releasing the draft to ‘publish’ is and drafts languish….

Previously titled,

Caught Between Writing Memoir and Motions of Law

When the original non-adversarial divorce started bleeding the truth — 17 years later — my activities were diverted, to a focused, tedious, fact seeking analysis for all of the ways I had been screwed. In the divorce that is.

With inner dialogues running wildly, questions arose as to WHY such-and-such or so-and-so. Me bad? Actually no, I did what I had to do, I answered. Survive, to finish the story.

And so, I am aware, I have more unfinished Blogiaries sitting in Drafts, then Published works. Conclusions are never clear. Black and white is always nuanced. I’ll get to them when I do.

Some writings are rumination on the alliance that became a marriage — then a release. Catch and release.

While hand drizzling water on 6 small plots of flower seedlings — barely visible — an event I do at least twice a day; a smirk forms, as I recall my daughters’ recent trip with her dad to IKEA, to buy a fake house plant. How could I have ???? Believe me, nature overruled my intellect. Maternal, bio clock, the complex puzzles women are often left to tangle with. But….. fake plants!!!

He, the nerd, with a Physics degree from a well-regarded Nerd College and then a PhD in Computer Science, I married, though not for better or worse as I will explain.

Though he retained some of the geek that was a novelty to me in 1983, when a whirlwind romance tempted me away from my first love, life as an artist. There existed a subliminal sub-text: searching for a prospective father for the children I was then aching to have. Time hadn’t made the quirky geeky qualities any more endearing, at least not in him.

For instance, his lily-white hands — an occupational benefit from sitting at a key board day and night — contrast my hands, which engage the materials I come in contact with — from dirt to clay to whatever makes me happy; only in the harshest conditions can I be bothered to ‘glove up’.

He was a cat person; I am a dog lover. His house smells like oily hair and is very ordered, but not clean. Mine is clean but not well ordered.

He is frugal — beyond the limits of that word — with money; to the point of saving his dental floss and peeing in the sink (yes, you read that correctly, not at the same time, or so I hope). Miserly perhaps? He has no argument or chagrin at being called out on this.

These idiosyncrasies were not evident during our courtship — please! No, our courtship was a blur of well-chosen restaurants (Seattle had many). I was wined and dined into an agreeable fashion. There was a cocaine cache, as well, something I could not afford but enjoyed any gifted fallout.

History had it, he had purchased a slumped glass mask sculpture of mine at an alternative art space, a year before we met. He received an entree into the artist scene as a minor collector — he was an insider, among the most well thought of artists. Plus, he had a few more dollars than the typical artist when the bill came.

At the time, I was the favored daughter. Seattle was my oyster, erupting out of a grad school program at the University of Washington molten, on fire. Not exactly like stumbling across an outsider artist in an alleyway.

I made the bar, as collectible — as someone once said “collect the art, collect the artist” — so when he offered to provide support, of some unknown quantity, before any mention of tying the knot, I was further incentivized. The artist-patron phenomena rewarded the wealthy with yet another privilege of class. I mention this more out of a preface for what is to come.

Flash ahead….

Mistresses are supported, until they become Missus’. Support for an atelier for an afternoon tryst become exchanged by the seemingly unglamorous tasks of running a household; entailing a household budget for the lawn guy, babysitters and groceries. You see where this is going…

Between the then and now, lives a whole world of spoils and exploitations. It is now 17 years after the 20-year marriage collapsed under the weight of our other-selves. The reasons — best guesses — why the care of the children fell to me, was for both obvious and nuanced. Infertility or not, the transient ability to create life, observe and feel the gift of life, then birth that life, was an intimacy I thrived in. Unlike the delivery of a piece of art, the new creation needed a protectorate, a life-whisperer, to mine the gifts I could share. And I did, share…

The house was full of all and any creative extension of myself, my dreams, any medium with a contagious impulse …. painting easels, puppets, costumes, books, clay, musical instruments, cooking projects, roller-skates, dance costumes, engineering projects. One still memorable day was spent making flying buttresses out of pop-cycle sticks for the kids Gothic school project. Many second-hand stores were our sources. I was living art… I didn’t miss creating art, at least then.

