Salt of the Earth

It was a whirlwind of a week with my mother sitting confused but tolerant in the middle of it all. On Monday, with the help of Hospice staff and Special K Transportation, we moved Mom into her new, final home at a nursing care facility in near-north Cedar Rapids. Near-north because the last place was so far north that the weather got colder on the way there. Mom stuck her tongue out at the memory care staff who seemed genuinely sad to see her go. The nursing home staff were welcoming and professional. Everyone seems to have worked there for twenty years or more. Watch out for places with lots of turnover on the nursing staff. You're likely to find grandpa on the floor.

My intrepid friend Jeff, who has helped me with every Mom related move since this saga began, helped me clear out Mom's room in a day. I asked Kim, the admissions director, who seemed to be in a hurry to go home, how long we had to move out. She said "It depends on how many days you want to pay for." And don't let the screen door hit you in the wheelchair on the way out.

We got all the stuff out in one day. It's once again sitting in my side of the garage, where all good things rest on the way to where they eventually go. Not sure of what to do with something? Come and put it in my side of the garage! It was good to get it all done, but it meant that I didn't get clothes put away or pictures up in Mom's new room. I guess it's all about real estate. I wanted to ask Kim if I was going to get dinged for the full price of the room, since there would be no actual care involved. I wanted to ask her to jump up my ass, if you want to know the truth. I composed a magnificent poison pen letter on my way home. In the end, I did none of those things, figuring I need all the good karma I can get. Kim will no doubt contract herpes soon.

I really like the nursing home. That says something about me right there. I can now really like a nursing home. Although it's filled with people in various stages of decay, many of whom droop and snooze, the staff are courteous and caring and have been very helpful and understanding. There's a sense of purpose there.

I also talked to our attorney, Jean, about setting up a trust for Mom. She has a steady and tidy income which will continue until she dies and won't run out. This would seem ideal, except that it doesn't cover the cost of her care. Normally a person would "spend down" and then Medicaid would take over.

Let's take a moment and think about what a neat expression "spend down" is. It sounds like we are losing unnecessary weight, or cleaning up something excessive. What it means is that you have depleted every cent of your personal assets and are now indigent for all practical purposes. What a society we have! My mother taught the most disturbed kids in Wichita for twelve years. Then she began to work as a grant writer and program developer for Cerebral Palsy Research in Wichita, where, in her first year (1978) she landed two million dollars in funding. She founded the Independent Living Center for brain injured people. She was an advocate for the disabled. She started the Women's Equality Coalition and Women Art/Women Fair to promote female artists in the community. Now she will spend down.

The trust will reimburse Medicaid for all payable expenses and allow her to use her income for her own support. It's called a Miller Trust and thank God we found it, or I'd be paying for college and nursing care at the same time. Points for the staff of the nursing home, who turned me on to it, and for Jean, who is all over it.

Finally, on Thursday, to complete the "mortality tour," I sat down with Ken, a funeral pre-planner, to work out Mom's final arrangements. I chose a mortuary that used to hire our band on a regular basis. They had us set up in the parking lot behind the building, under the shade of some big trees, and play for the neighbors and whoever came by. They called it a "Celebration of Life." We called it "Opening for the Dead." Michael, the owner, is a very nice man active in local causes, and since he's given me some money and support it seemed fair to have him handle Mom's final business.

Our friend Diana went to this place to handle her parents' arrangements and came away enraged at the expense. I always suspected she was more universally enraged at the time, but I girded my loins nonetheless. Ken was a very nice man, actually, a fan of the band. I let him know what our thinking was: cremation, no viewing, graveside service, burial at the Old Welsh Cemetery near Aunt Joan, memorial service in Wichita at a later date.

Ken was very helpful. We found a very cool biodegradable urn (made of salt). Ken said it was so new it didn't have a name. Michael goes out and finds cool burial accouterments and brings them back. Everything gets a name. The cardboard casket made solely for cremation even has one (the Phoenix). Ken made up a name for the new urn, which was an orangish pink. "How about 'Salt of the Earth'?" I smiled. There's probably not a lot of room for creativity in the pre-planning business.

