vignettes

Three strangers walked into my condo very early this morning. It was a mistake – they meant to visit a vacant unit that is for sale on the floor below me, but it was interesting to be sitting in morning disarray and to have three people staring at you.

*****

Later, the phone rang. Caller ID showed it was a cell phone. A dignified, deep voice on the other end. Nina? It’s Doctor R. Just calling to see how you’re feeling after yesterday’s procedure… For real?? A doctor (dentist really, but it’s the same…), calling me on a Saturday, to find out how things were progressing?? A small thing perhaps, but I was impressed. I made a note to recommend him to the thousands I meet daily who ask me where they should have their root canals treated.

*****

Later, Ed suggested that we look at toilets. For the writer’s shed. Mind you, there is no plumbing scheduled for the writer’s shed in its immediate future, but Ed thought we should be prepared for the day when the shed joins the twentieth century.

We picked a toilet. This one:





As usual, we picked based on price, but with a ten dollar boost to acquire the slightly larger model because I swear, the regular bowl looked like it could accommodate only half of a Wisconsin adult buttock.

*****

Later, we searched Ebay for cheap shower fixtures (again, being far sighted and optimistic that the day will come when water would flow to the shed). We put in a bid for a basic model that had water jets streaming from a number of places. Yes, this for the shed without a water source. But, it was cheap and Ed's imagination is flying. Eventually, there will be a free standing shower, with a curtain around it. Not any curtain, mind you. This one will have Ocean photos emblazoned on the fabric.

If that doesn't inspire me to finish the great Wtriting Project, I cannot imagine what would.

We spent many minutes at Menards and then at Home Depot and I have to say, I love shopping at Home Depot because it is the only place in the world where there are more people to help you than you could possibly want.




*****

It’s late now. We have a toilet in the back of Ed’s Geo, we have a bid in for a shower head, and we even know where to find a two burner cooktop for very a very small price, in case I decide that I will hibernate in the shed long enough to cook a pot of soup. On the day that I will remember to take a pot there, because, of course, there is no plan to furnish it with pots. Or even spoons. To say nothing of, well, water.

comfort and joy at La Baguette

I am the only person I know who has three separate dental specialists attending to what I regard as standard dental care: the surgeon, the endodontist and the regular guy who does everything else. If I was in phase one of dental care when I first came to America as a little kid, I am now in the senior phase of picking up where my childhood tooth doctor left off.

In addition to accumulating a drawerful of dentist stories, I am accumulating unfilled prescriptions for painkillers. I believe in a glass of rosé wine as a good cure-all.

Today’s endodontist asked what I do for a living (they all ask that; interesting, isn’t it? how much can we milk her for…) and he removed all instruments so that I could give a clear and unambiguous answer. When I told him of my affiliation with the law school, he relaxed. He then listed various colleagues of mine and assured me that they were his friends. I wasn’t certain if they were friends in the same way that I was now his “friend” or if they were really truly buddies, but it felt intrusive to ask and so I just grunted admiration for the wide circumference of his social circle.

After a long spell on his chair I decided a treat was in order and so I hurried to La Baguette to pick up bread and a chocolate croissant.

Both the bakery and the café part were absolutely hopping and that, along with their free samples of the new Baujolais (2008 est arrivée!) made my heart sing.










I listened to the French behind the counter, chatted with Madame as to the true meaning of la poissonerie and all worries receded.

It’s good to have happy spots to retreat to when the weather stays cold and your only scheduled meeting for the day is with a dentist.

cold

It never even hit freezing today. Twenty-seven degrees. I felt it. Anyone who walked by the lake felt it. And the winds! Crazy.





From my office window I watched the blackbirds. Hover, dip, then settle. Unaffected by any of it.










The only thing I can say is that in the northern counties, they had snow. A foot of it. Can't even think about that. Too much too soon.

wednesday

In the end, we went to pick up burritos for supper. The day had dragged with worry and fretting in the way that you worry and fret when you realize that something needs to be rearranged, something isn’t right in this set up.

