Most likely you followed the link from my first page or the seventh or eighth page of Random Thoughts stories. Here are some more, and I hope these are just as amusing and thought provoking. And, as always, your comments are appreciated.
Three times in five days. I'd thought I'd broken the habit and kept my promise. But apparently not, and it's a good thing I no longer see that psychiatrist.
I just woke up from a nap. I knew when I went to read in bed, I was going to fall asleep. Otherwise, why didn't I stay in the living room and keep reading there? Same thing the other two times. I read for a while, went in my bedroom, lay down, then I took off my glasses and the cat curled up next to me, purring, and I was out like a light. And twice, I slept through Jerry Springer!!
It's not that I'm not sleeping that well, because I am. And I can't blame it on the heat of the day, because it's finally cooling off up here. I know wanting to sleep is a sign of depression, and I am being treated for depression. But I promised the doctor I would stop taking naps when he was going to prescribe for me something that was also a sleeping pill. I had complained to him about my sleeping, not being able to at night. That was because back then, I took a nap almost every day. So I said that was why I wasn't sleeping well, and talked him out of giving me that medication.
For the past 4 years, I've been pretty good about not taking naps. I'd force myself to stay awake till the tiredness passed. I only napped when I'd done something very strenuous, like when my daughter and I climbed up the Thumb Butte. It wasn't so much the length of the hike, but rather that we climbed some 3000 feet in less than two miles. When we got back home, she announced she was going to nap, but I said, nope, I can't because I made a promise to myself. Within 5 minutes, I was asleep next to her. Or I'd nap if I did have trouble sleeping the night before. Sometimes, I just wake up at 2 a.m. and no matter what I do or how hard I try to fall back asleep, I can't. So then I can accept taking and needing the afternoon rest.
I'm wondering if this is something that is going to continue, or if I can break myself of the habit again. Of all the habits I could have, this is not expensive or life threatening. It doesn't hurt anyone, not even me, really. I continue to battle my depression and will till I die. It's just that I hate to break promises, even to myself, since the shrink probably no longer would even remember me.
©3 October, 2001The big day has arrived. The day the championship of the world is decided. Or so they say. Personally, I will find something else to watch. I can submerge myself in the deep South and watch Gone with the Wind again. Because when it comes to football, frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.
I remember the very first Super Bowl. Parts of it, anyway. If this is the XXXV or 35th Super Bowl, then the first one was in 1967. A quick visit to the NFL's web site confirms this. I remember the Packers won. I used to be a big football fan way back then. I was living in the Los Angeles area then and could have named just about any player on any of the teams back then. This is probably due more to getting boys attention than to actually understanding the game. My brother and I watched the game with one of our neighbors and my main interest was the neighbor's cousin. I wish I could remember his name, but I do recall he was very good looking and for some reason, I associate the song Only You with him.
For the next few years, football was not an interest of mine. I went off to college, got married and then finished college. It was 1977. We were living in Atascadero, California and the Minnesota Vikings were playing the Oakland Raiders. My ex is from Oakland and is still a big Raiders fan. I was a Vikings fan even though at that time, I'd never been to Minnesota. The Vikings had been to three previous Super Bowls and lost, so it was a last chance for the team to win. You could tell within two minutes of the game that the Vikings didn't have it and it was going to be a long game. My ex gloated and I got really pissed and left. Now, there isn't much to do in Atascadero and I don't remember where I went, but I almost didn't go back home. It was after that game that I pretty much lost interest in football. And the Vikings have not since been to a Super Bowl.
Lots of people get together for parties, but the only Super Bowl party I ever went to was in Memphis. I'd started a group there for people who were from other parts of the country, since Memphians, as well as most Southerners, are particularly isolationists. I spent the time talking to my women friends while the men huddled around the television set, yelling at the screen. I don't understand why men do that. The coaches can't hear them. Though I will admit, I sometimes yell during hockey games on television, but not as loudly or angrily as men do. It was a fun evening and I wonder if the group fell apart or stayed together after I moved to Minnesota.
