Pondering the Legacy

I'm having trouble deciding where this post belongs: here, or in "Bogus Journeys". I'll err on the side of "Adventure". This isn't dark or bleak, not for me anyway. So here goes...

Some "background":
I was reading an article in "Real Simple" magazine (See, I'm not "real bitter" about not winning their essay contest...I didn't cancel my subscription. I'm being the bigger person and waiting to indulge in scathing criticism until, AFTER I actually read the winning submission. - bitch professional writer, probably has 'education', too!-), on different women and how they are artistically preserving their families' heritage (other than scrap booking). One's a photographer, one's a writer, they even have a quilter represented.

Tall One's viewing a DVD course on "The Making of the New Testament Canon". An acquaintance expressed concern over an offspring's religiosity.

These circumstances lead me to the following ponderings:

The ladies in "Real Simple" are preserving their pasts, partly to leave a mark on the future. Photographs are compiled into self-published coffee table books. Writers are compiling letters, diaries and written vignettes into self-published memoirs. Artists are creating memory boxes and bed covers to be cherished and handed down.

Now, I can and will do the same sorts of things. I have pictures and mementos that I have every intention of creatively organizing, arranging and displaying. I have some concrete plans, that just need a little motivation to bring them to fruition. I have no doubt that my family and friends will "ooh" and "aah" their appreciation and even save these "time capsules" till they crumble into dust. I'm willing Daughter my cross-stitched pictures - ALL of them - just because she hates them. I think that will be funny. Hopefully, she'll "get" it!

But, these will not be my real legacy. I know what that will be.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I prayed. I prayed that god would give me people. I was serious about this prayer. While I lack for nothing in the comfort department (except for turning the heat to ridiculously low temperatures), we are not experiencing unlimited wealth. And, I'm really good with that. "More stuff, more responsibility." I would not enjoy winning the lottery, I do not daydream about "things". I have, however, accumulated a large variety of people. I love my people. They are diverse and beautiful. I've gotten them from exotic locals, and from the internet. Some are literally, flesh of my flesh, and some are scavenged from the relationships of others. Some are very needy, some are incredibly giving. Some are so difficult that I've had to distance myself, others are so comforting that I take their presence for granted.

So, this is what I've been mulling, and these are my conclusions. I will not depend upon my ability to rearrange and bestow artifacts in the hopes that they will prolong my memory or inspire reminiscences in the hearts and minds of those I leave behind. I will affect to rearrange and change their minds and hearts. I will leave behind pieces of me, for my loved ones to ponder. They may not even recognize my influence, but they will be sharing a part of my essence.

I can't anticipate what will be important or thought provoking for another human being. The paintings my mother did as a young woman are interesting, but hold no emotion for me. Even the ones she did later in life don't affect me in any meaningful way, but observing her organizational skills impresses the bejeeses out of me. It's something I aspire to. After she's gone, I anticipate gratefully singing her praises for leaving me neat drawers and filed important papers. Every time I straighten up my plastic container drawer, I think of my mother, fondly. Her needle work, paintings and even the old photographs are relegated to the closet, I may look through them a few more times in this life, but I clean something every single day, and that's the part of my mother that I cherish. My father has been dead for thirty five years, I think of him every time I do a push-up, every time I answer my mother with patience, whenever I see my daughter ice skate.

That's what I'm leaving my people. A part of me. A kindness remembered and passed on. A moment of comfort. A good laugh. An assumed characteristic. A turn of a phrase. An experience. A life lived with no regrets.

Vicariously Famous

I think I may have mentioned my love affair - with our DVR. How, oh, how did I ever watch TV in the before time? Tall One and I have our "must see" shows. We hit a few buttons on the remote, and when it's convenient we hit a few more, fast forward through commercials and cram one hour of viewing time into 40 minutes or so. Win/win.

We can also reverse, pause, and replay - even in real time. These features came in handy the other evening when we were watching the new episode of "Desperate Housewives". It's the one where Beau Bridges (omg, he's old)/handyman dies and everyone's reminiscing. I'm watching happily, lost in the glut of vicarious drama, trauma and intrigue. Poor Bree, sitting at the breakfast nook and compiling her cookbook/self-help book, years before the dream was realized. After being marginalized by her physician-first-husband, Bree is determined to earn the money for a new stove. It brought a tear to my eye, identifying so closely with the condescending, exploitative, inferior position in society that Bree has chosen to champion. When she told Rex, "I have a job", referring to her superlative housekeeping, I could have cheered! Well, ok, I did. I clapped, pumped the air and yelled, "You GO Bree, tell 'im. Tell 'em all!"