It was all encompassing. As I recently heard said about fatherhood, “it was as though I suddenly became more obviously useful!” I love that, it is the essence of a symbiotic relationship, yet so understated.

A few excepts from the 18 page ‘Motion of Law’. Legal writing is instructed to be clear and concise. Here lies the challenge, to absorb a new ‘craft’ with the precise language of the legal profession. Not unlike any profession, the language is unique and meaningful, even quaint and charming on occasion. When the success of a legal action depends on the ability to align a judge with your perspective, craft is vitally important.

I read case law, appellate cases reviewing the language that succeeded to ‘pass the bar for…’ My head was filled with Perry Mason soliloquies at bedtime, learning eventually that drama has little application in courtroom demeanor. The judge, however, should be kept awake by the motion. The challenge is to include a hook of drama, within the clothes of legalese.

Realizing the process was really a dry game of chess, the object is to anticipate move of one’s opponent. Think Queen’s Gambit, where visions appear with all the correct moves in place. Get it right or sacrifice the queen way too early. Summary Judgment, oh my!

This displays a flagrant disobedience for the institution of the court and to flout convention. …guidelines for the dissolution of marriage are defined and unambiguous, yet in deconstructing the events that resulted in great inequities….

Editing legalese goes on with obligations blocked-in 30-day response dates. As it stands now, a few Pawns are out, a Rook poised, and a Bishop strategically in play. It is both early and eerily precarious.

My brother — a rated chess player — once beat me in 2 moves; that would be “ the Fool’s Mate”. Coincidentally, that is close to the name given to a “Self-Represented Litigant”. Variation of terms for losing in chess are colorful and apt, such as “must kill”, “ take all chess” and if those terms describe the outcome of my day in court, well, there will be an equally colorful bit on ‘memoir’.

Checkmate! Stay tuned.

www.instagram.com/reel/CgdCpShgXIi/

Bumblebee

& Five things things you should know how to do by age 50.Coax a bat out of your bedroom; Identify chicken pox; Locate the smell of weed in your house; Tell your child’s teacher to #@!***

Max —  my golden doodle or rescue dog —  if you prefer —  is the kind of no nighttime nonsense dog we all wish for. He stays in bed until I rise, thankfully. 

The only real fear he developed was the time he thought the sky was falling. As it turned out, it was a reasonable fear for him. A couple of hot air balloons nearly landed on the roof of our Hartland Vermont abode. He was directly below them, and the colors were anything other than sky-like. 

I get it. I would be anxious too if the sky were to fall.

Scenario one

Last night, Max was whining in the wee hours. I took him to the outside door. He didn’t want to go out. 

Failing that, the only noticeable irritant was a fly  —  garden variety housefly —  circling around the table lamp next to my bed.

Ok, age 50 is an arbitrary age, but knowing the workings of the world takes time. And to that same age is the George Orwell adage , “At 50, everyone has the face he deserves”. I love that.

This is by far the easiest treasure hunt ever created, but failing this knowledge, you will thank me when you find a nocturnal irritant in need of a remedy. 

Determine where you want to trap the bugger —  or if you are so inclined —  to lead it outdoors to freedom. (You figure that one out).

Turn on a light in the space you wish the fly to go to. If you are at a loss at this step, use a flashlight. Turn off the light source from the bedroom lamp. This will kick the buzzer into instinct mode, forcing it to fly to the new light source you have created. 

This is the only part that requires any skill, if you can call it that. Close the door —  you on the outside — before the fly can escape to the space you hoped to clear. 

If the bugger clears the door faster that your reflexes can act, well, repeat the scenario again. You will soon be proficient at the training of houseflies!

You can leave the fly to dally in the new space, or swat it, if so inclined. The risk with a cleaver fly is their ability to gain access to you — again — flying under the door. 

Scenario two

Next, bats! You wake up to the ticking, wheezy sound of a bat circling over you — albeit — not the best way to wake up, but remember, you have made it to 50 years of age and you CAN handle this. Here are some of the options I have tried. 

• You can scream and dive under the covers, only if —  and this was my excuse, ONCE —  you are nursing an infant. (And the scream wakes the living daylight out of a bedmate).
• Call the police and wait until some scared rookie shows up to propose opening a door — and then stands there waiting for you to volunteer. When he leaves and you open the other door too.
• Or you do the following, not unlike the fly, sort of. 

