Articles by Barbara Garrison

Brenda, victim of violence
The Christmas Story
The Bum and the Nice Guy
Cathy
The Late, Great, Kate
Change a life - change the World
Grandma's Place
Grandma's Cooking
Talk shows
Preparing for truth
The Wake
Jury Duty

Brenda was four when she lost her mother. She was married only eleven years with three small children when she lost her husband. And a 52-year-old grandmother with four beautiful grandchildren when she lost her life.

She was walking to her car after work when three youths approached her. One grabbed her arm, one her new purse (a gift from her son), and the third shot her twice in the chest, killing her. In that second when she saw the gun flash, what was she thinking? I can only imagine based on my experience of a few years prior.

I was at a stoplight when someone crossed in front of my car, and then broke the passenger's window grabbing my purse off the seat next to me. I had only a fraction of a second to react before the boy and my purse would be gone. I remember thinking “Vicki graduates tomorrow and I can't afford to loose everything in my purse.” So I lunged for it as it went out the broken window. After a frantic tug of war atop the rough edges of broken glass I emerged bloody, but victorious.

If I had had time to think, maybe I would not have been so brave. But at that moment even the sight of a gun could not have stopped me. I had no fear because I was too intent on holding onto something very important to me--Vicki's graduation the next day. You see, my daughter, after four difficult years, was graduating the valedictorian of her high school class. With the money in my purse I was going to buy a dozen long-stem roses to present her after a walk across the stage to a standing ovation of her peers.

As foolish as it might sound, some things make dying worth it! It is our final stand against injustice. In the lightening-swift instant that things get decided, those roses and all that they meant, would have been worth it--to me. Knowing my last moment was filled with victory and joy might bring peace to my family otherwise left with only anger and unrelenting anguish.

Perhaps Brenda, in her last second of life also found "something" worth dying for.

Brenda's parents are seeking the death penalty for the young man who killed her. In the last second of his life I wonder if that purse will have been worth it?

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Last year Cathy discovered her daughter was sexually abused by her father, a man Cathy, at 17, ran off with when she discovered she was pregnant. While in high school she had undergone an abortion and decided this time would be different.

The abuse was not discovered until little Sarah was eight, and then only when she confided in a girlfriend what she did with her father. The girlfriend told her mother, who called Cathy. Cathy was stunned and shocked. She and Sarah always had a very open relationship,why didn't Sarah come to her, she wondered? As time passed and more and more of the details were known, Cathy fell deeper and deeper into feelings of guilt and self blame. At 25, with this horrifying discovery, she began to question her ability to sustain healthy male relationships. She sought professional help for her daughter and herself, to try and stop her history of abuse.

After months Cathy began to remember incidents from her own childhood which would indicate she also was a victim of sexual abuse by a male member of her family. Anger surfaced but had nowhere to go, because denial and silence greeted her when she voiced those suspicions. She again sought counseling, now as the possible victim of sexual abuse.

This would appear to be one of those “throw-away” sort of lives. She made almost all of the mistakes a young girl and mother can make. Cathy calls me every now and then to check out something she's been thinking. I always listen very carefully because this young woman, only half my age is one of the most inspiring people I have ever known.

Sometimes we can avoid serious mistakes like unwed pregnancies, abortions, abusive situations of all kinds but, sometimes, we just can't. For a variety of reasons (usually residing in our subconscious) our lives can become almost unmanageable, and shameful to even us. Then what? Cathy decided to fight back. She talked to people who were living the way she wanted to live; she asked questions that had uncomfortable answers...then took it all to heart and tested it out. Cathy learned from her mistakes.

She is married now to a wonderful man and is the mother of three fortunate children who have not only an understanding mother but also a worldly-wise guide through future storms. Cathy discovered how hard and cruel life can be but she survived it. No, more than survived, she transformed it. She triumphed over evil in all its many shapes and forms and now lives in humility and gratitude amongst the rest of us sinners who may have no idea what holy really means.

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When I finally look up at the light and realize it had been green and I am the first car at the light and no one honked or yelled anything at me, I say to myself “thank you, kind and patient folks, I'll do better next time,”and the world feels like a fine place to live.

When the check-out person tells her the amount and only then does she begin fishing in her purse for her wallet and then in her wallet for her money, I want to say “Lady, is this your first time shopping?” but I don't. Instead I try to imagine what her day or her life might be like, and think about a favorite soothing song. This way her day (and maybe her world) is a better place. I know mine is.

When we went for breakfast we chose a booth off in the corner and up three steps. The sun coming through the windows felt warm and wonderful. The waitress was cheerful in taking our order and efficient in filling our cups three or four times. We had a wonderful talk and made fun plans for the rest of the day. When we left we thanked her for climbing those steps so many times, and told her how much we enjoyed our breakfast because of her. Her face was beaming. Now there were three of us who would definitely have a better day. Taking the extra step, making a concerted effort for someone else pays off and is contagious.

When the day is messy and wet and puddles are forming curbside I make sure I don't drive in the outer lane when there are people on the sidewalks, especially when they are gathered waiting for a bus and I am in a nice warm dry car. As I whiz by they don't realize I have been thinking and caring about them, but I do and my day starts off in the right direction and their day is not ruined by my thoughtlessness. For a while, all of our lives are just a little easier to live and less likely to be distracted from the purpose of that day.

The chemistry of life is simple and within reach - just a thought, word, or deed in the right direction will do it. Is it possible for one person to change the world? Maybe not right away today, but then again who knows? It certainly can't hurt and it's worth trying. Change a Life - Change the World.

Was there anyone who changed your life without them even knowing it? What did they do?

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While this is a story about Christmas, and children, it bears telling at any time.

“It was so eerie. I stood in the aisle of the toy store, Christmas music filling the air. Without warning, pain grabbed me from the inside, down low. I bent over my cart which was half-filled with toys, wondering if I was going to pass out. After a moment I felt something warm moving down the inside of my legs. The baby! Overwhelmed by nausea and the sudden heat within my limbs, I felt the need to get to my car where I would be safe from horrified eyes and voices.

