the law

They say you never really understand how a complicated civil case works its way through the court system unless you, yourself have been implicated in one. Not as a lawyer, but as a defendant or plaintiff.

I think I agree. I remember when I represented parents in cases where they allegedly abused or neglected their children. I had a healthy amount of detachment from my clients’ issues. It’s not, I don’t think, that I lacked empathy. But, at the end of the day, I walked away and picked up my other life, my real life.


For the last four years, I have tracked a series of complicated legal proceedings involving my occasional traveling companion. Truly, they have profoundly affected the way I now regard the positioning of a client in a legal claim.

This week, a trail begins in New York, and it has elements of every kind of law – family, property, negligence even. In other words, every subject that I teach at the law school. The case is Ed’s case and therefore not something I would explain here, but I’ll say this much: Ed is as quiet in life as anyone I’ve ever met. And yet, he’s stuck in a legal quagmire that is absolutely consuming – of time and resources. He once told me that he retired early so he could devote himself to straightening out this legal mess (not of his making).

Sometimes I have wondered why he doesn’t just not try. He wouldn’t admit it, but I think he is committed to doing what is surely right out of a profound love and respect for his (now deceased) dad and mom.

I mention all this because he is in New York now and I am struggling to get work completed this week-end so that I can fly out just for a day (and a half!) for the beginning of the several week-long trial. Teaching and my little shop obligations prevent me from spending more time out of Madison, but on Tuesday, on his 59th birthday (everyday is a birthday!), the 4th anniversary of our meeting (doesn’t celebrate that either), I’ll be at the Supreme Court of New York, listening very carefully.

(Sometimes life has too much drama.)

In the meantime, today, I checked up on the cats. They’re doing well, Ed. Here’s something that’ll make you smile:










For the rest of Ocean readers, I understand that photos of two feral cats may be a little too little. So I’ll post photos from my bike ride over to the farmette and back again. The last photo is of beef bourguignon, from an Alice Waters recipe. Prepared by friends who are really really good at looking after me in times of stress and worry.

the essentials

I have, over the years, slowed down. You don’t notice it when it happens. One day, you’re flying between court cases and class teaching and restaurant baking and childcare and garden work and gutter cleaning and school newspaper editing and Nutcracker rehearsal schedules (because your kid is Clara and what a time suck that is!) and fresh and honest dinner cooking and and then suddenly, at some later date, you notice that, line by line, your list has grown shorter. Whited out over time. Down to three items. Four during the holiday season.

So that it hardly seems excessive that I should run now from one job to the other, plan dinner menus in advance, think about a post when riding the bus home. The days are, for the most part, orderly and I know that I have made them that way. By the time you’re in your upper fifties (56 is upper, isn’t it?), you have either given in to chaos or you have perfected order. I have perfected order.

Today, that order is pristine and solid. With Ed away, my day is stripped down to only these essentials: grade exams, work in shop, eat dinner, post on Ocean. That’s it.

I’m thinking -- as I wake up in that predawn hour of undefined light -- I’m thinking that I should add to it. And so, even though I have just made a Cousances pot (I have the old one, before Le Creuset bought the company) of roasted tomato soup, and hashed a truckload of brussel sprouts (with olive oil, garlic, lemon juice and white wine), I want to go to the market. I want to stare at crates of produce. Because too soon, the market season will be over.

So this is what I leave for you: a morning (one of the last) at the Westside Community Market. As the sun breaks. And the pears come out of their purple shadows and the carrots and pumpkins show off their carotene pigments in the sudden burst of early light.

leaves

My feeling is that if you can’t brag about the colors just outside your door in mid-October, then what good is mid-October?





Which brings me to a different but not unrelated point. A friend said yesterday that her aging in-laws were moving from their assisted living residence at Spring Meadows, to the next level of assisted living – Autumn Leaves. I spent a few moments thinking about which name was more likable. Which lead me to search all the names of old people’s homes in Dane County. A discouraging activity. Though I had a small laugh out of this one – the Home of Infinite Ability.


In the NYTimes this week-end, readers are asked to come forth with their definition of age (I did submit one because I think it’s cool to write for the NYTimes). And so now I'm again thinking about October: it's an old month, don’t you think? But isn’t it ironic that, living in the northern Midwest, the month you really come to dislike is at-the-cusp-of-spring March? So unpredictable!

It was an all around day of work for me.

settling in?

