“There comes a time when you realize that you can’t trace all your own failures back to someone else’s Big Mistake.”
Brookmyre, Christopher. Country of the Blind (The Jack Parlabane Thrillers) (p. 229). Grove Atlantic.
TODAY FROM AMERICA:
A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES DURING DREARY FEBRUARY 2024.
“[O]ur memories are no less real than whatever moment in which we happen to be living.”
Osman, Richard. The Last Devil to Die (A Thursday Murder Club Mystery) (p. 320). Penguin Publishing Group.
On the first day of the dreaded month of February I got out of bed at about 11AM after lounging there for about two hours riffing through the internet on my smart-phone. Notwithstanding the day and the glum skies outside, I was in a good mood and went down stairs to prepare breakfast singing “Stormy Weather” as loud as I could. Now one may wonder why singing “Stormy Weather” would be an appropriate tune to sing to express one’s happiness. Well, for me there were two reasons why it was. It was an ideal tune to sing with my current baritone voice and it was easy one to scat and improvise.
While eating breakfast (Bagel, cream cheese and lox with coffee as usual) I tuned into the CNN broadcast covering the trial of the mother (Mrs. Crumbly) whose child was responsible for the tragic shooting that claimed the lives four children in a school in Oxford Michigan. As I watched as interesting point crossed my mind. In the not too distant past, most children were subject in school or church were more of less instructed in elementary morality such as the Ten Commandments or other similar rules of civilized behavior. I wondered how the current trend downplaying organized religions and their fundamental moral teachings, or even rudimentary civics in our schools combined with the constant exposure to modern media’s moral ambiguity, might leave children lacking a strong emotional and conscientious moral compass. This got me thinking about the ongoing trial. If my speculations held some truth, and to some extent I believe they do, then what is this trial really all about?
I began to see it as an effort by the courts to establish a fundamental parental responsibility that goes beyond mere child care and extends to certain basic obligations to society as a whole. This case transcends ordinary negligence, such as improper firearm storage; it revolves around a societal duty to protect others from acts of violence. Even though this responsibility primarily entails being aware of and taking measures to prevent a genuine threat, it implies an obligation to instill in your child the understanding that taking innocent lives is morally unacceptable.
In simpler terms, if you’re aware that your child might pose a threat to others and you neglect your duty to address this issue, you could be held accountable. Therefore, as a bare minimum it’s crucial to educate and guide your offspring, teaching them that murder is absolutely unacceptable behavior.
That evening, my grandson Anthony came over to spend some time with us. After getting him settled, Naida and I went to bed.
The next day, we enjoyed lunch at the Nepalese restaurant Sacramentu with Anthony and Hayden. Afterwards, Hayden drove back into the Golden Hills, and Anthony left to visit a friend here in Sacramento.
On Saturday, Anthony slept in, while Naida and I went to the Saturday Morning Coffee.
This was my first attendance in several weeks, and I was in a particularly jovial and almost hysterical mood. I had an engaging conversation with Peter and the Reverend about the cost and effectiveness of modern hearing aids. I joked that no matter how much one spends on hearing aids, and no matter how effective they are, you still miss the punchlines. Later, Peter, Joan, another regular at the coffee meetup, and I discussed opera. Someone mentioned that the local cineplex broadcasts “Live at the Met” during the season. Having held season tickets to the San Francisco Opera for over 20 years, the Met for about 10 years, and having regularly attended performances in Rome (including one memorable evening when Grace Bumbry’s voice broke on the last note of the second act, sparking a riot that required police intervention, and where I met Anna Magnani), I was thrilled. I suggested we get a group together to attend this year’s “Live at the Met” performances. When I got home, I asked Alexa to play some Puccini operas while I looked up this year’s program. This year’s lineup includes “La Forza del Destino” by Verdi, “Romeo and Juliet” by Gounod, “La Rondine” by Puccini, and “Madama Butterfly” also by Puccini. Later, for about an hour, I listened to Maria Callas great arias.
Sunday morning the ‘atmospheric’ river arrived with a lot of wind dark skies and a little rain. Not all that much to write home about given the hysteria of the weather casters on television last night. Perhaps somewhere the residents were enjoying the furies of nature, but not here in the Great Valley. Still, it was enough to keep us indoors and bored. Anthony and Naida spent about an hour fussing about coffee machine. The dog barked now and then, and I wondered if I should return to bed and start the day over again.