So at dusk, we went to Borders, where I returned a book – third in a row, as if I can’t keep any purchase anymore, they all seem frivolous, unnecessary and there is no room for the unnecessary. Ed bought me a cup of coffee and I spent many minutes looking at Annie Liebowitz’s new book of photos and sipping that double shot frothy milk combination until the cup had only cold froth at the bottom.

We were early at the burrito place. The idea was to pack them up and take them home for later. With some late show on TV maybe, or one of the videos Ed is forever picking up at the library. Not many people looking for food now. A couple of kids, a cop, no one excited about anything, except maybe about how much rice, how much beans, how much chopped tomato should go into your tortilla.





At home, we did not wait. We opened up our burritos and ate first one half, then the other, as if it had been a long time since we had something warm and nourishing and comforting, or at least that’s the way it felt to me as the TV droned on about the failing auto industry, the failing markets, and all the rest of the day’s news.

near the end of the semester

On some days, there is very little on my mind beyond the legal argument. I’m not joking. I wake up thinking about one class, move into the afternoon thinking about another and by evening, when I am at the bus stop waiting to head home, everything seems to be about the law.

Every issue presents itself as a courtroom scene. Here’s the allegation, here's the evidence, here’s the defense, here’s the outcome. From differences I face with my occasional traveling companion, to issues that arise at work, I argue in my head with a TV version of the real thing: but your honor! (I play the role of judge, too.)

At times like this, I know I need a break. A severance. Or at least a pause. So that I can wake up and think about the fruit that should load my cereal bowl and not what arguments are to made in favor of raspberries.

pretty, for now

The thing about the first anything is that it always has elements of the unexpected. The first haircut – oh, is that how it looks?, the first job – that paycheck sure didn’t last, the first good bottle of wine – are you sure this is good? Can you tell?

I can say the same about the first snow of the season. A dusting really, but for several minutes it fell fast and furiously…



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...in a Jackson Pollock sort of way (as seen from my condo)



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…and when it was all over and done with, and the sun was out again, it all looked prettier than a painting (especially on raspberry canes, in sunlight).



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Who would have thought I had kind things to say about the coming of winter. Or, is it really winter yet?



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explicatus, apologia, errata and pizza

A quiet day? Well no, a turbulent day, even if much the turbulence is of my own doing. Disagreeing with friends over the possibility of comprehensive health care for all, disagreeing with my occasional traveling companion over whether “not having the DNA for it” frees us from duty toward another, disagreeing with family members about travel, disagreeing… oh, let me stop here.

Just one more: arguing with myself as to how to recompose the mood of a chapter, the long ago written chapter of my Great Writing Project.

An accomplished author once told me that you cannot go back and rework a book that you had written and left unpublished, unpolished, unfinished several years back. The changes in your life will put you in to a different mindset. You cannot, should not write as if you were writing then and so you must write as you are now. Meaning, you should rewrite the whole thing.

I am getting to the point where this is how I approach the finished chapters (roughly one third of the Great Writing Project):

The first dozen rewrites led to an improved product.
The second dozen rewrites led to a way improved product.
The next two rewrites made me squirm a little: I wasn’t in love with what was there when I opened the folder.

I feel that if I wait a significant amount of time to finish this, I will hate the whole thing and never let it go anywhere except to the garbage can next to Bagels Forever on University Avenue (which is where I dumped some twenty journals from my adult years when I concluded that I hated every word I put on paper in those years.)

Hence my current disgruntlement. My public (and eventually private) apologies.

UPDATE:
Tonight Ed and I, our DNA differences notwithstanding, found comfort in excellent pizza, and let me recommend that to you if you find yourself after a day of toilet cleaning, Great Writing Project hating and a generally feeling bearish. If you are in Madison and you cannot afford a flight to Napoli and indeed, you do not even want to struggle with parking near Porta Alba (another excellent pizza place, but inconveniently downtown), do go to Brutta on Monroe Street. It has the smell (and taste) of burning wood, the sauce is legit and the crust is as it should be. Food is the great mellow-izer.

mother, writer, good person...

Not too long ago, I heard somewhere that, when asked what best defined her, Michelle Obama answered that first and foremost she saw herself as a mother.