Other than those, most of the games are blurs. I remember when the Bears, (da Bears) went to the Super Bowl and won. I grew up in Chicago, and we had lived there for two years while my ex was in grad school. It was at Soldier's Field I saw my first and only live pro football game. And when the Super Bowl was played in Minnesota, it was a huge deal for the state, but I had nothing to do with it. I will still always root against the Dallas Cowboys and Denver Broncos.
Soon now, 4 PM Mountain Standard time, the kickoff will officially start the game. All the pre-game hype and hoopla will be over. The week long festivities for corporate big shots and other so-called important people have concluded. The many interviews and reviews of past games and players and predictions of this game's outcome will be finished. The athletes will entertain us and one team will win and one will lose. Unlike most television programs, viewers will probably not go to the bathroom or refrigerator during the commercials. That might be the most entertaining part of the evening, since it seems most Super Bowls are not cliffhangers or nail biters. It all comes down to this one game, but I'm sure I can find something else to watch on television tonight. It's not hockey, after all.
Oh, and we didn't get anymore snow overnight. Now that's something to cheer about.
©28 January, 2001Happy 12th birthday, Lowell. I wish I was there to wish you that in person, but the circumstances are such that I am here. Since we picked out your present together, when I was there over Thanksgiving last month, I know you will like what you get from me. I think I will buy a cupcake today and pretend we are together.
It's hard to have a child that is so like yourself. Everytime I saw you, I saw me as a child. It's not that you looked the most like me. Or that you used to suck your thumb the same way I did. Or that we're both left handed. It's our personalities are the same. It's like looking into a mirror almost. Both of us didn't seem to fit in anywhere. We had trouble making friends. We had overactive imaginations. Our major difference is that I loved reading, and you wouldn't pick up a book on your own for anything. That, and you're male.
When you were conceived, things in the marriage were already bad. I knew the moment you were conceived, and wondered what I should do. I was 35. We already had two children, a girl and a boy. Evelyn was 6 and Greg 4. Both out of diapers. Did I really want to go through all that again?? I decided yes. You were my bonus baby. Something special, just for me. Yes, I hoped you would be a girl. I wanted to name you Caroline Susannah. I had all those dresses of Evelyn's I wanted to pass down. Especially the ones I smocked for her. But when I had the ultrasound in the eighth month, I found out you were going to be a boy. We picked Lowell for your first name, because it sounded classic, and traditional and not too off the wall. This was in Memphis, and family names were common as first names. Names like Prescott, Walker, Morgan, Harrison, and Rather. And some of these were girl's names. I used to joke that one day, I'd look up at the intersection, and that would be your name. And you got Edward as a middle name from my father.
I had made all the plans for what to do with your brother and sister on the day I went into labor. You were going to a friend's house. That particular December 11, 1985 was an ordinary day. Until after lunch. I was watching the Patty Duke show (but they're cousins, identical cousins) and polishing my nails. For some strange reason, while pregnant with you I stopped biting my nails. I thought that would be a good way to pass some time, till I had to get the kids from school. I was using this very pale pink, so pale you couldn't even see it. I stood up to get a different color, and my water broke. Not like with Greg, where it trickled out and it just felt like I had to go to the bathroom every other minute. This was a flood. I rushed to the bathroom to get a towel, and catch my breath. This was it. I called your dad, the midwife and Mary Lou.
The midwife's name was Ruth, and she had been very good to me during the
pregnancy. I felt very comfortable going into labor, since I had done it
two other times, and managed to survive. But even though the water was
broken, the contractions weren't starting , so I got hooked up to the
pitocin. Such fun. Finally, after 6 or 7 hours of labor, you were born.
9:45 pm. You weighed 9 pounds, 10 ounces. Not quite as big as your
sister. But definitely a keeper. And so handsome. And I love you more
than you will ever know, today and everyday.
©10 December, 1997
I had a black cow today. At least, that's what we called root beer floats when I was growing up in Chicago. I made it here at my apartment, a true summer treat. When I bought the root beer the other day, I think I had this in the back of my mind. I like to mix it all up. The vanilla ice cream, the root beer. You keep adding root beer, as you drink it up. It brought back lots of summer memories. This will be my 47th summer, but my first and most likely only one, in Maine. I have to make the most of it.
