FORMAL WEAR

 First let me say, if you know how to spell the word boutonniere without spell check, you are light-years ahead of me.

My daughter is attending a formal event this evening.  Weeks ago we stopped by the florist to order the boutonniere for her handsome date.

The Spanish Inquisition (I mean florist) started her investigation by directing the question to Aubrey. "What color is your dress?"  That was easy.  "Pink, but we just want a white rose."  "What school is this for?" We answer (though it is not really relevant) and she writes this information on the paper as though it is an important clue. Doubts began to surface as the florist's litany of questions progressed with more queries having nothing whatsoever to do with assembling a floral decoration for my daughter's date's lapel. I redirected to the task at hand and asked for a Saturday morning pick-up.  You would have thought we had asked for spit-shining and overnight delivery of the Crown Jewels.  "I can't possibly do it that early...."  (Silly me, I thought I was the paying customer and got to decide when I needed something.)  Another impatient thought flew through my racing mind (something along the lines of- this is ONE SIMPLE BOUTONNIERE, not a rolling float for the Rose Parade.) I usually manage some degree of propriety and said neither of these things out loud. Despite the uprising in my head, my outward affect remained calm.

Succumbing to pressure (I've always been an easy target for a bully) I agreed to the time Madame Florist decreed. But it made me nervous. It was only 2 hours before Aubrey would need it and already anxiety began knotting my stomach. Despite the useless witty comebacks coursing through my head, I'm a complete pushover. The florist scribbled copious notes willy-nilly on a plain sheet of paper and "filed" it by shoving it into a stack of papers (assorted sizes and shapes.) 

I began fretting the moment we walked away and could not calm the uneasy storm until I returned a week later to change the pickup time.  She saw me coming, stuck out her right leg and effectively completed the menacing posture by placing her hand firmly on the hip.  She watched me approach and I lost resolve with every step. "I need to change the time of the pickup for something I ordered."  HEAVY SIGH.  Out came the worn manila folder stuffed with papers and with little patience for my appeal, she asked for the date.  She located the paper with only a little difficulty and I had to admit I was somewhat relieved that she actually had SOME kind of system.  "I need to pick up the boutonniere a few hours earlier."  She began shaking her head in disapproval.  (Does this woman NOT want to sell flowers?  Am I on Candid Camera?)  "Why?” she asked.  Okay, now I was getting really annoyed.  Who knew what time Aubrey was going to need to leave the house and I did not want to be scrambling around at the last minute.  Additionally, I had little faith that the boutonniere would be waiting for me (and acceptable.)  I did not want to provoke unrest by voicing my distrust so I chickened out and framed my lily-livered answer. "I have to BE somewhere." She looked at me like I’d been caught in the school hallway without a pass. My stomach churned and from the Inquisition’s mouth came words which nearly brought my nonviolent generally congenial disposition to outright fisticuffs....  "Where do you have to BE?"  OH MY WORD!  I should have remembered I had feet and stomped off to another florist but while forgetting my lower limbs, at least I found my voice.  "I am NOT picking up this boutonniere on Saturday."  The florist measured me with her eyes and threw me a bone.  "I can make it on FRIDAY."  Okay, this sounded like compromise and besides, if my blood pressure went any higher I’d start lifting off the floor. I started to cave (again) and asked a question of my own. "Will it still be okay for Saturday night?" Now SHE was offended.  "Of course! (unspoken reference- DUMMY!) Just stick it in the refrigerator."

Fine. I requested the change and watched this haphazard recorder of details scratch out Saturday and pen FRIDAY on her scribbled paper. 

I like a good insurance policy and felt a little better since this gave me a window of time during which Aubrey and I could plead our case to a different more benevolent florist or heaven-forbid make our OWN homemade version of a boutonniere if things fell through.  But I still harbored a naive belief that this would not be necessary.

I guess you know where this is going. 

I stopped on my way home yesterday afternoon to pick up the stupid flower.  The florist-tyrant was mercifully missing, leaving two sweet young apprentices in her wake.  The first was a boy named Brock who claimed that the only floral task with which he felt comfortable was filling helium balloons. I told him I was there to pick up a plain white rose boutonniere for my daughter’s date.

