Saturday, December 24, 2011
Bill's Birthday
OK, both Bill and I were Christmas babies.
But he got the good side of Christmas.
Christmas Eve always has been and always will be BILL'S BIRTHDAY.
I come along 4 days later. When everyone is partied out.
I am sure, now that I am an adult, that Bill got the proverbial birthday/Christmas gifts just like me. But as a kid I was POSITIVE he got the good stuff and I was stuck with the one present problem. Let me tell you two cards on one gift does NOT cut it!
But, secretly, (please don't tell anyone this) I was all excited about Bill's birthday. It gave me a preview of what might be waiting under the tree and what might be coming a few days later. (assuming everyone played by the rules)
The rules were
1. No Birthday/Christmas presents
2. Birthday presents had to be wrapped in Birthday paper
3. Dessert was Mom's angel food cake with white frosting and sprinkles on both birthday days.
4. And I didn't get in trouble for ignoring Dan on my birthday. (Not allowed on Bill's although Bill could ignore him if he wanted then)
Bill's birthday always brought Christmas faster and brought lots of people to the house. There was always a ton of food and lots of decorations and lots of music.
It also meant that Santa came the next morning. I still don't know for sure who played Santa (although all of us kids had our guesses) But Santa came to each of our rooms the day after Bill's Birthday.
Today is Bill's Birthday.
Now I just call him and sing Happy Birthday to him. He tells me what is happening for his day and I tell him what is going on with me.
We don't get to share Mom's angel food cake but, well, what we have now almost makes up for it.
Happy Birthday, bubber.
Love ya,
Sissa
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
There She Goes!
THE KID (age 4) |
And I knew when she started that she would have to study just as hard for the Bar Exam. We talked about it alot. My spouse bought her the BarBri program at the start of her last year. She used the podcasts to study for her classes as well as review everything else.
The plan from the beginning is that she would have to go somewhere other than home to study at a live BarBri program. Both Melvin and I agreed (as will anyone else who has passed the Bar) that you MUST take a review program and follow it to the letter. And BarBri is the one the is generally chosen.
I was lucky. When I went through this process, the program was offered at my law school. In the same room where I eventually took the test. I didn't have to move or go anywhere else for three months. I didn't even change my routine. I parked in the same place that I had been parking in for the three years prior. I ate at the same student union where I had always eaten.
But there is no program here.
She had a few choices and she chose San Diego. Her old friends are there and one of them had room for her to crash. And as she put it, "He does care if I ignore him."
So today she left for San Diego. With all her books and clothes and things she would need for a three month stint. To study.
To study very hard.
To avoid distractions.
Like her mother.
It is a good and wise thing. We had discussed it often.
But I won't see her every day. My lunch partner and friend is away.
We use to live in different cities, hundreds of miles apart. We use to not talk on the phone all the time.
But we do now. And I treasure every moment.
I treasure her growth as well.
So tonight I am conflicted. I miss her (already) but I am so proud of her stamina and grit. I am proud that she is willing to do whatever it takes to make her dream come true.
I remember saying to a singing partner at rehearsal one night that I didn't think I would ever get over the awe that I feel when I watch her. He looked at me and said "Parents never do".
Guess I am just a parent.
Wow.
Monday, December 12, 2011
JUST A BIT OF NEWS!!!!!!!!!!
TO EVERYONE THAT READS THIS:
1. I have this incredible daughter.
2. Despite her mother she grew into a great woman.
Just in case you don't know her, she is wearing the green sweater. And, yes, she has dark hair. ANd, yes, she is playing spoons!
3. About 5 years ago she and I made a pact. She would work for me and I would put her through law school if that was what she wanted to do.
4. For 4 years she has attended an on line law school. She had to study on her own and learn more than they taught. She did not have the luxury of classmate camaraderie or instant answers from upper class persons. Her class also had people who were attending the actual classes.
5. She did ask me and my spouse a lot of questions. Embarrassing as it was, we didn't know the answers anymore. (Adult>50=CRS(can't remember s**t))
6. She studied constantly and drove herself (and me) crazy.
7. She asked other attorneys questions which (thank god) they couldn't answer either.
And tonight she just got word:
SHE IS THE VALEDICTORIAN OF HER CLASS!!!!!!!
Hey, everybody, THAT'S MY KID!!!!!!!
1. I have this incredible daughter.
2. Despite her mother she grew into a great woman.
3. About 5 years ago she and I made a pact. She would work for me and I would put her through law school if that was what she wanted to do.
4. For 4 years she has attended an on line law school. She had to study on her own and learn more than they taught. She did not have the luxury of classmate camaraderie or instant answers from upper class persons. Her class also had people who were attending the actual classes.
5. She did ask me and my spouse a lot of questions. Embarrassing as it was, we didn't know the answers anymore. (Adult>50=CRS(can't remember s**t))
6. She studied constantly and drove herself (and me) crazy.
7. She asked other attorneys questions which (thank god) they couldn't answer either.
And tonight she just got word:
SHE IS THE VALEDICTORIAN OF HER CLASS!!!!!!!
Hey, everybody, THAT'S MY KID!!!!!!!
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Josh
I have a friend named Josh. Let's get this out of the way---he is a lawyer. A CIVIL lawyer. He wouldn't know what to do with a criminal defendant.
Except-----he does criminal appeals.
So he is a very good source for the current state of the law AND the current state of courtroom antics.
I met him when I briefly worked at an insurance defense firm. (We all make our mistakes!) We became good friends.
Which astounded everyone.
Our politics, religion, life styles, and general points of view on life were at, and still are, polar opposites.
He hates cats, isn't real thrilled with dogs. Finds foul language foul and generally (at that time) lived the life of the bachelor Norwegian farmer. (Yeah, he is a farmer, too).
But he was great for bouncing legal issues around. He was (and still is) a walking encyclopedia of statutes and case law.
I was great for bouncing emotional issues around. And he had a few. And if you fed him he would talk about them (as opposed to the law which he would talk about without food).
When he met THE WOMAN we (his close friends) knew her only as "Reedley" because that is where she lived. We could not get her name out of him no matter what we did.
Until they got engaged. Then you would think that we would have a chance to forget it.......No, got it in every sentence. It was soooooo cute!
I feared that once they were married that we would lose touch.
It turns out that a friend of Josh's is a friend for life. Foul language and all.
I just sat at a restaurant with them for over 2 hours. Overlooking the ocean. And talking. FOR TWO HOURS.
We will talk more tonight. They are coming to our concert.
He is an amazing friend. Even if his world view is what it is......
I still have time to train him, I think.
Except-----he does criminal appeals.
So he is a very good source for the current state of the law AND the current state of courtroom antics.
I met him when I briefly worked at an insurance defense firm. (We all make our mistakes!) We became good friends.
Which astounded everyone.
Our politics, religion, life styles, and general points of view on life were at, and still are, polar opposites.
He hates cats, isn't real thrilled with dogs. Finds foul language foul and generally (at that time) lived the life of the bachelor Norwegian farmer. (Yeah, he is a farmer, too).
But he was great for bouncing legal issues around. He was (and still is) a walking encyclopedia of statutes and case law.
I was great for bouncing emotional issues around. And he had a few. And if you fed him he would talk about them (as opposed to the law which he would talk about without food).
When he met THE WOMAN we (his close friends) knew her only as "Reedley" because that is where she lived. We could not get her name out of him no matter what we did.
Until they got engaged. Then you would think that we would have a chance to forget it.......No, got it in every sentence. It was soooooo cute!
I feared that once they were married that we would lose touch.
It turns out that a friend of Josh's is a friend for life. Foul language and all.
I just sat at a restaurant with them for over 2 hours. Overlooking the ocean. And talking. FOR TWO HOURS.
We will talk more tonight. They are coming to our concert.
He is an amazing friend. Even if his world view is what it is......
I still have time to train him, I think.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
In Rememberance
Her name was Lady Tiara Rex. She was a registered Cornish Rex cat.
We got her as a kitten. Very tiny. In every way.
Delicate bones. Pointed ears that were too big for her head. And no fur. Just an undercoat that waved in cornrows.
Within a week, we thought we were going to lose her. She had a violently high temperature and the vet did an emergency hysterectomy. She had a massive uterine infection.
She was forever shy and she never grew her coat back. She looked like a Rex but her hair was very, very thin.
As a result, she cuddled. She cuddled under blankets or under sweatshirts. We bought her a cat heating pad but she wouldn't get off of it even when it burned her. (It got thrown as far as it would go in the landfill---don't you hurt my TeezzaButts)
Yes, that was the name she answered to: TeezzaButts. And she would answer. She came running if you called her name. She was always looking for a warm spot.
So when we moved to Nipomo, we made sure there was sun in the "cat room". She and her adopted sisters, Diamond and Putter, loved it. And they always let the Lady have the cushy spot in the sun. (Well, there was a bit of a discussion.)
She crossed the Rainbow bridge two years ago. At the age of 19.
She crossed in her sleep, in our bed, snuggled up.
I miss her.
We got her as a kitten. Very tiny. In every way.
Delicate bones. Pointed ears that were too big for her head. And no fur. Just an undercoat that waved in cornrows.
Within a week, we thought we were going to lose her. She had a violently high temperature and the vet did an emergency hysterectomy. She had a massive uterine infection.
She was forever shy and she never grew her coat back. She looked like a Rex but her hair was very, very thin.
As a result, she cuddled. She cuddled under blankets or under sweatshirts. We bought her a cat heating pad but she wouldn't get off of it even when it burned her. (It got thrown as far as it would go in the landfill---don't you hurt my TeezzaButts)
Yes, that was the name she answered to: TeezzaButts. And she would answer. She came running if you called her name. She was always looking for a warm spot.
So when we moved to Nipomo, we made sure there was sun in the "cat room". She and her adopted sisters, Diamond and Putter, loved it. And they always let the Lady have the cushy spot in the sun. (Well, there was a bit of a discussion.)
TeezaButts in the sun. |
She crossed in her sleep, in our bed, snuggled up.
I miss her.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Walkin' the Dog(s)
Dogs, according to the "experts" need to be walked. Daily. That is, of course, if they are "indoor" dogs.
Our three are not just indoor dogs. They are lap dogs. Rarely moving off the lap/couch/bed except to eat and bark at the cats.
This is excusable for Mohawk and LadyBug. They are the equivalent of 105 in human years.
Zelda, on the other hand, is the equivalent of 40 years younger. She loves to escape the fenced yard and take neighborhood excursions.
And she use to be very good on the leash. Notice the past tense.
She doesn't like to walk much now. Not on a leash. She would prefer to just stop and sit so the walker will take her home.
Unless she is with the other dogs. Then she has to be Miss Exercise.
So, a few weeks ago, we instituted DOG WALKING.
Every morning, before they eat, I take Mohawk and LadyBug out to do their business. We usually don't have to go far before I bring out the little doggie bags.
In the afternoon, Mel takes them each individually for as long a walk as they want. LadyBug is the shortest because her recent strokes have made her a little tired. Mohawk will go for quite a bit if it is at a slower pace. He likes to sniff and pee a lot.
But Zelda wouldn't go to far until Mel found the secret!
There is a wooded area below our house that has a nice trail in it. It runs the whole block and is next to a little creek. And Zelda loves it. No stopping. No sitting. Just sniffing and trotting.
My guess is that she took her excursions there and considers it hers.
So today, when I came home early, we took LadyBug and Zelda to the woods.
I must say, I love the area myself. It has great oak and eucalyptus trees. It is cool and unpopulated.
But I really love the old, big trees.
As my brother would say, its the paws that refreshes!
Our three are not just indoor dogs. They are lap dogs. Rarely moving off the lap/couch/bed except to eat and bark at the cats.
This is excusable for Mohawk and LadyBug. They are the equivalent of 105 in human years.
Zelda, on the other hand, is the equivalent of 40 years younger. She loves to escape the fenced yard and take neighborhood excursions.
And she use to be very good on the leash. Notice the past tense.
She doesn't like to walk much now. Not on a leash. She would prefer to just stop and sit so the walker will take her home.
Unless she is with the other dogs. Then she has to be Miss Exercise.
So, a few weeks ago, we instituted DOG WALKING.
Every morning, before they eat, I take Mohawk and LadyBug out to do their business. We usually don't have to go far before I bring out the little doggie bags.
In the afternoon, Mel takes them each individually for as long a walk as they want. LadyBug is the shortest because her recent strokes have made her a little tired. Mohawk will go for quite a bit if it is at a slower pace. He likes to sniff and pee a lot.
But Zelda wouldn't go to far until Mel found the secret!