“I left my cart in the aisle and walked slowly out of the store, weighed down not with the expected purchases but with sadness and pain and confusion. Is this how it happens? Life all mixed in with death...and piped in music? Excited voices making plans for the future, and the sound of cash registers ringing up sale after sale after sale - life going on - but only for some.

“As I passed people on the way to my car I wanted to say something to someone, but I could not find the right words for what was happening. And, besides, Christmas music was filling the air and I didn't think anyone wanted to hear about a baby who would not be born this or any other year.”

The woman was my daughter; the baby, my never-to-be-known grandchild who was and will forever be part of this family. Family life begins long before there is something for us to see and touch and hear.

Some fortunate lives end after long and prosperous years, surrounded by family. Some lives end tragically as victims - of crime, damaged minds, or violent acts of nature. But some lives just slip away, unnoticed except for the bodies that cradle them and feel their pain. So it was for this child of ours - unborn, but always to be cherished and remembered.

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My daughter Deborah and her family (husband Scott, children Meagan, age 2, and Amanda, age 1) recently stayed with us for three months while Scott, just out of the Air Force, looked for a job.

I would come up from my basement office to find them all sitting at the kitchen table. The moment the door opened the kids would instantly stop whatever they were doing and Meagan would chirp something like“Grandma give me pop?” Amanda, too young to formulate sentences, would just pick up on her sister's main idea and chant,“Pop, Pop, Pop!”

“Well, Mother, you've certainly made yourself popular with your grandchildren!”

“Yes, it seems I have! This business of being a grandmother is definitely more fun than being a mother ever was.”

As a mother I felt the need to teach limits, instill values, introduce self-discipline, keep these little lives healthy and growing strong-all things not easily accomplished. I did my best for as long as they were living at home, then dropped the reigns and watched the direction they chose for themselves. Being well pleased with Deborah, both as an individual and now as a mother, I felt free to indulge myself in the joys of being a grandmother.

“Grandma give me pop?” Yes, dear Meagan and Amanda, Grandma will give you pop; and crayons to scribble with; and my bedroom to sleep in; and my time, as much as you need of it; and whatever else will bring you no harm. I will give these to you because children need a “place” where their wishes are granted-where they are cherished for simply being alive. It is in such a place they learn to feel life is worth the living, and can gather the courage to try without a paralyzing fear of rejection or failure. That “place” is a Grandmother's heart.

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My grandmother was a good cook. The cooking part was just a matter of having the right ingredients, a knowledge of how things work in the kitchen, and the time/desire to put these two elements together. Being “good” at it, however, required something that came from deep within and could not be taught with words.

Grandma cared. She cared enough to take a long bus ride every Saturday to Dinkles Bakery on Lincoln Avenue for her two strudels-one poppy and one nut-then on to the dime store up the street (that had a deli section) for thin-sliced boiled ham and freshly-baked rolls. She had a certain store for every item.

The neighborhood poultry market is where she bought her fresh chicken (wrapped round and round in white paper and still warm) with eight feet (which, according to Grandma, made the soup extra good) and a bunch of baby eggs we children would count as she cradled them in her hand.

I watched her bake bread every other day, with the smell of yeast in the air coming from the little stainless steel pot she would stir with her index finger, then taste and give a nod of approval. Yes, I watched it all, there by her side, fascinated with the rituals that never changed. Every time was exactly the same, yet every time felt brand new and exciting.

Grandma loved taking care of her family. When her children were small, their white shoes were always polished; their clothes spotless and ironed without a crease; their sandwiches made so nothing hung off the edges of the bread. These were not chores to her; they were acts of love performed day after day, year after year, without fuss, without fail.

I recently gathered all of Grandma's recipes into a book so at least they will never be lost to us. They were fun to collect, but the real joy came from being around her table once more- even if only in reverie. She made sure her family always had a place to gather, to be nourished, and to celebrate life together.

Grandma is gone now, but her spirit lives on as we remember each time we come to the table how simple, and permanent, and holy was her offering. Yes, Grandma was a very good cook.

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Occasionally I will flip on a TV talk show. Within a few short minutes (and 12 commercials) I turn it off and try to convince myself life is really not like that.

Why would people want to know in detail about someone who was a man...and is now a woman...a lesbian woman. While I can understand this individual's struggle to find inner peace and happiness, how could listening to an hour of this story (make that 35 minutes minus commercials and promos) do anything to improve my life?

There's not much I can learn from these TV talk shows (even the ones that are more representative of my own search) because the panel of people on stage are usually sitting forward in their seats yelling angry words at one another and the people in the audience, foolish enough to say something, say things like: “The guy on the end with the red shirt (pointing a finger and squinting down it as if it were a gun site), I think you are immature and should have more respect for your mother...or girlfriend, or German shepherd” whatever is that day's topic. The audience applauds, the guest lunges forward yelling and sputtering, and the host poses another question to be answered “when we come back from the next break.”

When we return however, the panel now includes an “authority” on the program's theme (and usually the author of a recent book on that topic). On the last show I watched, the authority got right in there with the guests, and began yelling and sputtering. It was actually kind of frightening. I wanted to laugh but instead looked around in my uneasiness hoping no one had walked in the room and saw me watching this.

For those who contend these shows are educational I would agree. I have learned that:

1. No matter what anyone told you, there really ARE dumb questions!!!!

2. People who confess something for the first time on national TV are not “open” or “brave” but more likely stupid, insensitive, and lack propriety. They should not be applauded but encouraged to see a good therapist (not the one sitting next to them on the panel encouraging them to face their spouse and tell them what they have been afraid to say in the privacy of their home for the past 20 years).

3. Talk show hosts who claim to be helping those who have suffered in silence all too long, are deluding themselves. Five-second television healings are worthless and sometimes more harmful than keeping your pain to yourself until someone who really cares comes along.

4. The only one really benefiting from these shows are the sponsors, the trying-to-get-famous show host, and those guests who get an opportunity of a lifetime to stick things in our ears and faces that make them feel a whole lot better.... like anger, revenge, and sad, disgusting lives that haven't been approved by the general population...and shouldn't be.

