The dreaded envelope arrived. Superior Court of California, County of San Francisco:
You are summoned for JURY SERVICE (capitalization theirs) during the week, and at the place indicated below. Please read the entire summons entirely…
Who has not received – usually with a little dread – that windowed envelope? Because it means a day, or a week, or a month or more of your life has just been appropriated for Citizenship Duty. That is, after all, what Jury Duty is all about: being the Good Citizen. Doing what you can for the greater good of your fellow citizens.
Actually, I have always loved jury duty. Over the years, my jury duty experiences have ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous.
There was the sweet young thing who scammed a few dozen friends and relations out of a few thousand dollars each, and wanted us to believe she really meant just to make everyone rich and didn’t understand why anybody was mad at her. The unanimous vote to convict came by about the time we got seated and organized.
There were times we deliberated to the point of exhaustion, and times I wondered if a better lawyer would have had us voting differently. There were plenty of times I spent a day or two and wasn’t chosen for duty; usually with a great sense of relief.
There was the time, in a jury pool for a domestic violence case, when the defense attorney introduced his spiffed-up client, and addressed the pool: “There could be implications about Mr. Smith… that he had a few glasses of wine…” The attorney smiled knowingly at us, wanting to be sure we’re all grown-ups and what’s a few glasses of wine after all? I was tempted to say, “Man, don’t give me that bull. You don’t want me on this jury, I will so fry your client.” But I asked to be excused, saying I felt personal bias would make it difficult for me to remain open-minded.
The only other time I asked to be excused was when the case involved two corporate entities and some sort of asbestos issue. The judge told us at the beginning that it could run six months. Six months? A couple of corporations wanted 12 citizens (plus alternates) to give up six months of their lives to settle something they should lock their lawyers into a small room to work out? I was beyond irate. The judge invited anyone who felt jury service would be a hardship to come to an adjacent room; virtually the entire pool rose. Uncertain what exactly I would say I began, “My brother-in-law is a chest physician…” and that was as far as I got. “Excused,” said the judge, without looking up. I wasn’t actually very sure where I was going with that explanation, but apparently the judge just wanted to get it over with. I felt sorry for him.
But that’s the way the system works. Good people go to law school, get to be judges and have to sit through all this. More good people give up their time to try to find justice for other good people and perhaps a little justice for the bad guys while they’re at it.
For now, though, I’m opting out. This presents a problem, since apparently you never age out of jury duty and there is no excuse box for Overwhelmed.
One can opt out if under 18, not a citizen, or if one has been convicted of a felony or malfeasance in office. Or if one has a physical or mental disability. None of the above quite worked for me.
At the bottom of the opting-out section, though, I discovered one can be excused if one has a full-time, non-professional obligation to provide care for a related disabled person and alternative arrangements are not possible during court hours. (California Rules of Court, rule 2.1008.)
At last. A reward for the caregiving business. Does caregiving equate to good citizenship? One hopes.
You may have had an experience like this: some nagging health issue not quite bad enough to take the time to tackle. Or with a solution that seems too painful, too bothersome… so you let the issue keep on nagging, usually getting worse.
For me, it was a minor foot issue – okay, an inelegant ingrown toenail. My good pedicurist, alternating with a private podiatrist (my healthcare provider does not provider for regular foot care,) kept the darned thing at bay for the past four or five years. It was a pain in the foot, but on the scale of one to ten it peaked to eight only rarely. Almost a year ago, my podiatrist reached the limit of his patience.
“Look,” he said (while I tried not to look,) “I’ve nursed this thing along for months, maybe years longer than need be. Go for the surgery.” He drew a few lines to show where a slice of toenail would be cut off. “Kaiser has some excellent podiatrists. It’s done with local anesthesia and only takes a few minutes. Three or four weeks of soaking etc, keeping it clean, you’ll be fine.”