There was even a cool wicker casket that Mom would have loved, but since she's being cremated without a viewing it didn't make much sense. I could have gotten a cool biodegradable cardboard urn, but I liked Salt of the Earth and I didn't want the whole arrangement to be cardboard. I gave Ken the number for my contact at the Old Welsh Cemetery and left.

I took the rest of Thursday off. As I drove north, I felt the old familiar gloom descending, my old friend, faithful and true, accompanying us through this long journey. I busied myself buying a ridiculously expensive carpet steamer. Robyn came home and pointed out that it was way too expensive and not what she had in mind. I yelled at her to do whatever she wanted with it, that I was through making arrangements. I did not yell all the other angry things I thought, nor did I blame her, although I really wanted to. I went to my room and went to bed. Sometimes having done what we must, there is nothing left to say, nothing good anyway. In truth, I am not angry about carpet steamers or even about Robyn. I'm angry about the decay and demise of my parents, the robbery, at genetic gunpoint, of their old age, their absence in my life, my children's lives. I'm angry about all these things about which there is nothing, absolutely nothing, to do. I'm angry that I've had to grieve now for more than fifteen years, each and every day. I'm angry at myself for not somehow being a better son, whatever that would mean.

A long night's sleep helped. Friday, yesterday, was a good day through which I puttered with little ambition. Today I will hang some pictures in my Mom's room, make sure her clothes are marked with her name. I'll make sure the handful of belongings she retains in her room are properly arranged, deck chairs on the Titanic, to the tune of a fiddle while Rome slowly burns.

Entropy affects all of us. I'm not feeling sorry for myself, just sorry. I'm left with choices: grief and anger, reasonable carrying-on, attempts at feeling peace with it all. . . . I suppose I feel all those things at once. Mom's not hurting now. For her the worst is over. She's no longer counting her losses. I count them for her and remember who she was, a fierce, loyal, intelligent, independent woman of great worth.

Do not go gently into that good night
But rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Personal record

Robyn and I went to Walker's Invitational Cross Country Meet yesterday. Walker's a junior varsity guy, but the varsity team is ranked number on in the state. It was easy to see why. In a field of 300 or so ripped young men, Prairie runners finished in the top 30 or 35. They won the meet, which by all accounts was very fast. Walker, who has grown legs over the summer, knocked a minute and a half off his personal record for this event. His goal was a sub-20 time and he finished at 18:51. He was surprised, and in true cross-country tradition, vomited nicely at the finish line.

Cross country is a great sport. The kids seem more laid back and are great sports for the most part. I'm still amused by the long lines of young men and women, in grand physical condition, lining up at the porta-potties for their pre-game dumps. Wouldn't want to get to mile eight and have to poop down your own leg. These ordinarily self-conscious young men and women all stand in line together as though they are in the return line at Best Buy. I like that the kids compete against their own previous times (at least on our team) and encourage each other, regardless of how they finish. Walker finished well but did not medal or (I think) score for the team (which took second), but his friends were excited at the dramatic improvement in his time. They all embrace suffering and pain and personal accomplishment. Then, of course, they come home and neglect taking out the garbage. Some generalization of values will surely ensue at some point in time.

I made the final arrangements to move Mom into what seems like a very good nursing facility last week. As I finished the arrangements Friday afternoon, I felt a wave of sadness. When we moved Mom into her current facility - Memory Care - she asked "How long will I have to stay here?" I lied. "I don't know, Mom." The answer, it turns out, is "until you need a nursing home."