“Mothers who pose nude with their daughters” is not something I think we, as a nation, should applaud and encourage, even if we all agree that bodies are beautiful and nothing to be ashamed of. Some damaged minds watch beautiful bodies and commit horrifying and unnatural acts on other beautiful bodies...sometimes belonging to small children or women on their way home from work late at night.

Every now and then there might be a guest who is truly sincere in their effort to find help; or perhaps have been brought to the show by a partner who is “setting them up.” This person genuinely will stir compassion within me. And every now and then there is a person on the panel or in the audience who says something truly wise and helpful. But, as a rule, I cannot understand what possible benefit these shows provide. If anything they glorify and encourage differences that are at times bizarre or even evil. One guest, spewing forth hate, filth, and death threats died the next day of a drug overdose. He had a “following”, some of them on the show...and some of them joining the fold after witnessing, on that show, the most abominable acts and gestures I have ever seen, and thinking them “cool.” (And we worry about “second-hand smoke?!”)

It scares me to think this talk show population may be a microcosm of the world we live in: lots of angry and/or ignorant people; a few troubled and misguided individuals; an attractive and charismatic leader; some tycoon getting very, very rich; and me, sitting in the dark, trying to figure out the meaning of life in between all those commercials selling me stuff so I won't offend them!

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I saw him outside Osco, a large retail store on the corner of Foster and Lincoln. He was obviously a bum-dirty clothes, hair messed, unshaven for days possibly weeks. From opposite directions we passed what appeared to be a quart beer bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. He nodded his head from side to side indicating what seemed to be disapproval-of what I was not certain, maybe littering?

When I first spotted him I fully expected to be approached for money. I was surprised and relieved when all we shared was a glance in the direction of the brown-bagged bottle. I was on my way to breakfast and did not feel like digging through either my purse or my psyche to get past this bum.

The waitress took my order (the $1.25 special 3 eggs, hash browns, and toast). I pulled out my book and got set for a relaxing hour in air conditioned comfort.

My breakfast came. I had just begun to eat when in walked the bum and another guy. They sat at the table next to mine. I continued to read but only to disguise my eavesdropping.

“Hey, man, you're really great.”

Without looking over I knew this was obviously the bum's opening line. The waitress came over and the order was placed.

"A decaf for me. My friend here will have the breakfast special." Hmmm, the guy is not only nice he must also be a mind reader.

Having a fix on the voices now, I didn't have to look over but did. The bum looked the same as he did five minutes ago. The nice guy was a portly man of about 60 with grey hair and moustache, blue shirt, and a gold watch. That's all I had time to take note of in my brief sideways glance.

I had my notebook on the table and a pencil in my hand. As I “read” my book I took notes on the conversation taking place next to me. The bum was Mike; the nice guy, Eric. Eric began to inquire into the life and hard times of Mike-the-Bum.

“So where are you staying?”

Pause. Long, long pause. I was growing impatient and about to answer for him.

“Oh, here and there.”

That is just about what I would have said.

“I know of a mission where you could stay.”

Hmmmm, I wondered if he was going to recommend something like San Juan Capistrano. The bum was silent but reached for, and emptied, his glass of water. I could hear his quenched sigh and the ice tinkle in the glass.

“Man I was thirsty.”

An obvious diversionary tactic to avoid Eric-the-Nices' `mission' offer. Finally he spoke up: “Man, that's real nice of you, but I don't know. Are you going to drink your water?”

Deflected again. He was definitely a professional.

The waitress brought Mike-the-Bum his breakfast, and Eric-the-Nice spoke up again: “More water for my friend, please.”

She left to get the water. Eric's questions now shifted to the Bum's family: “Where are they?”

“I have a daughter I've never seen.”

My pencil hovered over the paper; this should be good.

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-six.”

The Eric-the-Nice fell silent. I don't think he was expecting that answer. Neither was I.

“...she's in South Carolina.”

Whoa...between a 26-year-old-never-seen daughter in South Carolina and the Breakfast Special is a pretty wide gap!

Suddenly the bum segued: “Man, eating is a real job for me. I have no appetite since I lost my sense of taste and smell.”

“Well, you really should eat. It's good for you.”

Nice going, Eric. Nutritional information is important to a bum who probably gets his 3 squares out of a fast-food dumpster.

Mike-the-Bum went on: “I had tickets for a World Series game once but I went into a bar across the street and when I came out my girlfriend got hit by a car.”

I almost laughed out loud. I stopped taking notes and just relaxed into what I thought would be a wonderful story.

The conversation continued with Eric-the-Nice, using the most sincere and affirming tone he could muster up and Mike-the-Bum alternately discussing this breakfast before him and the terrible accident that left him smell-and-tasteless which, I would think to be a blessing and not a curse when you are in the `Bum' business.

At that point Eric-the-Nice suddenly remembered “Hey, Mike, I've got groceries that are probably going bad in the car so I'm going to pay the bill, you stick around and finish your breakfast.”

The bum seeing Eric-the-Nice reach into his pocket for money panicked at the thought of losing his breakfast companion and blurted out “Say, do you have 42¢ on you?”

I heard the coins jingling, and saw the bum's hand extend to receive the money.

Eric-the-Nice then got more specific: “I've got ice cream in the car and it's probably melted by now.” In the 98° heat I'd say he was probably right, and either making up the whole thing to facilitate his escape or pretty stupid to let something like that happen.

Suddenly Mr. Bum began to care about Mr. Nice. “What kind of ice cream is it?”

“Spumoni.”

With that the bum began to laugh hysterically. I have no idea what was so funny, and Eric was not laughing.

Eric took the time to explain what Spumoni ice cream was. Mike was not particularly impressed but it did stop him from laughing.

After a warm and sincere handshake they parted. Eric walked to the counter and paid the bill. Mike sat looking at the breakfast he didn't smell or taste or want. Final eye contact was made, then a nod separated the two. That left only Mike and me in the restaurant.

I weighed the situation, then spoke: “Hey man, too bad, huh?” He looked in my direction. I went on: “All you wanted was 42¢ and now you've got all that food in front of you.”

“Yah. I've got no appetite. Can't smell or taste anything since I went through that windshield.”