Finally. Half way into the semester, I have developed a rhythm. I’m in control. When I have a few minutes of spare time (on the bus ride in maybe?), I use them well. At night, I know when to turn off the light and force sleep. On Sunday, I have to work on Tuesday’s class (because there wont be time on Monday) and Tuesday, I have to imagine a blogpost in the evening hours that I work at the shop. I can’t write it then, but I have to imagine it.

So, having said that, I am about to abandon it all and hit a period of turmoil. Nothing will be as it was up to now. I have disruptions in October, in November, and really, by the time we hit December, I may as well give up, because there is nothing normal about any single day of that month.

It’s funny that I should have developed a good pace now. Useless, really, but for this one brief moment in time – deeply satisfying.

Oh, sorry. You may want a photo or two from today. Well, in between classes and meetings with students, I took a two minute break to gaze out my office window. When students ask why I have the office I do (it’s disproportionately small), I tell them it’s because of this – a huge window that looks out on Bascom Mall and the mighty trees that line its paths.





Another photo? Sure, I have one more: walking home late at night (from the lovely little corner shop), I pass, as always, the big grocery store. It’s open round the clock and I find myself going in more often than not – maybe out of a feeling of solidarity toward the late evening shift. I pick up a few needed items and I head home. It’s a deeply satisfying routine -- comforting, warming, invigorating even, because I know that soon I’ll be safely at the condo, feet up, cup of soup steaming, glass of wine at least half full.

Tonight, though, there is a drizzle that makes me pick up the pace just a little. Though I do pause. Because these pumpkins on a wet walk are too beautiful to ignore.





Cold, wet nights. Beautiful in their own way. No kidding.

stillness

Early in the day, Ed and I take a walk to the market. A typical November market. You don’t think “bounty!” Instead, you notice the empty spaces, the absence of bright colors, the chill in the air.





It’s the kind of day when you’re thrilled to see brussel sprouts.





But the market seems strained. As if the farmers had to dig extra deep to bring even this much.

I pick up squash, onions, cauliflower, garlic. And tomatoes. And brussel sprouts. I’ll be cooking for one (and only one) in the weeks ahead. It will be a time of soups, prepared, then reheated. A time of early nights, and earlier mornings.

Ed’s flying off tomorrow (court time, in NY) and I’m envisioning days of sifting and sorting. Pruning the garden of weeds and dried brush (even as it wont really be a garden, let alone one with weeds, or with dried brush).


Walking to campus, I think that even though there are colors out there, they don’t make the world more colorful. She appears indifferent to the guy, he seems indifferent to her, and the bus rolls along, unconcerned about the season, about anything except getting the pack of kids back home on time.











I am happy that people whom I care about are just a phone call or an email message away.

the few, the hardy few

I’m not one of them.


Are you biking to work today? – Ed asks.

Is he serious?

No, I am not biking.
Then why did we replace the battery in your cycle meter the other day?

Call him frugal. A person who will always conserve battery life and fuel.


Cold. So cold that I almost skipped the espresso at midday. Some people are just more hardy than me. Or, they pretend.










Pull up the hood, sit down, eat. Imagine that it's one of those unseasonably warm days. It wasn't that, but just stretch your imagination chords somewhat. Don't forget to pull up the zipper. And tighten the hood. It's October after all.

getting ready

My visiting daughter has an early flight out. I watch her get ready. In my mind I count the days when I’ll cross paths with her or her sister again (not too many!)

My daughters move between big cities effortlessly. DC, NY, Chicago, Boston – that's all part of the everyday for them. Me, I move between campus and condo, shop and condo, Ed's farmette – if the weather is nice.

I can’t say that the weather is nice, but in the predawn hour, after dropping daughter at airport, I swing by the farmette.

It seems wintry by his shed.






I offer to help evaluate his preparedness. He has to be ready for a court appearance in New York next week. New York – I say. Have you forgotten? Suit and tie, buddy.
It shouldn’t matter what I wear… He turns, wanting me to agree that it doesn’t matter. I say to him – oh, but I think it very much does matter.

He puts on the suit that he bought for a funeral eight years ago. It’s too everything: baggy pants, limp jacket covering a tight shirt. I stifle a smile. It’s okay, it will do. You’re okay. I’m talking to the man who would prefer to dig out boulders on the Ice Age Trail than set foot in New York again.


We go to his favorite cheap haircut place. I know I should tell the cutter – make him look less wild. But I don’t. I feel we have compromised enough on the clothes.










Late. Classes are done. The clouds roll in. Surely it is a winter sky. No? Not there yet? Are we merely getting ready? I'm fine with that.