Choosing a home can be depressing, to say the least. My point of view has certainly changed, though. I remember being appalled when I visited my Aunt Joan at all the sleeping folks seemingly abandoned in their chairs and in hallways, folks sitting gazing off into nowhere, or sitting in front of televisions in congregate areas noticing little or nothing. I didn't want to think about Mom being one of those people. She is, now, of course, one of those people. They are doing the best they can with what remains of their gray matter, conversing or responding with great effort and then resting, nodding off, gathering wool until called upon to interact again, with great effort. We have found a clean, quiet place full of people who seem kind and knowlegable. Mom will have a room-mate who, like her, needs a quiet place, a radio, some classical music.

Although my first instinct in the face of these things is to purchase and consume expensive and tasty single malt scotch, I have not done so. Nor have I made the pitcher of martinis for which the situation seems to call. I drove down in the rain and saw a client, a woman of some significant insight whose lot seems to be improving. I came home and talked with my daughter who, bored and with a very sore ankle, came home for the night at my invitation. I vacuumed up a lot of puppy hair. It's falling off Maggie in great patches, carpeting our rugs with mismatched fiber. I watched our over-rated football team fall prey to hungry underdogs. Beware the hungry underdog.

I often introduce my young clients to the concept of struggle. Most of them have had to struggle mightily. They see their struggle as an exception. Their future is filled with satisfaction, to which they are no doubt entitled, punctuated by occasional hard times, which they don't really deserve. Why do bad things happen to good people?

I try to tell them that struggle is the known constant. Our lives are full of effort to understand, to cope, hoping to overcome. We struggle for things we believe in, for our truths, our values, for the people and ideas we love, or we struggle to no end, for no palpable reason, to pretend that things are in fact "okay." One way or another, day after day, we push the rock up the hill. I encourage my young charges to find passion, to think about what they believe, to pursue what fascinates them. Struggling for something one believes in, struggling to match our erratic behavior to something resembling our personal values, feels to me more worthwhile, even if I often fail, than struggling for what feels like no good reason.

This is a fine recipe, but the dish is hard to execute. One can blithely turn up the volume on one's own hypocrisy, in front of one or more witnesses, and not see the clarity of one's own delusion. Age does not improve us in this respect. Awareness is a fleeting thing - often appearing only in the rear view mirror, on the embarrassing video tape of memory - in the remonstrations of a close friend, a son, a spouse.

We make coffee and watch the sun rise. We make plans for the day. We think back on what's done, think forward toward what we intend.

Tomorrow, moving day, is all arranged. Mom's current care givers have cut her hair stylishly short and will dress her neatly. Hospice has given me the name of a service which specializes in the smooth transport of the elderly in wheelchairs. Mom's next care givers, specialized in the "next level" of her need, await her arrival. They are prepared to get to know her, to find the spark of preference and desire left between her befuddled and tortured neurons and to make her comfortable.

All I want is a room somewhere
Far away from the cold night air
With one enormous chair . . . .

Peace.

The picture of baseball fireworks is not a commentary on 9/11. We've certainly had a lot of fireworks since, but not for such pure enjoyment.

This time 9 years ago I was driving to work listening to very bad things unfolding on the radio, unfolding in the world. This date 9 years ago was a seminal event in that a part of the world from which we thought we were safe inflicted its hatred on us right where we live, terrorizing innocent people, ending their lives, giving our leaders alleged license to commit young men and women to two wars, the benefits of which are at best dubious. I would suspect we have also collected our debt in innocent bystanders in other countries. One man's collateral damage is another man's family, after all.

It doesn't strike me that we've learned very much from all this. A yahoo minister with a wild west mustache and a congregation made up of his own cousins is getting an enormous amount of attention for threatening to burn someone else's holy book. He says Islam is an evil religion. Anyone with the memory of a gnat can recall Christians burning books and records. How many people have been murdered and oppressed in the name of Jesus? Ask the victims of the Spanish Inquisition. Ask Galileo! Ask gay and lesbian couples asking to form families and support each other within the framework of marriage.

Today I'm going to go about my business thankful that my life is not interrupted by the expression of someone else's hate.