I wondered in which direction that might have been. He then told me about the date he had that night; and added “I used to have a job.”

I said “You still do, you just made 42¢.”

He turned in his seat to face me (or perhaps check if I had water in my glass) and began his heart-warming story about all the people who had been kind to him throughout his sad life. Being kind to this guy could mean anything from getting hit by a car to having your Spumoni melt so I decided to part company while I was still ahead.

Before I left, however, I asked him how this breakfast date got set up. “What did you say to that guy?” is how I phrased the question.

“I asked him for some money for a hot dog. He was going to take me across the street but then spotted this place and said he'd buy me a breakfast instead.”

Think about all the bums in the world who only want 42¢ but wind up with hot dogs, breakfasts, cups of coffee, or whatever else they foolishly ask for en route to the 42¢. I have a lot of respect for bums, they are hard-working people making their living doing a job I would not want to do - begging. It might be better, however, if they would only ask for money, just a plain old “could you give me 42¢” period! This way they wouldn't have to face three breakfasts an hour to make $1.26.

The people I feel sorry for, however, are the “Nice Guys” who let their ice cream go bad because they think they are either feeding the hungry or teaching them a lesson.

I give money to some folks and not to others, but there are no rules dictating the decision. It's purely how I feel that particular moment. I will never, however, buy or give anyone food, even if that's what they are asking for. That is a waste of both precious food, and a working bum's time.

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I met Harry when I worked in a small print shop. He was an inventor (still going strong at 75) who brought in posters to be printed...and was, to me, a genuine genius. In the year that followed, Harry and I became friends.

Many years ago, Harry's wife, Katherine, had died suddenly of cancer. They had no children, by choice, and had lived a very exciting, adventurous life together. Within a short 10 day's time, Kate was diagnosed, hospitalized and died.

Harry was devastated and, seeking sanctuary, moved into the entire fourth floor of a warehouse in the industrial section of the city. Because he grew to trust me, when I asked if I could visit him, Harry consented. He informed us that my husband, Mike, and I were the first people to ever see his home.

We went up in the freight elevator and through a maze to his front door - the thick metal kind that seals off a bank vault. He dialed the combination, turned the wheel, and pulled the door open. I walked into the most incredible experience of my life.

The entire fourth floor of this huge warehouse was filled with Harry's memories of Kate. There were different “rooms” created by Harry's ingenuity. One was made of slices of tree trunk, another a “closet” of hanging bamboo poles. Covering the huge walls were murals, paintings, collages - all larger than I have ever seen, of Kate. Standing on huge easels all around the room were photos of her, enlarged beyond what seemed possible. Amongst all this were artifacts he had designed to commemorate her life.

In honor of our visit, Harry had gone to the fishery next door and picked up a bag of fish chips for dinner. There was no table or chairs to speak of, so we walked through the beaded doorway into the bedroom. Harry pushed a wooden chest near the foot of the bed and motioned for Mike and I to sit down. A crate moved around to the side was his chair. The corner of the bed now became our “table” on which he spread napkins and served the fish and barbecue sauce.

Behind us was Kate's dressing table, complete with powder and makeup that looked as if she had just finished using it in preparation for our visit. Her hats, gloves and miscellaneous items of apparel were neatly placed or hanging all around the room.

Mike and Harry were engaged in lively conversation while I let my eyes wander up the bed. There she was, resting quite comfortably in her urn on a pillow just three feet away. I “told” her how lovely her things were, thanked her for the hospitality, then finished my dinner. The evening over, I held tightly to Mike's warm, strong hand as Harry walked us to our car.

Think what you will about Harry and his undying love for Katherine. I look back on it as one of the greatest honors of my life - being the trusted friends, and very first dinner guests of Harry and his late, great, Kate.

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The following article appeared as part of a bi-weekly column I was writing for a Catholic newspaper. The week following the article a woman wrote in:

“....The final paragraph is so shockingly angry that I cannot understand how an editor would have let this go. This woman is glad to see that her children are crippled with anger and rage because it vindicates her unresolved pain from her childhood? Surely this is every parents' horror: to revisit upon one's children the pain of the past, even if it is a different variety of pain. I simply cannot understand how this piece got into the newspaper, and I surely hope we will not see its like again. I feel you owe your readers an explanation and/or an apology for this embarrassingly inappropriate diatribe.” Alice (xxxxx) Wilmette.

That was the last column I wrote for this paper because I felt the editor chose the incendiary route, pitting Alice and I against one another for the sake of reader interest in order to sell papers/make money. That's the job of an editor....but I believe the editor of a Catholic publication should set examples not merely sell papers.

Had I been given the opportunity to respond immediately following her letter, the good that was there, both in my initial entry and in her concern for the children, could have blended and been an example of “blessed” peacemaking instead of Holy War!

I believe Alice reacted because of the way the article was written. In re-reading it I could see why she was so horrified. Because of a faulty pattern of communication in my family, confusion and subsequent anger was brought about by well-meaning people who were simply doing their best. Erasing the damage within myself was not always possible, but making sure I did not perpetuate the harmful practice in the raising of my children was. So in eradicating one problem I perhaps created another.... but one I truly believed to be of lesser magnitude. The children, now adults and parents, are no longer angry but rather appreciate their unique gift: being honest with one's self and then with others.

In writing a weekly column I had to shift my focus from detailed explanations and descriptive language to a prescribed number of words and brevity of thought. I learned that what gets boiled out is as important as what is left in. Being new at writing a column I erred seriously on this one. The article appears as it was printed in the paper.

---

Truth by Barbara Ritter Garrison

My family wasn't big on the truth. They preferred little white lies to “spare your feelings.” Their way of telling you something was to make a joke and then, when you were visibly shaken or shocked, they would immediately follow up with “just kidding!” If those two words didn't take care of the damage, they would further assault you because you couldn't take a joke. It was no place for someone who was the least bit sensitive.

It wasn't just others they lied to, though. They would tell themselves they didn't care which movie they saw, restaurant they ate in, etc. then resent, with a passion, people who always got their way. As a child, I was caught in this web of confusion and contradiction.