She ran ahead, in the way that she used to run ahead when she was small.





In those years, her younger sister, held by one parent or the other would look on.

Indian Lake was a favorite – close, but quiet. Manageable. Initially, we would just take a walk to the lake and back.





Now, of course, we aim further. The rewards are tremendous.





I come here to this same path in the winter, to cross-country ski. I tell her how warm you feel climbing up these hills on skis. Maybe next year she’ll push along with Ed and me in the winter forest? Maybe my littler one will too?


We watch the clouds recede. That gorgeous Midwestern sky! Later, in the shop where I spend the waning hours of the afternoon, I encounter customers from England. They are bothered by the cold, but I remind them that they have a multi-layered cloud system over the British Isles that always threatens to explode on the poor sods below. In Wiscosnin, we have sky! Endless beautiful sky! Yes, the old man agrees. Your clouds are rather high up.





I don’t think it passed 40 degrees today. Who cares. It felt breezy and vacation-like because I was indeed on an early afternoon vacation.

In the middle of the forest we encountered a couple of mushroom hunters.





You found those here?
Yes, of course, by the trees.





I recognize the accent. Are you from...?
Byelorussia.
Ah. You know, I’m from Poland. We were big mushroom hunters there, when I was a little girl.
Actually, the part of Byelorussia that we’re from used to be Poland…

Yes, there’s that.

The mushrooms here? They’re like the ones in Byelorussia. I admire and move on.

Up the next hill, the final hill, for that last view.





Last breath of quiet air. The weekly clamor for spare minutes hasn’t started, but I hear its rumble. But not at this moment. Not now. Not at Indian Lake, where little girls once chased their fantasies and I trailed behind, beaming and proud.

ice age (trail)

I am so tired. Eyes half closed. Begging for the release of sleep. Will you accept just a photo or two, maybe from the downtown farmers market?





Okay.



The whole day -- in all its parameters, was because of her:





She’s visiting. Me, in anticipation, I worried about the weather.

I shouldn’t have. No great rains, no colorless skies, none of it. Well, I'm thinking of the hours after the morning snow flurries.

An increasingly bluer sky along the Ice Age trail. And the breeze of early winter.

Cold, but so good, so invigorating.

stitching and honor

You may think I have spent an unpardonably long period of time trading adventure and exploration for work and tedium (with a little bit of extra cash thrown in). I’ll let you think that.

But, today, it would be good for me to include a photo of someone spinning. Because I feel myself to be spinning ideas for the weeks and months ahead.

Sadly, no spinner crossed my path. Though I did see this woman – she had fixed a pair of pants for me and I went to the shop to pick them up. She’s a stitcher, no? (She dresses well, as does her husband, Sr. Monetti, of Monetti's Tailoring. Yes, they're Italian.)





Might I say then that I have been stitching together ideas for some longer pauses from work?

My spinning and stitching is ripply and uneven. I have a lot of unknowns to deal with which stand in the way of making grand plans, paid for in advance with a credit card.

But, sooner or later, there will be a finished product (many! Oh I hope so!).


In the meantime, I’ll share a rare semi-political thought (Ocean, as you know, avoids politics with as much care as you might avoid the H1N1 virus): I woke up to Ed telling me early before dawn (too early before dawn) that Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize. My reaction was simple (I was groggy, so forgive the language): no shit? No shit.

I thought back to my UN school days and my last graduation ceremony, which took place in the great hall of UN's ECOSOC. I thought, too, how gratifying it is to learn that diplomacy still has its fans, even if they live in a country that spends the better part of winter without sunlight.

Later, when I awoke for real and clicked on the computer/news, I thought how sad that anyone should wake up to find out he had won the Nobel Peace Prize, only to be then scoffed at by those who had other ideas about where the prize should go.

Then, I thought how the Nobel peace prize and the literature prize invite snarky commentary. Because we all feel ourselves to be adept at judging the merits of people who emerge victorious therein (as opposed to winners in the natural sciences, about whom we stay silent, because we cannot even pretend to understand fiber-optic cables, let alone the significance of telomerase).

Finally, I thought how good it is that I do not have millions to give out in prestigious awards. I think I would be somewhat shocked to learn that my decisions were scrutinized and commented on with such ill will toward me and the benefactors.

So, bottom line, I’m glad that I have a week-end of moonlight tasks at the little shop on the corner. Perhaps only in little shops on the corner can we be left alone to do well by others. I intend to be supremely nice to all customers who come in.

