Monday, July 21, 2014

Good times with great friends

The only thing better than spending time with friends is spending time with old friends.  You know what I mean. We all have at least one. The one who holds the secrets of your life. The first one you call when you have good news, bad news, sad news and no news at all.  The friend with whom you will drive 3 hours in the snow and cold to pick up her husband so that she doesn't have to drive the winding road alone.  The friend you call when your world is falling apart because the life you thought you were going to get to live is no longer the one you are living. The one who you sometimes have to bite your tongue around, but you do it because you know she does the exact same thing around you. The friend who always hugs you when you see her, even if the last time you were around her was the evening before.  Yeah, that friend. 

This past Saturday the daughter of a mutual friend was getting married for the 2nd time. It was a magical venue...a Montana lodge on a private island only accessible by water taxi. The bride was as gorgeous as the groom was handsome and having their children stand up for them and their granddaughter toddle her way down the aisle was beyond wonderful.

But the best part of the wedding wasn't the great food, the serene setting or even the incredible cheesecake, although that was pretty spectacular.  The best part was seeing people I hadn't seen in years, catching up with some who had moved away and those who never would.  The best part was remembering times past when we were younger but not smarter. Laughing at people who deserve to be laughed at and laughing with those who get the joke.  The best part was liking who we have all become and still knowing we could be better.

And the very best part?  Giving in to your friend's nagging (ha!) to go to the wedding because she knows that unless she does you will spend all day reading books and watching HGTV when she knows darn good and well that you will enjoy yourself at the wedding. Indeed, how could I not? She is, after all, the very best of friends and knows me sometimes better than I know myself. And the best part about that?  I know her that way, too.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Doing my civic duty

A friend posted a notice on facebook recently that she was doing her civic duty by reporting for jury selection.  Reading the responses that ranged from commiseration to advice on how best to have yourself removed from the process, I had the distinct impression everyone was secretly thinking glad it's not me!  I know of very few people, including myself, who are excited to get jury notice in the mail.  Despite my advanced (!) years, I have only been called up twice.
The first time was in the mid 90's when I was summoned for municipal court in Missoula, MT.  I sat in a room with about 30 others while one of the attorneys explained the process, asking us to raise our hands if we agreed with the questions they were going to ask. In a very solemn and serious tone, the DA asked who among us thought our private property should be protected from intruders.  All hands went up.  Hmmm, I thought, must be a robbery. Do you think you have the right to protect yourself on your own property? Yep, we all agreed with that. Maybe it was a home invasion gone horribly awry.  Who owns a dog?  My hand and several others shot up. Oh, no! Did a dog attack someone and if so, are we going to have to look at grisly photos of some poor guy's mangled body? Please, please, please don't let it be a child!  Is your dog licensed? Wait, what? Do you think all dogs should be licensed? Huh? What if your dog never left the yard, should it still be licensed? That's when I realized the case was not about a home invasion, robbery or gory mangling of body parts.  It was about the proper licensing of a pet!  With that realization, I laughed out loud.  I mean really out loud.  As every head in the room swiveled toward me, I laughed again.  I was (surprisingly) excused from duty.

The 2nd time I was called for jury duty was just a few years ago while I was living in Georgetown, TX, a town just north of Austin. Hundreds of us sat in an auditorium while various court officials came in, called off names and directed us to report to this or that room.  I was chosen for a felony drug case and sat with 50 or so others in a courtroom that looked almost exactly like its counterpart in Missoula but with airconditioning. As before, the attorneys took some time with questions, asking us whether we agreed with this or that and encouraging us to get involved with the discussion about drug use. It was readily apparent that there were lots of people just itching to be on the jury. They asked eager questions, offered earnest, thoughtful remarks, nodded solemnly at the lawyers, agreeing or disagreeing with different comments. Have you ever bought illegal drugs?  No one admitted to that. Do you know a drug dealer? A surprising number of folks apparently did. Are you or have you ever been a police officer?  There were several of these. The questions went on and on.  I sat on the very end of a row at the back of the jury box, next to another quiet woman, both of us silently refusing to engage in any discussion whatsoever, avoiding eye contact with the attorneys as they made their selections. They called out several of the names of the very vocal folks, but mostly ignored them. They were down to the last two slots when they called the name of my silent companion, who responded with a quietly whispered f**k. Yes, that pretty much sums it up, I thought as they called the last name...mine.