When I had my own little family, I determined there would be no hiding from reality or speaking in code and backward logic. I told my children how emotions worked and refused to shield them from painful truths. “Be honest with yourself and then present that honesty to the world!” I uncovered every possible lie, even those needed to shield their hearts from the cruelty of others, and shoved them face forward into the Truth! There was no place for them to hide from their fears and uncertainties; no rest from the constant search; no relaxing the rules; no joy that could last too long; only the clawing at every surface to uncover that which was “true.”

I was unrelenting in my determination to raise the finest examples of truth possible. And when they grew in wisdom and courage they spoke their truth: “We hate you for what you did to us. We didn't have to live with so much pain; you could have made life easier for us but you wouldn't. You wanted us to struggle in order to grow strong, but instead of becoming strong we are now crippled with anger and rage.”

If I had it to do over again, I would do it the same, because their bitter truth hurt me far less than the lies and jokes of my past. And the Truth has set them free.

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The crowd gathered around her. “Anyone know who she is? ” “Is there any identification?” “Nothing but this bag. Maybe there's something in it but I sure don't want to go through it.” “Here, give it to me.”

“There's nothing here but some clothes and a notebook.” “What's in the notebook?” “It looks empty. Wait, there's something written towards the back.”

Thank you for being here. You are present at the wake of a stranger who has now become part of your life. Grieve for me please. Do not look away or turn your hearts elsewhere for I need your good wishes to take with me.

What are you thinking as you stand looking down upon me? Do you see only the wear in my clothes, the unevenness of my hair, the holes in my shoes? What feeling has come over you? The desire to run away or to bend down and touch me, bless me?

You are standing before the Mystery. These words are a bridge from my life to yours-and back again should you choose to give part of yourself to me.

The words were read aloud, then the book was shut and put with the rest of her things-in a bigger bag going to the morgue. The crowd left.

“Honey, I'm home.”

“Did you remember the milk?”

“Oh, no, I completely forgot I got so distracted with....”

“You what? I specifically asked you right before we hung up to get milk because I don't have a drop in the house.”

“I'll go now.”

“I've been stuck here all day with these kids, now you walk in and are going to walk out again.”

“It'll just take 10 minutes. . . is there anything else you need while I'm out.”

“What I need you won't find in that store!”

He closes the door gently behind him and is back out in the crisp night air. He fills his lungs to the brim then exhales the frustration and sadness of life. Alone, he searches the dark winter sky for traces of Spring and finds instead a star twinkling off in the distance filling him with peace.

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Yes, I got my almost-annual notice that I was to do my civic duty: Jury Service. I have received this kind of notice at least 5 times now and each time I never made it past the Juror's Lounge where you sit until your "panel" is called. Oh, wait now, the last time I think my panel number was called and I got into the hall and waited 10 minutes .... and then they dismissed us. Wow, what power there is in playing "chicken" in the judicial process. A plaintiff will wait and see just how far a defendant is willing to go to prove their innocence. When a trial is inevitable (meaning the panel is standing in the hall) ..... they fold and settle out of court.

All that power, and still we only get $17.50.... $15 for showing up and $2.50 for transportation. Even if I walked that wouldn't have covered the cost of resoling my shoes. And the $15 I guess is for the money you need to spend in the vending machines and for lunch (not to mention phone calls to the world outside the Jurors' Lounge).

I love the experience though..... perfect for a "thinker" and especially perfect for a scientist of human nature. From the minute you enter the building (the Daley Center in this instance) you are surrounded with people from both ends of the spectrum.... the high-powered officials of the land, and the homeless...also of the land.

But let me begin even before that..... the jury notice itself. There is a little box on the summons that, if checked, indicates you are a Standby Juror (and I think everyone has that box checked!). The instructions, however, are that if this box is checked you are to call the number they give you after 4 p.m. the day before and find out if you are needed the next day. I was wondering how they handled the selection but remember each time I make that call that it is quite simple..... by alphabet. A recorded message this time said that if your last name begins with the letter A through K you are to show up as indicated on your summons. It grabs you at first when you are in that group.... but the impact might be even greater if your last name began with K or L ... either a kick in the gut or great relief.

So I took the "kick" and rode the CTA downtown to the Daley Center. I love riding the CTA because it is totally free of any responsibility except knowing the right change and which direction to walk in when the el stops. Almost everyone on the CTA is there every day of the week and knows exactly where they are going next.... and go through the motions without even thinking (about the person who is trying to figure out which side the doors will be opening on, and once exited which direction the stairs are in. I took a few bumps on the back from people who did not expect anyone to hesitate for even a second. The crowd moves as a unit. The second day of Jury Duty I at least avoided some of this confusion and jostling of the universal energies of morning rush hour. But I'm getting ahead of myself here.

Now I'm in the lobby of the Daley Center trying to figure out which way to go to prevent all the armed officials from throwing a net over me, or pulling their gun and yelling "Halt!" So I began walking toward the metal detectors because I knew that could only be viewed as a willingness to participate. Someone, however, still yelled "Halt" or something like that. I didn't understand so I said (with a big friendly smile) "What?" He repeated it again never getting up from his high stool. He was a short, fat, and old man in a uniform who probably said that same line so often it became one long word that I could not decipher, even after the third time. Do I dare ask him to repeat it again? Do I walk toward him to try and get a different "hearing" of the word or will that be the action that brings the gun out of the holster and sends me running like a guilty person out into the street with a round of gunfire behind me. Yes, all this goes through my head probably from seeing too many shoot-em-up movies. Or else it's just my keen sense of the danger present when you are dressed a bit too casual in a place where Suits Reign.

The building itself is filled with carpeted offices and high-ceiling chambers but the lobby has nifty lunchtime entertainment (a wonderful high school jazz ensemble the first day, and a high school orchestra the second). The bag people are daily attendees and probably have a better music education and experience than people with season tickets to Ravinia. And below the lobby, the building, the street outside, is an entire neon civilization. Restaurant after restaurant, some of which are more like booths at a carnival or Fest, are lit with neon signs of different sizes and colors all attempting to get your attention and patronage. I wanted to drop breadcrumbs all along the way but knew that they would be immediately gobbled up by people carrying those metal pans that act like packmans when the efficient little broom spots a piece of something or other on the carpet. So I tried to memorize the route I was taking until I got too nervous about not being back into court at the designated time set by the Judge. But again I am ahead of myself here.