[And to my daughters: I'll have the honor of being nice to them as well. That should be easy. One is flying in tonight for a visit. The other? I'll be seeing her soon as well.]

clinging

I’ll stick with the theme of green tonight. Green leaves – the leftover nothings, the ones that cling without really believing that they’ll make it past the next week. Green umbrellas, food stand, galoshes, jackets. Green.





Strands of grass, birds plucking away, cheerful birds, cheerful me.





Almost as good as a winter break after a long semester of school work, is an evening after an over-extended period of hard hard regular work. Thrilling.

why the fascination with fishermen?

So many Ocean posts and photos of men (and women, but mostly men) fishing!

Perhaps I’ve been waiting for the night when I can only say one thing: right now, I’d rather be fishing. Like this guy.

500 miles

I warned you. Tuesdays take my breath away, and not always in a kind way.

So that when I wake up and remember that it is indeed That day, I almost do not get out of bed. (Realizing the futility of this, I stagger forth.)

And then the rush is on. Quickly, to my computer. Pull up notes. Read text. More notes. Oh dear, it’s getting dangerously close to bus catching time.

An email message pops up: would you like to complete a survey? As a valuable customer of Air France… We will give you 500 miles for your efforts.

500 miles. I don’t need miles, but I hoard miles, in the same way that poor people collect whatever they are able to collect so that they can feel the sense of accomplishment and ownership in at least this wee area of their lives.

I start the survey. I read that, on the average, it takes 15-20 minutes. I ignore that part of it (because I don't have 15 let alone 20 minutes) and I plow on. Done!

Oh dear. Look at the time.

Shower. Wet hair. No matter – the class’ll think I got caught in the rain. Because (on and off) it is raining out there.

Throw things in backpack and head out. It’s 9 a.m. Class is at 9:30. I need luck. I need coffee.

Why did I miss coffee?

Why did I miss the bus?? I wave: please stop. Please let me on! The driver shakes her head. I walk to another bus stop.

Remind me why I thought it absolutely essential that I fill out a survey about the service I get on Air France last June?

[Because for those few minutes (15-20 if you listen to them, and I should have listened to them), I imagined myself to be flying back to Europe. Time will stop, in Paris. Just for those few minutes.]

I take the absolutely last bus that could possibly get me to campus on time.

Teach one class, attend meeting, do presentation, adjust notes for next class, look out the window...





Rain. Yellow galoshes. I wish I had galoshes. Eh -- it's only rain. At least it's not sleeting, snowing, icing over. Indeed, the leaves are still very green out there on Bascom Hill! I teach that last class and two hours later, I’m done. Run to bus stop...





Rain cloud comes, rain cloud recedes, new one forms. I don't care, I don't care! Bus home, black clothes go on, out I go to the little shop where sometimes I moonlight.

But it’s not a moonlit night yet. The skies are almost Scottish – blow high, blow low, speed bonnie boat – oh oh oh, Scottish? Did someone say Scottish? I miss sheep! Eh. At least we have rainbows. Somewhere, over a rainbow... I want that somewhere to be there, at the end of this very long very hard run!





Earlier, Ed, thinking that I must surely be craving a trip, phones and asks – don’t you want to pull out a sleeping bag and sleep on the beaches of Central America? No! In January? No!! You and I don't think alike! That is too much adventure! I want a distantly dull break!

I have a customer at the store. A chatty customer. My head is throbbing. I’m thinking that when I get home, I’ll still have papers to read. Can a head throb faster? I feel that it can.

9:30. Home. A few minutes respite. Sushi box comes out, so does a glass, for the wine. I tell myself it'll be a short respite. I fall asleep on the couch.

An hour later, I sit up, look at the clock. Sigh, I pick up my laptop and get back to where I left off.

it’s hard for me to accept this

No more Gourmet Magazine.

You know what thought came to me first? Damn! I cannot expect to bounce grandkids on my knee X years from now and show them photos from the magazine that made me an American!

You think I exaggerate?

I came to the States with a love of food and with very little experience in cooking. The year was 1973. I was 20. I discovered Gourmet.

It was a tentative relationship at first. I worked as an au pair and had limited access to my employer's family’s kitchen (they had cooks and maids tending to that corner of the apartment).

But still, I adored Gourmet! This is the world I wanted to see. I had no money, I had no promise of a livelihood, but I had my Gourmet dreams. Stories about the eating world. I wanted to see that world.