I didn’t and we spent most of the day watching from the windows the trees shaking and bending in the wind and the watching the television flicker on and off as the electricity would cut out. Later we accommodated Anthony’s coin collecting obsessions by taking out all the old coins we had lying around for him to examine. Still later, I took the dog for a walk. It was after dark the wind was still blowing strongly and the streets were littered with tree fall. At one point I felt my hat beginning to plow of my head. As I reached up to steady it, I spun around and fell flat on my back. As I lay there and I checked to see if I had broken anything. Finding I hadn’t, I decided that I had enough walking for the day, got up and walked back home. Naida and Anthony were still reviewing the coins. I prepared myself dinner and went up to bed shortly after, I had had enough of this day.
Om Monday we still waited for the atmospheric river to run dry. After breakfast, I spent most of the morning thinking of something interesting to do. Failing to come up with anything, I read a bit, wrote a bit and daydreamed a lot. Perhaps I will take a nap before lunch. I usually find a good dream to be a worthwhile way to spend one’s time while waiting for life’s rains to stop.
In the afternoon we dropped by Naida’s attorney’s office to work out some details about her will. While driving around to and from our appointment we observed the severe tree fall in our neighborhood. At the attorney’s office I noticed a magazine about Sacramento which featured a large tomato on its cover. People often call Sacramento, Sacratomato, sort of like New York is called “The Big Apple.” I like naming places. For example, I often call San Francisco, “The Big Endive by the Bay” and the Central Valley, “The Great Valley.” I think I will now call Sacramento, “The Great Valley’s Big Tomato.”
Tuesday flew by drearily, with rain persisting into Wednesday. I found myself sinking into a bout of depression until Naida exclaimed, “I know what we should do today!” “What?” I asked eagerly. “We should have a pedicure,” she suggested. Desperate for any relief from my depression, I agreed. We invited Anthony to join us, but he declined, opting for a nap instead. So, Naida and I drove off to have our toenails done..
I felt a bit unsettled; I had never had a pedicure before and always felt too embarrassed to try. During my time in Thailand, after leaving the gym, I would treat myself to a foot massage twice a week, with nail care included. On other days, along with daily swims, delicious Thai food, and good books, I indulged in one- or two-hour Thai massages, often with “happy endings”. I also had a weekly ritual of enjoying a Root Beer Float at Swanson’s in Terminal 21. However, undergoing a pedicure in an American nail salon was entirely new to me.
Nevertheless, the experience was delightful, and I decided to make getting a pedicure a regular part of my routine to add some spice to my dotage years.
Later that evening, we enjoyed leftovers for dinner, along with some of the beets left by the organic farm at our doorstep. Later, Naida played the piano while I read a few chapters of my latest novel.
Thursday brought a bit more rain. Naida got a haircut, Anthony and I took the dog for a walk during which I showed Anthony the exercise room at the clubhouse. Afterwards, Naida, the dog, and I took a nap. Naida then took the dog for another walk, and Anthony paid us for our loose coins (as he collects coins as a hobby). Afterwards, Anthony left to return to San Francisco for the weekend.
Friday morning greeted us with sunshine and a bright blue sky. Despite the brief lifting of the gloom, my emotions were anything but bright, particularly on the political front. Yesterday had been a rough day for those aligned with my political views. The special counsel’s report on Biden’s possession of classified documents had been released, completely exonerating him but simultaneously criticizing his age and mental acuity in as many ways as an imagination bereft mind of a trained lawyer can dredge up. Of course, the so-called liberal media, namely MSNBC and CNN, focused heavily on this, expressing concern for the president’s political standing. Meanwhile, FOX News, known for its bias in favor of “The Orange Slime,” as I disdainfully referred to the former president, likely avoided any negative coverage. Then, they. the liberal media, devoted almost exclusive coverage to that prancing weasel Lindsey Graham’s comments that the Immigration Bill that he so recently supported had somehow suddenly become a piece stinking doo-doo with hardly a comment on the weasel’s duplicity.