It was Brock who dashed heroically back to the cooler to locate the order. He returned holding a clear plastic box and wearing a very concerned facial expression. “Um….. do you remember what the thing was supposed to look like?”  Clearly he could not imagine that anyone in their RIGHT MIND would have ordered the monstrosity he held in his young hands. The box was missing its usual order slip so he wasn't sure to whom it actually belonged.  I’m telling you right now, there’s NOBODY going to claim that floral nightmare once they get a look at it.  In the center were three of the tiniest white rosebuds in the history of the world. They were standing in a line and fastened with unforgiving green adhesive.  Surrounding this trio was a bonanza of ribbon. A veritable plethora of dark pink loops and swirls.  The ribbons were curling well beyond the borders of the rosebuds.  Inside the dreadful layer of dark pink ribbons was another interior section of sparkly pink ribbons, a shade unbelievably uglier than the outer rim of festivity.  It’s like someone was going all out in a contest to create the tackiest decoration EVER. It was a ribbon mum of horror. The tiny rosebuds were dwarfed by the looping mount. I don’t know what this thing was meant to be, but it was failing on all kinds of levels.

This time I was not at a loss for words.  “OH MY WORD, that can’t possibly be it!  WHY would she put all that pink ribbon on an item for a guy’s lapel?”  Elton John? Liberace?  Brock had NO IDEA and looked relieved we were not expecting some poor guy to actually wear it.  He seemed really sorry to be the cat that had dragged in the dead mouse.  With downcast eyes, he informed me that there were no other orders waiting in the cooler. Desperate for help he suggested that perhaps his coworker might have an idea. 

Enter Mandee.  Despite being roused from her break time, she was immediately sweet and accommodating. Before she even knew there was a problem she was apologizing on behalf of everyone with whom she’d ever worked. (I got the feeling she’s had to do this before…)  I explained my dilemma and she began opening and closing drawers.  I suspect she was hoping a boutonniere instruction manual and supplies would suddenly become obvious.  Neither employee knew where the Queen of Flowers kept her file of orders. Mandee made a call to another florist and spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone.  Returning, she used both hands and every reassuring gesture her face could render. “I am going to HELP you” (spoken slowly and deliberately as one would speak to a wounded dog or a person in the throes of insanity) Mandee had assembled her sweet young courage and she was going to embark on the first boutonniere-making endeavor of her life.  With hesitancy but practicality she added, “I think it will take me an hour.” I thanked her for her willingness to venture into the unknown on my behalf and told her I’d return later that evening. 

It was more like 2 hours until Aubrey’s nail appointment was finished and when Brock walked toward me THIS time bearing in both hands the new clear plastic box. He was beaming from ear to ear.  Mandee had DONE GOOD.  It was lovely.  And I was ever so grateful.

In about six hours my daughter will be attempting to pin the boutonniere to her date’s lapel.  Here are my three remaining fears. 

Number one: Based on the frustrating florist’s lack of tact, her first question to Aubrey, and the scary overabundance of pink ribbon- that ghastly floral piece actually WAS the boutonniere she intended to make for us.

Number two: The florist ignored the change of date and is (as I type) making the boutonniere we requested.  This will inevitably start a tirade of nasty calls to the house when she thinks we did not come to pick up the order. (I will beg Jim to return the call if this happens – he loves a good debate.) 

And the worst case scenario which will actually cause me to burst out laughing because it would be SO GREAT in a really sick way- Number three:  When Aubrey’s date presents the flowers to adorn her wrist, it will actually BE the “ribbons gone wild” horror I saw at the shop.  (This final fear is the reason I am waiting to post this story until AFTER the formal begins.) 

“AFTER THE ROSE” ADDENDUM:  The wrist bouquet was absolutely gorgeous and Mandee’s debut boutonniere looked great on Aaron’s lapel. 

OUTDOOR CLASSROOM OBSERVATIONS

The temperature was easily 10 degrees warmer in the dining hall. This was not necessarily a good thing since the morning humidity was suggestive of a rain forest; almost thick enough to slice and serve. 

Of the hundred fifty or so souls at Camp Men-O-Lan, I was the lucky one. While for 2+ days my coworkers battled foreign mattresses, assorted unfamiliar bedfellows (some with home sickness, some with smelly wet socks) and the creak and groan of camp buildings settling in for a dark night, I was in my cozy bed at home looking forward to the luxury of my own shower. That is not to say I enjoyed waking while the dominant hour was still an unreasonable 5. But it sure beats having to sleep at camp. 

I have, in years past, felt a little sorry for myself when it came time for Outdoor Classroom. Spending hours preparing a medical plan, packing supplies, collecting medications and tracking down forms, it is always a little anticlimactic when I watch the last of the middle-schoolers and their teachers exit the building. I am usually left on campus with the other 400 or so (smaller) scholars of Penn View. Well I've learned my lesson about feeling sorry for myself because THIS year, there were no nurse-parents available to volunteer for the longest day of camp. It seems it was easier to find a sub to cover my office for 7 hours than it was to find a medical person to spend 17 hours away from home to be on standby for a long outdoor exercise in learning. So there (a little reluctantly) I was. Be careful what you think you wish for.