Those were the words he spoke. What I heard was: Local anesthesia! Sticking needles in between my toes! Three or four weeks with one foot in a pan? A month without walking along the admittedly dirty park trails? It took me another six months to screw up my courage. Months of anticipated agonies one could hardly wrap the mind around, months of despair over a lengthy recuperation…
Finally I took a deep breath and scheduled the surgery. Instead of (or before; I still wasn’t looking) the shot in the toe there was a freezing action the doctor said would “feel like ice pouring over the area” which was, in fact, breathtakingly painful for about 15 seconds. And that was it. A few minutes later I was handed a sheet of instructions for “after a nail procedure,” fitted out with a Velcro’d boot, and sent off to drive home. It was all I could do to remain pitiful enough for a few hours’ sympathy. The next day, the fancy bandage came off. Recovery boiled down to Band-Aids and a little pother of three-times-a-day soaking for 5 minutes. Probably the most difficult part of this long-feared episode was being confined to home for two days, soaking, elevating (not critical, but perhaps helpful) and feeling pitiful. By the end of the second day I was going stir crazy. So I suited up in socks and Birkenstocks and went to a jazz service.
There I met an old friend who left San Francisco several years ago. “I guess you hadn’t heard about Bob’s surgery,” she said, when I asked how long they’d been in town. “They found a tumor on his kidney. He was at the VA, and they took out one kidney, his urethra, a lot of other stuff. They say he’s fine now. We got an apartment here so he could recuperate.” About that time her recovering husband walked up for a hug.
“Well,” I said, “I was going to complain about my toenail.”
Every now and then you can go home again… at least, home to a better planet. Here’s another story (OK, we admit to too many stories about the ducks…) from Mountain Lake in San Francisco’s Presidio National Park.
Recently a few Mountain Lake Park regulars began to notice a strange and mysterious phenomenon: whirlpools in the lake! Mineral springs? Fresh water from the bowels of the earth bubbling up into this water-starved state? A submerged hot tub? As the King of Siam would have said, “It’s a puzzlement.”
Enter Jason Lisenby, Biological Science Technician with the Presidio Trust and a particular friend of Mountain Lake Park. It was Lisenby who intervened when this writer wanted to mount a campaign to find a mate for lonely Musco the Duck. “Wait, wait,” he said. “You will wind up with a lake full of – non-native – Muscovy ducks and nothing else.” Musco apparently got bored with being behind the giant dark fence while the non-native fish were being removed anyway, and has relocated to other waters. Where we hope he has found a family more appropriate if less devoted than the human admirers he had at Mountain Lake.
The whirls and bubbles, Lisenby explains, “are from a newly installed aeration and water-mixing system” recently turned on. “We are using a compressor to pump air through hoses to twelve locations around the bottom of the lake. The added oxygen and movement will help keep algae blooms at bay while we get the lake’s aquatic plant communities restarted.
“Limiting algae will keep the water more clear, and clear water is good for our newly reestablishing aquatic plants. In the long run, the aquatic plants will do the work the aeration system is currently doing, but this is a solution until then.”
Who knew? Biological science knew. Already the lake is so clear it’s possible to see eight feet down (don’t try this yourself; the lake is not for swimming and diving), and this is a body of water so polluted by highway runoff, abandoned pets and assorted human detritus that only a few years ago you couldn’t see your hand six inches below the surface. You wouldn’t have wanted to get too near the water anyway.
All this, a little good news amidst the abundant smoldering global bad news, right here in the Presidio National Park. Your tax dollars, and biological science, at work.
Watching the families of people killed at Charleston’s Emanuel A.M.E. Church repeatedly declare their forgiveness of shooter Dylann Roof was, for many including this writer, somewhat surreal. Seriously? Set aside the rage, grief, unbelief, and go straight to forgiveness?
For some faith traditions, that is indeed possible.