Later, the housecleaner arrived. Naida, for some inexplicable reason, felt it was necessary to clean alongside her. I tried to persuade her to leave for lunch and allow the housekeeper to carry on with her work, but my efforts were futile. I decided to take the dog for a walk. As I strolled about a block away from the house, I encountered several workmen repairing houses damaged by the recent storms. I noticed a man about my age walking down the street towards me with a small dog, colored in red and brown, by his side.
Recognizing the potential danger if the dogs were to spot each other, I swiftly veered onto a path leading away from the street. However, my actions were not quick enough. Boo-boo caught sight of the other dog, and promptly began barking and lunging towards the street, causing me to become entangled in the leash and fall over. Despite my attempts to steady myself with my walking stick, I found myself unable to prevent the fall. Down I went, wrapped in the leash, with a frantic dog pulling me along.
Struggling to rise, I found myself unable to do so, prompting some of the nearby workers to come to my aid and lift me up. Annoyed and embarrassed, all I could manage was a curt “thank you” before setting off down the path, dragging the resistant dog behind me. I was seething with fury, mortification, and humiliation.
Further along the path, I spotted a kindly-looking woman with a small Bichon on a leash approaching us. We both halted, eyeing each other warily. Eventually, she retreated and disappeared down another path. In that moment, guilt joined the medley of emotions tormenting my psyche.
I found respite on the first bench we encountered, where I remained until my emotional turmoil subsided.
That evening we attended a program by the eminent clarinetist and professor of Music at Sacramento State University Deborah Pittman. She presented her prizewinning animated short movie entitled, “The World According to Earl, about growing up with her father. She alto performed some of her music. I especially enjoyed “Pryer for the Endless Boundary” played on a Native American flute.
On Saturday, the sun was shining and the skies were blue. We attended the Saturday Morning Coffee where one of the attendee’s showed off her collection of shiny tumbled rocks. She referred to herself as a “rock head.” During the Coffee, I noticed an unusual number of attendees were using canes, so I announced I was creating a new organization to be called the “Cane Gang” and asked if anyone wanted to join. No-one did.
After the coffee, I dropped Naida at home and drove off into the Golden Hills for my weekly lunch with Hayden. In was a sunny day so we got a Stromboli at our favorite pizza place and ate lunch by the lake in Town Center.
Sunday was an awful day. It began with Naida and I having our first ever awful row over Anthony’s temporary habitation with us. Originally, he was to move here for a month or two in order to assist us in preparing to move into senior housing. Naida felt we did not need the assistance and she could handle it by herself, and that was that. Later, the 49rs lost in the Super Bowl in overtime. February 11 shall go down in my calendar as my personal day of infamy. (Actually one of many such days)
On Monday, I had to inform Anthony he was not needed here. I agreed to drive his belongings to San Francisco whenever he needed them. I then left for a long walk to contemplate life and my ineptitude.
Tuesday passed making little impact other than during a long walk through the Enchanted Forest, I rested on a bench and contemplated the difference between responsibility and presumption. Is one simply a cognate of the other or are they antithetical? At least the sun was shining.
I could not sleep that night and so I returned downstairs and read Book 4 of the Tipsy Pelican series. While I was reading I snacked on pistachio nuts. As I was preparing to return to bed, I knocked over the dish containing the shells from the pistachios. I spent almost as much time picking the shells out of the rug as I had spent reading. It’s always something and unfortunately it is usually annoying.
Somehow I seemed to have gained a day or in my dotage have lost control of things. I seem to have experienced two Tuesday’s this week. The Tuesday I describe in the paragraph above this one and the Tuesday write about below. I can understand losing a day, but gaining one is inconceivable.
The second of this week’s Tuesdays I call the Day of the Dead as it is a suitable description for a day I could not determine how it came to be. It also describes the day Naida and I spent dealing with her will, first with the lawyer in finalizing the draft and then with the banks adjusting the accounts accordingly. For some reason by the afternoon for some reason we were more exhausted that usual, left many of our planned chores undone and returned home to rest, I slept well into the evening.