Having had enough of the stifling humidity of the dining hall, I took my laptop out into the crisp air on the front porch to do some writing. This should have been an uneventful task. There were no obvious external outlets so I determined it would be necessary to send my laptop and cord out the window. Good thing Bonnie was an able assistant (and NOT just because I was too weak to manipulate the screen to an open position.) It was more significantly a "good thing" because when I asked her to hand the chubby laptop out to my waiting hands, she coolly reminded me that someone less DAFT would just unplug the computer and send out the cord. Good point. (and duh....)

On the sturdy and surprisingly comfortable wooden porch furniture, I was at certain intervals surrounded by a fleet of dedicated middle school teachers. Bedecked in sweatshirts and bandanas (the apparent traditional garb of Outdoor Classroom) they were diligently sifting through Landis Supermarket bags of damp camp journals. Giving themselves to the task, they read student entries with an enthusiasm I found inspiring for instructors who lacked a decent night of sleep.

The elusive sun made its first Thursday appearance mid-morning, pressing its warmth through newly emerged leaves, catching light on the raindrops which fell the night before. It was seriously beautiful.

But then I was assaulted.  NOT COOL.  I felt something tickling my head and lifted away a surprised brown spider with rather hairy (and unsettlingly meaty) appendages. I'm not sure which of us was more displeased to discover the other and in a rather disturbing turn of events, I had no idea where the wild flicking motion of my hand had sent him. Did I mention I hate spiders?  I took a little walk around the porch to give the ugly fellow some time to find a new head to bother. 

While on the porch, a marvelous little man stopped by for a visit.  His mother is one of our science teachers and the aforementioned adorable little man is currently her three-month-old excuse for not having to WORK. Along with premature worry lines on his tender and expressive forehead, little Ezekiel was sporting the tiniest pair of crocs ever manufactured.  Sweet Ezekiel was too agreeable for his own well-being and was abruptly swept off by another of our coworkers without complaint.  He might have loudly and wisely refused this hasty relocation had he known he was headed to the "archery area" for observation.  The business of preadolescent students displaying archery skills is a dicey proposition AT BEST and upon discovering the whereabouts of the little darling, his return to the safety of the porch was promptly manipulated by his prudent mother. 

   

LOOK AT THOSE CHICKLET-SIZED SHOES! 

Nearly missing lunch, I was pampering a student's swollen ankle. In my absence, helpful coworker Heidi assembled my black bean taco. This creation was better than camp food has any right to be.  I KNOW camp lunches were not this delicious when I was a young camper... (Of course my childhood camp food preparation was not directed by a man in an official white chef jacket as was the case at Men-O-Lan.)

By one hour after lunch I had burned through most of what was previously considered a generous supply of instant ice packs, resorting to stuffing latex exam gloves with ice cubes from the kitchen.  Desperate times call for desperate measures. The downside to having the actual school nurse accompany an outing so rife with blisters and headaches is that familiarity breeds neediness. Just like the elementary students in the hallway who feel the need to report every Band-Aid as they pass me by, middle school students see my face at Outdoor Classroom and it prompts in them an overwhelming urge to whine. Not counting medications, I received approximately 40 complaints of illness or injury during my one day "shift." (This sorry pitiful condition seems to occur when children bring their boo-boos and belly-aches to the same school nurse they've visited since age 5...) Receiving a cotton ball of Caladryl on a barely visible rash, one of these needy students proprietarily remarked, "Can I tell you how nice it is to have our "own nurse?" I realize I should be thankful I am apparently so approachable and I'll try hard to remember that while I practice a firmer Nurse Cratchet face in the mirror.

The rain held off nicely, allowing for fabulous pastimes including (but not limited to) tie-dying t-shirts, the knuckle-scraping phenomenon of the ga-ga pit, Frisbee golf, pond fishing, paddle boating, obstacle course navigating, and the actual launching of rockets made from scratch.  Given the ominous forecast, it was a bullet dodged. In fact the wettest students were the victims of plummeting water balloons rather than the precipitation so maliciously predicted by forecasters. (Such harbingers of doom.)

Middle School Students Playing Three Blind Mice

 

The elementary students are always very curious about the "big kids" who get to go to camp for school.  They can hardly wait for their turn. Two of my own children have experienced this rite of passage and though it has been twelve years since my firstborn participated I can still say with conviction that I do not envy the laundry-processing mothers of this muddy crew.