Four years later I was married and suddenly I was cooking for real. It is in those years that I committed to cooking a fresh and honest dinner from scratch every day. I never stopped. Gourmet, the magazine, supplied the inspiration.

Over the decades, dinner parties were merely events that brought together Gourmet recipes. I never ever tried a recipe prior to a party. The instructions were so reliable that I could count on a great end result the first time around.

So many meals from those beautiful pages! Our family Christmas meal is a Gourmet feast, repeated again and again, since the kids were tiny.

I was especially thrilled when Ruth Reichl took over the editorship. I never really minded the veneer of elitism in the magazine (I mean, come on, it’s just a magazine), but when she stripped it lean of high brow fat, publishing articles on road food and street food and authentic food (in addition to the most exquisite food stuffs out there), I was happy as a clam (so good with garlic, wine… mmm). And when Ruth published books on eating and food, I read them all.

Last year, when Ed found a cheap way to subscribe to Gourmet for years to come, I purred. Here I am, a single woman, with much behind me and I have a Gourmet coming to me once a month. Even if I cannot travel as often as I thought I could, or should, even if I no longer do dinner parties as I once thought I could or should, I still have Gourmet.

No more.

In future years, I will remember the tragic consequences of the recession for many. And I will remember that I lost a tiny but ever so significant love: I lost Gourmet.

Sob.

like the wind

When the seasons change here, in Madison – from fantastically wonderful (summer) to dismally bare (everything else) – you start looking out for the exceptional days. The ones where you can truly enjoy the changes in the landscape. Good weather days.

Ed, I think this is a good weather day. I know I should work, but I need the break. I need to be outdoors, moving, moving...
How about a butterfly and flower walk in the Arboretum?
Sounds like something for very old or very young people. I need to spin!
A fungus spotting walk hike to the Picnic Point? -- He’s reading off events in and around town.
No, let’s head out! Let’s splurge on the good weather! Something exhilarating!

We pack our bikes and drive to Evansville, some twenty miles south of here. This is the week-end of the Harvest Windmill Festival. In the early afternoon, we can join others for the Ride Like the Wind bike tour of some of the old area windmills.

Windmills are big in Evansville. Not "big" as in "huge." The ones lining Main Street today are actually quite small. "Big" as in "big deal." These models have been worked over by area artists. Today, they're auctioned off to the highest bidders. (The most admired one sold for $2000 and the second best went for $1700).










Fine, there was an auction. Earlier, we had watched a local band – just so you know, the drummer also yodels – inspiring a few to dance.





(Others preferred the funnel cakes. There wasn't a line at the funnel cake trailer.)





And we made our way to the cemetery, where some very animated performers recounted stories of the lives of some of Evansville’s past everyday heroes (a painter who traveled to Giverny to befriend Monet, a soldier who died in the Second Battle of Bull Run (1862), a woman suffragette who had Susan B Anthony come out to Evansville to give a talk, and so on).





It was at the cemetery that it struck me that this day is no good-weather miracle. The wind whipped through the fabric of inadequate jackets, the clouds covered any pretense of sunlight. The handful of spectators stomped their feet. Yes, we truly are at the cusp of winter. Even if it looks like fall.





I insisted on hot coffee and Evansville does deliver a mean espresso. Revived, Ed and I set out on the (not too long) Ride Like the Wind adventure.

We were some two hours late for the official event, but Ed likes to avoid crowds. In Evansville, crowds never seem to exceed a count of a dozen or so, but still, it is pleasant to bike in solitude. And to pause at the first wind mill (by the high school)…





…and the second, amidst late autumn prairie pods, flowers and fruits…










… and the third, rising above the brick buildings of the Baker Manufacturing Company.





It is this third that seems to me to be most evocative (perhaps because Baker was once in the business of manufacturing these tall mills that powered water pumps).





Yes, it’s me, in a Rike Like the Wind t-shirt over a jacket, sweater and two other shirts. And still cold.

We ended the day over sandwiches with a retired art teacher and his teacher wife at the Main Street sandwich shop. We had run into friends earlier – Madisonians who now live in Evansville and miss being closer to the city. Not these teachers.

Love it here. The changes to Main Street – wonderful. Used to be bars. Now – a café, a sandwich shop…





Great place to raise kids.

Of course, that’s what I say about Madison. And we have significantly better public transportation! Still, I can imagine the sweetness of life here. Where teachers pool their money to buy a artsy windmill for their school. And old couples dance while the drummer yodels.