It is now 2:30 Wednesday morning. I sit in the darkness writing this. I could not sleep having spent the past few hours coughing uncontrollably and keeping Naida awake. So I came downstairs, tried to fall asleep on the sofa in the studio and failed so I started reading a Reginald Hill novel about the British Foreign Service’s evil doings in Africa during the era of the nation’s of that continent’s breakaways from the various european empires that had dominated them for the previous 400 years or so.
Saint Valentine’s day began with a cup of coffee. That was good. The weather was dreary and I had an appointment with my dentist. This was not a good start a day associated with the happiness of love. To make things worse, as I backed the car out of the garage I backed into a truck parked in the alley between houses on which no parking is permitted. There was no-one in the truck and it suffered no damage. My car on the other hand gad its read door crumpled. I drove off feeling foolish and furious. I then lost my way to the dentist. Eventually I found my way to her office. My dentist in from India. She kindly explains everything she plans to do with my teeth. Unfortunately her accent is so severe I cannot understand what she is saying. So unless the dentist’s assistant is present to translate I have no idea what she is up to. Today, she replaced most of one of my molars to remove a cavity.
After my dental appointment I went food shopping on Novocain.
B. MOPEY JOE’S MEMORIES: February 15, 2014.
1.POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN EL DORADO HILLS:
I guess for California this can be called “The Year Without Winter.” Here it is in early part of February in the Northern Central Valley and it is too warm for me to sit out in the afternoon on the deck behind the house. While they freeze and trudge through the snow on the East Coast, I am looking for a place to go swimming. It has also been the longest number of days without rain for the area since the latter part of the 19th Century. Sometimes I go to the park that overlooks the great Folsom Reservoir. It looks more like a desert surrounding a mud flat than a lake.
When I go to bed at night, I usually surround myself along with my stuffed animals Oscar the seal, Gorilla No-name and Douglas the Monkey along with my computer, books and magazines so that when I wake up in the middle of the night I can read myself back to sleep.
I sometimes begin T&T with the words “Dum Spiro, Spero” which means where there is life there is hope. If this is true then it seems to me the Descartes who opined “Cogito ergo sum,” (I think therefore I am), must be wrong. Thinking, science tells us, is mostly post hoc rationalization. Perhaps it should be “Dum Spero, Spiro,” where there is hope there’s life.
On the other hand, “Canem Praeteri, Cave Modo Hominem.” (Never mind the dog, just watch out for the human) may be just as appropriate.
I go to physical therapy two times a week for my leg. I have grown to enjoy it, the physical therapy not the pain in my leg. It is a bit like a senior citizens health club. It pleases me also because almost everyone, except for the therapists who are both younger and very much slimmer, are even fatter than I am. Say what you want about we Americans but one thing is true, we definitely are an obese lot.
One day while driving I listened to the Sacramento classical music station; you know music by mostly white boy bands from the Beetles to Clash. It really was not my teenage music, that was more from Frankie Lyman to well, the day the music died. I guess Classic Rock was more my stoner years. Anyway, I was listening to Joplin sing “Bobby McGee.” After the song the announcer mentioned that Kris Kristofferson and Janis Joplin were lovers until she died. I did not know that or if I did I had forgotten. That raised my estimation of both of them greatly.
Some critics criticized Joplin’s style and voice. I never understood that. Singing to me is the art of individual voices and probably almost infinite in variety. Like most notable singers, Joplin appeared to have a unique voice that distinguished her from other singers. Some time ago I assembled on tape over 50 performances of women’s voices from Joan Sutherland to Carmen Miranda. I loved that collection and would play it constantly. Denise called it my “Tragic Hearts Tape” because of the common theme of unrequited or lost love, but some definitely were not sad. Callas’ “Cara Nome” and even Joplin’s Bobby McGee were more upbeat than sad. Anyway D borrowed the tape and lost it.
For me the music finally really died in about 1992.
On Sunday’s I usually attend HRM’s rugby games. Two weeks ago he ran the wrong way and scored for the other team. Last Sunday while the Broncos were being shellacked in the Super Bowl, his team Motherlode Rugby (Go you mothers!) lost 95 to 5.
Last week HMR and I attended Congressman John Garamendi’s Birthday Party/Fund Raiser/Crab Fest in Vacaville as guests of Norbert and Stevie.