So during my very small window into the Outdoor Classroom experience, this is what I discovered. People were smiling, nature was beaming all around us, and learning was happening in a very sneaky way. Food webs and pesticides were discussed and absorbed without obvious props like desks and textbooks. Memorable classes were taking place under towering oak trees, learners too engaged to scratch at the new mosquito bites on their mud-smudged legs. It turns out my coworkers (those sleep-deprived educators pretending they are just ring-leaders of fun in the woods) are categorical charlatans. 

Well-played teachers, well-played…

Let's Play

One of the most selfless women I've ever known, my grandmother did not take kindly to losing a game of 500 Rummy. It was SERIOUS business when those worn playing cards came out of the box. The play was quick-moving and pitiless despite the carefully laden supplies my Grammy would assemble to lull us into a complacent mood of goodwill. Stale salt-free pretzels and ginger-ale; the sustenance upon which we habitually snacked as Grammy and Poppop clobbered us with four Aces and more matching royals than they can boast in the United Kingdom. 

I was a mere seventeen and dating my husband when these rambunctious card competitions took place.  Jim adored my grandmother as well.  He had been baptized by fire into my crazy family by that time, my grandmother going as far as to “bake” his work boots in her oven.  It was a rainy day and she was concerned for his welfare.  She had on previous occasions forced this 19 year old to don gallon sized plastic bags inside his shoes to keep his poor “stockinged feet” dry.  At this particular rainy juncture, she had decided his boots were too wet for the usual plastic bag treatment and she actually placed them on a cookie sheet in her oven to bake.  The look on his face when he tried to locate his shoes was one I will never forget.

Suffice it to say, my Grammy loved her grandchildren (and their boyfriends!) with a ridiculous love. She fed us, hugged us, and spouted cheesy poetry pinched from Helen Steiner Rice. When she looked at us she made us feel like we were the only thing in the world worth seeing. Some of my best memories of Grammy and her life lessons were born at her 1950s-style chrome and Formica red kitchen table. Her recipes were awesome, but what happened at her table during an evening of cards will forever spark my heart’s memory, sending my face an irrepressible smile. Her twisted arthritic fingers did nothing to diminish the speed with which she pounced to snatch up an ill-placed playing card one of us was foolish enough to discard prematurely. Seeing our error while we were still oblivious to the blunder, she’d spring to action, hollering “RUMMY!” while rearranging the burgeoning card piles with which she would bury us when the scores were totaled.

My grandfather was her card-playing partner. It was us against them and it was one of the few times they appeared to be “on the same side.” They had one of those crazy symbiotic relationships marked by adoring each other from afar yet scolding one another in PA Dutch (the family tongue) at the drop of a hat. We had little concept what words they were shouting, but the tone came through loudly and clearly. I come from a long line of stubborn people and those tenacious Pennsylvania Dutch genetics were patently evident in both of my mother’s parents. 

So there was occasional shouting and a ruthless pursuit of victory, but here’s the great thing…  The countless hours I sat at that red table were among the best I've ever spent. Grammy may have been beating us mercilessly at the game of cards, but she was showing us how to live and how to love. It was a safe and wonderful place to learn how to lose. Life isn't always sweet and sometimes no matter how marvelous a hand you are dealt, things don’t turn out quite the way you’d hoped. But knowing you are deeply loved and surrounded by people you adore, even a stale pretzel tastes pretty awesome. Let’s play. 

(Photo taken in the early 80s when Pop, Gram, Jim and I  ventured to Williamsburg, VA for a fun-filled long weekend.)

SENSIBLE FOOTWEAR

Unsurprising as it may be, I have once again been deceived.  The weather person on my favorite news channel (with his dapper tie and most convincing morning smile) repeatedly lies through his teeth. 

Today was supposed to be cloudy but warm.  The forecasters did not mention the monsoons which made their brash way through Souderton at roughly 1 pm.  (Precipitation which caused hammering buckets of moisture to pound insistently on the school’s metal roof, sounding like a village of small cobblers at work on a veritable mountain of tin shoes.) As I recall, the weather person prophesied these monsoons as a "chance of spotty showers"…. The analysts additionally failed to mention the gales of wind that played at lifting me off the bench while I sat nobly and foolishly providing medical coverage for the softball and baseball games at school this afternoon. 

65 degrees MY FOOT.  It felt like a clean 36 degrees with the added attraction of wind chill.  To think I actually packed a tube of sunblock.  Pining for my parka (or at least a decent stadium blanket), I was ill-prepared with only my Rehoboth Beach sweatshirt.  Adding insult to injury, my uncooperative hair after the final pitch was twice the size as before I walked out to the freezing tundra of our school fields. (It was a sporting look with the blue skin hue of hypothermia.)  

Shivering fashion faux pas that I was, I was NO MATCH for the amazing sight I witnessed as I spied my coworker plod across the lawn.  I could not contain my amusement or a proper sense of decorum.