The first twelve summers were spent in Chicago, on the south side. I remember going to the Tastee Freeze on 105th Street (or was it 101st??? Marcia, do you remember??) One night, my mother took my brother and me out for ice cream, but on the way there, she had a change of destination. We went to Scholls, in Michigan City, Indiana. I don't remember much about the place, except the big milk bottle on the top of the building. I know it's not true, and I believe the building is no longer there, but I always believed the bathrooms were up in that milk bottle. Part of the mysteriousness of going there. That night,instead of taking a 15 minute trip, we must have been gone 2 hours. My grandparents lived with us then, and were rather worried. My mother always loved going on adventures, even if just for ice cream.
Of course, back then, you didn't even have to leave your street to get ice cream. Every afternoon, the Good Humor Man would drive by, jingling the bells on his truck. They didn't have those in California, so Good Humor bars became a part of my memory. Until a few years ago, when they showed up in the freezer section of the grocery store I shopped in Minneapolis. They were just as good as I remembered. But the strangest thing is there are Good Humor men here in Portland. He comes by twice a day, and the kids come streaming out to buy ice cream bars from him. I haven't yet, but I just might. I'm sure it would be easier to just buy the box at the store, but sometimes you have to try the old things.
Summers in high school involved walking throught Valley College to Burbank Blvd and 31 Flavors. My favorite flavors from there are jamocha almond fudge and pistachio almond. I would usually have a double scoop of that, or on occasion try something different. Sometimes I would order milk shakes made with those two flavors, and it really was good. The nuts made it harder to drink with a straw, but that never stopped me. With different friends, we would walk back through the campus, eating our ice cream cones. Talking about boys and dates and school. Typical teen age stuff. When I found out there was a 31 Flavors here, I went there that very day. They call it Baskin Robbins here, but what do they know? I still love those two flavors, and sat in my car and savored the cone.
I've always loved ice cream. Farrell's. Swenson's. Dreyer's. Sebastian Joe's. McCallum's. The Bridge up in Winnipeg. That place off of Goodlett in Memphis. I don't think it's there anymore. Cones. Bars. Sundaes. Banana Splits. Emperor Nortons. Black and Tans. Malts. Ben and Jerry's. All good. Some better than others. I hope the day never comes when I don't like ice cream. My grandmother stopped liking ice cream in her 60's. But not my mom. When she was dying, I brought her her favorite food each day. A chocolate shake. She only got a spoonful or two down, but I thought it was what she would have wanted. It's what I would want too. I don't know when I had my first taste of ice cream, and I don't know when I'll have my last, but I know I will enjoy all that I eat inbetween. Wonder when the Good Humor man will be by tomorrow.
©23 May, 1998I am terrible with names and faces, but I seem to have a natural affinity to numbers. Not in a mathematical sense. I am certainly no math wizard. But numbers and how they are used fascinate me. I can remember phone numbers and other figures that most people never waste their time over. I can't balance my checkbook nor do I try. As long as I'm close, it's fine with me.
For example, the first house I lived in was at 8818 S. Merrill Avenue, Chicago 17, Illinois.
Our phone number was REgent4-8483. I liked it back then, when phone numbers started with words. When we moved to California, our phone number was 787-1876. The 78 stood for State. Our address then was 13119 Oxnard Street, Van Nuys, Ca. 91401. I know you don't really care, but I'm showing off. I don't care either. Somewhere I have a list of all the addresses I've ever lived at, because I figured since some of them were short stays, I wouldn't remember them over time. Now I wish I had done that with the phone numbers too.
I think it's interesting the way highways are numbered. Back when they had the US Highways, the smaller numbers started in the north and went south, or from the east and went west. That's why Hwy 101 is along the Pacific Ocean, and Hwy 1 runs long the eastern shore. But when the interstates were built, the numbering was reversed. I-5 runs along the Pacific, and I-95 along the Atlantic. Highways even got made into television shows, like Route 66 and songs, like Bob Dylan's Highway 61 revisited. I've been on most of both of those roads. Route 66 back when it existed was the road we took moving out to California. And since I've lived along the Mississippi River for a number of years, both in Memphis and Minneapolis, Highway 61 is familiar. From Memphis, it goes right into the Delta area, where the blues were born. And it's probably not much different now than it was 50 years ago. You can still see small shacks people live in along the road. And the big plantation houses.