There is a wooded area below our house that has a nice trail in it. It runs the whole block and is next to a little creek. And Zelda loves it. No stopping. No sitting. Just sniffing and trotting.
My guess is that she took her excursions there and considers it hers.
So today, when I came home early, we took LadyBug and Zelda to the woods.
Zelda on her walk |
The Oak Forest |
Old Eucalyptus |
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
85 Years on this Earth
Virginia Hanigan.
The name is synonymous with music in my life.
When my father moved to Lindsay he was a Lutheran. He was of good Norwegian stock and that was the church you went to.
But the Lutheran Church in Lindsay did not have a choir. And father sang. Very well.
So he went to the various Protestant Churches and parsed them for their choirs.
He found Virginia Hanigan at the First Presbyterian Church.
So, as a result, I (and my brothers) ended up being Presbyterians.
Virginia was the choir director and, when I left in 1969, the choir had 40 voices. And we were good.
Virginia had perfect pitch and a beautiful soprano voice. She could (and still does) play the piano so that it sings. And she taught music.
When I was around 8 my father bought me a Chickering piano. Brand new. Made of cherry wood to match the rest of Mother's living room furniture. And I began to take lessons from Virginia.
For 9 years Virginia toiled with me. I wouldn't practice. (Volleyball and track were far more important to me.) But I learned to read music and I learned to sing. And I could not wait to be old enough to sing in the church choir. (You had to be in high school)
At one point, Virginia had a detached retina in one of her eyes. She wasn't allowed to move her head after the surgery. Remember, this was over 40 years ago and the surgery was very invasive. My mom took care of her. And our family's became inexorably bound.
But there was always music. I can still play one or two of the pieces that I memorized for recitals. I hated them except for the new dresses that I got for them.
And she taught me to sing. Not just notes but music. Music for a life time.
And Saturday, I watched my music teacher celebrate 85 years on this earth. She even played the piano.
She will be at the Vocal Arts Christmas Concert. Front and center.
What a treat to sing for her again.
The name is synonymous with music in my life.
When my father moved to Lindsay he was a Lutheran. He was of good Norwegian stock and that was the church you went to.
But the Lutheran Church in Lindsay did not have a choir. And father sang. Very well.
So he went to the various Protestant Churches and parsed them for their choirs.
He found Virginia Hanigan at the First Presbyterian Church.
First Presbyterian Church, Lindsay, California |
So, as a result, I (and my brothers) ended up being Presbyterians.
Virginia was the choir director and, when I left in 1969, the choir had 40 voices. And we were good.
Virginia had perfect pitch and a beautiful soprano voice. She could (and still does) play the piano so that it sings. And she taught music.
When I was around 8 my father bought me a Chickering piano. Brand new. Made of cherry wood to match the rest of Mother's living room furniture. And I began to take lessons from Virginia.
For 9 years Virginia toiled with me. I wouldn't practice. (Volleyball and track were far more important to me.) But I learned to read music and I learned to sing. And I could not wait to be old enough to sing in the church choir. (You had to be in high school)
At one point, Virginia had a detached retina in one of her eyes. She wasn't allowed to move her head after the surgery. Remember, this was over 40 years ago and the surgery was very invasive. My mom took care of her. And our family's became inexorably bound.
But there was always music. I can still play one or two of the pieces that I memorized for recitals. I hated them except for the new dresses that I got for them.
And she taught me to sing. Not just notes but music. Music for a life time.
And Saturday, I watched my music teacher celebrate 85 years on this earth. She even played the piano.
She will be at the Vocal Arts Christmas Concert. Front and center.
What a treat to sing for her again.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Some Days It Is Worth It
I know that I bitch about my job. Alot. There are days when judges, District Attorneys, clients, colleagues, and the general public conspire to make my job as miserable and impossible as any Dante vision.
Those are the days that I want to run away and hide. I have thought of moving to Costa Rica (too far from family). Maybe Hawaii (too expensive), a South Sea Island (couldn't stand the poverty and that would make me work twice as hard as I do now). Italy came up on the list. (Can't speak the language and just as far away as Costa Rica-besides it is too popular now.)
So, I dream of running away but I don't. I slog on.
And then there is a day like today. I am set for trial in a case that should not have made it to a filing desk but, because of federal grants and such, prosecutors file on all such cases. This was a domestic violence case where my client was a woman. It is rare but not unheard of.
But this client had breast cancer. Stage 4. Her spouse was also on medication which warned of anger issues as a side effect. (Great, take this medicine, it will make you pissed off at the world and a bit out of control but it might help what ails you?)
The trial had been delayed for a long time while my client received treatment.
For the last two years her name went on a pink cape worn by my friend Thumper as she walked the Susan Komen 3 Day walk for the cure. (Thanks, Thump!) Her last PET scan showed her to be cancer free.
Today, the District Attorney announced that he could not proceed. It is irrelevant why. He just couldn't go forward.
After all the discussions and accusations. After all the harsh words and posturing. After all the court appearances.
It was over.
The stress. The unknowing. It was over.
My client wept on my shoulder. She was free from the criminal justice system and from cancer.
Some days it is worth it.
Those are the days that I want to run away and hide. I have thought of moving to Costa Rica (too far from family). Maybe Hawaii (too expensive), a South Sea Island (couldn't stand the poverty and that would make me work twice as hard as I do now). Italy came up on the list. (Can't speak the language and just as far away as Costa Rica-besides it is too popular now.)
So, I dream of running away but I don't. I slog on.
And then there is a day like today. I am set for trial in a case that should not have made it to a filing desk but, because of federal grants and such, prosecutors file on all such cases. This was a domestic violence case where my client was a woman. It is rare but not unheard of.
But this client had breast cancer. Stage 4. Her spouse was also on medication which warned of anger issues as a side effect. (Great, take this medicine, it will make you pissed off at the world and a bit out of control but it might help what ails you?)
The trial had been delayed for a long time while my client received treatment.
For the last two years her name went on a pink cape worn by my friend Thumper as she walked the Susan Komen 3 Day walk for the cure. (Thanks, Thump!) Her last PET scan showed her to be cancer free.
Today, the District Attorney announced that he could not proceed. It is irrelevant why. He just couldn't go forward.
After all the discussions and accusations. After all the harsh words and posturing. After all the court appearances.
It was over.
The stress. The unknowing. It was over.
My client wept on my shoulder. She was free from the criminal justice system and from cancer.
Some days it is worth it.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Friends
There is nothing in the world like a real friend.
Not an acquaintance or someone you know because of a group you belong to (although real friends are there!) Not someone you see on the street and say "Hi, how are you? How are the kids?"
No, I mean someone who knows you. Without asking or prying, they just know.
I am truly lucky. I have real friends.
My very first friend is still my friend. For 60 years this month, she has been a part of my life. We didn't even know it then, but we were friends.
We can call each other at 3am. Sometimes for a real good reason. Sometimes for no reason at all. When I lived in Minot, North Dakota, she saved me more than once from losing my mind. I was cold and alone and it was very, very dark. But she was on the other end of the line.
In high school we would call each other and just stay on the phone. We wouldn't even talk. Back then there was only one phone in the house and our parents would make us hang up so someone else could use the phone. Then we would call each other again.
We didn't hang out together at school. No particular reason. Really didn't need to. She was there if I needed her and I for her. We walked to school together for some years as our mothers were both nurses at the local hospital. I remember those walks with a smile on my face. We were friends.
Back then we had different interests and different family problems. But our friendship was and still is very, very special. It has been central to my life and a cornerstone in my development as a human being.
Now, we may not talk to each other for months at a time. It doesn't matter. When I answer the phone and shortly break into giggles, my spouse not only knows who it is, he knows not to interrupt!
We are still very different. But we are still, and always will be, best friends.
This is her birthday month. She will be my age for a little over 30 days.
Vicki, tonight, this blog is for you.
Happy Birthday, my dear friend.
And thank you. For being you.
Not an acquaintance or someone you know because of a group you belong to (although real friends are there!) Not someone you see on the street and say "Hi, how are you? How are the kids?"
No, I mean someone who knows you. Without asking or prying, they just know.
I am truly lucky. I have real friends.
My very first friend is still my friend. For 60 years this month, she has been a part of my life. We didn't even know it then, but we were friends.
We can call each other at 3am. Sometimes for a real good reason. Sometimes for no reason at all. When I lived in Minot, North Dakota, she saved me more than once from losing my mind. I was cold and alone and it was very, very dark. But she was on the other end of the line.
In high school we would call each other and just stay on the phone. We wouldn't even talk. Back then there was only one phone in the house and our parents would make us hang up so someone else could use the phone. Then we would call each other again.
We didn't hang out together at school. No particular reason. Really didn't need to. She was there if I needed her and I for her. We walked to school together for some years as our mothers were both nurses at the local hospital. I remember those walks with a smile on my face. We were friends.
Back then we had different interests and different family problems. But our friendship was and still is very, very special. It has been central to my life and a cornerstone in my development as a human being.
Now, we may not talk to each other for months at a time. It doesn't matter. When I answer the phone and shortly break into giggles, my spouse not only knows who it is, he knows not to interrupt!
We are still very different. But we are still, and always will be, best friends.
This is her birthday month. She will be my age for a little over 30 days.
Vicki, tonight, this blog is for you.
Happy Birthday, my dear friend.
And thank you. For being you.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Wastin' Time
Anyone who knows me knows that I work. Alot.
During the week, there is not much sleep in my routine. That time is used to stew about what I need to do, what I haven't done, and what I might have forgotten to do but, for the life of me, can't remember if I have done it.
So I am on the computer, talking to my computer at work to make sure that all is right with the world.
By the end of the week, I am a bit tired.
So I try to sleep in.
There is one difficulty (well, three, to be exact). They are Mohawk, LadyBug and Zelda. Breakfast is due at 6am and Mohawk has mastered the art of whining. LadyBug is the master licker. Zelda is the jumper and her aim at my midsection is amazing.
There is one blessing. A spouse who gets up BEFORE the whining, licking and pouncing occur and feeds the "children". He then gently replaces them on the bed so that they can snooze away the morning with me. And they do.
Yesterday, spouse woke me up at noon. He was afraid I wouldn't sleep the next night. He needn't have worried. I was back in bed at 8:30 with my blanket of dogs.
I took full advantage of the extra hour our politicians gave us.
But in the 8 or so hours that I was functional, I indulged in my current hobby. It is a hobby that comes and goes depending on my mood, my work load and my need to concentrate on something other than work. The latter happens alot.
It is jigsaw puzzles.
I don't go in for the huge ones. They are too complicated and I don't have the space.
I want something that is slightly challenging but not impossible. The last time I exercised my brain in this hobby my daughter's step-mom (who is a good friend of mine) sent me one of those puzzles with the same picture on the front and back. They are turned at 90 degrees from each other. AND it had lots of stripes! We sent it back and forth to each other for Christmas and birthdays until the box disintegrated! No one opened it!
Anyway, this one took a lot of weekends. It may look easy but it had me stumped at the end. Blue is blue is blue. Unless there is a bit of white in it. And white is white is white unless there is a little blue in it.
But I persevered. And here it is:
Don't worry, I am starting a new one as soon as I am off the computer. Have to check on my schedule for tomorrow!!!!
During the week, there is not much sleep in my routine. That time is used to stew about what I need to do, what I haven't done, and what I might have forgotten to do but, for the life of me, can't remember if I have done it.
So I am on the computer, talking to my computer at work to make sure that all is right with the world.
By the end of the week, I am a bit tired.
So I try to sleep in.
There is one difficulty (well, three, to be exact). They are Mohawk, LadyBug and Zelda. Breakfast is due at 6am and Mohawk has mastered the art of whining. LadyBug is the master licker. Zelda is the jumper and her aim at my midsection is amazing.
There is one blessing. A spouse who gets up BEFORE the whining, licking and pouncing occur and feeds the "children". He then gently replaces them on the bed so that they can snooze away the morning with me. And they do.
Yesterday, spouse woke me up at noon. He was afraid I wouldn't sleep the next night. He needn't have worried. I was back in bed at 8:30 with my blanket of dogs.
I took full advantage of the extra hour our politicians gave us.
But in the 8 or so hours that I was functional, I indulged in my current hobby. It is a hobby that comes and goes depending on my mood, my work load and my need to concentrate on something other than work. The latter happens alot.
It is jigsaw puzzles.
I don't go in for the huge ones. They are too complicated and I don't have the space.
I want something that is slightly challenging but not impossible. The last time I exercised my brain in this hobby my daughter's step-mom (who is a good friend of mine) sent me one of those puzzles with the same picture on the front and back. They are turned at 90 degrees from each other. AND it had lots of stripes! We sent it back and forth to each other for Christmas and birthdays until the box disintegrated! No one opened it!