Quickly, exit the bedroom crouched low. Find a shroud, some sheet or blanket to cover yourself with — head to toe. Enter the bat room again, quickly heading to an openable window. Open the window and exit room again, quickly. Bat’s respiration is not something you want to subject yourself to. 

Crack the door until any sounds from the bat are sure to be gone. Beware of the bat who might have landed momentarily. They are blind and their sonar makes it likely that they will quickly find the open window.  

Job accomplished…well done. 

Scenario three

You throw an annual Fourth of July party. After the watermelon margaritas, the group walks down the street to the high school for the Fireworks display. 

As you are gathering the bug spray, a lightening bug house, neon-ware items (bracelets, crowns, etc) you notice a rash on your daughter’s face. You suspect chicken pox and your response is: 

• Feign ignorance and take her to the fireworks anyway.
• Insist that everyone stay home, if it happens to be chicken pox
• Stay at home with the daughter, with promises of something very special that you are sure she will love, while the group goes on to the fireworks. 

A few days later the other two children are infected and you have a backyard water play party for kids who either want to get the chicken pox over or those already exposed. Stay in the shade and try not to scratch the lesions. The party was a big hit!

Scenario four

Your oldest daughter just bought her first car and has only driven it home from the car lot, so far. The household is in a hustle to get ready for school and your ex-spouse shows up for something. While passing the door to the basement, you detect the distinct pungent aroma of weed. You suggest to your ex that he come downstairs with you. He balks at the idea, and begrudgingly joins you. Your daughter and a friend are hustled  in the outside doorways smoking weed. 

You and your ex do the following:

• Call the police to teach the offenders a lesson they will remember.
• Do nothing, after all, you smoked ‘pot’ at their age.
• Levy a consequence for her actions on your daughter. She will not be able to drive her car for a month. 

Scenario five

The school called, asking you to come in immediately regarding your son. You notice that the medicine for his ADHD — laid out on the counter — was not taken. 

• You grab the medicine and head to the high school.
• You wait to see what the issue is before jumping to any conclusion. 

When you arrive at the counselor’s office, your son is looking distinctly symptomatic — disheveled, hyperactive, unintelligible. The counsel asks you if he could be on drugs. You explain that he missed his medicine and would normalize soon (you gave him his medicine) and he can go back to class. 

On a separate occasion, the school called regarding the same son. You, again, meet your son in the counselor’s office. The counselor hands you a drawing of a very realistic looking gun, a military rifle. 

• Your reaction is shock and fear, due to the school violence of late.
• You assure the counselor that you will get the proper professional care he is needing. 
• You compliment your son on the excellent detail in the drawing and retrieve the drawing from the counselor. As an artist, freedom of expression is his right and artistic development is encouraged.
• You tell the counselor that she is choosing the wrong parent to indict a child for a drawing of his hobby. Drawing a gun is not a precursor to being a mass murderer, as far as you know.  

Perhaps you have learned a few life skills or at least found some amusement. Isn’t it better to learn by others’ quandaries? The solutions to the questions posed, well, they will remain questions, at least for now anyway.

Within my brief time in Vermont, I learned that killing a snake took persistence; while– in some cases– letting them thrive, was the only option.

The final pose of the milk snake bidding farewell.

 I owned 65 acres of pure heaven on earth, in rural south-eastern Vermont. The curved gravel drive to the house passed huge, most majestic, white pines, weeping willow, crimson king maple trees arching around a crystal- clear heart shaped pond. Finally, around to the backside one enters a very large stately log house. The house, situated in a higher elevation, overlooked the pond, as it changed in surface and reflection from season to season, out to a surrounding arch of varietal trees, to the mountains beyond.  Sunrises projected crimson shades in anticipation of the fire ball sun. The mountain scape reflected rainbows of varying palettes; the afternoon sun issued a glow, distinct on each elevation. Discovery of plant life– my first spring– was nothing short of thrilling. From the micro flowers deep in the wakening blades of grass to an assortment of garden blooms, to wild milkweed reminiscent of my youth. Such naturalized flowers– thriving and spreading– created planes of subtle colors as if painted with a wide brush. Those early days were awe inspiring, along roadways, in swampy or dry soil; while tiny salamanders, aquatic spiders, tadpoles, toads hopping from their perches, occupied the pond .