Waubeek

Robyn and I took a young colleague of hers kayaking on the Wapsipinicon Sunday. I started out in a mood, but the flow of the river soon wrung it out of me. We put in in Central City and paddled to Waubeek. Closer to Waubeek, the banks of the river rose and formed old mossy bluffs. Tiny flying bugs danced in the air and the breeze died down, leaving the surface of the river smooth. Robyn's friend was a little chatty and missed the hint that if you're quiet you see more wildlife. He's a pleasant young man, though, and when he and Robyn talked "shop" I paddled ahead a little.

We saw a small gray heron and a great blue one and just as I thought we wouldn't, we saw two mature bald eagles rise from the trees downstream and fly directly over us. We almost always see an eagle or two on Iowa rivers in the summer. It's too early for the Alaska eagles to winter here, but there are always some homebodies living in the river valleys.

We pulled into Waubeek about five o'clock, after about a two hour paddle, and got out of our boats without incident. Faithful friends and readers who have joined me kayaking know that nothing displays my innate grace quite so well as the task of unwrapping myself from the cockpit of a kayak. I was not very coordinated before my back injury and now I'm even less bendable. I'm actually very comfortable while in the boat, but this business of straightening and balancing on the way out is dicey. I was recently assisted -- nay rescued -- by a decidedly middle aged lady who said "oh honey, do you need help?!"

Robyn and I convinced our young charge that stopping at the bar in Waubeek is part of the ritual. It's an ancient stone mill which years ago was converted into a fine old tavern. There's no zoning out in the counties and the bar certainly testifies to that. It has a huge deck overlooking the river and is built of massive sandstone blocks. Inside, it's cool and dark and there are big Gothic stone windows to look out of.

Two women were behind the bar and a handful of decidedly soused regulars were hanging around. One gentleman in camouflage explained helpfully "I'm piss-hammered." A handsome silver bearded man named Jack sat at a table nearby. He was playing Texas hold
-'em with a chubby 9 year old boy sporting a grown-out Mohawk, and also wearing camouflage. One of the women behind the bar was seated and slurring her speech. The other woman waited on us. Robyn ordered a Bloody Mary.

"Bloody Mary!" the slurring woman announced, "Who orders a Bloody Mary at five in the afternoon?" The other woman began building the drink.

"I don't work here but I'm helping out . . . " the woman explained. "She's drunk. . . says it's 'fun-day Monday.'"

"You're a good friend," I said.

"She's my sister." Robyn and Austin (young protege) went to get the car in Central City and I stayed for a shot and beer. The young woman had a shot with me. "I'm going to clean up here and then wake her up. She's lying down in the kitchen." I looked and the slurring woman was indeed gone from her seat at the end of the bar.

"Grandpa cheats!" the boy announced. "I saw him looking at the cards. He looked and saw an ace and put it back!" Grandpa wasn't saying much. His face was very red behind his silver beard and his eyes were glassy.

I went out on the deck with my beer and joined the camouflage man and another gentleman at the rail. We talked about repairing an old water heater that someone's grandpa had wired incorrectly. Camo-man cheerfully stumbled into the bar again and I talked to the other fellow about how he'd survived the farm crisis and bought more land and how land prices had increased so much that he was now very successful on 160 acres. He was drunk but coherent and had a good story to tell. After a while a couple girls who looked to be 11 and 13, and seemed to be related to Mohawk boy, came up and interrupted us.

"Dad, Bert says you need to stop Grandpa." She lowered her voice and looked embarrassed. "He's going to try and drive home." We looked over toward the road and the silver bearded man was in a maroon Buick withe motor running.

"Let me finish my story," my companion said. As he finished, the silver bearded man backed the Buick out slowly as some patrons yelled at him. "Jack! No! Goddammit Jack!"

"He's my father-in-law," the man explained. "He's older than I am." The silver haired man, looking ahead in a blurry determined sort of way, put the Buick in drive and rolled away. My companion shrugged. "He's a grown man. I can't tell him what to do."