Anyway, this one took a lot of weekends. It may look easy but it had me stumped at the end. Blue is blue is blue. Unless there is a bit of white in it. And white is white is white unless there is a little blue in it.
But I persevered. And here it is:
Don't worry, I am starting a new one as soon as I am off the computer. Have to check on my schedule for tomorrow!!!!
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Law School Story
I began to law school nearly 30 years ago. I did it, I thought, so that I could independently raise my daughter. But once I got there I found I had to work hard at studying.
That is a skill I never perfected.
I had ALWAYS crammed for exams and rarely if ever spent time studying. My grades were good and I saw no need.
Law school taught me a whole new concept of myself. As the true IDIOT.
I learned to read while I was doing anything else. At my daughter's concerts, I sat in the back with a book and read. At family gatherings, I sat in a bedroom and read. At parties, I read.
I was sans cell phone or iPad or computer. Remember, this was 30 years ago!
But I still never learned the art of studying. I rarely took notes and those that I did take made no sense later on.
So my grades were the usual for law school students. The ever present "C".
But I got one A. And this is the story that I must tell.
In my third year, I was one elective short. There was nothing that I really liked in the curriculum so I asked my study partner, Josh, what he had taken. He had taken Administrative Law in a night class. If I took the class, he would let me us his notebook.
Now Josh was one of those law students who had perfected studying. He took good notes. He outlined his notes. He read the books and outlined them. He then created an outline of both those sources. He was anal.
But in Administrative Law, he had found out that the professor followed a pattern. He would cover the same amount of pages and ask for classroom briefs (where you had to tell the class about a case) on the same cases in EVERY section he taught. He would ask for volunteers to sign up for a case or two on a given night so the students always knew if they had to participate or whether they could skip the class. If it was your turn he asked the SAME questions that he asked in the last class.
Josh had taken down every brief, every question and every answer. And he had it in a notebook.
I took the class. I volunteered for a night of briefing. I even went to all the classes.
And that is where the worm turned.
Somebody wasn't there one night to give their briefs. The professor was quite shaken by this turn of events and eventually asked for someone in the class to give the briefs.
I had not (nor had anyone else in the class) read the cases. Why should we, they weren't assigned to us to brief. BUT (and I giggle as I think about it) I HAD JOSH'S NOTEBOOK!
So, for the first time in law school, I raised my hand.
The professor called upon me and I read the briefs that Josh had written. I answered each of the professor's questions (written out by Josh) with the answers that Josh provided.
I briefed the next case. Same thing.
My seatmate was dying a thousand deaths. She couldn't laugh out loud (decorum, you know) so she hid her face in her arms on the desktop. We sat so far back that the professor could barely see either of us so her shaking shoulders were not a dead give away.
After I was through, I turned to speak to her and I heard the professor ask, "Miss, what is your name?' I told him and then he said,
"That was the best briefing I have heard all quarter. I am raising your grade a full point for excellent work!"
I must have turned thirteen shades of purple. My seatmate left the room.
Yup, I got an A.
The next quarter, Josh was able to sell his notebook for a fair sum. He had lots of takers.
That is a skill I never perfected.
I had ALWAYS crammed for exams and rarely if ever spent time studying. My grades were good and I saw no need.
Law school taught me a whole new concept of myself. As the true IDIOT.
I learned to read while I was doing anything else. At my daughter's concerts, I sat in the back with a book and read. At family gatherings, I sat in a bedroom and read. At parties, I read.
I was sans cell phone or iPad or computer. Remember, this was 30 years ago!
But I still never learned the art of studying. I rarely took notes and those that I did take made no sense later on.
So my grades were the usual for law school students. The ever present "C".
But I got one A. And this is the story that I must tell.
In my third year, I was one elective short. There was nothing that I really liked in the curriculum so I asked my study partner, Josh, what he had taken. He had taken Administrative Law in a night class. If I took the class, he would let me us his notebook.
Now Josh was one of those law students who had perfected studying. He took good notes. He outlined his notes. He read the books and outlined them. He then created an outline of both those sources. He was anal.
But in Administrative Law, he had found out that the professor followed a pattern. He would cover the same amount of pages and ask for classroom briefs (where you had to tell the class about a case) on the same cases in EVERY section he taught. He would ask for volunteers to sign up for a case or two on a given night so the students always knew if they had to participate or whether they could skip the class. If it was your turn he asked the SAME questions that he asked in the last class.
Josh had taken down every brief, every question and every answer. And he had it in a notebook.
I took the class. I volunteered for a night of briefing. I even went to all the classes.
And that is where the worm turned.
Somebody wasn't there one night to give their briefs. The professor was quite shaken by this turn of events and eventually asked for someone in the class to give the briefs.
I had not (nor had anyone else in the class) read the cases. Why should we, they weren't assigned to us to brief. BUT (and I giggle as I think about it) I HAD JOSH'S NOTEBOOK!
So, for the first time in law school, I raised my hand.
The professor called upon me and I read the briefs that Josh had written. I answered each of the professor's questions (written out by Josh) with the answers that Josh provided.
I briefed the next case. Same thing.
My seatmate was dying a thousand deaths. She couldn't laugh out loud (decorum, you know) so she hid her face in her arms on the desktop. We sat so far back that the professor could barely see either of us so her shaking shoulders were not a dead give away.
After I was through, I turned to speak to her and I heard the professor ask, "Miss, what is your name?' I told him and then he said,
"That was the best briefing I have heard all quarter. I am raising your grade a full point for excellent work!"
I must have turned thirteen shades of purple. My seatmate left the room.
Yup, I got an A.
The next quarter, Josh was able to sell his notebook for a fair sum. He had lots of takers.
Complaint Department
I am not one to complain. (I said that with a straight face and I am hiding from the impending lightening bolt...)
For the last three days I have been fighting a migraine headache. Not just a migraine. The headache came and stayed. For three days I have felt like my brain had separated from my skull and was going to explode at any minute. I found I could not form words into proper sentences. I could not complete a thought. My body felt like it was being slowly and inexorably pushed into the ground that I stood on.
I could not sleep, I could not lay down. But my eyes would shut automatically to try and save my brain from the attacks of light and sound that surrounded me.
And I had to go to work. I had cases that could not be handed off to someone else.
So I stumbled to work on Monday. Hoping against all odds that nothing would go wrong and people would speak gently to me.
HA!
The landlord was putting a new roof on our building. That was not a quiet and gentle thing.
Big, burly, half-dressed males (happy to have a job and really quite nice) hammered and crow-barred gleefully on the roof over my head. My head responded in kind. I wanted to crawl under my desk.
The odor of the old shingles, the sound of the workers and their tools, the expansion in my head was driving me to new heights of complaint.
Then I went to work. Courthouses are not a great place for compassion. Lawyers and judges try to avoid that human quality. And when faced with a grumpy, mind melting, female who is, in some cases, twice their age, the idea of compassion seems to recede even further from their realm of behavior.
Now I do not blame these folk. They were trying to do their jobs and I was having some difficulty expressing myself in complete, coherent sentences. Come to think of it, I was probably acting like some of my clients on their good days. That is frightening to a District Attorney.
I finally got it all done and went back to the place of hammers and tongs.
For some reason, my daughter thought she should drive me home.
Home, prescription drugs, bed, dogs and cats curled around me.
I finally slept.
I really can't complain. My physical pain goes away in time, I have a job that I created myself, I have a great kid who looks out for me, and I have a spouse who closed all the blinds, put the dogs on the bed and stayed very quiet for a long time.
I think that is very, very good. I am blessed.
For the last three days I have been fighting a migraine headache. Not just a migraine. The headache came and stayed. For three days I have felt like my brain had separated from my skull and was going to explode at any minute. I found I could not form words into proper sentences. I could not complete a thought. My body felt like it was being slowly and inexorably pushed into the ground that I stood on.
I could not sleep, I could not lay down. But my eyes would shut automatically to try and save my brain from the attacks of light and sound that surrounded me.
And I had to go to work. I had cases that could not be handed off to someone else.
So I stumbled to work on Monday. Hoping against all odds that nothing would go wrong and people would speak gently to me.
HA!
The landlord was putting a new roof on our building. That was not a quiet and gentle thing.
Our office building with the original asbestos tiles. |
Big, burly, half-dressed males (happy to have a job and really quite nice) hammered and crow-barred gleefully on the roof over my head. My head responded in kind. I wanted to crawl under my desk.
The odor of the old shingles, the sound of the workers and their tools, the expansion in my head was driving me to new heights of complaint.
Then I went to work. Courthouses are not a great place for compassion. Lawyers and judges try to avoid that human quality. And when faced with a grumpy, mind melting, female who is, in some cases, twice their age, the idea of compassion seems to recede even further from their realm of behavior.
Now I do not blame these folk. They were trying to do their jobs and I was having some difficulty expressing myself in complete, coherent sentences. Come to think of it, I was probably acting like some of my clients on their good days. That is frightening to a District Attorney.
I finally got it all done and went back to the place of hammers and tongs.
For some reason, my daughter thought she should drive me home.
Home, prescription drugs, bed, dogs and cats curled around me.
I finally slept.
I really can't complain. My physical pain goes away in time, I have a job that I created myself, I have a great kid who looks out for me, and I have a spouse who closed all the blinds, put the dogs on the bed and stayed very quiet for a long time.
I think that is very, very good. I am blessed.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Friends
Vocal Arts at the San Luis Obispo Mission |
But we also go to meet our friends.
It is a bit of a raucous group. We tend to turn into the kids in choir class at high school. Talkin' when we should be listening, laughing at inside jokes, etc. You know the routine.
But VAE is special. Maybe because there is a core group that has been there for over 30 years. Maybe because we all like the music we make. Maybe because you make friends there who are very, very special.
Last night I notice a friend of mine sitting alone during the break. Her head was down and her shoulders slumped.
I went over, sat down next to her, and asked if she was ok.
I got the biggest hug. And we started talking. She had troubles and she told me a little about them. Very quickly and with that laugh that comes with sharing something negative that you don't want others to feel like your a wimp.
You know that laugh?
And so I hugged her again. And she asked me how I was. She knows how hard it has been for me since Dan died.
And she began to comfort me!
She reminded me that when things get tough you remind yourself of all that is good in the world. You keep your chin up and your eyes open.
I was in awe of her ability to reach inside herself and find that kernal of warm, fresh life and take it for a spin.
She raised her head and laughed.
We had so much to say to each other. But rehearsal started again.
I will go back next week and continue the conversation.
It is the music and the music of friendship that makes VAE special.
Thank you, my friend.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Cases and Wierdness
I really wish I could talk about some of the cases that I handle.
My clients range from the affluent to the homeless. From the very intelligent to the severely developmentally disabled. From the beautiful to the disfigured.
They are all there. Looking to me for a little help.
And sometimes, just sometimes, I really can help. Not just with a lower sentence but with putting them on a new path. A path that does not include the criminal justice system. A path where I will never see them again.
But that is getting harder and harder to do. The more legislation that occurs to keep society "safe" means fewer and fewer community programs. Fewer and fewer rehab centers. Fewer and fewer centers that will deal with mental health issues or developmental problems.
I am increasingly frustrated that this additional legislation is based on fear. Pure, simple fear. With no basis in fact. I stood up when the latest restrictions on sex offenders was enacted. I wrote a piece for the local paper on the costly and damaging effects the legislation would have.
The piece was cut to ribbons and made no sense.
I had tried to say that there is a HUGE difference between a sex offender and a child molester. THEY ARE NOT THE SAME. They should not be treated the same. But they are.
Lifetime registration for all. No matter what the behaviour and no matter when it occurred.
This is not the time and the place for me to go into it all. It would take hours.
But it frustrates me. And it makes me angry that people aren't given the chance to turn their lives around. Many from the age of 18 or 19.
And then there are the mentally ill.
I think I will save that for another day.
Thanks for listening.
My clients range from the affluent to the homeless. From the very intelligent to the severely developmentally disabled. From the beautiful to the disfigured.
They are all there. Looking to me for a little help.
And sometimes, just sometimes, I really can help. Not just with a lower sentence but with putting them on a new path. A path that does not include the criminal justice system. A path where I will never see them again.
But that is getting harder and harder to do. The more legislation that occurs to keep society "safe" means fewer and fewer community programs. Fewer and fewer rehab centers. Fewer and fewer centers that will deal with mental health issues or developmental problems.
I am increasingly frustrated that this additional legislation is based on fear. Pure, simple fear. With no basis in fact. I stood up when the latest restrictions on sex offenders was enacted. I wrote a piece for the local paper on the costly and damaging effects the legislation would have.