Everyone who has ever served on a jury, no matter what type of crime or court, has at least one story. Some are funny, like the one my sister in law told me about the guy who tripped on his pants and fell as he was running away after robbing a minimart, or as they are known in Southern California, a Stop 'n Rob.  His only response to not only the image of him falling being shown but also to each witness who came forward and identified him was that's not me. Some stories are scary. My next door neighbor served in a trial where the defendant cursed everyone in the courthouse, screaming that he would kill them all.  My jury story?  It was boring.  Really, really boring. I am not sure what hybrid of Law & Order vs Perry Mason I expected to participate in, but the reality was yawn-inducingly dull. There was a brief time when I was in college that I considered going to law school.  I can only say that after spending a week in court I am so happy I decided against spending my life there.  Bless the ones who do, we certainly need them.  Bless the judges who show up every day to preside over the tedious as well as the sensational.  Bless the attorneys who work so hard to both prosecute and defend those who find themselves in sad situations. The hours of preparation they must put in is staggering.  Bless the poor court reporter who perhaps has the hardest job of all...not missing a single word. Bless the bailiff who collected our cell phones each day, was unfailingly polite and who stood at attention in the court while we got to sit. Bless the police who were involved in the case and who showed up every day to sit in the back of the room and represent their brothers and sisters. Bless the witnesses who find the courage to come forward to speak for the victims when it might be inconvenient or even dangerous. Bless them all, I'm glad I am not one of them.

But for all of the boredom, the tedium, the inconvenience of serving on a jury, if called again, I will show up.  Because I believe in the system, however flawed it might be. If, heaven forbid, one of my friends or a family member ever finds herself on the wrong side of the defense table, I want the jury to include not only those who don't have anything better to do or court groupies eager to wallow in salacious details, but those who don't really want to be there...but who show up anyway. 

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Summertime makes me lazy

Some people are energized by the sun.  I am not one of them.  Unlike John Denver, sunshine on my shoulders doesn't make me happy, it makes me sleepy. It's a good thing I live in Montana and not Arizona, because if I was bombarded by that much sunshine, I would probably take a day long nap. With that in mind, it should come as no surprise that this week's blog is a recycled one from last year, albeit edited a little so that you won't fall asleep in the middle of it.  Enjoy!

When I was much, much younger, and completely na├»ve with regards to the whole getting older thing and how it works, I remember thinking that when the millennium came I would probably be wearing a cotton housedress, rocking away my golden years at a nursing home.  Since I would be batty by then, the turning of the calendar to 2000 would go mostly unnoticed.  Yes, I really was that young and dumb.  In reality, the year we said goodbye '99, hello '00, I was 47, not a house dress in sight and no golden years in the foreseeable least not the ones I had imagined.  Now, 13 years after that New Year's celebration, I am 60.  SIXTY!!! Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined what 60 would look like and I didn't have the tiniest clue what it would feel like.

60 looks a lot like 50, which in turn resembled 40, but with about 15 more lbs.  My wardrobe of choice is still jeans, a T-shirt and a hoodie.  My daughter encouraged (forced) me several years ago to widen my choices by adding cute sweaters and great shoes.  I believe her exact words were "Mother, when you can no longer tell your clothes from your 20-something son's, it's time to get new clothes". Don't tell my daughter this, but when I am not going out into the world (and sometimes when I am) jeans and T's are what I reach for. My favorite hoodie is a gray sweatshirt with many and varied holes. It stopped zipping long ago and one cuff is valiantly holding on by sheer determination.  I bought it in the 80's and have 3 driver's license photos of me wearing it with love. I still wear my hair parted on the side with a few bangs, still like a lot of eye makeup and I have to confess that Bonne Bell's Dr Pepper is still my go to lipgloss.

60 doesn't feel like 50 or anything approaching 40...sometimes it feels like 100.  I have been healthy pretty much all my life, so it was with some alarm that, as I reached toward 60, I began to fall apart.  First came high cholesterol.  I am a vegetarian so you'd think that wouldn't be an issue.  And it wouldn't be if it weren't for the deliciousness of Tillamook Sharp Cheddar.  If you are making mac and cheese or grilled cheese sandwiches with anything else, STOP immediately and switch!  After high cholesterol came an inherited tendency for my blood to clot like crazy.  I had always thought it was cool that I would get a cut and before I could open a bandaid, I would already be healing. Turns out that is not a good thing and one day in June of '09 I was admitted to the hospital for multiple pulmonary emboli. Then appeared what felt like acid reflux but was actually a hiatal hernia, followed by a pain in my foot that revealed itself as plantar fasciitis.  Sheesh. 

So here I am at 60, limping along in my Levi's with insoles in my tennis shoes, popping Prilosec and Coumadin.  I hope my sweatshirt lasts long enough for me to get a walker, 'cause that would be awesome.  And that would also mean that 70 will look a lot like 60.