But, that's not the exciting part. As the camera focuses on Rex, there it is hanging behind him over the kitchen island! My light! Really, I have the exact same light over MY kitchen island!! Tall One didn't believe me at first and that's where the reverse, pause feature paid for itself. Reverse, pause, it IS my light, hanging in Bree Van de Kamp's kitchen.

Many years ago, when I was working as a personal assistant to Wheeler, he spent an inordinate amount of time trying to find out where to purchase a door like the one's in Frazer's apartment. He finally got a hold of a production assistant that told him the doors had been manufactured specifically for that set. I've read about some of the furniture and accessories crafted for movies and TV. Some of them are clever styrofoam. But, I know where Bree shopped for her lighting fixtures. Home Depot - 'cause that's where we got ours!

Economic Education

I am wallowing in a sinusitis stupor. This makes it nearly impossible to think. Thinking is a huge effort. Sitting and staring is the only option.

I had to drag my poor, sorry butt out of the house yesterday morning. I did Nana's grocery shopping. She did not insist on this, but it always makes me more relaxed when I know her basic needs are met for a day or two. I picked up a few things for myself, English muffins, and wheat bread, a few tangelos, and more bananas. I have no appetite, and now I'm out of ginger ale and cranberry juice. It's easier to fast. And besides, to obtain sustenance, I would have to pry myself out of the chair and crawl to the kitchen.

While I was out, I also voted. This is the first "special election" that I can remember. I'm sure I've participated in one or another before, but I'll be damned if I can recall. In a nutshell, the school board has come up with an ambitious plan to renovate and improve our educational facilities. This will involve millions of dollars in loans to be repaid by increased taxes - hugely increased taxes.

Now, to put the finances in context, the previous board did not increase taxes for close to a decade. There was a huge fiasco a few years ago while building a new grade school - astronomical cost over runs, accusations of unethical financial doings. A new elementary school was completed. Two small outdated community grade school buildings were demolished, and, I believe the properties sold or leased. We are not a particularly affluent community. Agrarian, lower middle class, small business, we are in the midst of a housing boom, or were, until the economy went south.

The proposal we are voting for or against is to be coveted. State of the art buildings designed to progress with the anticipated future and wonderful athletic fields and facilities. Truly an administrative and parental dream. The plan is well thought out and was presented concisely, accurately, and professionally. I want the best for our progeny, I had determined to vote yes.

There is no argument that the district's buildings and resources need to be drastically updated. But, I began to wonder if the proposal isn't based, in part, on the projected moneyed transplants that are the potential residents of the new, unfinished, construction-stalled developments. Or the very special interests of Apriltown borough, that insists on replacing their outdated and damaged elementary school instead of being absorbed into the larger community and attending the existing elementary buildings located not 5 miles away.

As a result of the input of a much respected former superintendent, I began to question the direction of the project. Was it conceived and directed for the educational enhancement of our children, or was the focus based on selling points to entice a more lucrative financial base to our area? Are we in competition with the affluent districts in the county? And is that a legitimate requirement for our students' life development and success?

Are we justified in our demands of "our children deserve the best" while running roughshod over our elderly population, whose children are grown, and who face further ravishes to their already insecure financial future. As Daughter pointed out, is this a message we want to send to our children? Isn't it better to work for what you want, to creatively achieve your goals and desires instead of having things handed to you - by requiring an element of the constituency to sacrifice what they've previously struggled for? What does our public educational system "owe" us? And, what do we have the "right" to demand?

I voted "no". "No" carried the day. Now, the school board will have to go back to the drawing board - and we will have another referendum. Just as the "nos" cried universal economic ruin, the "yeses" are screaming educational collapse - cuts in athletic programs, silence in the music department, nothing but black canvas for art, suspension of bus service. I choose to have confidence that a compromise will be reached that will provide adequately for our children, encourage our creativity and volunteerism to make up deficits, and teach life lessons that are far more valuable than, "our buildings are better than your buildings".

One can hope.....

Civic Duty

I was summoned for jury duty. It's one of those anticipated, unavoidable, life experiences that, even when you have the date and know it's coming, you believe on some deep, fundamental level, that it won't happen to you. Like death.

Well, the day arrived and I reported. There are probably 300 of us, assembled in the largest courtroom auditorium, watching the banal, insipid, short film produced to inspire our patriotic duty and love of justice that will encourage our compliant involvement in the mandatory service, required by summons, during the next few insufferably boring hours and/or days. I can't imagine the vast array of quashed circumstances that have been put in indefinite stasis in order to participate in this love-of-the-law fest. I'm fighting for all I'm worth not to be bitter.