The sister who was helping out came out to get my companion and go home. I think everyone in the bar was related somehow. Robyn and Austin came back with the cars and I said goodbye.

"I talked that guy's ear off!" I heard my companion say.

We loaded the kayaks on the car. There was a gentle breeze blowing off the river and the sun was lower over the trees. It was one of those end of summer afternoons that lingers and fades into gray light, rich with the smell of warm fields, late flowers and mowed grass.

What if a Polar Bear wrestled an Eel?

My colleague and I were in Chicago for a week long training and decided to celebrate completion by attending a Major League Baseball Game. The Cubs were out of town but there were White Sox tickets available for a song - good ones! I haven't really been able to root for the American League since the adoption of the designated hitter rule - Charley Finley's dark legacy excusing pitchers from the batting lineup - but I decided to risk spontaneous combustion and go along. Besides: I have a new zoom lens and baseball games are a primary reason I was longing for one.

It was a cool, clear late August evening. We rode the El in from our hotel in Rosemont and got to the stadium in time for the Orioles' batting practice. Audra, my colleague, invited a young AmeriCorps alumni from the South Side - a known Sox fan. "You don't grow up on the South Side and root for the Cubs," says Jermaine.

I'm a Cardinals fan, although it's hard to be brave with the Redbirds trailing the hated Reds this late in the season. Most of my baseball experience has involved Cubs/Cardinals matches at Wrigley or Busch. The new US Cellular Field was large, beautiful and, from the seventh row in left field, surprisingly intimate. A little too intimate, as it turned out.

Robyn and I were once invited to go to a Cubs/Cardinal game at Wrigley as part of an event sponsored by my brother-in-law's employer. We all boarded a bus in the morning and rode directly to the game. The price was right and the convenience seemed inarguable, so we signed on. At 8:00 a.m. as we boarded, we noticed that a large majority of the passengers were beginning to drink. By the time we got to Rush Street, the cumulative blood alcohol content on the bus had reached near epidemic proportions. At the game, the serious drinking began.

My friends know I don't mind lying around the shanty and getting a good buzz on. At deserted cabins among close friends I might even drink in the morning ("If you don't start in the morning, how can you drink all day?"). That said, the bus ride home was a little excerpt from one of the inner circles of Hell. Robyn and I sat crouched in our seats as people stumbled around the bus, taking turns vomiting in the small bus bathroom, clogging both the toilet and the sink. People would occasionally try to interact with us, urging us to drink, of course. "What is that? A BOOK?!?" To be fair, my brother in law was also appalled by his co-workers and apologized profusely. I will never ride a bus to a Cubs game again. I suspect Redbirds fans would have been more mature.

Meanwhile, back in the relative present, the Sox game was really good, from a Chicago standpoint. Carl Jackson was pitching 98 miles per hour and the Orioles were batting like schoolgirls (apologies to schoolgirls everywhere!). It was a festival of singles and there was plenty of action on the base paths. Juan Pierre stole his 50th base. Behind us, two Sox fans, young men in the obligatory jerseys, were beginning to show the effects of the suds, their comments delivered in clipped Chicago diction.

"If a polar bear got into a wrestling match with a chimpanzee, who doya think would win!"
"I dunno. Is the bear sober?"
"It wouldn't make any fucking difference, you moron!" the first guy explained. He paused. "Fuckin' sober."
"My money's on the bear." Various combination of animal wrestling matches were discussed and evaluated, punctuated by insults and epithets and occasional pity observations. "You're drunk."

They also evaluated the size and shape of various players.

"Juan Pierre is a fuckin' midget. They say he's five foot fuckin' seven but that first baseman towers over him?"
"Konerko's a lazy son of a bitch. He hasn't had an RBI in months and he sits on his fat ass collecting a salary."
"If that fucking midget Juan Pierre wrestled a chimpanzee, who do you think would win?"