2. NEWS STRAIGHT OR SLIGHTLY BENT:
The above photograph was sent to me from Thailand by Nikki. It shows Sukhumvit Road one of BKK’s major arteries shut down by the long running anti-government protests. Unlike in other countries where streets shut down by protesters are often crowded with gangs of young men on the verge of riot, in Thailand the vacated streets are instantly filled by sidewalk vendors.
DAILY FACTOID:
St Augustine of Hippo, the black man who saved Christianity from decline and made it a world religion, outright stated that in cases where the Bible clashed with observable reality the Bible must be assumed to be meant metaphorically, and that to do otherwise would make Christianity look stupid and bring it into disrepute. Biblical literalism is a modern heresy.
PEPE’S POTPOURRI:
A. Ruth on Top:
Ruth sent me an e-mail a few day’s ago containing a letter she had sent to LA Times editorial board a year before bringing to their attention the over 40 year inaction by the City of Los Angles protecting their coastal and other environmental resources. Apparently, the Times was uninterested. It is a thoughtful report on dismal failure by local government and thought I would re-post it here.
On April 22, the City of Los Angeles will join others across the country to celebrate Earth Day. Public officials will proclaim their commitment to environmental protection, volunteers will carry out clean-ups and tree-plantings, and everyone will go home feeling warm and fuzzy.
But draw back the wizard’s curtain and you will find the dismal reality that the City is moving backwards.
Just over 50 years ago, the voters of California —fed up with the Legislature’s failure to protect our coastline—adopted an initiative creating a State Coastal Commission and six junior (regional) commissions to replace local government’s authority over development along the entire 1100 miles of California coastline. For three years, anyone who wanted to build anything within 1000 yards of the mean high tide line had to get permission from the regional commission covering the county where the proposed building would be. In1976, the initiative was superseded by a Coastal Act adopted by the Legislature. In the debate leading to this successor law, the last and most controversial question was whether the state agency would prepare a detailed plan for the coastal zone or the local governments would take back the responsibility to do so. The “compromise” that emerged was that each locality would prepare and submit to the Coastal Commission for approval a detailed “Local Coastal Program” and would do so no later than June 30, 1981. After certification, the regional commissions, now superfluous, would cease to exist, and permit applicants would be subject only to local scrutiny with very limited oversight by the State Coastal Commission.
Alas, in one of the most misguided acts of faith known to legislative process, the Legislature failed to impose any meaningful penalties for failure to comply. And so indeed, come June 30, 1981, when I adjourned the South Coast Regional Commission’s last meeting, nobody had complied and there were no adopted and certified local coastal programs. Over the ensuing 42 years, most jurisdictions along the coast have managed to cough up something approximating coastal protection. The City of Los Angeles, however, has not.
In the 1990s, during my City Council tenure, city planners eventually produced the first of two required parts of a local coastal program, and the council adopted the land use plan for Venice. But the Coastal Commission wanted some conditions attached before approving the plan, and the Council balked, thus halting the process in its tracks. Fast forward to the 2010s, and the city decided that the adopted plan was too old, so they would start over. And here we are, 42 years delinquent, with the planning department holding “listening sessions” for the Venice part of the plan that was due 42 years ago. But the City has four separate pieces of coastline, and there is no evidence of even “listening sessions” for Pacific Palisades, Playa del Rey, or San Pedro. (The Port of Los Angeles did adopt a plan, but that’s a different piece of the law.)
And then there’s Mono Lake. Mono Lake is fed by streams, and our Department of Water and Power diverts the water in those streams as part of supplying water to Los Angeles residents and businesses. When the water goes to the city, the lake level drops, and the environment suffers. In 1994, nearly 30 years ago, DWP and the Mono Lake Committee reached an agreement to stop diverting streamwater until the lake reached a 6192 feet above sea level. Mayor Riordan, DWP Commission President Dennis Tito, and others celebrated the ending of approximately 20 years of litigation and a new era of cooperation with the people and environment surrounding Mono Lake. Alas, this Earth Day the City is not only 42 years out of compliance with the Coastal Act; 29 years after signing the 1994 agreement, DWP is refusing to follow its requirements and insists on diverting water from the streams regardless of the level of the lake.