With camera lights glaring in your face, would you, without thought or hesitation, have said the same (assuming you are a mom)? Would I?

I panicked for a second. Do I have something in me that would push itself forward, in competition with motherhood? When I was significantly younger, I thought, at different ages, that I would make the following a priority: a career in journalism, then academic math, then academic economics, then academic sociology. Eventually law. But not without hesitation: confused and infused with wanting to be a cook, a photographer, a horticulturalist, a cartographer, a downhill racer, and through it all, a writer. When career choices weren’t pounding at me, I thought about wanting to be a “good person” rather than “an angry and selfish person.” I assumed I would also be a wife and mother, but I gave those categories no great thought. Dolls were a small part of my childhood play. I had them, but I didn’t quite know what to do with them. Not once I started going to school.

Still, it was hugely reassuring to realize that now and indeed from the first day after the birth of my first daughter, I think that the most important things that have come from me have been those done in my role as mom.

Perhaps nearly every mother would answer in the same vein. After all, we spend so much time on this project – it would be a shame to say that parenting is a mere secondary talent.

So, insofar as so many of us think the same way, why are we so lackadaisical in our preparation for it? I never held a baby until my own was born (at least this is my recollection) and I did more to sharpen my cooking skills than I did to figure out the mommy deal. Learn it as you go along.


I thought about this as I drove past my writer’s shed in the making. There it is -- to the left of the silo and the old barn:





I came home to the dusty draft of my writing project. I put it aside and called daughter. Not available. So I went back to the writing project.

november fields

What’s left of this month anyway? Whose walking those bare fields now, when it’s cold but not cold enough for snow? Muddy hills, wilted, shriveled leftovers. If it weren’t for Thanksgiving, who here would care about November?

Still, it’s kind of pretty now. From a distance. If the light is just right.



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(thinking this while heading out to Ed’s, just south of Madison)

love

If the days appear skewed toward the positive, it has to do with the quiet hours that allow me to move ahead, slowly, methodically. The weather doesn't distract me -- I don't even take a cafe break, I bring the coffee back to my window looking out on Bascom and I watch people walk up the hill, down the hill, with white strings dripping from their ears, or, like these two, all arms and lips, dripping with love.










They stand, they kiss -- he her, then she him ...up the hill they go, still kissing, connected in lush, splendid love.










By night, I am still at the window, but I can't see them now. Too dark, too late. Or maybe not? Are they hidden, somewhere, kissing, because surely they haven't had enough? In the dark shadows of the giant elms, fiercely in love?





Probably not. But maybe.

so…

You get to wonder sometimes – how many bloggers out there are really happy?

Bleh, what’s happiness… (that’s one response)… and how dare you talk of pleasure when marriages fail, your kids leave home, and the world is full of corrupt lawyers and other such entities waiting to suck you dry? (that’s another)

Still, there is this perspective (and it is mine today): you wake up, the skies are utterly somber, there are a million things that can go wrong for you on this day alone (some big, some tremendous), and yet… none of them go wrong.

You’re sound, you’re strong, you have ideas, your kids are off and running, and you’re attending to your debt. In one sweet exchange, you’re told – go home, we’re done hassling you.

Bliss.

If you placed me on a beach under a swaying palm tree, I could not be more at peace.



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quiet times

All day, it rained.



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I got on the wrong bus going home this evening. It was late, raining, but I realized my mistake early enough so that I wasn’t at the wrong side of town without a way to get back. Small towns have empty streets and lousy public transportation alternatives after work hours.



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At close to 9, I opened the door to my condo, let go of my back pack, put on my pajamas and exhaled.

I tell my students (in the years that I remember to tell them this) that no vacation will ever feel as good as the winter break that comes after the first semester of law school. But sometimes, I think that the opening of the door to home after a packed work day is deserving of honors: let me proclaim this moment – of opening my condo door – as, well, sublime.

In other news – no other news. It was a gentle day of work, with a coffee break in the middle and a tea break at the end. Both lovely. And actually, let me admit it: this day of cold weather and much work was a good day.

outdoor breaks

The reason people endure winter here as well as they do is because many cold days are bright days. Give me a cold day in Madison over a cold day in Warsaw anytime. In Poland, drizzle freezes as it hits your face, seemingly all December long. Here, not too infrequently, the sun comes out.