The piece was cut to ribbons and made no sense.
I had tried to say that there is a HUGE difference between a sex offender and a child molester. THEY ARE NOT THE SAME. They should not be treated the same. But they are.
Lifetime registration for all. No matter what the behaviour and no matter when it occurred.
This is not the time and the place for me to go into it all. It would take hours.
But it frustrates me. And it makes me angry that people aren't given the chance to turn their lives around. Many from the age of 18 or 19.
And then there are the mentally ill.
I think I will save that for another day.
Thanks for listening.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Glass Ceilings
I went to work for a large firm just once. It was an insurance defense firm in Bakersfield. I was the only one there with any criminal experience. I put in more hours than anyone else there and I was paid less. I quit and opened my own firm.
When I first graduated from law school in 1985, I was interviewed by a large firm. I was very excited. I walked in and sat down in front of a man in his 60's. He smiled and said, "Why does a pretty young thing like you want to work in law?"
I walked out. I was furious.
I had a young child. I was a single parent and no firm wanted me.
So when the job in Bakersfield opened up, I went for the interview. I didn't like Bakersfield. I had been raised about 60 miles north of the town and still had childhood induced prejudices about the place.
I didn't expect much. But the interviewer was THE Public Defender. His first question was "When can you start?"
I blurted out, "Aren't you going to ask me about my qualifications?" And his response was "I read your resume, I talked to one of your professors. If you want the job, it is yours."
I jumped on it.
And I stayed for nearly 15 years.
But I was still under a glass ceiling. The bias that women couldn't handle felonies was ever present.
So I spent lots of time with the guys. The ones who did the felonies. I listened and I used some of the techniques that they bragged about. I worked longer hours and I read.
When I left that job, I was one of two women in the county that was qualified to do Death Penalty cases. I handled some of the toughest felony cases that the Public Defender had.
I am not bragging. I am simply saying that I had to spend more time and do more work for the same recognition.
Now, I believe (really don't know this for a fact) that I am the only female in the county where I live now that is qualified to defend high level felonies. I am probably the only one that enjoys them.
The point?
There is a very thick glass ceiling. And talented, strong women are needed to break it.
I hope that law schools will start empowering women to realize that they can make a huge difference by saving one person at a time in criminal defense work.
This diatribe got started when I read the following editorial in the New York Times this morning:
When I first graduated from law school in 1985, I was interviewed by a large firm. I was very excited. I walked in and sat down in front of a man in his 60's. He smiled and said, "Why does a pretty young thing like you want to work in law?"
I walked out. I was furious.
I had a young child. I was a single parent and no firm wanted me.
So when the job in Bakersfield opened up, I went for the interview. I didn't like Bakersfield. I had been raised about 60 miles north of the town and still had childhood induced prejudices about the place.
I didn't expect much. But the interviewer was THE Public Defender. His first question was "When can you start?"
I blurted out, "Aren't you going to ask me about my qualifications?" And his response was "I read your resume, I talked to one of your professors. If you want the job, it is yours."
I jumped on it.
And I stayed for nearly 15 years.
But I was still under a glass ceiling. The bias that women couldn't handle felonies was ever present.
So I spent lots of time with the guys. The ones who did the felonies. I listened and I used some of the techniques that they bragged about. I worked longer hours and I read.
When I left that job, I was one of two women in the county that was qualified to do Death Penalty cases. I handled some of the toughest felony cases that the Public Defender had.
I am not bragging. I am simply saying that I had to spend more time and do more work for the same recognition.
Now, I believe (really don't know this for a fact) that I am the only female in the county where I live now that is qualified to defend high level felonies. I am probably the only one that enjoys them.
The point?
There is a very thick glass ceiling. And talented, strong women are needed to break it.
I hope that law schools will start empowering women to realize that they can make a huge difference by saving one person at a time in criminal defense work.
This diatribe got started when I read the following editorial in the New York Times this morning:
Editorial
The Glass Ceiling
Published: October 8, 2011
Thirty years ago this month, Sandra Day O’Connor heard her first cases on the Supreme Court. Many thought her appointment would herald the shattering of the law’s glass ceiling, but at best it only cracked.
Decades later, the profession is still resistant to putting women in leadership positions, and many women have abandoned the law altogether. Women still make up less than one-third of American lawyers, even though they have made up almost half of new law-school graduates for the last two decades. In law firms, women make up 45 percent of associates but only 15 percent of equity partners and 6 percent of equity partners at the 200 largest firms.
More women have joined the bench in the last three decades, but progress in that arena has been slow as well. While three women are on the Supreme Court, as of last year women made up only 22 percent of the federal judiciary and 26 percent of state judges. No state has equal representation of women on the bench.
Women with children are having the hardest time staying in the profession. They are half as likely to be hired, a recent Cornell study found, when compared with childless women with similar qualifications.
Even when women do not have children, bias is reflected in the major factors that shape careers in law firms — evaluations, assignments and compensation — according to a landmark report from the American Bar Association’s Commission on Women in the Profession.
The presumption that women are less devoted to their jobs means that they often have to show more evidence of achievement than men. Even when their legal work is outstanding, women have tended to get fewer opportunities because of how work is assigned through the buddy system. And pay for female lawyers is generally less — the median income is 74 percent of what men earn — with the gap widening as they move higher. Another study has found that some 90 percent of female lawyers report having encountered sex discrimination in the profession, a percentage that has not decreased since the 1970s.
Some women do succeed in private law firms, especially if they fit the traditional model of the lawyer who can leave family responsibilities to a stay-at-home partner or a nanny. But that model represents only one-sixth of the work force, and is outmoded. There are ways to retain more women in the law. Flexible schedules can work well, but to end their stigma men need to choose to use them as well as women. And firms must have transparent systems for evaluating, assigning and paying lawyers.
Legal employers should understand that unless they retain a higher share of women, the profession will continue to lose talented lawyers. It will fail to be a profession that embodies gender equality — what many thought the O’Connor selection promised to bring.
Decades later, the profession is still resistant to putting women in leadership positions, and many women have abandoned the law altogether. Women still make up less than one-third of American lawyers, even though they have made up almost half of new law-school graduates for the last two decades. In law firms, women make up 45 percent of associates but only 15 percent of equity partners and 6 percent of equity partners at the 200 largest firms.
More women have joined the bench in the last three decades, but progress in that arena has been slow as well. While three women are on the Supreme Court, as of last year women made up only 22 percent of the federal judiciary and 26 percent of state judges. No state has equal representation of women on the bench.
Women with children are having the hardest time staying in the profession. They are half as likely to be hired, a recent Cornell study found, when compared with childless women with similar qualifications.
Even when women do not have children, bias is reflected in the major factors that shape careers in law firms — evaluations, assignments and compensation — according to a landmark report from the American Bar Association’s Commission on Women in the Profession.
The presumption that women are less devoted to their jobs means that they often have to show more evidence of achievement than men. Even when their legal work is outstanding, women have tended to get fewer opportunities because of how work is assigned through the buddy system. And pay for female lawyers is generally less — the median income is 74 percent of what men earn — with the gap widening as they move higher. Another study has found that some 90 percent of female lawyers report having encountered sex discrimination in the profession, a percentage that has not decreased since the 1970s.
Some women do succeed in private law firms, especially if they fit the traditional model of the lawyer who can leave family responsibilities to a stay-at-home partner or a nanny. But that model represents only one-sixth of the work force, and is outmoded. There are ways to retain more women in the law. Flexible schedules can work well, but to end their stigma men need to choose to use them as well as women. And firms must have transparent systems for evaluating, assigning and paying lawyers.
Legal employers should understand that unless they retain a higher share of women, the profession will continue to lose talented lawyers. It will fail to be a profession that embodies gender equality — what many thought the O’Connor selection promised to bring.
A version of this editorial appeared in print on October 9, 2011, on page SR10 of the New York edition with the headline: The Glass Ceiling.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
I Did NOT Panic
It is Saturday morning. The silent discussion over who is going to get up and feed the dogs has begun. Mohawk is standing by the bed whining as only he can. Zelda is trying to climb up the side of the bed and is nudging my hand to get petted. And LadyBug is standing on my legs.
But she is not licking me or trying to get to my face.
I know that something is wrong. 1) she is NOT licking my face and 2) she is shaking.
Sleep leaves me and I lean up to find her with twitching eyes and a head waggle.
I knew immediately that she was having a re-occurrence of the geriatric vestibular syndrome. And I knew what to do.
I wrapped her up nice and warm, offered her food and water (which she refused) and called the vet.
Within an hour her symptoms began to subside and by the time I got her to the vet she was walking (albeit sideways but walking).
By the time we got back home, she was ready to eat. I just had to put it where she could see it and down it went.
She is sleeping now. She is not in pain. In fact, she is being pampered more than ever.
And I did NOT panic!
I think I will recover from this one. I know LadyBug will.
But she is not licking me or trying to get to my face.
I know that something is wrong. 1) she is NOT licking my face and 2) she is shaking.
Sleep leaves me and I lean up to find her with twitching eyes and a head waggle.
I knew immediately that she was having a re-occurrence of the geriatric vestibular syndrome. And I knew what to do.
I wrapped her up nice and warm, offered her food and water (which she refused) and called the vet.
Within an hour her symptoms began to subside and by the time I got her to the vet she was walking (albeit sideways but walking).
By the time we got back home, she was ready to eat. I just had to put it where she could see it and down it went.
She is sleeping now. She is not in pain. In fact, she is being pampered more than ever.
And I did NOT panic!
I think I will recover from this one. I know LadyBug will.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Caffine and me
I love coffee. It is a beverage that I was raised on. My father gave me my first taste when I was a toddler. He called it sucabee. It was a sugar cube soaked with coffee.
And I was off and running.
Coffee was a way of life at our house. It was the first thing on the stove in the morning and the last thing off the stove at night. When percolators came out, it was plugged in by the first person in the kitchen in the morning. Usually mother.
Dad always unplugged it at night. But only after he had his afterdinner cup and his beforebed cup. And don't forget the watching tv cup.
I really got into coffee in college. Trying to stay awake to study and (to be honest) I thought it was VERY grown up.
Well, now I am grown up and I still wake up with coffee.
When I went to Italy, I got a chance to drink European espresso. (It is NOT EXpresso, it is ESpresso!) So black and thick you might think it was liquid tar. But it was not bitter, just strong. And flavorful. When I got back to the States, I couldn't drink the coffee here. It was WAY too weak.
So I got an espresso machine. And went crazy.
I have backed off since then. I really can drink American coffee now. It is much stronger than it used to be.
But, I can't sleep if I drink the fulled leaded coffee at night.
So I switched to unleaded at night. (Decaffinated....)
Except last night I put the wrong coffee in the coffee machine.
So I am writing about coffee at 3am.
Just in time for a fresh cup. In about 2 hours.
And I was off and running.
Coffee was a way of life at our house. It was the first thing on the stove in the morning and the last thing off the stove at night. When percolators came out, it was plugged in by the first person in the kitchen in the morning. Usually mother.
Dad always unplugged it at night. But only after he had his afterdinner cup and his beforebed cup. And don't forget the watching tv cup.
I really got into coffee in college. Trying to stay awake to study and (to be honest) I thought it was VERY grown up.
Well, now I am grown up and I still wake up with coffee.
When I went to Italy, I got a chance to drink European espresso. (It is NOT EXpresso, it is ESpresso!) So black and thick you might think it was liquid tar. But it was not bitter, just strong. And flavorful. When I got back to the States, I couldn't drink the coffee here. It was WAY too weak.
So I got an espresso machine. And went crazy.
I have backed off since then. I really can drink American coffee now. It is much stronger than it used to be.
But, I can't sleep if I drink the fulled leaded coffee at night.
So I switched to unleaded at night. (Decaffinated....)
Except last night I put the wrong coffee in the coffee machine.
So I am writing about coffee at 3am.
Just in time for a fresh cup. In about 2 hours.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Headaches
I get migraines. Classic, one-sided, blinding, migraines.
I was first diagnosed with them at the ripe old age of 4.
I remember it. I was sitting on the examination table and the doctor asked me how I was and I said "What's this hurt behind my eye?"
Geez, I was 4!!!! Couldn't God have waited until I at least could blame it on hormones or something like that?? What did I do to deserve migraines at that age???
So I have had them for over 50 years. I have been to neurologists by the dozen. Pain clinics. Acupuncturists. Massage therapist. Chiropractors. Migraine specialists. Allergists. You name it, I have been there.
So I warn every judge I am in front of that I get them, that I don't know when they will hit but when I say I gotta go, I mean I gotta go now. Otherwise I end up walking into walls that I can't see and/or bursting into tears and/or (this is the good one) having the symptomology of a stroke!