The enfilade of adventures drew from assorted past years, as a woman with Midwestern/ Connecticut background. Vermont, however, pushed the envelope of my comfort zone.

Shortly after my arrival– in late summer– began occurrences–after sunset– of an unfamiliar terror. Blood-curdling-screams erupted, lasting a short, but tenuous time. First thought, there is a murder taking place, an uneasy and confusing awareness without an antidote. Because I had no immediate neighbors, I had no instinct to report a crime. Such was my introduction to coyotes.

The first time I found a mouse drown in my dog’s water bowel– repulsed– I cried to my then boyfriend, who volunteered to remove it for me. The second time it happened I summoned my willpower and did the ditch into the wooded area around the house. Mouse removal became part to my job description, from then on.

Mice– my co-inhabitants– were to be contended with, an unenviable conclusion. There were two times, while sitting on the john, when a curious little head peaked from under the door or, while sorting a box of clothing– stored for some time in the garage– I unearthed a new mommy mouse with at least eight hungry micettes lacked on her teats. This maternal scene was too innocent to destroy. I scooted them on their way– in the grass– all the nursing pack still intact. That is an image I won’t forget.

Soon I dreaded the locations of the mouse dropping and forced myself to explore means to diminish an indeterminate population of the creepy rodents. That meant contending with my poison phobia, as well. I placed the toxic blue cubes in unseen areas. The fire-wood room, garage… plus I tried natural safer means, like spraying peppermint water into evidence-based locations. Mice and poison– both early phobias of mine from the age of ten, we religiously joined my father at the sacred Minnesota duck hunting cabin, used for several generations for the manly pursuit of alcohol and firearms. Mice and poison were plentiful in the mostly vacant cabin. Without any known reason, I became afraid of being poisoned through touching something, as unlikely as a car air refreshened (though, the odors generated from those made my phobia seem less ridiculous now).

Even my dog, Max, was not fond of the mouse terrain.

Toughening up, however, was no match for the morning– in early spring– surveying the garden area in flip flops and a robe. Treading gingerly– with a shovel in hand, to avoid the icy water-soaked ground– I glanced toward the wooden steps that served as the formal entrance to the house. There– sunning itself– was a large, coiled snake!

When I say large, I compare its size to a garter snake for girth, much bigger. Its skin– a tan- reddish brown pixilated pattern, sent my adrenalin soaring. Usually pretty levelheaded under stress, I retrieved my iPhone from my robe’s pocket, snapped a few shots and slowly placed the phone back, before I took great precision and aim with the shovel, striking the snake as if my life depended on it. Striking it again, and again, a murderous impulse with every intent to kill.

I told myself, this snake— one inch plus in diameter and perhaps four feet long snake–under no circumstances, is going to reside under my house.

After many exhausting blows, I left the shovel impaled in its back and returned inside to look up the nature of this viper. Behind the safety of my other door, I completely fell apart. Wailing hard with thoughts of, why me, alone away from everyone and even in the familiarity of my house’s entrance, is a potentially poisonous snakes living way too close? When I got a grip, I texted a copy of the snake’s image to the forest manager for identification.

Shortly after, I received his identification of the snake, an Eastern Milk Snake, useful for eating mice and not poisonous!!!!! My body still weak from physical duress, was relieved, but I never-the-less went to inspect my kill. To my astonishment, the snake was still moving!!!

More vicious than ever, I struck with several more blows and retreated inside, again to gather my wits. Another conversation later, it was revealed that they are very hard to kill and require a severance of the head, or close. OK, problem solved. I returned to the scene and found that the snake had moved, yet again!

As photographed, above image, is the position I found it in– its head elevated and frozen in a strike position, jaw open wide. Ugh… It was still.

###

Enter the scene–two years later-– I had concluded that my purpose for being there, a mission to develop a retreat center– while a potentially successful concept, would not be realized by me. There were several factors leading to that conclusion–for another time.

I had lovingly– full of inspiration– produced an idyllic setting of house and surrounds. Airbnb guests adored their fortuitous choice for the accommodations and setting.