Today, it was cold and bright.

I didn’t do much that would warrant photographic invasion. Monday is almost always a heavy work day and I typically work at home.

Others sought respite at midday outside. Because, if you huddle next to a brick wall, not too far from something that spouts warm air, you could even enjoy a cigarette break on a picnic bench.





Not good enough? Okay, on the way to the grocery store, I passed a backyard that had relics of the summer still there. On the back porch: a grill, a few chairs…

I noticed it because it was framed in the colors of Madison’s fall/winter. So much better than freezing drizzle.

thinking back

This week-end, one of my father’s closest friends died. I called my dad (he lives in Poland) to see if he was feeling morose about it. He reassured me that he wasn’t ready to follow his once close buddy, Mietek, to the world beyond. But he was nursing some virus or other and so I didn’t keep him on the phone for long.

I perused Polish newspapers to read now about Mietek. This was a man of great national visibility. When my father and he were pals, Mietek (who was a constant presence in our home) was the editor of a very popular Polish news weekly. The paper was politically edgy, insofar as any paper could really be edgy in the times of censorship. Later, Mietek took on a leading role in government. His decisions as a politician are still being dissected and criticized, especially (but not only) by the younger generation – the people who hold the communist leadership responsible for economic stagnation after the war.


It’s healthy, I think, to sit back and do nothing every now and then. The skies are gray, nothing is pushing me out, the camera rests. And so I spent a good part of the afternoon thinking.

The politics of electing a president – that was part of it. Thinking about what one can and cannot say if one wants to win the support of the majority. Thinking about what one can and cannot say (and I don’t mean hate speech – in my mind, hate speech belongs nowhere) when one wants to keep a job, be an effective advocate, influence governance.

When Mietek was interviewed a couple of years back by the new generation of journalists, those whose adulthood coincided with the emergence of a free-market economy in Poland, he listened patiently to the accusations levied against him for not saying enough at the time that he was a news editor. (The accusations grow stronger for his later years as Prime Minister: he appeared to step back then, retreating from his prior defense of capitalism, but that’s another story.)

I think about that a lot: had I been in his position, working from within, believing in socialism (as he did, til the day he died), would have I been more outspoken?

Maybe, maybe not.

And so, how was I during those years when I lived in communist Poland? For one thing, I was young.

Ah, if I ever get around to finishing that chapter of my book, you’ll know.

One third down, a million thoughts to go.

shutting down for the year

Last day of the Westside Community Market. For this year anyway. Sigh…

The snow showers continued, the wind picked up, and everything outdoors seemed rather fragile.

Rushing past one stall, then another, I noted the concentration of root vegetables and the absence of such things as flowers and fruits and things that spoke of summer. Sigh…

So, a good soul would go up to each farmer, hand over a gift and say thank you. Because there were such tough days -- of bugs and heat and lately, of cold snow showers.

I didn’t do that. I stuffed onions and beets and celeriac into the basket and hurried home.

But here’s a quick wave to you. Hats off for a job well done. That is, my hat off to you. You keep your wool caps on. Until spring. See you then.
























You rock. All of you.

snow showers

You kind of expect it here in November – that wet, miserable dump of rain mixed with snow. But somehow, last year’s winter left everyone weakened. And so today, we complain. Seen what’s going on outside? Awful stuff…

I watch a flock of blackbirds raid the fields just at the edge of the city. Do you think birds even notice when it snows?



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I’m warning you: between now and May 1st, the weather will creep into the Ocean blog in the same way that the news will be filled with Obama trivia. It’s what you do when you live through difficult days: for six months out of the year, you spend a lot of time talking about the weather. And, for balance, the White House pooch. To perk things up a bit until spring's here again.

today

A day of work.

And not only. There was the coffee break. And the time spent on helping a friend make sense of his court transcripts.

And the time when I looked out my office window and saw the sun do its thing.



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And the big grin I got from looking at these post election cartoons...