Certain numbers are associated with certain athletes. Much as I dislike Wayne Gretzky, most people know he is #99. I don't follow other sports as closely as I do hockey, but the more famous players numbers are retired so no one else who ever plays on that team can use them. Kids like to have the same number on their jersey as their favorite player. I have an old North Stars jersey that is #7, the number Neal Broten wore, because he was my favorite player when I got it. I would have gotten rid of it, but it has sentimental value, now that the North Stars no longer exist.
There are a lot of people who believe in numerology. I'm not quite sure how it works. I think there are two different ways to find out what your special numbers are. One way is with adding the numbers in your birthday. Another is adding the numbers that the letters in your name equal. I have a lucky number. It's 4 and always has been. Is it lucky for me? I don't think so. But I do try to be extra careful on Friday the 13th.
Numbers are used for ranking or grading things. When I was a senior in high school, I was number 112 out of 823. My grade point average was 3.21. I was a solid B student, and top 15 % of my class. My total SAT scores were 1001, having scored higher on verbal than math. Why should this matter? Back then, when tuition at the University of California campuses was only $100 per quarter, they had to accept any student with a 3.2 gpa, a SAT score of 1000 and in the top 15% of their class. UCLA had to take me. Even thought I ended up transferring to Berkeley for the next quarter. I made it by just enough. It most likely wouldn't be good enough today. While Reagan was governor of California, he more than doubled tuition to $225 per quarter. And I'm sure somewhere along the way, the academic standards were raised.
Today my lawyer told me how bright she thought I was, as we were discussing the settlement offer my future former husband has proposed. She said I grasped the financial situation better than a lot of her clients in my situation. I think she was referring to my status as a displaced homemaker. I invested 25 years in that relationship, and I am getting a pretty lousy return on that investment, monetarily speaking. But at least I am getting out before it's too late. There are also some rewards that you can't put a dollar or numerical value on. Like my sanity. At 46, I am starting a new life. My 3 children will be just fine. And so will I.
©8 December, 1997The other morning, I watched an old movie on AMC (American Movie Channel). It was called Talk of the Town, starring Cary Grant and Jean Arthur. It was filmed in 1942, so that makes it even older than me. I've seen it many times before, and the only reason I watched it again is because it made me feel closer to my kids. The first time I saw it, i believe we were flipping through the dial and stopped on AMC in the middle of the movie. For whatever reason, it caught our attention, so we watched the end. We laughed at Cary Grant's name in the movie, Leopold Dilg. What kind of name is that? I don't believe I have ever seen the beginning of the movie, even after all the times I've seen it. So yesterday, after watching it, I sent my daughter an email, and the subject was just Dilg. She knew exactly what I meant. I know it brought back the memories of our watching it together. When I spoke with her on the phone, we talked about it and we laughed and it made it even more special for me.
We also love the movie, Palm Beach Story. That stars Joel McCrea, Claudette Colbert and Rudy Vallee. I think Joel McCrea, back in the '30's, was the best looking man I have ever seen. In this movie, Joel and Claudette are married, but she leaves him to go to Palm Beach in search of a rich man. She meets Rudy on a train, and of course he is instantly attracted to her, and one of the richest men in the world. He buys her thousands of dollars worth of clothes, furs and diamonds, then whisks her off to his Palm Beach mansion on his yacht. Who is waiting at the dock, but Joel. Claudette introduces him as her brother, Captain McGlue. Every time we heard this name, we laughed and laughed. Even Joel was annoyed, and asked why Captain McGlue. Claudette said she couldn't remember his mother's name, which was McGrew. Rudy has a sister who falls for Joel, but in the end, Claudette and Joel decide they really do love each other, but there is a corny surprise ending.
I think my favorite old movie to watch with Evelyn is the Ghost and Mrs. Muir. It was on one night last spring, and she came home early from a party so we could watch it together. We cry together, and we both want to meet and fall in love with Captain Gregg. Who wouldn't? He's a sensitive, good looking man of the world and bails Mrs. Muir out of trouble. We use the phrase, shove off, you blasted mud turtle ceaselessly after seeing the movie again. I know I am a hopeless romantic, and this is one of the most romantic stories ever.