The retreat that wasn’t was now being transformed into a piece of real estate. The boutique real estate company I hired included it under: Luxury Vermont Estates.

I was moving back to Connecticut. The work of deaccession, donating, dumpstering, divvying between fiends, took longer than I had expected, but the estate was on the market by August, a glorious time.

The open house was staged and spotless with an interested party in the wings. It was the second showing that produced the buyer from hell. Let’s call him the Jackal.

It was on a breathtakingly beautiful autumn day– with the encouragement of my broker–that I accepted an offer on the house. A very low offer, but one that the agent guaranteed would be a minimally demanding by Jackal, as compensating for a low offer.

It turned out that the so-called buyer’s guarantee to be less “picky” as to any items coming up in the inspection, was far from true. I was interrupted by his incessant demands.

My moving van was delayed by unforeseen circumstances. I called Jackal, to stay on top of expectations. He was anxious to keep the closing as scheduled but offer me the garage for the storage of items to be left behind for retrieval. (He didn’t mind querying me further about items he could ask me for. He had a spreadsheet.)

Through a series of contemptuous behaviors– by the realtors, attorneys and the perpetrator, the Jackal, the time I spent in Vermont ended abruptly and traumatically.

I was called during my hectic move by my agent. I was told to sign an addendum, on my phone– for an additional 20k. My attorney got on the phone and abruptly, without any explanation, barked, “Debra, sign it and move out.”

The Jackal, it is my belief, issued an insistence or even an ultimatum –the kind that might come from a Napoleonic character, a small but determined dictator who kept all subjects quaking.

At 4:30 on that afternoon, the house filled with the same cast of characters, taking orders from Jackal, such as close the garage door, I’m paying for the heat. He could see the moving van was being loaded through the garage door openings. I glared at him, the character who told me the reason he chose my house was due to the good karma he felt.

At 5 pm, I was told to leave! It was not a question, but a command. The order was so emphatic that I asked if I could take my dog, then my purse. I was humiliated to leave the project I had lovingly injected my heart and soul into.

Max, my golden doodle, and I– on a cold December evening– drove to Connecticut where I was anticipating the closing of the house, I was buying the next day. My favorite succulent and homemade maple syrup– retrieved on the way out– were taken into the dog friendly Marriott to keep from freezing.

Still shook up from the previous day, we made our way to the attorney’s office to get organized for the next phase, our next home. During the wait, I was allowed to use a computer. I pulled up the addendum of the sales contract which I signed at the insistence of my attorney.

All of my nervous system when into over-drive, as I read, “any personal items left by the seller after 5 pm, December 12, 2019, would be forfeited. Any expenses incurred for the final removal and/or disposal of sellers items would be paid by the seller out of the escrow fund.”

On that day– a short night later– by early morning the Jackal has disposed of the highlights of my sculpture career. In the bottom of a 30-yard dumpster were several important over-life-size cast iron figures, as well as ceramic pieces, arguably, my best work. Included in the dumpster were works of several other significant artists in my collection.

There was no way to access and retrieve the contents of a 30-yard dumpster– scheduled for pick up, from two states away, with limited funds.

For the next few years, the torment of this event has frequently come into my consciousness. The first thing in the morning and the last thing at night. When asked about my career, I cower and produce a shaky voice trying to control my painful emotions. The tears always broke through my resolve. Having to replace household items, also disposed of, was also traumatic. A trip to Home Depot was grueling. The aftermath of these departing events continue to haunt me; any prospects for retrospective exhibitions are squashed.

The events of my life have become fodder for memoir writing, of some consolation.

But we are not yet through with the story. Recall that the Jackal was on record as choosing the house for its karma. The Milk Snakes staked out turf in the lower level of what is now Jackal Estate.

While I was packing, in the lower level, a ceiling tile was ajar. A flicker of movement caught my eye. Thinking it was a mouse, I explored it further with a stick.

What I saw, was perhaps, the reincarnate of Milk Snake in its Death Pose. The snake was quite large and I did not care to engage it further, above my head.

It does gives me a vindictive pleasure to know that I left a piece of karma in the ceiling. I hope that the Jackal enjoys the slithering snake– in hiding– just as the character he is; a one eyed snake with evil intent who may just grow a tail, to mimic the mice he lives among.