A day of work is not necessarily a bad thing. Ask our president-elect.

speech

The road ahead will be long, our climb will be steep…
[Barack Obama, President-Elect]





So why are these two women not wearing helmets? Admittedly, it’s great weather once again and shorts are all part of the gig, but your head needs protection. One out of three with helmet is not good enough. One out of three does not win races. That’s my speech to the women I passed today (I was on a motorbike with Ed; we were heading back to last nights’ election hosts so that I could retrieve the vehicle I had driven there.)


I listen to the analysis of Obama’s acceptance speech. When was the last time that I listened carefully to acceptance speeches?

The morning after feels very good indeed.

election!

I woke up and thought – election!

But, it was only 4 and the polls were not yet open.

I went back to sleep.

By 6 a.m. I’m up again. Still too early to vote. I prepare for class and talk elections with various persons by phone. Including with someone who is hiding in England, waiting for this to be over. I feed her some horror scenarios, just to keep her on the toes and awake for the night ahead.


I don’t expect long lines at my polling place. Not at the time that I vote (after 9). It’s mostly seniors. The young working people (and students) are gone. Working.

Oh oh. My bike has a flat. No time to change it. I need to vote and get to class. I borrow a car.

At the polling place, the ones handing out ballots cannot spell my name even though I repeat it slowly six times. Then they can’t find my name at all. Even though I have already voted here once. Thankfully we can register on the day of elections. So I register AGAIN and wonder if next year there will be TWO Nina Camics on the log.







I vote, but not with one straight arrow – along my party line. That’s too fast. I need to savor the pleasure of connecting the arrow for my candidate.

I’m done.







On campus, it is a day of such exuberance! Of course. We are experiencing record highs. Temperature-wise (record breaking). Election-wise.









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I get stickers slapped onto my shirt saying that I voted. I wear them happily – it is the unison of us voters that creates a winner. One act of voting doesn’t do it, but united in our voting effort we produce a winner. And so it is this moment of recognizing that our solitary act of casting a vote isn’t so solitary after all, we all did it, we with stickers saying so – I voted! – that gives the pleasure of accomplishing something as a group – of campus people, Madison people, Wisconsin people, Americans.



















(No, I see no McCain supporters openly pushing their team today. Naderites - yes, though I found them to be, well, not really photogenic.)


I settle in for a long coffee and work my way through the rest of the afternoon until it’s time for class.

After, I hurry home, pick up some champagne and head over to the Sad Libs – a group with which I watched elections four years ago.


Today, young and old, we were on the hopeful end of things.




Not so sad right now. Hopeful and proud.

transition

An early morning ride on the Red Line, from Cambridge to Boston, then onto the Gray Line from South Station to the airport.

I always toy with the idea of taking my camera out one last time as we cross the Charles River. River crossings are invariably pretty. But usually I don’t bother. River crossings on a subway with dirty windows, zipping alongside a highway, facing the uninteresting part of Boston are not worth it.

Today, however, I just want to take a photo already and put the camera away. I’m tired. I have long layovers between flights. And I have work to do. Take the photo and be done with it.

And I do that. And, as expected, it is an unremarkable photo.





Except that as I take it, an older woman across the car leans over and tells me – you captured a good one. I’m about to protest and say that it is a boring side of Boston and the window is dirty and there is nothing that needs to be said about this place, this day, this minute, but as I look at the woman more closely, I think – wow. She is someone who knows how to engage her world. She does not run and hide.

And so I smile and shrug all at the same time and I agree that the colors are neat, what with autumn and the sleet gray of the day. As I leave the subway several stops later, I want to say something more to her. An offhand remark maybe. Like – don’t forget to vote! But in the end I don't say anything. She’s the last person I would want to insult with the suggestion that she may, indeed, forget to vote.

I get off and proceed to the next train and then the many flights home and I do work and put away my suitcase and eventually sit down and think about how cool it is when in the course of a day you come across someone who says something nice to you for no reason except to acknowledge our common humanity.

I hope she does vote. Somehow I think she’s likely to pick the better candidate out there. The one who is more likely to act out of a belief in our common humanity.

I wish I had at least waved before stepping out onto the platform.