My all time favorite movie is The Women. There are no men in this movie. It's set in New York and Reno, because Reno is where ladies had to go back in the 30's to get a divorce. Norma Shearer is Mary Haines, or rather Mrs. Stephen Haines. Because of course, women back then were always called by their husband's name. I wish I had lived in those times. I love the clothes. I probably wouldn't have been high society like the characters in the movie. Mary goes to Reno to get a divorce from Stephen after it becomes common knowledge he has been carrying on with a shopgirl. Everyone advises Mary to stay, and ignore things, but Mary has her pride. In the end, Mary realizes a woman in love can't afford to be proud.
I wonder why we love to watch old movies. There's no action like they are used to. No sex or violence. They're in black and white. The clothes, houses, cars and the language is different from what my kids are used to. We don't love all of them, just certain ones. Maybe it's the old fashioned values. Or the corny out dated plots. Or the silly names. Or maybe it's just because we watch them together. Making shared memories however you can is what is one of the most important thing in life. They sustain you when you are sad or alone. Even now, thinking about Dilg, which is still the topic of the emails flying back and forth between me and my daughter, puts a smile on my face. Or Capt. McGlue which is what Evelyn now uses as the name on her emails. Did I tell you she and I like to watch old movies together?
©12 November, 1997For quite a while now, I've wanted to check out Skull Valley. A friend of mine told me they had a lot of antique stores there, and I love looking at antiques. Today seemed like the perfect day to go. Lowell and I were both up early and the weather was perfect. We filled a water bottle and got in the car.
Our first stop was to fill up with gas, then I decided we needed a map of Arizona, so we stopped at the automobile club. We headed out of town on Iron Springs Road. At one point, I think there was a town called Iron Springs, but it's either been absorbed into Prescott, or just disappeared. Lowell was the navigator, and said Skull Valley was only 15 miles from town. I had thought it was much further, and now I was worried we would be back in town before noon.
One thing you have to know about Arizona is that the terrain changes every few miles. OK, that's an exaggeration but it sure seems like it to me. According to the book, Adventuring in Arizona by John Annerino, we have here virtually every life zone there is, including tundra. Arizona is not just the desert. I'm no geologist, but I am constantly fascinated by the land forms here. One of these days, I plan to get a book to tell me what sort of land form I'm looking at. I also am no poet, so I can't describe what I view with any accuracy. Next time I will take along my digital camera, and show you what I'm trying to describe.
On the way into Skull Valley, we stopped and went on this dirt road. I have been wanting to buy a Jeep Wrangler for a while, and of course that would have been the perfect vehicle for that sort of road. There were train tracks along the road, and it has been a while since I've seen a train, much less tracks. We drove about 2 miles down a dirt road, till we got to the railroad overpass. I decided to call my daughter back in Minnesota, and take her along with us on our journey. She didn't answer, and we turned around and continued into Skull Valley.
I didn't expect a city or even a town, but I did expect more than was there. I expected several antique stores, but we drove down all three streets in town, and didn't see a one. We saw the museum, which was housed in the old Santa Fe railroad station, but it was closed. I would have liked to have visited it. We saw the church, and where Edna and Fred Patton lived. But no antique stores.
Rather than go back to Prescott, we decided to continue on to Bagdad. I knew nothing about the town, except at one of my AAUW board meetings, the president reported that she had received a phone message from the treasurer, saying she was tied up in Bagdad. It got a lot of laughs from the women. After seeing Skull Valley, I wasn't expecting much. It was the drive to the town that was remarkable.
At one point, we got out to explore a big rock pile. They're more like boulders, just piled up on top of each other. How they got that way is beyond me. It really looked like someone, a BIG someone, had made piles of these boulders all over the countryside and the state. As we climbed up the path to the rocks, I called my daughter again, and this time she answered. I told her what we were seeing, and doing. I described the different rock formations we were seeing, and tried to make her feel like she was with us. I was also picking up chunks of quartz and filling my pockets. I found a pretty good sized one, and left it on a rock for Lowell to carry down. When we got back to the car, I had to empty my pockets to find my car keys. The back of my car is again filled with rocks.