Okay, where was I? Ah yes, in the lobby with the guard trying to tell me something. My notice said to be in room 1603 (or something like that) by 9:00 with my jury summons filled out on the back and no radios, cell phones, computers, etc. with me. So far I was in no danger of doing something "wrong"..... so I could not imagine why this short, fat, uniformed man on the stool seemed to be getting upset with me. I tried to figure out for myself what he was telling me a little louder but never more clearly each time he responded to my "excuse me?" question. I saw all these people in uniform at their stations around the lobby and clustered around these metal detectors. I also saw a few people sitting on the benches around the perimeter of the lobby..... but only on one side of the building. Aha, the side I am supposed to be on until someone says "okay now" or motions to me that I can move or until I see the people get off the benches and head toward these metal detectors. My keen thinking saved my life I bet. I went back to the entrance and sat on a bench along with the rest of the people.

One of the bench people was a woman who was eating something beige and rectangular out of a bag. She was very well dressed so I knew she wasn't a bag lady, but I couldn't figure out what she was doing there since she didn't have one of those cards which admitted everyone not sitting on a bench into an entrance with no metal detectors; just a big guard also with guns (and an Egg McMuffin) sitting at a desk with a gooey napkin in front of him.

As is my continual dread in life the woman began to talk to me and tell me who she was, why she was there, where her husband is, how she got there today..... everything but what I mostly wanted to know, what she was eating from that bag. Trying not to appear a bag person myself by asking her what she was eating I simply nodded and made comments at the appropriate times. She was also there for Jury Service, but having that thing to eat kept her on the bench until 8:00 and spared her the embarrassment I had just gone through. So within 10 minutes I had made a "friend"who followed me through the metal detectors and in search of an elevator that would go to the 16th floor. Yap yap yap yap...... who cares! But I did not try to outrun her to escape what could have been a nightmare kind of day for me. Instead, when the elevator opened and we spilled out into the 16th floor I headed for the bathroom and hoped she had better kidneys than I did. When I came out I saw her sitting next to a woman on one of the benches they provide for people who are waiting for something or other. I kept walking back and forth, partly because I was nervous, and partly to avoid another "friend" in the crowd. Karma struck my "friend" but I think it was good Karma because she and another women seemed immersed in animated happy conversation. I walked in back of them to check it out. It appears they were both special ed teachers of the same age children with the same special needs who had found one another on the "bench of great coincidence." A nice little turn of events for what was beginning to look like a nasty morning. The wonderful part of them finding one another in this enchanted way was that they provided me with entertainment for the first two hours of sitting in the jurors' lounge (from which you are not allowed exit for any reason). But before that I must give you a little piece of information should you ever find yourself in the position I am about to describe.

At 8:30 an officer of the court (again with guns) asked us to line up in twos with our summons filled out and in our hands. The woman in front of me was all hyped about the hassle she had this morning getting here, and all the problems she encountered in just getting the time off of work blah blah blah. She, of course, did not have the back of her summons filled out as instructed and just now noticed the little box that said she was a standby juror who should have called the night before to make sure she needed to be here-in front of me, in the line that was moving slowly toward the entrance to the jurors' lounge. Since she was talking "forward" the man in front of her asked what letter her last name began with, and then informed her she had her bad morning for nothing. I immediately perked up. Hmmm, how would I have handled this situation? I would have left the line and gone home and killed myself. This woman, however, continued forward with the rest of us and decided to plead her own case to the two people behind the juror registration desk. Since she was in front of me I heard her begin with "I didn't call last night and just found out that......"

The Registration Clerk turned her summons over and instructed her to fill it out and then return to the desk. From this I deduced that the rules are only there to scare people like me in an effort to get a large enough "pool" of people there to handle the day's business. Okay, now onto the Juror Lounge Proper. To the right and the left of this registration desk are rows of seats that resemble a movie theater only not inclined. I took a front row seat just in case. Just in case of what I don't know, but I felt better sitting there. When all the preliminary work of registering each person and giving them a panel number that ranged from 1 to twenty something was done the head of the Jury Selection Department. a short stocky fake blond in very high heels and a lot of jewelry, gave us a little thank you pep talk and said we would now be seeing a wonderful new movie on the overhead TV/VCR about Jury Duty that they were very proud of. After the movie we were allowed to get up and move around but only within this huge room that had everything we could possibly need to live AND work. Anyone wanting to do work could sit at one of the 8 or so beautiful heavy-duty wooden rectangular tables for 10 with sturdy hard chairs.

Okay now here's where the entertainment factor comes in. One of these special ed teachers had done just that, brought her "work" with her. Green construction paper on which she needed to trace the outline of giant shamrocks apparently for St. Patrick's Day, then cut them out and draw on them with magic marker. It was a sight to behold, these two teachers so happy and chatty, tracing, cutting out, and enhancing these giant shamrocks.... one after the other, never tiring of the activity or the conversation. I was just very glad I was not on trial that particular day. I don't think these two women could possibly understand my life as it sat there in the first row "just in case."

Panel after panel was called out, and some of them stayed out but some of them returned. By 11:30 I figured it would be like last time when they dismissed us for lunch from 12 until 1:30 and then after lunch I got called, stood in the hall for 10 minutes, and was sent home big check in hand.

Nope, at 11:45 Panel 10 was called and we "gathered up all our things and took them with us because we were going to court." Be still my heart, it's finally time. Be still my stomach also because by this time I was starving....but fortunately so was everyone else and so the rumblings were heard throughout Judge Daniel O'Brien's Courtroom and not just in the seat (in the first row, of course) where I was sitting.