My friend was wearing the most sensible and overtly ridiculous shoe-coverings I have beheld in over 30 years.  My grandfather wore the same exact model in the 1970s over his church shoes when instructed by my grandmother to place floral arrangements on newly mown gravesides.  Grammy herself wore a women's pair over her sturdy work shoes for gardening after rain.  She called them her rubbers.  (We’re not even going to GO there.)  I really had no idea these handy slip-on treasures were still being manufactured.  I cannot imagine there is much demand.  

These slick black protective shoe sleeves are Herman Munsteresque 

(without the height)  or more accurately – a stretchy strapless version of those cheap plastic shoes I would force onto the inflexible feet of my dolls in the mid-1960s.

I eventually confessed my amusement to my sensible friend (brave fashion-senseless soul that he is) and begged for a close-up shot of one of his unwieldy but well-protected feet.  You can see by the fantastic photo below, he was more than accommodating. He and his wife (at her PRUDENT request) choose to remain nameless in this post! 

However, this one photogenic viewpoint cannot do justice to the 

whole package.  You see, the rubber shoe covers were made SO much more memorable by the wearing of shorts with the ensemble.  And for that, you need the view from the back.  (see below- photo credits for this one are courtesy of a similarly amused onlooker with a better vantage point)

I do gratefully thank my coworker for providing this wonderfully necessary distraction. It was much more fun than the overzealous shivering in which I was engaged before he walked by to provide such great fodder for me. 

With a barely detectable degree of remorse from laughing so 

heartily at my poor friend’s prudent choice of shoe protection, I did finally glance down at my own feet (donned in my carpool duty rain boots) and realized I really had no business poking fun at someone else. 

I'd like to blame the weatherman for both of my 

indiscretions. 

What Ever Happened to Bubble Gum Machines?

I spent part of my weekend appreciating art in Philadelphia.  We had breakfast about 15 miles from Center City and I was stunned and sickened to discover a most unfortunate child’s vending machine just inside the door of the restaurant.  Nestled beneath the rubber bouncing balls and to the left of the plastic aliens, small children can insert coins and purchase miniature assault weapons and grenades. Undeniable and palpable glorification of violence conveniently packaged in a plastic bubble.

Something is seriously wrong with this picture. 

I will admit that my nonviolent nature is sorely challenged when I think of the adults who have decided it is okay to sell these trinkets to our children.

 

I’ve been accused of over-sensitivity when it comes to violence.  My son was robbed at gunpoint when he was attending college in Philadelphia. Thankfully he was not physically harmed but I am acutely aware that criminals holding guns are not always this benign as they purge victims of cash and belongings.

I cannot watch most action movies without feeling discomfort in my gut.  I become physically ill and emotionally unsettled when I hear or see people arguing or fighting.  Neither can I abide violence against animals. I have had to stop reading books I was otherwise enjoying when I read about cruelty in almost any form.

So you might automatically put me in the camp of those who are too naïve to understand what is at stake. Feel free to roll your eyes, but thanks for reading and try to hear me anyway.  

While still reeling from the Sandy Hook massacre we’ve daily added insult to injury.  Just today, a ninth grader shot himself in a school restroom just outside of Tulsa.  Yesterday, a Navy Seal (regarded as one of the military’s most lethal snipers-don’t even get me started) was shot to death by an unbalanced ex-Marine. They were at a shooting range (of all places.)

One story (from thousands): Six years ago a woman named Movita Johnson-Harrell told her husband that her sons “would not become statistics on the streets of Philadelphia.” She and her husband packed up and moved their family to Lansdowne in order to get away from the gun culture for which our fair city Philadelphia is so well known. Despite her efforts, four years later she was burying her 18 year old son who was a victim of mistaken identity.  As he sat waiting for his sister in a car in East Germantown, he was shot to death. 

Maybe I’m hypersensitive, but bullets are flying and this vehemently-guarded constitutional right seems a bit out of control. 18 American families each day are choosing coffins for their children because of guns.  There were over 9,000 gun-related homicides in 2011 alone.

I’m thankful for freedom and I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes (or constitutional rights) but I doubt our forefathers expected us to be ducking for cover in places like elementary classrooms and/or the front seats of our cars.  I suspect muskets and bayonets were a little easier to control.  I want to be clear.  I am NOT saying it should be illegal to own a gun.  But I do believe we need stronger regulations if we are to fairly balance someone’s right to bear arms with someone else’s right to stay alive walking down the street.