Great fun.
But, in general, people think that migraines are just a headache and you will be just fine if you take an aspirin or ibuprofen or some such shit.
I have patiently explained to judges (and others) that my migraines are not headaches. They are a neurological event. That my brain simply shorts out. I explain that I get auras. That my vision splits so that I can't see what is directly in front of me but only that which is in my peripheral vision. And that is blurred. I loose feeling on the skin of my hand (right only) that progresses up my arm, into my neck and then into my jaw and my tongue.
I explain that I am exhausted after the neurological event and it prevents me from working with any level of competence.
Oh, did I forget to mention that I mix up word order in sentences when I speak?
Cuz that is what I did in an opening argument where the judge didn't believe I had migraines.
That was the day I ended up in the hospital because even my doctor was afraid I had stroked.
I hadn't. There is never a bleed. Although every time I get one I am terrified that this time it is a bleed.
That judge has retired. I ran into him the other day. He asked if I had been cured.
So if you don't know about migraines and someone you know tells you they have them, please educate yourself.
It is NOT just a headache. In fact, a lot of times no headache occurs. Just the auras, the blindness and the fear.
Please don't take someone saying they have a migraine lightly. It can really disrupt your day and your life.
If you don't mind, I am going to bed. I woke up with a migraine this morning and I am not feeling much better right now.
At least I know that this one was not a bleed. I didn't go numb this time.
I was first diagnosed with them at the ripe old age of 4.
I remember it. I was sitting on the examination table and the doctor asked me how I was and I said "What's this hurt behind my eye?"
Geez, I was 4!!!! Couldn't God have waited until I at least could blame it on hormones or something like that?? What did I do to deserve migraines at that age???
So I have had them for over 50 years. I have been to neurologists by the dozen. Pain clinics. Acupuncturists. Massage therapist. Chiropractors. Migraine specialists. Allergists. You name it, I have been there.
So I warn every judge I am in front of that I get them, that I don't know when they will hit but when I say I gotta go, I mean I gotta go now. Otherwise I end up walking into walls that I can't see and/or bursting into tears and/or (this is the good one) having the symptomology of a stroke!
Great fun.
But, in general, people think that migraines are just a headache and you will be just fine if you take an aspirin or ibuprofen or some such shit.
I have patiently explained to judges (and others) that my migraines are not headaches. They are a neurological event. That my brain simply shorts out. I explain that I get auras. That my vision splits so that I can't see what is directly in front of me but only that which is in my peripheral vision. And that is blurred. I loose feeling on the skin of my hand (right only) that progresses up my arm, into my neck and then into my jaw and my tongue.
I explain that I am exhausted after the neurological event and it prevents me from working with any level of competence.
Oh, did I forget to mention that I mix up word order in sentences when I speak?
Cuz that is what I did in an opening argument where the judge didn't believe I had migraines.
That was the day I ended up in the hospital because even my doctor was afraid I had stroked.
I hadn't. There is never a bleed. Although every time I get one I am terrified that this time it is a bleed.
That judge has retired. I ran into him the other day. He asked if I had been cured.
So if you don't know about migraines and someone you know tells you they have them, please educate yourself.
It is NOT just a headache. In fact, a lot of times no headache occurs. Just the auras, the blindness and the fear.
Please don't take someone saying they have a migraine lightly. It can really disrupt your day and your life.
If you don't mind, I am going to bed. I woke up with a migraine this morning and I am not feeling much better right now.
At least I know that this one was not a bleed. I didn't go numb this time.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Singing Again
I really had forgotten how wonderful it is to sing in a place made for singing.
Vocal Arts did a concert today in the San Miguel Mission in San Miguel. San Miguel is a very small town north of Paso Robles (California). The town and the mission began in the 1700's. We were asked to sing at their Fiesta Days and we jumped at the chance.
The remarkable thing is that the Mission was nearly lost in the Paso Robles earthquake. Three hundred years of history almost went to the ground.
But it didn't. And the community began saving money and raising money for the restoration and retrofitting of the old adobe buildings. And this year the Mission opened again. The frescos inside are original and are now being meticulously cleaned to show their true color and beauty.
But even without that, seeing them on the walls and realizing that someone, 300 years ago, placed paint on the wall that I was looking at was astounding.
It is hard to imagine, but the steps to the alter are the original wood. The beams are 300 years old. The frescos and the alter icons are the same.
I think it was the best we have ever sung Anton Bruckner's "Ave Maria" It was magical.
Vocal Arts did a concert today in the San Miguel Mission in San Miguel. San Miguel is a very small town north of Paso Robles (California). The town and the mission began in the 1700's. We were asked to sing at their Fiesta Days and we jumped at the chance.
The remarkable thing is that the Mission was nearly lost in the Paso Robles earthquake. Three hundred years of history almost went to the ground.
But it didn't. And the community began saving money and raising money for the restoration and retrofitting of the old adobe buildings. And this year the Mission opened again. The frescos inside are original and are now being meticulously cleaned to show their true color and beauty.
But even without that, seeing them on the walls and realizing that someone, 300 years ago, placed paint on the wall that I was looking at was astounding.
It is hard to imagine, but the steps to the alter are the original wood. The beams are 300 years old. The frescos and the alter icons are the same.
I think it was the best we have ever sung Anton Bruckner's "Ave Maria" It was magical.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Just a Normal Day
The blog has been a bit neglected. I have been working and just didn't have the will (or the thoughts) to put down on virtual paper.
But today is Saturday and I am taking the day off. Not that it really changes things.
You see, I had two cases set to go to trial (like with a jury and all the trimmings) on this coming Monday. That means that a readiness hearing is held the week before to make sure that all is well and the case will go to trial as scheduled. The court needs to know how to schedule and jury services needs to know how many people to call. The court reporter has to be available and bailiffs have to be there to cover the in custody defendant.
The "hearing" is usually in chambers with the judge and goes something like this:
Judge: "Is everyone ready? Good, let's confirm this on the record"
Everyone else: "Thank you, your Honor."
Except that mine never go that way. There is usually some glitch. A witness is unavailable. There aren't enough jurors in the pool. Another trial has priority. Something.
But usually it is worked out and the trial goes forward.
Usually.
This week was not even close to usual.
Two trials. I have been preparing for both. That requires my brain to be actively thinking about the case almost all the time.
Doing dishes. I am thinking about it. Going over possible scenarios and possible outcomes for witnesses, rulings, etc.
My brain doesn't stop.
And that means little sleep.
And that means I am GRUMPY!
So when I get 1000 pages of NEW discovery (that police reports, expert reports, forensic testing, etc.) ten days before trial (on a case that is 2 years old!) , I go beserk.
AND I DO MEAN BESERK.
I file papers with the court and I am not kind.
So the readiness hearing goes something like this:
Judge: I have read the motion filed by defense and I must say I am not happy. I have no choice but to grant the motion to continue. I will put my displeasure on the record."
Out we go to the courtroom where the judge lambasts the prosecution and puts off the trial for 3 months.
I get to do this all over again. Great......
Then, in the next courtroom on the same day. The other case that has been occupying my brain is dismissed for lack of evidence.
Not that I am upset about a dismissal. I just like to go to trial on cases the prosecution can't prove. I like winning.
But I am upset that I haven't slept well in weeks over cases that the prosecution KNEW weren't going.
Sometimes the chess game pisses me off.
Just a normal day......
But today is Saturday and I am taking the day off. Not that it really changes things.
You see, I had two cases set to go to trial (like with a jury and all the trimmings) on this coming Monday. That means that a readiness hearing is held the week before to make sure that all is well and the case will go to trial as scheduled. The court needs to know how to schedule and jury services needs to know how many people to call. The court reporter has to be available and bailiffs have to be there to cover the in custody defendant.
The "hearing" is usually in chambers with the judge and goes something like this:
Judge: "Is everyone ready? Good, let's confirm this on the record"
Everyone else: "Thank you, your Honor."
Except that mine never go that way. There is usually some glitch. A witness is unavailable. There aren't enough jurors in the pool. Another trial has priority. Something.
But usually it is worked out and the trial goes forward.
Usually.
This week was not even close to usual.
Two trials. I have been preparing for both. That requires my brain to be actively thinking about the case almost all the time.
Doing dishes. I am thinking about it. Going over possible scenarios and possible outcomes for witnesses, rulings, etc.
My brain doesn't stop.
And that means little sleep.
And that means I am GRUMPY!
So when I get 1000 pages of NEW discovery (that police reports, expert reports, forensic testing, etc.) ten days before trial (on a case that is 2 years old!) , I go beserk.
AND I DO MEAN BESERK.
I file papers with the court and I am not kind.
So the readiness hearing goes something like this:
Judge: I have read the motion filed by defense and I must say I am not happy. I have no choice but to grant the motion to continue. I will put my displeasure on the record."
Out we go to the courtroom where the judge lambasts the prosecution and puts off the trial for 3 months.
I get to do this all over again. Great......
Then, in the next courtroom on the same day. The other case that has been occupying my brain is dismissed for lack of evidence.
Not that I am upset about a dismissal. I just like to go to trial on cases the prosecution can't prove. I like winning.
But I am upset that I haven't slept well in weeks over cases that the prosecution KNEW weren't going.
Sometimes the chess game pisses me off.
Just a normal day......
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Sayin' Goodbye, Again
Judge passed last Friday.
Yesterday, I drove Hwy. 58 to Bakersfield to be at his Rosary and his funeral.
Why highway 58, you might ask. It is slower, windier, and, in summer, not very pretty.
But it has the buffalo.
The ones he told me about long ago.
I, of course, did not believe him. There are no buffalo in Santa Margarita or just outside of it. But I took the route back then.
I didn't see any buffalo.
I told him he was pulling my leg. Just like my brothers and the cherry tree. You see, my brothers told me that there was a cherry tree on the pitcher's mound in our backyard. There was no pitcher's mound and no cherry tree. But they made me feel real stupid as they insisted that there was a pitcher's mound and a cherry tree and I was just blind not to see it. It was a running joke on me from the age of 2 to about 5 when I finally figured out they were making fun of me.
But Judge insisted that there WERE buffalo and that I should keep using that route and I would eventually see them.
And I did. And I took pictures and sent them to him. Laughing the whole time. He just said, "I told you so".
He didn't tease me. He never put me down.
He was brother, father, confidant, friend and mentor.
So I took Highway 58 for him. And the buffalo were there.
So was the San Andreas fault.
That was another thing he told me I would not only see but drive right over. And that is what I did.
And then I drove into the valley. I had called it Mordor once and he found that quite funny and very true. Nothing but oilwells and sage. For miles. With the summer heat to match.
All of these places reminded me of him. He told stories about all of them. And I will never hear them again.
He will not wear his black robe again.
So I sat through a Rosary. And I sat through a Mass. He was Catholic and the rituals were followed.
As for me, the ritual was covering the land that he loved to talk about. Remembering the things that we shared.
I said goodbye in his way and I said goodbye in my way.
Goodbye, Judge.
Yesterday, I drove Hwy. 58 to Bakersfield to be at his Rosary and his funeral.
Why highway 58, you might ask. It is slower, windier, and, in summer, not very pretty.
But it has the buffalo.
The ones he told me about long ago.
I, of course, did not believe him. There are no buffalo in Santa Margarita or just outside of it. But I took the route back then.
I didn't see any buffalo.
I told him he was pulling my leg. Just like my brothers and the cherry tree. You see, my brothers told me that there was a cherry tree on the pitcher's mound in our backyard. There was no pitcher's mound and no cherry tree. But they made me feel real stupid as they insisted that there was a pitcher's mound and a cherry tree and I was just blind not to see it. It was a running joke on me from the age of 2 to about 5 when I finally figured out they were making fun of me.
But Judge insisted that there WERE buffalo and that I should keep using that route and I would eventually see them.
And I did. And I took pictures and sent them to him. Laughing the whole time. He just said, "I told you so".
He didn't tease me. He never put me down.
He was brother, father, confidant, friend and mentor.
So I took Highway 58 for him. And the buffalo were there.
So was the San Andreas fault.
That was another thing he told me I would not only see but drive right over. And that is what I did.
And then I drove into the valley. I had called it Mordor once and he found that quite funny and very true. Nothing but oilwells and sage. For miles. With the summer heat to match.
All of these places reminded me of him. He told stories about all of them. And I will never hear them again.
He will not wear his black robe again.
So I sat through a Rosary. And I sat through a Mass. He was Catholic and the rituals were followed.
As for me, the ritual was covering the land that he loved to talk about. Remembering the things that we shared.
I said goodbye in his way and I said goodbye in my way.