Judge O'Brien entered the room (stand please) sat (you can sit now) then gave all of us (probably 40 or so) a overview of our job, his job, the lawyers positions, what kind of law we will be dealing with in this courtroom, and a few vague particulars about the case. He also said the case shouldn't take long. He then introduced the plantiffs (a man and a woman who were not present yet for some reason) and their lawyer and asked if we knew, or recognized any of these people or had any knowledge of this lawyer or the law firm representing them. One person raised his hand and was questioned about it. He is a delivery person for a florist that serves that particular firm. He was told he could leave now and the Officer of the Court (wearing, yep, guns) showed him out and gave him his big check.

Next was the defendant, an eighty something year old man who had a hearing aid in each ear and looked like he was sleeping even when he was standing up, and his attorney, a woman who looked very harried (probably because her client was a very old man who, because of the nature of the case, could not afford to appear irresponsible and yet held up the proceedings because he was late). Did we recognize or know either of these two people? Nope, nobody did. Last question to the assembly was "is there any reason we should not sit on the jury to hear this case? Nope! We were all given a group oath stating that we believe in the trial by jury system, and also promising to tell the truth in the next stage of questioning.

The judge then explained the nature of the case in a little more detail: a suit was being brought against this old man (the Judge used his name though) for hitting these two people and causing bodily harm and suffering. The two people had been crossing not at the corner, or at a light, but between legally marked crossings. The old man hit them with his car. The couple were sueing for damages. The accident took place about 3 years ago and was just now coming to trial.

The procedure for jury selection at this point was up to the Judge. In fact the Judge seems to be just a notch above God in this room. Judge O'Brien asked for 12 names to be read in what seemed to be, for the most part, in an alpha sequence by the court clerk who was holding the pack of our summons. When the twelve seats in the box to the Judge's left were filled by these 12 names, he addressed the two people in the front and back row that were sitting closest to him and made them a "set" or "group" He spoke to the person of the four who was the closest to him (and actually only about 6 feet away) and told him (in this case it was an older man) that he is in the hot seat because he will be given all the questions possible and asked to answer them in great detail in order to give the rest of us an opportunity to begin to jog our memory so the questioning can get shorter and easier as it went along. The man laughed, blustered, and shrugged it off saying that it was fine by him and flapped his cap a little as a show of not caring or perhaps of being a jerk.

We were now set to begin the next step...... dying of starvation. Judge O'Brien recognized the rumbling sounds coming from all over his courtroom and told us to go to lunch but make sure we are back by 2:30 OR ELSE!!!!! Yes sir! I was almost afraid to leave the room for fear something would prevent me from being back at that exact moment. But I left with the group and went into the lobby to eat the cheese sandwich I brought from home and go down the escalator to the lower level.... and then turn around and come right back up for fear I would get lost in the bowels of the Daley center. I was back in the hall outside Room 1906 well before 2:30. While we were growing in number outside those closed doors one person just walked in. The rest of us waited for him to be thrown out at gunpoint and when he wasn't the rest of us filed back in.

The Judge instructed us before we left that everyone in the jury box must return to the exact same seat but the rest of us could sit anywhere we wanted. I wanted to sit in the front row, first seat off the aisle.....same seat I had before lunch, and right across from the Judge himself. From this position I could see the defendant's table, the very old and deaf defendant, and the defendan't lawyer the harried looking woman wearing a black suit and combat boots (no joke). As I panned the room I could also see the court clerk, the court reporter, the officer of the court (and her guns), the 12 prospective jurors, the plaintiff's lawyer and now walking through the little wooden swinging gate, past me sitting right next to that gate, and across the 20 x 20 (maybe) room, the 2 plantiffs who were not in court this morning but were now walking to take their place at the table next to their lawyer. As the man was walking across the room his profile looked familiar to me but I thought maybe he looked like a movie star or someone on TV. When he sat down, however, I realized this was Richard's friend. Richard owns a restaurant we have made our second home for the past 8 years. When the judge gave the basics of this case he said the incident took place on Irving Park Road just west of Central..... and I thought hey, that's around the restaurant, at least I'll be able to picture the location in my mind. Now in walked Richard's friends....friends I knew were not exactly honorable from the stories Richard has told us. Oh no! There goes my chance to sit on the case.

Of course I was never introduced to Richard's friend, never even got close to him, only glimpsed him every now and then from across the room (just like now). Nah, that's not him. Maybe they weren't even Polish. Yah, maybe I could still make things grey enough to have the experience I had been waiting for ....... sitting on a jury. I could see a real moral dilemma about to take place for me. But in the meantime I was still sitting outside the box, in the first row, first seat off the aisle, right across the room from the Judge.

Let the games begin! The lawyer for the plantiffs, a young man in a light olive greenish suit with stylish little glasses began questioning the first "group," with specific questions directed to the jerk in the hot seat (who oddly enough lived on my street and just a few blocks away from me). During a break I asked him if he knew Mary Vanis because I thought he might live in her apartment building. He didn't even know where he lived exactly much less where Mary was. He said he just moved there a few months ago and was unfamiliar with the neighborhood. But wouldn't you think he would at least know where Lincoln Avenue is since you can't hardly avoid the damn street because it runs at an angle. Oh well, the jerk wasn't on trial so I left him go to the bathroom or wherever he was headed, in a hurry after I approached him.

Back to the questioning of the jury. The first four were asked questions I couldn't possibly understand the rationale for (that was the best part, trying to figure out what each lawyer was trying to find out). Some questions were asked over and over in different ways.

The lawyer for the plaintiffs wanted to know: "How do you feel about people who cross in the middle of the street rather than at the crosswalk or a light?" And the other major one: "Do you have any problem with awarding people large sums of money for pain and suffering?" At one point he even made that "VERY large sums of money." And then the more obvious one: "if you had an amount for each different kind of pain or suffering, and then they were all listed in one claim would you be uncomfortable just adding them up and leaving that amount as is.... or would you be likely to reduce the totalled amount." That question seemed too odd not to draw attention (at least MY attention).

I began taking a note here and there as if I might be asked to step in should one of the lawyers take sick. Sitting next to me now was a woman also in black, with a briefcase filled with papers who kept rustling around in it until I thought the Judge was going to say something. She came in from lunch 5 minutes late and made quite a scene as she took the front row seat next to me and began going through that briefcase like a gerbil in a wheel. From the moment she entered the courtroom she never once looked at the Judge; but from the second she walked in late he never took his eyes off of her. YIKES! She was sitting right next to me. I wanted to poke her and tell her that the Judge is watching her but she didn't seem at all concerned about anything but those papers and notes in that briefcase.