Here’s where (at the risk of making people angry) I show my hand in this deadly game of cards.  I wish the crazy-town voices in the NRA would be quiet so the moderate voices of the NRA could be heard.  Because many of the loudest opinions speaking on behalf of the NRA sound just like playground bullies.  They brandish a frightening quality that pushes and taunts and feels a lot like power. They are well-backed financially and seem frankly untouchable. But listen carefully to the way they speak.  Their words are guarded, actually coming off sounding a little paranoid.  Some seem ready to protect themselves (and their beloved collections) at the expense of anyone who might get in the way. Those “in the way” seem even to include the voices speaking for the health and safety of our nation’s children. Given the opportunity to communicate responsibly about the debacle that was the second deadliest school shooting in history, these inflexible voices suggest that each school board hire themselves a posse of armed guards.  Really?  Now there’s a vision for our educational dollars at work. It is more than a little terrifying.

Apparently there’s been some recent polling in our state.  It seems that most people now believe there should be a ban on assault weapons and high-capacity magazines.  I think this is an obvious and essential step, but sadly this is not going to solve the overarching problem since most of the people dying from gunfire are being murdered with “lesser” specimens.  The number one cause of death for African-American men and boys is NOT auto accidents, NOT childhood diseases (thank you vaccines), NOT diabetes, NOT drug abuse.  The number one cause is gun violence. Tiny bullets.  Little shells of destruction fired via the simple flick of a finger. And unfortunately it takes precious little intelligence to pull a trigger.

I will say, it does give me hope that 58% of gun-holding households back a nationwide ban of high-capacity magazines.  I know there are many responsible gun-owners and I appreciate their voices of reason in this debate.

While I’m asking impossible questions, I’ve got one more. Why are 40% of gun sales in our country accomplished through unlicensed dealers?  I hope I’m wrong but it is my understanding that someone can just show up at a gun show and make a purchase without a federal background check.  If these numbers are real, then what are we, CRAZY?!  To give perspective, there were 700,000 DENIALS in the last decade when the federal background check was done the right way.  (Making these background checks mandatory seems like a no-brainer, does it not?)

Obviously I have more questions than answers. But even to a peace-loving, let’s all just get along, rainbows, puppies and ice cream sort of personality like mine; some things just seem like common sense.

And I’d sure like to believe we can find it in our hearts to agree that bubble gum machines are a good place to start. 

 

Juror Number 21

I did my civic duty today, appearing (as summoned) for jury duty. 

No matter how many times I do it, experiencing the morning drive into Norristown is always anxiety-inducing.  I have no GPS so I painstakingly study maps.  I write instructional notes to myself in LARGE LETTERS so that my fifty year old eyes will not have to don reading glasses or strain at the Google printouts and street map books strewn willy-nilly across the passenger seat of my car.  In my hyper-primed state, I have been known to make “practice runs” to destinations I am unsure about reaching in a timely manner. (This is the part, where in case you haven’t already begun, you start feeling really sorry for my husband….) Being late stresses me out.  Especially when the government insists on printing the juror’s expected arrival time in RED and using words like contempt of court and imprisonment on their summons forms.  Since I have been beckoned to this very location three times before, (and since I actually WORKED in a different part of Norristown for over three years in the early 80s) I gave myself permission to make this morning’s drive without rehearsal. Sadly, this was a mistake as within two-tenths of one mile to the courthouse, I found myself inadvertently heading south over a one way bridge to a town sadistically called Bridgeport.  My printed notes were no use to me after all.  And to understand the state in which I arrived at the juror cloakroom, you should probably know I used every second of the extra 40 minutes with which I had padded my planned journey.  A puzzle maker would be hard-pressed to devise a more complicated maze than the circuitous route I drove to the courthouse parking garage today.  Truly, is it REALLY necessary to have so many one-way streets?!  I think not.  When I become independently wealthy, one of my first actions will be to hire a tolerant and forgiving chauffeur. 

Meanwhile, back at the courthouse….