Goodbye, Judge.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Minding My Own Business
Ok. I got to work this morning figuring (well, I do try to plan once in awhile) that if I got there early, I would be done early.
I know better.
Judges run their courtrooms the way that they want to run their courtrooms. It has a logic that is peculiar to each judge. Thus the saying that it is good for business to know the judge. It has nothing to do with getting a favor granted. It has to do with getting your case called at all!
Anyway, I am sitting in the courtroom waiting. Minding my own business when I hear the voice from on high.
"Mrs. (he always says Missus-never Mzzzz or Miss. Although the latter would really be stretching it.) Mueller, can you look at this discovery and see if you can take this case."
Not a question. Not a statement. An order.
"Be glad to, your honor." (I did NOT smirk. I swear it.)
I don't look at the person that might become my client. I don't do anything but read the charge and the attached police reports.
I take the inch and a half stack of paper and begin reading. Carefully, thoughtfully. I am looking for a reference to the defendant that I might be representing.
By now, I know it is a murder case. (YESSSSSSSS!)(See former blogs for my predilections in this area)
After about an inch or so, I begin flipping pages. Yada, yada, yada. It takes me a half an hour to get to my potential client.
What I learned then almost broke my heart. My potential client is severely mentally challenged. (in the words of the police report.) For the first time, I look at my client. He cannot understand what is happening to him.
I didn't read the rest. I stood up. I addressed the court.
"Your Honor, I will represent this man."
It is my privilege. It is my business.
I know better.
Judges run their courtrooms the way that they want to run their courtrooms. It has a logic that is peculiar to each judge. Thus the saying that it is good for business to know the judge. It has nothing to do with getting a favor granted. It has to do with getting your case called at all!
Anyway, I am sitting in the courtroom waiting. Minding my own business when I hear the voice from on high.
"Mrs. (he always says Missus-never Mzzzz or Miss. Although the latter would really be stretching it.) Mueller, can you look at this discovery and see if you can take this case."
Not a question. Not a statement. An order.
"Be glad to, your honor." (I did NOT smirk. I swear it.)
I don't look at the person that might become my client. I don't do anything but read the charge and the attached police reports.
I take the inch and a half stack of paper and begin reading. Carefully, thoughtfully. I am looking for a reference to the defendant that I might be representing.
By now, I know it is a murder case. (YESSSSSSSS!)(See former blogs for my predilections in this area)
After about an inch or so, I begin flipping pages. Yada, yada, yada. It takes me a half an hour to get to my potential client.
What I learned then almost broke my heart. My potential client is severely mentally challenged. (in the words of the police report.) For the first time, I look at my client. He cannot understand what is happening to him.
I didn't read the rest. I stood up. I addressed the court.
"Your Honor, I will represent this man."
It is my privilege. It is my business.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
My Mentor Is Gone
Awhile back I wrote about my mentor. The Honorable Judge Arthur E. Wallace of the Kern County Superior Court.
He was the judge who most helped me cut my chops in felony trial work.
And he mentored me through some very tough times in my life.
He became a life long friend.
I can truly say that now. He died last night after a 4 year battle with pancreatic cancer.
To say that I will miss him is an understatement.
He never met Dan but I am sure that they will have some great intellectual arguments where they are now.
I wish I could listen in.
He was the judge who most helped me cut my chops in felony trial work.
And he mentored me through some very tough times in my life.
He became a life long friend.
I can truly say that now. He died last night after a 4 year battle with pancreatic cancer.
To say that I will miss him is an understatement.
He never met Dan but I am sure that they will have some great intellectual arguments where they are now.
I wish I could listen in.
Schools Out
My offspring finishes her last class in law school today. At exactly 4:30pm.
Five years ago, (I think) I offered her a job. Actually, I made a deal with her. I would move to the Central Coast, open a business here, hire her at a wage matching her current one, and pay her law school tuition. If, and only if, that is what she wanted to do.
I was still going to move to the coast and open a business but I would have to hire a legal assistant if she didn't want to go on to school.
She thought about it and decided that she would go to law school on line. There are no ABA accredited schools in our area. The closest State accredited on was a 2 hour drive away and there were two on line schools that were getting decent reviews.
She made the decision based on all the facts. She knew what kind of law she wanted to practice. She knew that she would not be leaving the State of California to practice and she knew that she would be part of my business or running her own.
So four years ago she began.
Her first lesson was that her parental units (both lawyers) were no help. We had forgotten everything (or nearly everything) that first years are taught.
But she studied and she did well. Then she did better. Then she did best.
She began to join in the discussions at work with the me and with the civil attorneys.
Then the attorneys started going to her to get ideas and discuss issues.
I watched her go through the process of learning to think like a lawyer. It was amazing.
And now she is done with school. There is just one more hurdle. The Bar Exam.
And I know that she will approach that with the same methodical tenacity that produced the woman who is treated like a lawyer already.
I am proud but not surprised.
Well, I am surprised. I am surprised that I am in any way related to such a sparkling young, strong woman.
Schools Out.
Five years ago, (I think) I offered her a job. Actually, I made a deal with her. I would move to the Central Coast, open a business here, hire her at a wage matching her current one, and pay her law school tuition. If, and only if, that is what she wanted to do.
I was still going to move to the coast and open a business but I would have to hire a legal assistant if she didn't want to go on to school.
She thought about it and decided that she would go to law school on line. There are no ABA accredited schools in our area. The closest State accredited on was a 2 hour drive away and there were two on line schools that were getting decent reviews.
She made the decision based on all the facts. She knew what kind of law she wanted to practice. She knew that she would not be leaving the State of California to practice and she knew that she would be part of my business or running her own.
So four years ago she began.
Her first lesson was that her parental units (both lawyers) were no help. We had forgotten everything (or nearly everything) that first years are taught.
But she studied and she did well. Then she did better. Then she did best.
She began to join in the discussions at work with the me and with the civil attorneys.
Then the attorneys started going to her to get ideas and discuss issues.
I watched her go through the process of learning to think like a lawyer. It was amazing.
And now she is done with school. There is just one more hurdle. The Bar Exam.
And I know that she will approach that with the same methodical tenacity that produced the woman who is treated like a lawyer already.
I am proud but not surprised.
Well, I am surprised. I am surprised that I am in any way related to such a sparkling young, strong woman.
Schools Out.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Back in Lindsay
Somebody started up a "You know you came from Lindsay when..." page on Facebook and I have been fascinated by it.
I was born and raised in that town. Everything that I am is based on what occurred in that little bitty town of 5,000 people. Everyone knew you and your family for the last three generations and everyone knew your business and the business of everyone else. If you got in trouble at the park, your parents knew about it before you got home. And there were no cell phones!
I have friends that I have known from birth. I don't remember not knowing my friend Vicki. Her mother and my mother were nurses together at the Lindsay Hospital. Vicki and I use to get up early, go to work with our mothers at 7AM, wait in the hospital waiting room and then walk to school together.
That hospital, small as it was, was central to my life. My mother worked there. Both my brothers worked there as orderlies at one time or another. I had my first surgery there. (an appendectomy when I was 8.) I played cribbage with my great-grandmother there the night before she died (at the age of 103). And I gave birth to my daughter in that hospital, in the same room that my mother gave birth to me.
The hospital was in the park. Where the pool was where I learned to swim and continued to swim through high school. Where the golf course was where I was actually allowed to play but mostly where father played. Where there were jungle gyms and swinging rings to play on and the dogs ran free.
But today, on the Facebook page I learned that it is gone. They tore it down. Lindsay does not have a hospital anymore.
The loss that I feel right now I can't explain. Of course they tore it down. It was old and I am sure that it was no longer operating as a hospital. Small towns can't afford such things anymore.
But it was a huge part of my life. My mother, my friend, my daughter all were centered there.
Now they are centered in my heart. And in my memories of the Lindsay District Hospital.
I was born and raised in that town. Everything that I am is based on what occurred in that little bitty town of 5,000 people. Everyone knew you and your family for the last three generations and everyone knew your business and the business of everyone else. If you got in trouble at the park, your parents knew about it before you got home. And there were no cell phones!
I have friends that I have known from birth. I don't remember not knowing my friend Vicki. Her mother and my mother were nurses together at the Lindsay Hospital. Vicki and I use to get up early, go to work with our mothers at 7AM, wait in the hospital waiting room and then walk to school together.
That hospital, small as it was, was central to my life. My mother worked there. Both my brothers worked there as orderlies at one time or another. I had my first surgery there. (an appendectomy when I was 8.) I played cribbage with my great-grandmother there the night before she died (at the age of 103). And I gave birth to my daughter in that hospital, in the same room that my mother gave birth to me.
The hospital was in the park. Where the pool was where I learned to swim and continued to swim through high school. Where the golf course was where I was actually allowed to play but mostly where father played. Where there were jungle gyms and swinging rings to play on and the dogs ran free.
But today, on the Facebook page I learned that it is gone. They tore it down. Lindsay does not have a hospital anymore.
The loss that I feel right now I can't explain. Of course they tore it down. It was old and I am sure that it was no longer operating as a hospital. Small towns can't afford such things anymore.
But it was a huge part of my life. My mother, my friend, my daughter all were centered there.
Now they are centered in my heart. And in my memories of the Lindsay District Hospital.
Friday, August 19, 2011
He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother: He is still watching--now this is fun?
He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother: He is still watching--now this is fun?: I am driving to the office today. I am minding my own business. Of course I am driving from Santa Barbara so I am on the tail end of a 2+h...
The Rest of the Chidren
I don't often talk about my cats. Don't know why. They are just always here and I play with them and clean up after them and do all the things that cat mommies do.
I just don't talk about them alot.
So let me introduce them.
Now you must understand that my cats love to lounge. As illustrated above.
And they love to lounge where dogs will be most annoyed with their lounging. As illustrated above.
You see, that particular cat tree is blocking the gate into catland. The one and only room in the house reserved exclusively for cats. It has a restaurant with table service, clean and tidy restrooms, cozy beds, luxurious trees and sunshine. It also has hidy-holes and high places for amusement and relaxation.
Mostly it has maid service. Me. And it is dog-free. At all times.
So the tower upon which they prefer to lounge (see above illustration) is JUST outside the gate to catland. It is officially in DOGland. But the dogs are short and the tower is tall.
It is also the place where humans must pass in order to enter their sleeping room. So scritchy-scratching is guaranteed at this placement. This also drives dogs out of their minds.
Dogs do not understand why a human would touch a cat. It is simply beyond comprehension. And requires significant whining to advise the human of their error in judgment.
By the way, Putter and Diamond have never been outside. They live entirely in the home of humans and dogs. And guess who rules?
Stupid question.
I just don't talk about them alot.
So let me introduce them.
Putter (up top) and Diamond |
And they love to lounge where dogs will be most annoyed with their lounging. As illustrated above.
You see, that particular cat tree is blocking the gate into catland. The one and only room in the house reserved exclusively for cats. It has a restaurant with table service, clean and tidy restrooms, cozy beds, luxurious trees and sunshine. It also has hidy-holes and high places for amusement and relaxation.
Mostly it has maid service. Me. And it is dog-free. At all times.
So the tower upon which they prefer to lounge (see above illustration) is JUST outside the gate to catland. It is officially in DOGland. But the dogs are short and the tower is tall.
It is also the place where humans must pass in order to enter their sleeping room. So scritchy-scratching is guaranteed at this placement. This also drives dogs out of their minds.
Dogs do not understand why a human would touch a cat. It is simply beyond comprehension. And requires significant whining to advise the human of their error in judgment.
By the way, Putter and Diamond have never been outside. They live entirely in the home of humans and dogs. And guess who rules?
Stupid question.
Monday, August 8, 2011
More Dogs (Good Grief!)
Zelda.
Her name comes not from Dobbie Gillis but from F. Scott Fitzgerald. Well, that's the way it fits her.
It actually came to her as the last name in a book of baby names-----but that is another story.
F. Scott Fitzgerald's Zelda was sweet and loving and self-centered and manipulative and beautiful and blonde.
So, I give you Exhibit A:
She is shaved down for summer so her Cocker coat doesn't show. But she does not mind. She KNOWS that she is beautiful.
She is also willful and very, very active. She dances for her food. She runs the full length of the yard chasing the scents of cats, skunks and other unknown and unseen critters. She scampers up stairs and races around the circle of the house.
Until yesterday.
She lay on the bed and just looked at me. And she shook her head.
In Cocker speak that usually means ear problems. But examination of that region showed nothing. No odd smell, no redness, no dirt, no swelling. Nothing that would denote a problem.
Then she scratched at her neck. And, being a good dog detective, I looked in the fold of her neck.
OUCH!!!!