There are other examples too. For instance, Venice Beach is the biggest visitor attraction in Los Angeles County. Visitors come (or try to) from all over California as well as the rest of the world. From within Southern California, many beach visitors come with whole families, picnic baskets, and beach umbrellas. As a practical matter, bicycles are not viable transport for these families. Yet, the City of Los Angeles has, despite a rhetorical commitment to improving access to this major visitor-serving no-fee recreation area, reduced traffic capacity on the major road leading from the freeway system to the Venice Beach parking lot by creating a bottleneck roughly halfway between the 405 Freeway and the beach itself but outside the official “coastal zone.”
For all the new faces at City Hall and DWP, here’s the challenge: This Earth Day, skip the pretty speeches and instead let’s see some results. In short, put up or shut up.
B. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:
We may make choices but in the end our choices make us.
C. Tuckahoe Joe’s Blog of the Week: The True Shape of America’s Debt & Deficit “Burdens”
While reviewing Brand Delong’s Blog* I came across and interesting post analyzing the US national debt. I have edited it to shorten it to fit this venue. I hope I have not ignored anything pertinent.
*Brad DeLong. Grasping Reality Newsletter: The True Shape of America’s Debt & Deficit “Burdens” (February 2, 2024)
Exploding Debt Since 1981:
The federal debt, as a percentage of the Gross Domestic Product (GDP), was at a low of 21.9% in the third quarter of 1974. By the start of Ronald Reagan’s first budget year in the fourth quarter of 1981, this had slightly increased to 25.2%. Fast forward, and by Bill Clinton’s first budget year, the debt-to-GDP ratio had risen to 48.2%. Clinton and Gore worked hard, even at the cost of alienating some within their party, to lower it to 31.9% for George W. Bush. However, under Bush, it escalated to 53.5% at the beginning of Barack Obama’s first budget year. Despite Obama’s efforts to negotiate with Republicans on the deficit, the ratio was 74.0% when Trump took office, peaking at 103.2% during the COVID-19 crisis in mid-2020. Joe Biden began his term with a ratio of 94.0%, which has slightly increased to 95.4%.
This shows a 23.0% increase under Reagan-Bush, a 16.3% decrease under Clinton, increases of 21.6% under Bush, 20.5% under Obama, 29.8% under Trump, and a 1.4% increase under Biden so far.
Implications:
What’s been happening since the early 1980s, and what does it mean for the future? The U.S. has been an attractive place for global investment, supported by its strong economy. This means the U.S. can afford its debt, borrowing at low interest rates without immediate concern. Viewing the U.S. as a modern equivalent to the Medici Bank, where savers willingly park their money for safety, suggests that with smart fiscal management, the U.S. can manage its debt effectively. This involves aligning spending with tax revenue while managing the debt—borrowing only to cover interest. This doesn’t require a balanced budget but maintaining a sustainable deficit, roughly 3% of GDP or about $800 billion annually. This strategy could gradually reduce the debt without drastic measures, maintaining economic stability and growth.
But there is a problem here: Our current deficit is $1.7 trillion a year—not 3% but 6% of GDP—with no prospects I see even on the most distant horizon of a legislative coalition to reduce it to $800 billion, 3%. That is a big problem. In my view, it may well all end in tears—but, if so, not because of the deficits we have run in the past, but because of the deficits our broken political economy will produce in the future…
D. Giants of History: Elon Musk — An Expose.
While leafing through my most recent issue of Stranger Times (McDonnell, C. K.. Relight My Fire (The Stranger Times) (p. 273). Transworld.) I came across the following fascinating revelations regarding the notorious public figure and legendary investor Elon Musk:
A former close associate of billionaire and champion of certain types of free speech Elon Musk has shocked the world by announcing that Musk does not exist and is, in fact, an online entity entirely generated by artificial intelligence. Roger Drake, a self-described code architect (whatever that is), has claimed that Musk was created by a NASA supercomputer as a test.
‘It was an experiment to see what AI could do,’ Drake explained. ‘We input a bunch of tech magazines, sixteen pages of Atlas Shrugged and a 1994 edition of Hustler, and Elon was what popped out. He has since run amok, building up a fortune while claiming responsibility for other people’s work and telling everyone how the world should be run. I know what you’re thinking – all those pictures of him in the papers? That’s all generated too – just google the phrase “Matt Damon’s face combined with a leg of pork”.’