I looked around and blessedly there were no children in immediate earshot. Hope springs eternal, though. The boys' volume was increasing with their blood alcohol content.

"You're drunk."
"I'm a fuckin' extrovert. I say what I think. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."
"I can hold it better'n you, you pussy. This is nothin." It was about the 7th inning stretch when the fan told a story about a Sox/Yankees game just after 9/11. The Yankees were ahead and they were apparently "taking advantage" of the disaster to drum up some cheap sympathy. Offended, our hero tells how he addressed the issue.

"I yelled at 'em that I hoped the fucking building fell on 'em. I let 'em have it, the phony assholes. I gave 'em a piece of my mind before they kicked us out. We were drinking vodka lemonade from that thermos I used to carry to school with my name on it and we were fuckin' lit. When they kicked us out of the game, I puked on the El, remember that?"
"You were drunk."
" . . . had to fuckin' evacuate, and left that fucking thermos behind for evidence."
"You're drunk. You talk too much."
"If you catch the next foul ball in your teeth I'll run out on the fucking field and wrestle that midget Juan Pierre to the fuckin' ground."

I can't really do this dialogue justice, since it ran on - wrestling match ups with animals and baseball players interspersed with profanity and surprisingly revealing stories of old revelries delivered without shame or insight - for the better part of eight innings. It didn't ruin our game. We're adults and we showed up with no kids in tow. For some reason, perhaps divine intervention, there were few kids near us and I'm sure these gentlemen were drowned out for most of the kids by the other fans. Had I spent my hard earned money to take my family to a ball game, I would have been forced to wrestle that guy to the ground like a chimpanzee or perhaps that midget Juan Pierre.

Instead, I listened in amazement, in awe. What must it be like for everyone around you to know more about your soul than you do?

A hint of Fall. . .

I took my camera with me to the Chippewa Flowage but didn't bring the battery charger. This picture documents the edge of our good friend Paul's dock, and perhaps the first hint of autumn.

This has been a week full of highs and lows. On Wednesday I toured three nursing homes on behalf of my mother, who now experiences life second by second and seems to understand it less and less. She must move from her comfortable memory care unit into the final leg of her journey, and a higher level of care.

I remember taking Mom to visit my Aunt Joan, who accomplished her dementia by virtue of the consumption of vodka martinis, at Chatham Oaks, which used to be called the County Home. Mom was in the early stages of her disease and found the visit very sad and difficult. A woman was wandering the halls wringing her hands and pleading "help me, please! Help me!" Mom couldn't abide seeing her like that and pulled a staff person aside and asked her to do something. There was, of course, nothing to do.

The places I visited were only marginally less sad than the County Home. All three seemed well run and the people I met who lived there seemed comfortable. Staff treated them considerately and seemed quite used to this end of other people's lives. In the end I chose a place that was a little quieter, that had a nice room to offer and a quiet room-mate who is "in about the same stage as your mother," the intake director explained.



I have always planned that as Mom's money ran out and her cognition disappeared I would move away from the comparative luxury of the assisted living facilities she nonetheless hated and settle on practical care. There is no reduction in price for this lack of luxury since she requires more staffing and hourly care. There is no fine art and there are no chandeliers in the lobby. We purchase cleanliness, good care, and the absence of the smell of urine, sweat, and the subtle funk of old age left unattended. Mom sleeps wherever she is seated and looks apologetically and confusedly at whoever speaks to her, searching for an answer that comes to her less and less, the end of a sentence begun seemingly eons ago, the identity of a face so familiar and yet infinitely puzzling. I found myself wanting her to have a private room, a little place of her own. What good would that do? She's more likely to be attended to if there's someone else there, if she's out in the common area. The privacy is for me, for who she used to be, for old times.