During my prior appearances as potential juror for the county, I sat

as one sits in the Jury Marshaling Room.  By some unspoken rule, everyone leaves one seat between themselves and the poor pitiful other potential jurors on either side.  It’s as though we all know the air will become thin and stale by 4:00 in the afternoon and we don’t want to unnecessarily share our oxygen unless we have to.  This pattern of seat spacing works beautifully until the stragglers start to appear.  They too, are spaced nicely.  One arrives in a flurry about every five minutes.  They are the ones who did NOT arrive by the time marked in RED on their juror summons. As if by script, they arrive one at a time and begin speaking loudly about the parking situation, the cold weather, the injustice of the early hour, and the forgotten cuticle scissors the security guards forced them to remove from their knitting bags. (Again, an infraction clearly marked on our paperwork…)  The latecomers seem to have a shared inability to understand the questions on the juror informational questionnaire.  The check-in personnel are patient beyond imagination and I am reminded (in a rather humbling way) about my own impatience with my fellow human beings.  After dispensing the clipboard upon which the stragglers are to complete the information that was supposed to have been MAILED or COMPLETED ONLINE, the dawdlers stroll over to the remaining seats and actually SIT NEXT TO SOMEONE.  (Mind you, there are still seats available which would not interfere with anyone else’s oxygen…) This discourtesy prompts a collective (though discreet) sigh from all of the people who are seated in accordance with obvious personal space sensibilities (those who managed to arrive promptly despite the inordinate number of one-way streets.)  I mean REALLY.  Add 40 minutes to your drive time people!!!

 So I was expecting a day like the days I’d had before in this 

courthouse.  On prior trips I whiled away the hours with three main points of enjoyment.  1.)Sipping hazardously hot cocoa from flimsy paper vending machine cups 2.)People watching (a random selection of the population makes for some fascinating observation), and finally my favorite jury duty pastime: 3)Reading novels in the Jury Marshaling Room.  This reading of novels during normal work hours involves not a small amount of guilt as I can’t help but think of the onslaught my substitute nurse might be experiencing at my vacated desk. 

So much unnecessary guilt floating around in this world and I absorb it like a thirsty sponge….But that is another blog post… 

I cracked open The Midwife of Hope River and started to read, interrupted only slightly by Larry Kane, presenter of the Montgomery County Jury Service Orientation video.  (This instructional video was well done so it didn’t hurt at all.)  A very kind judge came by to visit, and we were given basic instructions.  There were to be two trials requiring jury selection today (one civil and one criminal.)  In other words, they’d be back.  Yet I was feeling fairly confident.  Confidence with the raw sort of feeling one who has never left her flimsy cocoa cup for an actual courtroom might be feeling.  We’ll need to call it naivety because two hours into my service, it was necessary to leave not just my cocoa cup but my cell phone, my packed lunch, my beloved novel, and my hopes and dreams that today would be set aside for a quiet day of reading.

Suddenly I was thrust into the occupation of Juror Number 21.  (I had my own laminated identification sign and everything.)  We were lined up by juror number and sent off to the elevator where we would lift off at a rate of 10 jurors at a time.  I don’t really care for elevators, particularly CROWDED elevators.  My 9 appropriately-sized juror associates and the guide who directed us just barely fit into that tiny little elevator. (I was trying not to breathe as the level of oxygen-sharing was OFF THE CHARTS.)  I had seen the size of some of the jurors who were chosen to arrive in the next batch of 10 and let’s just say I thanked my lucky stars to be number 21 and not number 31. 

It all felt very official and rather uncomfortable.  Eventually accompanied by 49 other unfortunates, we were ushered into the courtroom to meet some people. 

We met the judge, several lawyers, the defendant and the plaintiffs.  We were given a brief explanation of the case and the questioning began.  If the judge or one of the lawyers asked a question which resonated with us, we were to lift our laminated number card high in the air and be counted.  (Basically a way of weeding out the trouble-makers.)  The questioning went on for a much longer time than I would have imagined.  More than two hours later we were still lifting signs and groaning at Juror number 5 (who seemed to fall into every single category of complaint.)  Just dismiss her already…..At the end of the questioning, several persons asked to have a private conference with the legal teams and judge.  These were the jurors fervently hoping to be excused. Since the judge gave us a stern warning about our civic duty (framed excruciatingly in thanks for our generous and compliant service and obvious sacrifice) I felt obligated to be as cooperative as possible and did not request my own private conference.  (See that Jim, I didn’t WHINE at all!)

While these private meetings were taking place in a room just off the courtroom, we were given permission to stand up and talk to one another (though not about the case.)  Since at this point going to the restrooms required an escort, I was thankful that THIS time I had not indulged in the vending machine cocoa. I determinedly opted to ignore any symptoms that might arise.  The jurors all around me were spouting their reasons for hardship as though I were the one in position to pardon.  I’ve never heard so many good excuses to be relieved from jury duty.  College exams, aged parents who needed caretaking, spouses in the hospital, trips out of the country, hourly medications, and a whole host of other medical conditions which sounded so dire I began to fear having to resuscitate some of my fellow jurors.  (Imagine… here I had been thinking I was the only one inconvenienced.)  