McDonnell, C. K.. Relight My Fire (The Stranger Times) (p. 273). Transworld.
E. Tito Tazio’s Tales: From JOEY’S MYSTERY NOVEL — “ENTER THE DRAGON.” (Chapters 32 ) “Mark”
She stopped about 10 feet from our car. “Where are you going,” she said?
“Uh, my name is Matthew Dragoni, I’m an attorney and accompanying my client to meet with someone.”
“I know who you are. Who are you planning to meet with?
It came back to me. She was the Deputy Sheriff that had something to do with the investigation of the unpleasantness at my ex law firm a few years back. I could not remember her name and I could not read her name tag pinned to her uniform. A second uniform detached itself from the group standing by the house and began walking toward us just as the doors to the Ambulance were slammed shut and the emergency personnel jumped into the front seats.
“Uh, look here sheriff,” the name came back to me, Meg, something or other, Polan I think. “I am happy to answer your questions but I really have to know what this is all about.”
Mavis who had rolled down the rear window now shouted “Oh my God, has something happened to Mark?”
“Please get out of the car all of you,” Meg ordered. She placed her hand on her gun just as the second Deputy arrived and the Ambulance took off and headed our way, lights flashing and siren screaming.
“Ok, kids get out slowly hands where they can see them, I said to my passengers. “From here on Mavis please shut up,” I warned sotto voce.
The ambulance passed the two officers and disappeared over the rise. “Ok were getting out,” I shouted. “But I still insist in knowing what this is all about.”
As soon as we got out of the call Meg turned towards Mavis and asked, “What is your relationship to this… ah Mark.”
I quickly put my hand on Mavis’ shoulder to stop her from talking and said, “You know better than that deputy.”
After some back and forth we agreed to give statements to the police which scrupulously avoided mention of dope, suicides, Martin Vihn and furniture shipments. In return we learned that Mark Holland had been found behind the house shot. Later reports had him in a deep coma. A neighbor had heard what sounded like a shot or car backfire and a car driving rapidly away. He then left his house nearby with his dog it order to investigate and to attend to some dog business. He saw nothing except Mark lying there and then called the police on his smart phone. Among the things Meg asked in addition to whether we knew why anyone would want to harm Mark, was whether any of us knew whether Mark was dealing dope. We denied knowledge of everything. Meg did not appear to believe us. It took about four hours to finish giving our statements at the scene. On the way back to the car she took me aside.
“So you left the big firm, I heard,” she said. “Yeah,” I answered. “I wanted to associate with a better class of people.” She smiled briefly. “I can understand that.” “You know,” she added. “I don’t believe you are telling me all you know. If I find out that you are not, I’ll make sure you lose both your law license and investigators license.”
“We’ve given you accurate statements,” I said. “But I’ll call you tomorrow after I look into some things.”
“Why not tell me now and I’ll look into them too?” she responded.
“Trust me.”
“It’s your ass on the line.”
“It won’t be the first time.”
We left the scene and returned to The City mostly in silence. Mavis indicated she wanted to spend some time alone so we dropped her off at her apartment. Joe wanted to report to Martin personally and drove me to my apartment where I took a nap and then prepared for my dinner with the widow.
TODAY’S QUOTE: Victor Hugo describing what his novel “Les Meserables” is all about.
“So long as there shall exist, by reason of law and custom, a social condemnation, which, in the face of civilization, artificially creates hells on earth, and complicates a destiny that is divine with human fatality; so long as the three problems of the age—the degradation of man by poverty, the ruin of women by starvation, and the dwarfing of childhood by physical and spiritual night—are not solved; so long as, in certain regions, social asphyxia shall be possible; in other words, and from a yet more extended point of view, so long as ignorance and misery remain on earth, books like this cannot be useless.”
Victor Hugo
Note: those interested in back issues of This and that…. they can be found at: josephpetrillo.wordpress.com
See also:
Trenz Pruca’s Journal — https://trenzpruca.wordpress.com/
Papa Joe’s Tales, Fables and Parables — https://papajoesfables.wordpress.com/
Urban Edginess— https://planningimplementation.wordpress.com/
This and that from re Thai r ment. 