We're now in a race between Mom's assets and her neurology. Her attorney and I are moving to take advantage of something called a "Miller Trust." This trust is designed for people like my mother with steady income that doesn't cover the cost of nursing care. We put her income and dwindling assets into a trust and make a pact with Medicaid. I think we can protect her life insurance benefits, but I'm not sure. She's "spending down." In the end, I guess we all do, one way or another.

I have been involved as a witness in a trial of a young former youth worker at my former employer who took it upon herself to seduce my 16 year old client who was a resident in her care at the time. This young man initially felt that the incidents in question were his responsibility. I don't know if being a young man, and being offended against by a woman, made his situation worse. All victims start out feeling for their oppression, at least all the victims I've worked with.

This young man was a child witness to horrifying domestic abuse, over and over again. He learned some things about intimate relationships it will take much of his life to unlearn. Our work together centers on how to trust, how to be trustworthy, how to love and be loved. The young woman's need to "fall in love" with her client, to tell him the bad things staff were saying about him during their meetings, to involve him in an attempted cover up of her madness and irresponsibility "proved" to him again that intimacy is inevitably for satisfying the needs of others at one's own expense. It erased the value of his treatment, leaving him as doubtful as he was when he began it.

My client's mother called administrators at the agency. She called the Department of Human Services. She called the Sheriff. They told her that what happened was not a crime, was not child abuse, that the young man was at the age of consent and that there was, regrettably, nothing to be done. She looked up the Iowa Code for herself and found a statute making it illegal for counselors to engage in sexual activity with clients. She copied this statute and sent it to the agency, to DHS, to the Sheriff's office and the County Attorney.

My client was called upon to testify several times. As we worked together and as he gained some distance, he came to see that he needed to face his accuser and tell what happened. To my wonder and amazement he gave a powerful deposition, and appeared as a witness in court, at great emotional cost. The jury found the young woman guilty of "sexual assault by a counselor." She may serve up to a year in jail, may be listed on the sex offender registry, may be on a ten year "special probation." The judge will have some discretion. He also knows that she lied, failed a lie detector test, made a full confession on videotape, and that the videotape evidence was thrown out because she asked to stop and her interrogators insisted she continue.

I know that this mother saw an opportunity, at long last, to defend her son and pursued it. I know that this young man summoned all his courage and faced his abuser and the legal system he has come to hate and fear and gave truthful testimony. I know that now he his making his way from the place of victimization to the place of surviving. I have seen too many young people stumble on this path not to appreciate how miraculous and wonderful this is.

In the paper, and on line, people are speculating about the harshness of the young woman's sentence. The paper reported, falsely, that the young man "initiated" the inappropriate activity. He did not. He initiated the "meeting," wanting to talk about going home. Some on line commentators saw the situation as the enactment of "every boy's adolescent fantasy." Some commented that the young woman wasn't really that attractive. My client and his mother read this stuff. I ask them not to.

At the Jackson Street El stop in Chicago, I saw a busker. We were rushing to a ball game and the people in the crowd were all in a hurry to go some place or another. She was a woman, but it was hard to distinguish her gender. She was neatly dressed and had a violin attached somehow to her neck, a guitar on a strap, some sort of percussion shaker at the end of the guitar's neck, and tap shoes on her feet. The music she made was entirely her own. She bowed the fiddle, strummed the guitar, plucked the fiddle, bowed the guitar, her feet tapping the concrete like castanets. She made an unearthly sound, not jazz, not folk, more performance than interpretation. I went back hurriedly to take her picture.

There in the afternoon bustle in a public place, the busker was making music in her own style, in her own way, and seemed oblivious to the crowd around her. She could have been singing old favorites for the crowd, chasing them with songs they might like, but she wasn't. She stood proudly, making her own strange noise to the counterpoint of crowd and trains.

At the game we met up with an AmeriCorps Member recently graduated from our program. He is from the South Side of Chicago, a Sox fan, and had never been to a game. For 25 dollars we bought him a ticket and we all enjoyed a perfect late summer evening.