The next ploy is: divide and conquer. We are randomly(?) divided into "panels". We feel absurdly privileged when the panel we "belong" to is "called". Really, it's a spiritual exercise. The "called" are removed from the masses to a special, better place. We believe in that "place". Anything is preferable to the abject misery of enforced boredom. The chairs are hard and uncomfortable and too few in number. There is no natural light. The windows that be, are covered in blinds and/or draperies. We are herded and managed by matrons, ala Nurse Ratchett. The ceilings in the jury rooms are low. We potential jurors have all brought distractions, but these quickly lose their glamour. Too many people talking to read, too many people present to speak comfortably on the cell phone, too few plugs for the laptops, too few options in the coffee shop. No where to walk...no where to run.

So, as our panel files into the designated courtroom for selection, we aren't thinking about anyone but ourselves. This is new, this is interesting, this is different. Oh, there's the judge, all stand; there's the defendant, all boo - not really, that would be rude. There's the defense attorney, demon seed; there's the prosecuting attorney, saving us from evil. I was surprised at the strength of my preconceptions. It's not easy to practically translate the noble precept of "guilty until proven innocent". By the time the jury panel files in, there is a huge assumption of quilt. The defendant has been arrested, arraigned, there is enough evidence to prosecute and the trial by jury is about to begin, inconveniencing innumerable innocent by-standers, not to mention there's a victim somewhere in the wings.

The judge begins our briefing. He explains and instructs. He questions us. We answer under oath. Then the prosecuting attorney takes a crack. We do realize that "Court TV" and "Law & Order" aren't real? Before we can answer the judge chimes in, "I thought "Court TV" WAS real!" Ha....ha....ha. Comic relief noted. The defense attorney is a little more thorough. He asks specific questions about our beliefs and experiences, he smiles too much. I can't see the defendant's face, but he doesn't appear to be snoring. Before the jury selection begins, we break for lunch.

The jury panel is back and seated, in order and on time. It's strangely like grade school. And we are a very obedient, cooperative class. We sit quietly and still, on our hard, uncomfortable benches waiting for the teacher...uh, judge...to begin. But, he's not here. We begin to fidget, and whisper among ourselves. The court clerk is reading a novel, the only other authority figure is a 14 year old police officer. We fidget some more, and talk a little louder. I have an overwhelming urge to throw a spit ball. Someone poses the brilliant and brave question, "Are we allowed to go to the bathroom", to the room at large, but it's the baby policeman that answers, "yes". He has become our god. People pee, just for something to do. They come back with giggled reports of the activity in the halls and other courtrooms. We begin to "relax". People stand against the wall, get out their books, check their blackberries. Time d....r....a.....g.....s. Finally, after thousands of hours of fruitless waiting, the judge arrives. We stand, and he motions us to, "please, don't...", in a self-conscience, I'm-not-worthy-you're-the-real-heroes way. We agree. He explains that the defendant decided to plead guilty and will be sentenced. This is obviously a lengthy process involving many man hours and tortuous legal manipulations. We are thanked for our cooperation and rewarded by being dismissed "early".

We fight to get out of the courtroom and into the elevators on the first trip down to street level. It is holiday, it is snow day. The relief and freedom is palpable. We have promised to be back tomorrow morning at 8:30am, but for the evening we are liberated. Life is full of possibilities once again.

The next day begins the same, without the movie. We're still identified by our panel numbers. We still sit and wait. But, we're beginning to become comfortable in our forced captivity. We move into the large courtroom that we avoided yesterday. The seats are padded, and pew like. We can stretch out. We remove our shoes, some of us nap. A few brave souls openly defy the jury matrons and sit up on the dais in the padded swivel chairs. Rebels. Time d.....r......a......g.......s. We're dismissed for lunch in staggered groups. Our wills have been broken. There's no rejoicing or revelry. We know we'll be back in an hour and fifteen minutes, or face fine and/or imprisonment.

The afternoon looms large. More napping, more grumbling. Discontent and unrest grow along with the inactivity. This is the beginning of the two week long criminal court season. We should be inundated with trials demanding our impartial services. Only one panel has been called, one jury selected. The matron enters and shoos the delinquent dais sitters off their comfortable perches. Everyone who is NOT on panel one needs to clear the courtroom. This is looked on with bitterness and despair. We have established camps. We are greatly inconvenienced by moving.

We hang in the hallway, waiting for re-admittance. The doors blow open and giddy, laughing former jurors blow past us, with coats flapping and glad tidings of great joy. They have been "dismissed", the bastards. We file back into the room, silent and sullen. We feel persecuted. We take our need to remain personally, as punishment. A few hours later, another group departs with happy exclamations, and shortly thereafter, I can go home, I don't have to return, for at least three years.

There are a few jurors left, and I have to pass by them to access the exit. I can't meet their eyes. I have no words of comfort to offer. I don't linger. There's nothing I can do to alleviate their suffering. Poor, unfortunate wretches.