We were still about twenty miles outside of Bagdad, and the road started going down in elevation. All of a sudden, I realized we had to be below 3000 feet, because all of a sudden, we were in the desert, surrounded by saguaro cactus. They don't grow above 3000 feet. And there were octotillo, my favorite cactus. Some of them were flowering. And the temperature was heating up. Like I said, I'm no good at description, but it was incredibly gorgeous. Probably what Phoenix looked like years ago before it started growing in leaps and bounds. We started going up in elevation, and just as suddenly as the desert vegetation appeared, it disappeared.
Lowell was getting hungry, so we decided to find a place to eat at in Bagdad. As we drove into town, I commented that they had a "B" on a hill. Lots of Arizona towns have a letter up on a hill. Prescott has a P, Jerome a J, for example. Lowell quipped that he didn't realize Bagdad was big enough for a B. We continued into town past a copper statue of two miners and a plaque saying when the town was founded. There was a playground across the street, and a high school down the way. But there were no restaurants. I didn't think we'd find anything fancy but I didn't think we wouldn't find anything. Even Skull Valley had a diner. We drove up and down the main streets again, but saw nothing open. We ended up at the grocery store and got lunch meat and rolls and made sandwiches which we ate outside of the store. I phoned Evelyn again, told her the town wasn't much, but the drive was worth it. Lowell convinced me to take a different route back to Prescott.
Highway 71 is only about 15 miles, but it felt like a roller coaster. The road dipped and curved and crested and plunged down again and again. At the low points, were warnings not to cross if the road was flooded. Being that it is monsoon season in Arizona, I am sure it won't be long before the roads are flooded.
Lowell pointed out a town on the map called Nothing. I remembered seeing a news feature about this *town*, which is nothing more than a gas station and convenience store. Since it was only about 10 miles north on the highway we'd be taking, we decided to go for it. The highway we took was called the Joshua Tree Parkway and all along the road were what we assumed were Joshua Trees. We got to Nothing and there was just what I remembered from the news story there. So we turned around and headed back towards Phoenix and the turnoff to the highway back to Prescott.
I really wish I was a more flowery writer so I could describe what we saw, but I'm not. You'll just have to take my word that the landscape is remarkable and continually changing and I couldn't make up some of what I saw if I tried. This weekend we're going to drive north to Flag and to the meteor site, and maybe all the way to the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert. This time I'll remember to bring my camera, though the images of what I saw are something I won't soon forget.
©5 and 7 July, 2000We've all gotten the second most dreaded piece of mail on can receive. No, not the IRS, but a summons for jury duty. I got mine some three weeks ago and couldn't do anything but wait till the night before to see if my trial was going to proceed as scheduled and if I really needed to go downtown. You could either phone or check the county's website, and of course, I did the latter, so I knew a few minutes after 5 pm that yup, they wanted me.
I'd been called for jury duty only once before. This was in 1974 when we lived in Chico, California and were attending Cal State Chico. It was summer and I was taking some of my required science classes at Butte College, the community college near Chico. I went there, thinking only about getting out of this and going to class. If I was lucky, I could make my class. Naturally, I was chosen to sit on the jury. When they got to me for questioning, I was getting nervous and just wanted out. The trial was about drunken bicycle riding, and at the time, I didn't think that was a crime, and said so. In my mind, it was much better than had he been in an automobile. Needless to say, I was disqualified, and off I went to class.
Going inside the courthouse was a new experience for me, even though I've been in and around it often enough. It's the center of many weekend art shows or festivals. The paper I'd received in the mail said to be sure to put the upper part of the summons on my dashboard, to avoid getting a parking ticket. On weekdays, you can only park two hours and then you get ticketed. Well, two hours from when a cop marks your back tire. I was lucky and got a spot on Cortez directly across from the courthouse. I took a deep breath and walked across the street.