Her collar had rubbed her raw. And a LARGE ECZEMA patch had formed.
So off to the doctor we go. Well, not me. The spouse had to take her.
So now we have ZELDA on STEROIDS.
This should be lots of fun.......
Her name comes not from Dobbie Gillis but from F. Scott Fitzgerald. Well, that's the way it fits her.
It actually came to her as the last name in a book of baby names-----but that is another story.
F. Scott Fitzgerald's Zelda was sweet and loving and self-centered and manipulative and beautiful and blonde.
So, I give you Exhibit A:
She is shaved down for summer so her Cocker coat doesn't show. But she does not mind. She KNOWS that she is beautiful.
She is also willful and very, very active. She dances for her food. She runs the full length of the yard chasing the scents of cats, skunks and other unknown and unseen critters. She scampers up stairs and races around the circle of the house.
Until yesterday.
She lay on the bed and just looked at me. And she shook her head.
In Cocker speak that usually means ear problems. But examination of that region showed nothing. No odd smell, no redness, no dirt, no swelling. Nothing that would denote a problem.
Then she scratched at her neck. And, being a good dog detective, I looked in the fold of her neck.
OUCH!!!!
Her collar had rubbed her raw. And a LARGE ECZEMA patch had formed.
So off to the doctor we go. Well, not me. The spouse had to take her.
So now we have ZELDA on STEROIDS.
This should be lots of fun.......
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Have I Mentioned the Buffalo?
There is this great road, well, highway, between Bakersfield and San Luis Obispo.
Very few people drive it because it is your basic two-lane mountain road.
Translation: It has lots of curves and very few straight stretches. Getting caught behind a slow moving vehicle means.....you are stuck.
There are no gas stations, restaurants, or other signs of civilization. (There is a large turn out with a sign saying "WeePee Park". But that's another story.)
There are lots of ranches, open pasture, oaks, pines, and rolling hills. There are some horses. Some cattle. You will see the occasional deer.
Oh, have I mentioned the BUFFALO?
About 25 miles East of Santa Margarita there is a ranch that has buffalo. Not just this big guy but a whole herd.
They are beautiful creatures. And I stop every time I take that road and they are out where I can see them.
I marvel at them. I think about their history and how they almost didn't make it this far.
It seems appropriate that they are on a lonely stretch of road where one has to seek them out to contemplate their existence.
It seems appropriate that I take that road just to contemplate my own existence.
The buffalo are special to me.
Very few people drive it because it is your basic two-lane mountain road.
Translation: It has lots of curves and very few straight stretches. Getting caught behind a slow moving vehicle means.....you are stuck.
There are no gas stations, restaurants, or other signs of civilization. (There is a large turn out with a sign saying "WeePee Park". But that's another story.)
There are lots of ranches, open pasture, oaks, pines, and rolling hills. There are some horses. Some cattle. You will see the occasional deer.
Oh, have I mentioned the BUFFALO?
About 25 miles East of Santa Margarita there is a ranch that has buffalo. Not just this big guy but a whole herd.
They are beautiful creatures. And I stop every time I take that road and they are out where I can see them.
I marvel at them. I think about their history and how they almost didn't make it this far.
It seems appropriate that they are on a lonely stretch of road where one has to seek them out to contemplate their existence.
It seems appropriate that I take that road just to contemplate my own existence.
The buffalo are special to me.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Finding Critters
Up at the cabin (Camp Nelson) there were always critters. Bobcats, deer and Bears, oh, my!
There were mice (by the millions), squirrels, moles, gophers, mountain lions, snakes (only a few), skunks, raccoons and other such things.
Most of them avoided us big, clunky, loud humans. We made no sense to them except when we left out the garbage or the birdseed.
But in the towns along the Central Coast you see fewer of them. They really do avoid the human world and run when they are approached in any way. (Well, the bears and cats don't run so much. But the littler guys do!)
So when I arrived at my usual Monday night rest stop in Santa Barbara (Thank you, Ramada Limited for keeping a room for me when I forget to make the weekly reservation!) I was a bit surprised to see a critter in the bushes in front of my parking spot.
It was well hidden and at first I thought it was a cat. But it was startled as I got out of the car and it looked at me. It was not a cat.
See him?
I barely could. So I crept a little closer. And I got this one.
It appeared to be just a little raccoon and he just stared at me. He didn't try to run. Of course it was daylight and not his favorite time of day.
I asked the management about him and they told me he had been in the area for quite some time. I was relieved because that meant he was on home turf and was not hurt.
He just wanted to go back to sleep.
So I let him.
There were mice (by the millions), squirrels, moles, gophers, mountain lions, snakes (only a few), skunks, raccoons and other such things.
Most of them avoided us big, clunky, loud humans. We made no sense to them except when we left out the garbage or the birdseed.
But in the towns along the Central Coast you see fewer of them. They really do avoid the human world and run when they are approached in any way. (Well, the bears and cats don't run so much. But the littler guys do!)
So when I arrived at my usual Monday night rest stop in Santa Barbara (Thank you, Ramada Limited for keeping a room for me when I forget to make the weekly reservation!) I was a bit surprised to see a critter in the bushes in front of my parking spot.
It was well hidden and at first I thought it was a cat. But it was startled as I got out of the car and it looked at me. It was not a cat.
See him?
I barely could. So I crept a little closer. And I got this one.
It appeared to be just a little raccoon and he just stared at me. He didn't try to run. Of course it was daylight and not his favorite time of day.
I asked the management about him and they told me he had been in the area for quite some time. I was relieved because that meant he was on home turf and was not hurt.
He just wanted to go back to sleep.
So I let him.
Friday, July 29, 2011
My Plate is Full
I took this picture at the Lompoc Amtrak station. You will note that there is NOTHING there.
Well, nothing in terms of buildings or other structures generally associated with a train station. You can not buy a ticket there.
But you can see the track go on into the horizon. Just like the ocean that is next to it.
That day it was a bit foggy and I had driven out there as I waited for the courthouse in Lompoc to open for the afternoon. I was to be appointed by the court on a new case.
I like that. It gives me the chance to help someone. It helps me pay my bills. Yada, Yada, Yada.
What the clerk didn't tell me was that it was ANOTHER homicide.
They seem to like me for this kind of case.
But today I realized that I had quite a few of these cases on my desk. I had three active homicides, two attempted homicides and all of them were multiple defendant cases.
I began to feel a little like the picture. Vaguely foggy, on a track heading into the horizon, forever.
Then I got to work and the feeling went away.
Nothing makes me happier than delving into a case with both hands and my mind racing about what happened and why. Who did what and what were they thinking. More important, is there evidence of what they were thinking.
Yea, I got a lot on my plate. My brain is hungry.
Well, nothing in terms of buildings or other structures generally associated with a train station. You can not buy a ticket there.
But you can see the track go on into the horizon. Just like the ocean that is next to it.
That day it was a bit foggy and I had driven out there as I waited for the courthouse in Lompoc to open for the afternoon. I was to be appointed by the court on a new case.
I like that. It gives me the chance to help someone. It helps me pay my bills. Yada, Yada, Yada.
What the clerk didn't tell me was that it was ANOTHER homicide.
They seem to like me for this kind of case.
But today I realized that I had quite a few of these cases on my desk. I had three active homicides, two attempted homicides and all of them were multiple defendant cases.
I began to feel a little like the picture. Vaguely foggy, on a track heading into the horizon, forever.
Then I got to work and the feeling went away.
Nothing makes me happier than delving into a case with both hands and my mind racing about what happened and why. Who did what and what were they thinking. More important, is there evidence of what they were thinking.
Yea, I got a lot on my plate. My brain is hungry.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Walkin' n' Talkin' 2
This morning, in the cool morning fog, Jed and I went walking on the Bob Jones trail. It's a paved walking/biking trail from Highway 101 to Avila Beach. It is really beautiful.
It took San Luis County and lots of volunteers to get it done and it was done in pieces but I had never been on it.
I just never took the time.
So Jed came this morning and picked me up and we walked the trail. 2.1 miles one way.
Now I have a cyber-friend that is training for the Susan B. Komen 3-Day Walk for the Cure in San Francisco (and Atlanta). She talks about doing 15 miles of walking in one day. So I figure I can do a measly 2.1 miles (one-way) easy!
Well, it was a lot of fun and it was relatively easy. And it was beautiful.
And as far as easy.........
If she can do it rollerblading and pushing a stroller, I can walk for a little of two miles. (one-way)
So, Jed, concerned for my cardio health starts off at a rather good, well, my mother would have called it a nurse's pace. We could still talk to each other (and we did a lot of that) but I was noticing that I had a caboose.
We begin to slow at about 2 miles as we come to the golf course and I am trying to explain to him the difference between the blue, white, yellow and red tees. (Jed doesn't do golf. Sad)
We stop at the coffee house in Avila and walk to the end of the pier and look for seals. We only see the human kind who are swimming out to the end of the pier. In the Pacific. Which is cold. I don't understand.
I notice that I have a covering of , well, sweat, on my body. But the air temperature is quite cool. I am reminded of living in North Dakota and shoveling snow in 20 below weather. Don't overheat......HMMMM...
So we drink our coffee and talk at the end of the pier.
Then we walk 2.1 miles back. All the way. Back. A bit slower.
I notice at this point that the top of my ankle is uncomfortable and I am pushing off on my big toe not all my toes. HMMM.... 2.1 miles. Not 15. Not even 5.
I am a wimp. I am also out of shape.
So I stop and take a picture of a blue heron nest in a sycamore tree.
We watched them feed their young for awhile. Not long. And we kept walking. And we kept talking.
My ankle is now resting with ice. It will be fine.
My relationship with Jed is blooming.
I wouldn't have traded that walk for all the tea in China.
It was healthy, beautiful, and fulfilling.
Thank you, Jed. See you next Saturday!
It took San Luis County and lots of volunteers to get it done and it was done in pieces but I had never been on it.
I just never took the time.
So Jed came this morning and picked me up and we walked the trail. 2.1 miles one way.
Now I have a cyber-friend that is training for the Susan B. Komen 3-Day Walk for the Cure in San Francisco (and Atlanta). She talks about doing 15 miles of walking in one day. So I figure I can do a measly 2.1 miles (one-way) easy!
Well, it was a lot of fun and it was relatively easy. And it was beautiful.
Sycamore tree on Bob Jones Trail |
Rollerblading mother with TWO children on Bob Jones Trail |
So, Jed, concerned for my cardio health starts off at a rather good, well, my mother would have called it a nurse's pace. We could still talk to each other (and we did a lot of that) but I was noticing that I had a caboose.
We begin to slow at about 2 miles as we come to the golf course and I am trying to explain to him the difference between the blue, white, yellow and red tees. (Jed doesn't do golf. Sad)
We stop at the coffee house in Avila and walk to the end of the pier and look for seals. We only see the human kind who are swimming out to the end of the pier. In the Pacific. Which is cold. I don't understand.
I notice that I have a covering of , well, sweat, on my body. But the air temperature is quite cool. I am reminded of living in North Dakota and shoveling snow in 20 below weather. Don't overheat......HMMMM...
So we drink our coffee and talk at the end of the pier.
Then we walk 2.1 miles back. All the way. Back. A bit slower.
I notice at this point that the top of my ankle is uncomfortable and I am pushing off on my big toe not all my toes. HMMM.... 2.1 miles. Not 15. Not even 5.
I am a wimp. I am also out of shape.
So I stop and take a picture of a blue heron nest in a sycamore tree.
Heron nest left center at the top (squint a bit) |
My ankle is now resting with ice. It will be fine.
My relationship with Jed is blooming.
I wouldn't have traded that walk for all the tea in China.
It was healthy, beautiful, and fulfilling.
Thank you, Jed. See you next Saturday!
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Remember the SMELLS?
Last night I had the extreme joy of interviewing clients in the county jail. It is part of the job and it happens every (well, almost every) Tuesday.
And as I am sitting waiting to be allowed into the sanctum sanctorum of the interview rooms (this particular lobby area had furniture which is a rarity) I began contemplating the idea that I have contemplated in this position before.
It smells.
Like a jail.
Like a prison.
Like any house of incarceration.
It is the same in all of them.
I have hypothesized that the particular smell is added to the concrete in the construction process. Like an essential oil.
I am quite sure there is a Federal law that mandates the inclusion of this smell in the construction material.
But I sit waiting for an hour contemplating this important issue until my clients are located, the linen is distributed to all the inmates in this particular wing, and the staff remembers that I am sitting in the lobby.
I am the one on the security camera screen that has been in the same chair for the last hour. Remember me?
I have read the files three times. Filled out all of the paperwork for the interview and reviewed it three or four times.