Just as my blood sugar was dropping to ridiculous lows as we were not allowed to go to lunch until this portion of the jury selection was accomplished, one of the court assistants called for Juror Number 21.  I was barely paying attention by that time because I was trying to restore the blood flow to my legs after such an extensive interval of sitting. The court assistant found me toeing the perimeter of the courtroom, admiring the wood paneling and trying out some inconspicuous yoga moves on alternating feet.  (Not embarrassing AT ALL to have jurors numbered 20 and 22 yelling to me from the peanut gallery and pointing me out to the entire left side of the courtroom...)

I was ushered to a room where the judge and lawyers from both sides of the debate awaited.  They were interested in something I had written on my questionnaire.  “It says here you are a nurse.”   This was accurate.  Some questions ensued and I think it is safe to say I represented myself as more than a little UNSTABLE to both sides of the bench. 

You see, television commercials featuring greedy lawyers in search of the injured or sick make me rather ill.  Add that to the absence of a medical malpractice cap on compensatory damages in Pennsylvania and it feels to me rather like a free-for-all if someone has smooth-talking representation and the slightest intent to sue.  I’d like to believe that most medical professionals do the best they can and if something untoward occurs, it is simply a mistake. In fact in many cases, the medical professional is more distraught than the patient.   I know this is not always the situation and there are those who need to be removed from practice.  I am not sure however, that millions of dollars in compensation can adequately eradicate the problem.  But I am sure if things don't change we will run all of the decent doctors right out of our fine state because they can no longer afford the malpractice insurance. 

So on the one hand, I might be an excellent juror for the defense. 

But then came a question with perhaps a more telling answer.  “As a nurse, do you think you might be inclined to side with the physician in a case of malpractice?” To my credit, I did not laugh out loud.  But I did answer with a very strong NO.  I consider myself first and foremost an advocate for my patients.  This must have come through clearly because one of the lawyers asked, “Do you feel animosity toward physicians?!”  I told them I have no animosity whatsoever toward the defendant in the next room.  I do, however, have QUITE A BIT of animosity toward SEVERAL physicians.  The defense lawyer sounded a distinct “uh-oh” as his eyebrows hit his hairline and I’m certain I caught the judge in a grin. (I want to think he was laughing with me and not at me.)  

Though it’s way too late to make a long story short, I was given my walking papers just after lunch.

And the funny part of all is this.  I spent the month leading up to my jury duty HOPING I would not have to serve.  I spent the entire morning in Norristown praying that I would be released so I would not have to find sub nursing coverage for a minimum FIVE DAY case.  I hoped against hope they would not call my name to fill one of those chairs in the jury box (though they looked significantly more comfortable than the hard wooden benches upon which we sat during selection.)  Yet as I was walking from the courtroom in the midst of a personal celebration of my release, my prevailing thought was this.  “Why didn’t they WANT me?!”  (Don’t worry, I'm not as daft as all that. The thought was fleeting and celebration won the day.)

So there you have it. A day at the courthouse and my personal takeaways are these. I am directionally challenged, impatient with tardy humans, AND pathologically insecure. Three strikes and I was OUT!  Literally! 

But at least I don’t have to find anyone guilty, I don't have to hear 

heartbreaking stories of loss, and (oh happy day) I don’t have to 

drive to Norristown in the morning.  

It will be lovely to be back at my desk.  (Never fear, I know the way.)

Silent Night, Holy Night

All is not calm. 

We live in a world where healthcare workers giving polio immunizations to Pakistani children are shot to death as infidels. 

All is not bright.

We share this earth’s crust with anguished mothers and fathers, empty arms aching to hold stolen children.  Precious lives lost because a troubled young man had access to guns capable of firing six bullets every second. 

May those beautiful children now sleep in heavenly peace.

That first Christmas, the night was dark and we are told all was calm. Out of nowhere, the black sky ripped open and the angelic fireworks began. Ancient terrified shepherds fell to their knees on that pasture floor, quaking at the sight of glories streaming from heaven afar.

We quake as well, but an angelic chorus is not the cause. We tremble with sadness, grief clouding perspective.  It is time to close our eyes to the constant media images flashing all that hate before us. These video clips of pain and devastation playing repeatedly their loops of sadness, only serve to magnify our collective heartache. 

We long for the day our Prince of Peace will wipe away every tear.  And so we wait. In a twist of beautiful irony, this baby so long ago announced to shaking shepherds has become our shepherd.  Gathering us, leading us, holding our own shaking souls, and comforting us.

So consoled, we wait not without hope.  It is ours to find the ways in which we ourselves can be light in this dark place.  It is ours to look for the kindness and point to the light falling ever so gently on those who would stop to feel its warmth.  It is ours to wrap our hurting friends and neighbors in the kind of love and care that reminds us once again of that long-ago dawn of redeeming grace.  It tells again the story of love’s pure light.  It was (and still is) a holy night.