During the judges opening remarks to all of us he mentioned that the lawyers are not allowed to acknowledge us so we shouldn't feel hurt (and therefore take it out on that lawyer's client) if we say hello to them in the elevator for instance and they ignore us. Well now the Defendant's Lawyer with the Combat Boots looked right over at this woman and smiled and gave a little wave. Double Yikes! It took me until the end of the day to realize that was probably her partner. I didn't realize it because she had nice little black pumps on.

The standard questions from the Defendant's lawyer had to do with how you feel about older people (and also people who have hearing problems) being behind the wheel; and also do you believe in "awarding" sums of money, or just compensating for damages. Then there was the odd question about what do you do in your spare time. Both attorneys also wanted to know if anyone had ever been involved in an accident and what the nature of it was; and what their as well as their husband/wife/children's occupation is. Different issues sprang up as the day moved on. By 5:00 (half an hour over the usually wrap up time) there were only four jurists accepted, sworn in, and moved into the jury room right off the court room proper (the jerk and three other people).

During the afternoon session, about 8 or so people were thanked and then dismissed ... quite abruptly (I guess that is why the morning movie and then the judge made all those comments about not feeling there is anything wrong with you if you are excused). The Judge concluded the day with an instruction about tomorrow's starting time being 2:30 because he had other business to handle in the morning. He gave us the customary comments about not discussing anything we heard with anyone at home or with the other people in our group. I came home and wanted to explode with the coincidence of Richard's friend maybe being one of the plaintiffs.... but just knew the Judge would know I had done that when he looked at me the next day.

I was an hour and a half early the next day and so got in on the end of the concert in the lobby. Then I went up to see if anyone was in room 1906 yet, but found just one woman sitting on the bench right outside the courtroom. No thanks to that one, so I decided to explore the bowels of the Daley center and visit the neon civilization living somewhere beyond the escalator. I was getting a little more confident but still dared not go too too far.

I went back to Judge O'Brian's courtroom a little early so I could get my same seat. At this point I was determining whether I ever wanted to go home. I wondered if I could just live in the Daley Center and go from court to court listening and watching people.... and perhaps having a bite or two amid the neons.

The questioning began but this time went much more quickly because people had a chance to think about the answers to the standard questions. And people were becoming more honest simply because they had a night to decide how they really felt about large sums of money being "awarded" for things. "Well I don't have a problem with it, but I also don't think you should try to get rich quick from something...... like that woman with the hot coffee." (On behalf of Mr. Wooks I would like to thank Mrs. Harbison for her participation and excuse her from further duty.) I'm not sure of the wording but it always came as a shock when we heard it. As if we ourselves were being sentenced for what we believe.

And about crossing in the middle of the street...... "My father and I were involved in an accident like that. He was rolled into by a car that was not going fast enough to injure him seriously." What was the outcome of the accident? "Well, my dad told the driver to just forget it because he was in the wrong and deserved whatever scare or bruises he got." (On behalf of Mr. Siztiaokova and Ms. Popovichski, I would like to thank you for your participation and excuse you from further duty.) Yep, it was getting pretty predictible by now.

The shock came when a man who had been outwardly angry the day before (answering loudly and emphatically a question put to the jerk in the hotseat) was now being asked directly "is there any reason you can think of why you shouldn't serve on this case?" and responded "Well, I can't read or write past maybe 5th grade." Hmmm, that sent everyone (or maybe just me) spinning at how he managed to fill out the form on the back of his summons, and how he got this far in the process, and on and on and on. It was painful to hear this man admit something he probably has successfully kept hidden most of his life. After a few questions and comments designed to make the lawyers feel like they were on the OJ case (Well as a juror you may ask for documents to be sent into the jury room and would you be able to read those documents blah blah blah). Judge O'Brien quickly took care of the loose ends on that one with a slight laugh and put down statement to the attorneys but the next comment was the "On behalf of" one. Gone.

One jurist said he had taken the keys away from his father a few years ago...... gone. A number of people were verbalizing discomfort with the large sum of money business....all of them were thanked, ushered into the hall where they got their big check and sent on their way.

The stack of remaining summons were getting smaller and smaller and I thought surly I will be called soon because there were so few of us left in the back of the room. It had taken from 2:30 until 4:00 to get just one jurist to make up that last 4-person panel who was then sworn in and moved to the jury room (where I saw a lot of white lunch bags being carried in..... shucks didn't they think those of us in the back of the room would have liked a treat too?). Now there were 8 jurors sworn in and only half an hour left to the day. The judge swooped in and said "I'll take it from here and watch how much more quickly it moves." I think he let the lawyers have their day in court but then had enough of the "show-off" factor designed I'm sure to make the client think they got something for their money. Within the half hour the last four jurists were sworn in (with each lawyers pet questions asked) and the rest of us dismissed from further jury duty for at least a year.

They dragged me from the courtroom with the post from that gate still in my hands. Sigh, maybe next time. In the meantime I am waiting to see Richard and ask him if those were his friends and what was the outcome of the trial. I'm glad I didn't have to decide whether or not to avoid mention that I may know that guy (now an almost fact after the plantiff's attorney said they are Polish and would need an interpreter!).

I did so want to see the entire trial take place, but figured I would never make it past the first question and then my esoteric response that might even sound like a closing argument for either party.

But I got a taste of what a real trial is like, as well as two days mixing it up with the downtown crowd of fast-laners and neon life under the streets in the loop. It's not good for a native of Chicago to be so ignorant of her own wonderful city so maybe I should schedule regular field trips for myself.

You can rest assured, however, I will be very careful from now on when I cross in the middle of the street....you just never know when some old man might be behind the wheel of a car.

Hmmmm, it's summertime though and Mike is back on his bike so that's one less I'd have to worry about. Perhaps that will be my next month's story..... Mike on Bike.

Barbara

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