I would read a book but I can't bring such an item into the jail. Same with a portable phone.
So I sit and hypothesize on the overwhelming smell.
I can't wait to take a shower.
And as I am sitting waiting to be allowed into the sanctum sanctorum of the interview rooms (this particular lobby area had furniture which is a rarity) I began contemplating the idea that I have contemplated in this position before.
It smells.
Like a jail.
Like a prison.
Like any house of incarceration.
It is the same in all of them.
I have hypothesized that the particular smell is added to the concrete in the construction process. Like an essential oil.
I am quite sure there is a Federal law that mandates the inclusion of this smell in the construction material.
But I sit waiting for an hour contemplating this important issue until my clients are located, the linen is distributed to all the inmates in this particular wing, and the staff remembers that I am sitting in the lobby.
I am the one on the security camera screen that has been in the same chair for the last hour. Remember me?
I have read the files three times. Filled out all of the paperwork for the interview and reviewed it three or four times.
I would read a book but I can't bring such an item into the jail. Same with a portable phone.
So I sit and hypothesize on the overwhelming smell.
I can't wait to take a shower.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Saturday at Work
I remember Maynard G. Krebs.
The original hippie aka beatnik.
From the late 1950's to around 1963 he appeared on "The Many Loves of Dobbie Gillis"
He bore an amazing resemblance to Bob Denver. And he was my favorite.
He had an aversion to certain things. In fact, he reacted to the mere mention of "work".
I mention this today because I am at WORK!!!!
It is Saturday! The British Open is on TV and the weather conditions over there are abominable . (Which makes for GREAT TV golf---it's called schadenfreude, I think)
But I have three homicides on my desk along with two attempted homicides and a slew of other "run of the mill" cases that all need attention.
So, I am at the office.
But like Maynard, I yelp "WORK" and write to the world about my poor lot in life.
Guess I shall start reading the stuff I came here to read.
"WORK"!!!!!
The original hippie aka beatnik.
From the late 1950's to around 1963 he appeared on "The Many Loves of Dobbie Gillis"
He bore an amazing resemblance to Bob Denver. And he was my favorite.
He had an aversion to certain things. In fact, he reacted to the mere mention of "work".
I mention this today because I am at WORK!!!!
It is Saturday! The British Open is on TV and the weather conditions over there are abominable . (Which makes for GREAT TV golf---it's called schadenfreude, I think)
But I have three homicides on my desk along with two attempted homicides and a slew of other "run of the mill" cases that all need attention.
So, I am at the office.
But like Maynard, I yelp "WORK" and write to the world about my poor lot in life.
Guess I shall start reading the stuff I came here to read.
"WORK"!!!!!
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
I think I am a little ODD??
I think I am a little odd.
Not bizarre.
Not crazy.
Not mentally unbalanced.
Just a little odd.
Most people in the good ol' US of A go around during their days trying to avoid traffic tickets, avoiding the obvious trouble maker in the neighborhood, and avoiding mentioning jail much less going to one.
I absolutely try to avoid traffic tickets. My State Bar Card is next to my Driver's License and an officer of the law ALWAYS notices it when I am stopped. It is embarrassing.
But I watch the neighborhood trouble maker. I keep my eye on that kid. I see who comes and goes from his house and I make sure I DON'T recognize him. Having clients on my block is a bit of a conundrum. Can't have them coming by asking for favors, etc. It is not good for business and it doesn't do well for my piece of mind.
But I like crime.
It is what I do.
I even have a t-shirt that says"what I do for a living is criminal".
I don't wear it a lot. People take it seriously and that requires explaining.
But when I am working and I get a call from a clerk at the courthouse somewhere that says "Can you accept an appointment on a 187?" my heart goes pitter-patter. I get all excited. (*Penal Code section 187=murder)
Autopsy photos, ballistic testing, DNA screenings, statements and speculation....pitter-patter---pitter-patter.
It is a mystery with a solution attached and my job is to find the alternative solutions.
So I dig and investigate (through my investigator) and I read and re-read. I examine and re-examine.
And all the time I know. I KNOW. That there is someone's life at stake. And I know. I KNOW. That a life is gone that I can't bring back.
I remember my first murder trial and I remember the last one that I did. I remember all the ones I have won. And I remember the ones that I lost.
Some were found not guilty. Some were found guilty of other charges. Some were found guilty of murder.
In any case, I remembered to respect ALL the players involved. For they were and are still people. People pushed to places most of us can't imagine. People with demons we wouldn't wish on our worst enemies.
I have sat with them and watched their demons play in their minds. I have sat with them and watched them blame themselves for not having more strength. I have sat with them and wondered what I would have done in their place. I have sat with them and cried and laughed and worried and wondered.
So if I am a bit odd, I am glad for it.
I am glad that a murder case is a thrill to me.
I am glad that I still feel that I can help just one person. If only to help them understand themselves and the world around them.
And, yea, I just got a call asking me if I would accept an appointment on a 187.
I said yes.
Not bizarre.
Not crazy.
Not mentally unbalanced.
Just a little odd.
Most people in the good ol' US of A go around during their days trying to avoid traffic tickets, avoiding the obvious trouble maker in the neighborhood, and avoiding mentioning jail much less going to one.
I absolutely try to avoid traffic tickets. My State Bar Card is next to my Driver's License and an officer of the law ALWAYS notices it when I am stopped. It is embarrassing.
But I watch the neighborhood trouble maker. I keep my eye on that kid. I see who comes and goes from his house and I make sure I DON'T recognize him. Having clients on my block is a bit of a conundrum. Can't have them coming by asking for favors, etc. It is not good for business and it doesn't do well for my piece of mind.
But I like crime.
It is what I do.
I even have a t-shirt that says"what I do for a living is criminal".
I don't wear it a lot. People take it seriously and that requires explaining.
But when I am working and I get a call from a clerk at the courthouse somewhere that says "Can you accept an appointment on a 187?" my heart goes pitter-patter. I get all excited. (*Penal Code section 187=murder)
Autopsy photos, ballistic testing, DNA screenings, statements and speculation....pitter-patter---pitter-patter.
It is a mystery with a solution attached and my job is to find the alternative solutions.
So I dig and investigate (through my investigator) and I read and re-read. I examine and re-examine.
And all the time I know. I KNOW. That there is someone's life at stake. And I know. I KNOW. That a life is gone that I can't bring back.
I remember my first murder trial and I remember the last one that I did. I remember all the ones I have won. And I remember the ones that I lost.
Some were found not guilty. Some were found guilty of other charges. Some were found guilty of murder.
In any case, I remembered to respect ALL the players involved. For they were and are still people. People pushed to places most of us can't imagine. People with demons we wouldn't wish on our worst enemies.
I have sat with them and watched their demons play in their minds. I have sat with them and watched them blame themselves for not having more strength. I have sat with them and wondered what I would have done in their place. I have sat with them and cried and laughed and worried and wondered.
So if I am a bit odd, I am glad for it.
I am glad that a murder case is a thrill to me.
I am glad that I still feel that I can help just one person. If only to help them understand themselves and the world around them.
And, yea, I just got a call asking me if I would accept an appointment on a 187.
I said yes.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Somethin' New
Every once in awhile ya gotta do somethin' new. Stretch the ol' comfort zone.
The only way that I have sung in public is in a large choir. Or at least a good sized group where I had to blend in. I always got nervous when I would sing by myself.
So when my friend Kris sent me an email that said do you want to sing the Star Spangled Banner with us at a baseball game, I wrote back. "Did you mean to send this to ME?"
Turns out that she did.
She had an arrangement of the music for three female voices and she and Mary Kaye thought I could do it and that it would be fun.
I was not so sure.
But I said yes.
Our first rehearsal was.....well, the music wasn't so good but it was a barrel of fun.
It had been a long time since I had laughed out loud, giggled, and actually made a joke. (actually, several jokes..all bad)
I recorded my part and sang to it driving up and down Highway 101. I thought I just might have learned it.
Our next rehearsal was better. It was just as much fun and the music was better. We still screwed up in places but it was presentable.
When Friday got here I thought I had it down pretty good but I was pretty nervous. I got to the park almost an hour early!
When Kris and Mary Kaye got there, we ran through it in the parking lot. It was ok and we all laughed. They really made me relax. They didn't know it but they made it really easy for me.
Then we sang.
People laughed at our name. ( appropriate, we called ourselves "The Hotflashes"!) But when I saw them standing and when I hit the right notes (most of the time), it felt SO GOOOOD!
It is really good to have friends. It is really good to sing. It is really good to have both at the same time. And it is fabulous to have both of those doing somethin' new.
Thank you to Kris and Mary Kaye.
The only way that I have sung in public is in a large choir. Or at least a good sized group where I had to blend in. I always got nervous when I would sing by myself.
So when my friend Kris sent me an email that said do you want to sing the Star Spangled Banner with us at a baseball game, I wrote back. "Did you mean to send this to ME?"
Turns out that she did.
She had an arrangement of the music for three female voices and she and Mary Kaye thought I could do it and that it would be fun.
I was not so sure.
But I said yes.
Our first rehearsal was.....well, the music wasn't so good but it was a barrel of fun.
It had been a long time since I had laughed out loud, giggled, and actually made a joke. (actually, several jokes..all bad)
I recorded my part and sang to it driving up and down Highway 101. I thought I just might have learned it.
Our next rehearsal was better. It was just as much fun and the music was better. We still screwed up in places but it was presentable.
When Friday got here I thought I had it down pretty good but I was pretty nervous. I got to the park almost an hour early!
When Kris and Mary Kaye got there, we ran through it in the parking lot. It was ok and we all laughed. They really made me relax. They didn't know it but they made it really easy for me.
Then we sang.
People laughed at our name. ( appropriate, we called ourselves "The Hotflashes"!) But when I saw them standing and when I hit the right notes (most of the time), it felt SO GOOOOD!
It is really good to have friends. It is really good to sing. It is really good to have both at the same time. And it is fabulous to have both of those doing somethin' new.
Thank you to Kris and Mary Kaye.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Reasonable Doubt
Wow! It still amazes me that people who have not spent one minute in a courtroom on a case can be upset at the outcome of a particular case. It astounds me.
And I bet you think I am talking about that case in Florida. The one that has some woman screaming on television that the defendant is guilty. Has been for months.
But I am really not. Although to be honest that case did bring the subject up.
No, the subject is reasonable doubt. The right to be ASSUMED INNOCENT all the way through a trial until a deliberating jury determines that there is proof beyond a reasonable doubt that guilt resides with a particular defendant.
That's ANYBODY. That is the black guy. The homeless woman.The junkie. The college kid. The city councilman.The local hero.
That's any crime. Hunting on private property. Reckless driving. Stealing. Embezzlement. Murder. Murder of ANYONE.
But too often cases come to court based not on fact but on raw emotion. We THINK this is a bad thing and we THINK this person did it. So the only right answer is to find the person guilty.
It happens with child molestation cases. Every day. Someone makes an accusation. There is no physical proof. There might be suspicious behavior but no proof. But that is ok. We want to find them guilty.
And our media jumps all over it.
I read a blog today that said that he would not try to explain the Constitution to those who screamed their outrage today because they would never learn and they didn't care.
I think people DO care.
They need to be told. AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN.
The prosecution MUST prove beyond a REASONABLE DOUBT. They must prove with facts, not emotion.
That is our law, our Constitution.
I think it still lives.
God Bless America
And I bet you think I am talking about that case in Florida. The one that has some woman screaming on television that the defendant is guilty. Has been for months.
But I am really not. Although to be honest that case did bring the subject up.
No, the subject is reasonable doubt. The right to be ASSUMED INNOCENT all the way through a trial until a deliberating jury determines that there is proof beyond a reasonable doubt that guilt resides with a particular defendant.
That's ANYBODY. That is the black guy. The homeless woman.The junkie. The college kid. The city councilman.The local hero.
That's any crime. Hunting on private property. Reckless driving. Stealing. Embezzlement. Murder. Murder of ANYONE.
But too often cases come to court based not on fact but on raw emotion. We THINK this is a bad thing and we THINK this person did it. So the only right answer is to find the person guilty.
It happens with child molestation cases. Every day. Someone makes an accusation. There is no physical proof. There might be suspicious behavior but no proof. But that is ok. We want to find them guilty.
And our media jumps all over it.
I read a blog today that said that he would not try to explain the Constitution to those who screamed their outrage today because they would never learn and they didn't care.
I think people DO care.
They need to be told. AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN.
The prosecution MUST prove beyond a REASONABLE DOUBT. They must prove with facts, not emotion.
That is our law, our Constitution.
I think it still lives.
God Bless America
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