–Debra Sherwood

Who is this mysterious source of a “letters of engagement?”

An old flame, a new flirtation, a marriage proposal, …. the product of one’s first romantic crush… a promise ring. Or perhaps the law firm that you have finally convinced to take your case? It was only the 7th firm I pitched the case to, becoming more succinct and compelling each time. Imagine if all of our battles went through a minimum of seven iterations, well, that’s what is called editing.

The “language of justice” is archaic, often flowery, full of bias, even prejudice, resplendent with precision and squeaky clean authoritative climate. There are phrases that are so punchy yet obsequious. My favorite: a ruling can be “arbitrary and capricious”… or subject to impulsive mood changes, something artist might comprehend. It rolls of the tongue like a poet’s line. Arbitrary and capricious, isn’t she? I found the whole flavor of the performance arbitrary and capricious.

I first became acquainted with this betwixing phrase in the case where I tried to buy a post office. It’s a grand tale, but not for now, however, here is the link if you need bedtime reading.

NATIONAL POST OFFICE COLLABORATE, et al., Plaintiffs, v. PATRICK R. DONAHOE, et al., Defendants.

“The Court need not resolve this unanswered question, however, because there is no dispute that the “arbitrary and capricious” standard of review applies to the existing NEPA claim”. Snooze as I did while sitting in on the trial that would determine my fate.

Best Practices

A standard that has been achieved over time producing guidelines that are set uniformly…. the following being one that is likely the most unique, in the legal profession. What are you able to talk about — at a cocktail party — with a lawyer? God forbid, something that might require an opinion, lest the opining might be construed as legal advice, for which you failed to get a “letter of engagement”. So the warning following a correspondence states, “this does not represent a relationship.” I have enough (possibly) legitimate malpractice issues with two recently “engaged” attorneys who had no issue with lying through their teeth.

“Do NOT construe this conversation as in any way an attorney-client relationship”.

I called an attorney — who had authored an article that I found useful for a concern I was entangled with. “ Your article indicated that your firm might have jurisdiction in other states.” The call was made with an appreciation for the clarity of the position taken. No sooner did the period drop on that sentence, when out of his inquisitive shell came the “justice for all” questions. Which state? How much was the damage? Retainer? Predatory preoccupation in action.

For some, retaining a lawyer counts as one of the three most essential people in their court. Doctor, investment broker and lawyer. Is the same warning understood during cocktail conversation — with that essential person — and how quickly and unknowingly it might trigger the clock counting. Retained in perpetuity, huh? How could you not?

Take this scenario, you are opening a solo show in a wing of your city’s art museum, a huge honor and privilege. It is a non-profit entity, therefore the cost of attendance to the public is minimal. Openings, known to be fashionable events — attracting a certain population; artist friends; critics; more artists; distinguished scholarly types; fashionable professionals at large.

You are aware that a certain law firm is down the street. In waltzes a half-dozen suits (aka lawyers) and a few women (aka lawyers). As much as I would love to see entrance fees on a sliding scale for this troupe, it isn’t going to happen. The well-dressed, combined with confidence, are like a lingering strong fragrance — the kind that so inflame a migraineur.

The artist is dressed fashionably, in black flowing layers while fielding and extracting the worthwhile questions from the clueless ones.

A pair of suits from the legal brigade saddle up — trying to impress her — and asks a question that shows just enough credibility to engage her. They ask her if she identifies her work with found art objects movements.

Here is where the artist and the lawyer veer into distinct pathways. The value of the artists’ works and now further statements, may provide any number of ways the recipient benefits. She might influence her audience anywhere from prophetic life changes, artistic influence gained or existential feelings that boiling up to the surface. All of these could potentially have an impact albeit positive or negative, life-changing or damning.

Does the artist look at the man who asked the question and say,” Do NOT construe this conversation as in any way an artist-client relationship”? “Or without a letter of engagement I am unable to opine toward”.

Really, is the lawyers’ substance a gospel, to hang on every word? Are those words worthy of such reverence; to need a disclosure, for every conversation?

Next conversation you have with a lawyer, try to reverse roles , existentialism and all. And, hey if you are an attorney, try role reversal with an artist. The clock is on.

— Debra Sherwood