First you walk up twenty one stairs, but they're the little stairs, the skinny half sized ones, like the church near my grandparent's apartment in Chicago used to have. Maybe they are there still, but that's not important. I used to love to run up and down those stairs. As soon as you enter the building, you have to pass through a metal detector, just like at the airport. Only the people watching are sheriffs with guns. I'd already put my keys in my purse and went in. For jury selection, we had to go up to the third floor.
The courthouse building is old, probably at least 100 years. The ceilings are high, the doors and moldings are dark wood. The stair railing was smooth hand polished wood. At the top of the stairs was a man greeting us and pointing the way to the sign in. My guess is he's an ex-marine. He had the manner and haircut of one, and we later learned he was the bailiff. I wasn't sure what I should wear, so I debated between a skirt but ended up wearing nice khakis. This is Prescott, after all, not the big city. I saw people in shorts and cowboy boots and ripped jeans as well as people dressed up, as I now consider it. I signed in and took a seat on a bench in the hallway next to a woman. We started talking and ended up sitting next to each other in the courtroom. There must have been 150 people there, so the court was filled to capacity. The prospective jurors took up every seat in the room, except for the judge's chair. The courtroom, too was old, beautiful judge's seat and the traditional seat next to the judge and jury box for the witness. Yet, there were the modern touches, too. A computer and microphone. Earlier that morning, my friend Barbara said it might be the big murder case from Tucson. She told me a little about it, because it happened when I was still living in North Carolina.
The Commissioner of Juries then came in and read the roll call. She apologized up front for any mispronunciations, and that took about ten minutes. Then she had us stand as swear to tell the truth. We get a whole 32 cents per mile we have to drive to get to the courthouse, so she said if you didn't want that money, if you didn't get on the jury and didn't have to keep coming back, to let her know. We all have to come back on Wednesday and even though that won't be a trial day, we'd get paid the $12.00 per diem the state allows. And before she left, she reminded us about the importance of having placed your summons on the dashboard of your car.
Next the bailiff said he was going to show us this video about what being on a jury means, only it wouldn't rewind and he ended up having to rewind it while you could see the picture. Lots of people, myself included, were laughing at this. Partly because it was humorous, but partly because we were nervous. He spared us having to watch the first ten minutes where people complained about jury duty, and after the video, we got a fifteen minute break.
Luckily, the line for the women's room wasn't too bad and I was up near the front. Afterwards, I went in the stairwell and phoned my son, who was trying to figure out what to fix for lunch. He finally decided on pancakes with chocolate chips in them. Fifteen, twenty and finally twenty five minutes passed before they called us back into the courtroom. We were given a questionnaire to fill out, but for now, just our names and phone numbers. I took my seat next to the same women, but lots of other people switched places.
The judge came in and gave us some explanations. Yes, it was the triple murder case from Tucson. The two defendents were being tried at the same time but separately. They would each have their own jury. The prosecutor got up and made a brief statement about what their case would be, then the defense attorney did the same. Our defendant sat there, impassively the whole time. After they were done speaking, we were told to carefully answer our questionnaires. When we were done, we could leave, but we had to be back at 9 am on Wednesday, unless we got a phone call saying otherwise. There were no other trials we could sit on, it was this one or we were off the hook.
I read the questions carefully. Could I be impartial? Could I separate the two trials? Did I know any of the parties involved? Do I own a gun? Most of those were easy. Did I think the death penalty should be mandatory in all first degree murder cases? Just like a true or false question on an exam, there was one word that bothered me. Then came the question about was there anything about this trial that might affect you serving. I said maybe, because one of the victims was a 17 year old boy. I wrote I wasn't sure I could handle testimony about that, being that my son died a year ago from cancer. I also wrote that I was supposed to be in Minnesota on August 30, to drive with my daughter back to college.
So now I wait and hope the phone rings and they say I am excused. Though there is a part of me that would love to be on the jury, to hear the case. The part of me that wanted to be a paralegal and loves watching old Perry Mason reruns. I want to do my civic duty, but I don't think I'm ready for something like this yet. I hope the judges and attorneys agree with me.
©22 August, 2000There are more stories I have written to read. Please remember these are my original stories and thoughts, and to copy or otherwise use them without my permission is a copyright violation. I would love to hear your random thoughts on any of these stories.