say “it’s all your fault so quit complaining and get it together.” Instead she said things like “you’re fine, you’re fine, it’s okay, it’s okay..” Wonderful woman, I love her!
* Three of us will be going to the Concert on the Square – it’s the last one of the season and I can sob and bawl to my heart’s content, just like during all previous ones. That’s what one does at these nostalgic-melancholy events, isn’t it?
* There isn’t really a fourth point, but I’m sure one will emerge. It’s only 5 pm after all, the day’s young.
* Getting up in the morning without much sleep under the belt. It was one of those nights where no one in the household slept. Maybe we had poisonous gasses leaking somewhere and our minds clicked into the self-preservation mode, I don’t know. Mainly, though, no one slept, me included;
* Finding that the first thing on my calendar was an early dental check up during which the hygienist kept telling me that she hated her job (it was only her first month of work, btw) and wished she lived in England;
* Learning from the dentist that some of the cheap dental work that I had done way way back in the years of poverty (grad school) was done incorrectly and there are many who would be oh so willing to fix things and start afresh; yes, that’s indeed what I want – a Fall affair with the dental office;
* Discovering that I had created morning email messes galore, some fixable, some – jury’s still out; understanding that in the future, attempting to write at 4:30 am when one can’t sleep, hasn’t slept, will not sleep is perhaps not a clever idea;
* Getting a call from the “Rejects” Office of the IRS (the name tells you something right off the bat) telling me that I owed hundreds of dollars because I had failed to properly compute some figures on one of their complicated stupid tables inside. Had I done so, I would have correctly concluded that a line on the 1040 should have had something other than a “0” on it;
* Being late for a meeting simply because I was late for a meeting; I have no other good reason to offer.
And so on.
But, as always, the mood is like a bouncing little ping pong ball and so I’m submitting this as counter evidence to the general atrociousness of the day:
* It’s sunny outside, isn’t it? I mean, let’s not be picky here, I need to fill that cup at least to the half-way point;
* My old law school friend whom I last saw in Arizona in February (she now lives in Texas) is here for a few days and the first thing SHE got out of me was a long long whiney walk and talk, where I enumerated all my disgruntlements, one by one. After all, what are friends for. She was a saint, she did not once say “it’s all your fault so quit complaining and get it together.” Instead she said things like “you’re fine, you’re fine, it’s okay, it’s okay..” Wonderful woman, I love her!
* Three of us will be going to the Concert on the Square – it’s the last one of the season and I can sob and bawl to my heart’s content, just like during all previous ones. That’s what one does at these nostalgic-melancholy events, isn’t it?
* There isn’t really a fourth point, but I’m sure one will emerge. It’s only 5 pm after all, the day’s young.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Our local paper opts for the cute
Sure enough, today's headline is “On ferry with Kerry.” As the candidates make their campaign rounds I can hear the cutesiness pick up. Imagine: “Eating sushi with a Bushie” or “Allegheny with a Cheney” “Drinking Rheingold with a Feingold.” One could make a game of this. But what about Edwards?? My mind draws a blank.
Can I outsource the very idea of over-the-phone computer fixes?
Day two of computer issues: three far, far away Dell technicians later and one close-by geek and I am still without a diagnosis and without a solution. That is all fine. The local geek has sworn up and down that he knows what needs to be done (by Dell, under warrantee). But how to get there?? Still more steps ahead of me: first I have to find another distant, distant Dell techie to again mislead me about quick fixes by phone and then, at that moment, I have to shout “AHA! Gotcha! It’s not working! Now please, just send me a new hard drive and we’ll call it quits.”
Yeah. That’s the conversation for tonight. After that, it’s back to the geek who can then install the new hard drive and we’ll be coastin’ along.
Money spent so far saving files (without being near a solution): $104
Time spent so far (2 hrs + 3 hrs + 2.5 hrs + 1 hr. + 2 hrs): 10.5 hrs
Expenses ahead (presumably moving us closer to a solution): $200 maybe more
Time still left to handle the techies, geeks and tired Dell employees who’d rather be sleeping in their time zone I’m sure, rather than walking me through irrelevant steps that WONT WORK, damn it: 10 hrs. maybe more.
Anxiety level: marginal disturbance noted, but in reality, I am getting so used to this. I feel almost jovial if truth be told. It is the fourth laptop I have had crash. I know the routines. It’s like taking out the garbage – I’m on automatic pilot now.
Yeah. That’s the conversation for tonight. After that, it’s back to the geek who can then install the new hard drive and we’ll be coastin’ along.
Money spent so far saving files (without being near a solution): $104
Time spent so far (2 hrs + 3 hrs + 2.5 hrs + 1 hr. + 2 hrs): 10.5 hrs
Expenses ahead (presumably moving us closer to a solution): $200 maybe more
Time still left to handle the techies, geeks and tired Dell employees who’d rather be sleeping in their time zone I’m sure, rather than walking me through irrelevant steps that WONT WORK, damn it: 10 hrs. maybe more.
Anxiety level: marginal disturbance noted, but in reality, I am getting so used to this. I feel almost jovial if truth be told. It is the fourth laptop I have had crash. I know the routines. It’s like taking out the garbage – I’m on automatic pilot now.
Years of practice
This afternoon I met an attorney friend for a cup of coffee downtown on the Square. In the time I spent there, I saw many many familiar faces – mostly people from the Court, people with whom I had almost daily contact back in the days when I worked with law students on custody and abuse & neglect cases.
Two years have passed since my last court appearance, but I remember it vividly – down to the clothes my client wore. It was a custody battle and we lost. There wasn’t much chance of our winning since the attorney representing the child’s best interest hated, absolutely hated my client (the mother in the dispute). The judge almost never overrides the opinion of the child’s attorney. Still, I had been convinced that my client could survive the brutal questioning and that she would be seen not as a loser, but simply as a sometimes-down-and-out mom who tried her hardest (she really did), even though she could not always get it together (neither could the dad – let’s just say they both had their issues).
I can’t say I was sorry to stop trying these cases. I felt that after all those years representing parents, many of whom allegedly neglected or even abused their children, I would welcome the break. When parents come to you bewildered, stunned by the callousness of the process, not able to comprehend why their children were being taken away from them, your head can spin from their agony.
But although I do not really miss the Court routines, I do miss speaking on behalf of people who truly needed my help. And I miss sitting with them outside the Court room, waiting for the trial to begin. And meeting their extended families. I miss seeing all that human grit and spirit in the face of stress and chaos. We seem like a pretty whiny lot over at (UW) Bascom Hill by comparison.
Two years have passed since my last court appearance, but I remember it vividly – down to the clothes my client wore. It was a custody battle and we lost. There wasn’t much chance of our winning since the attorney representing the child’s best interest hated, absolutely hated my client (the mother in the dispute). The judge almost never overrides the opinion of the child’s attorney. Still, I had been convinced that my client could survive the brutal questioning and that she would be seen not as a loser, but simply as a sometimes-down-and-out mom who tried her hardest (she really did), even though she could not always get it together (neither could the dad – let’s just say they both had their issues).
I can’t say I was sorry to stop trying these cases. I felt that after all those years representing parents, many of whom allegedly neglected or even abused their children, I would welcome the break. When parents come to you bewildered, stunned by the callousness of the process, not able to comprehend why their children were being taken away from them, your head can spin from their agony.
But although I do not really miss the Court routines, I do miss speaking on behalf of people who truly needed my help. And I miss sitting with them outside the Court room, waiting for the trial to begin. And meeting their extended families. I miss seeing all that human grit and spirit in the face of stress and chaos. We seem like a pretty whiny lot over at (UW) Bascom Hill by comparison.
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