Also possible is the response for good coming out of Roof’s act for evil: removal of an emblem – the Confederate flag I recall seeing on some of my ancestors’ gravestones – from public spaces, and serious confrontation of the racism firmly embedded in U.S. culture. Not just the south, not just in police forces, not just in politics; in the U.S. culture.
One small part of the attempt to confront, and hopefully address, those issues in one small piece of the culture began recently when John Weems, pastor of mainline (if hardly traditional) Calvary Presbyterian Church in San Francisco, got to talking with Bishop Ernest Jackson, pastor of Grace Tabernacle Community Church across town in San Francisco’s largely African American Bayview-Hunter’s Point neighborhood. This conversation led to a group of mostly white Calvary members leaving their 10 AM Sunday service early to join the 11 AM worshippers at Grace Tabernacle. (We were saved from embarrassing Caucasian-ness by one tall African American and one third-generation Chinese American.)
Calvary’s Minister of Spiritual Care Victor Floyd was preaching before the group set out – on a day the long openly gay Floyd said he never thought he’d live to see – and admonished the group that worshipping with Pentecostals would mean staid Presbyterians (the Frozen Chosen, we are commonly called) would have to raise their arms above the level of their waists.
Well, who knew?
The incredibly gracious Pentecostals greeted the chosen-frozen Presbyterians with exuberance. And a forgiveness for our frozen-ness that would probably be understood only by people like the survivors of the Charleston massacre.
“Forgiving is not forgetting,” Bishop Jackson said. “We have little control over what we remember or what we forget.” But he reminded the uniquely mixed group that it is wise to remember “the wrong that harbors no malice.”
There was a great deal of praise music – hands waving, or for the more frozen, clapping, higher than the level of one’s waist. There was some extraordinary dancing by three costumed young Grace Tabernacle women. There was talk about the burden of unforgiveness. And there were parting words of the sort that will bring exactly the change and reconciliation Dylann Roof (for whose immortal soul a lot of great Americans are praying) sought to prevent.
“Thank you,” said John Weems, “for helping us thaw out.”
“We must disconnect,” said Ernest Jackson, “from hatred and racism.
“We are instruments of peace.”
One can only hope.
Master storyteller David McCullough, touring with his new book, entertained an unabashedly admiring San Francisco audience recently with stories historical, literary and political. Including more than a few stories about the Wright brothers, Wilbur and Orville, subjects of his latest literary achievement.
McCullough was interviewed – to the extent that anyone needs to provide a launch for a McCullough commentary – by Roy Eisenhardt for a City Arts & Lectures event. To McCullough’s story about The Little Engine That Could being the most important book he’s read – “I kept saying ‘I think I can, I think I can’’’ – Eisenhardt remarked, “I think you did.”
So far in his career – and he gives no indication of retiring any time soon – McCullough has won two Pulitzer prizes (for Truman and John Adams), two National Book Awards and the Presidential Medal of Freedom. But it is his down-home, one-of-us persona that wins over audiences (and readers) and provides the unshakable foundation for his comments and stories. Following are a few from the City Arts & Lectures event:
Another favorite childhood book was Robert Lawson’s Ben and Me, “the true story of Benjamin Franklin as told by his friend, Amos the mouse.” Though Amos lived in Ben Franklin’s house, McCullough explained, he left 25 siblings back home in Christ Church. “I wondered if their relatives weren’t still there. And every time I go to Christ Church I wonder if they’re not somewhere behind those walls.”
The motivation for his first book, The Johnstown Flood published in 1968, came from happening upon an extensive collection of photos of the event. He was struck by the fact that “it was an entirely preventable tragedy, caused by human actions,” and by what he could discover through looking deeply into the photos. McCullough said he had been fortunate to know many great writers when he was at Yale, including Thornton Wilder. “If you want to write a book,” Wilder had told him, “write a book you’d want to read.” Looking closely at the Johnstown flood photos, McCullough said, “I thought there had been a lot of bad books about it, and I wanted to write a good book – a book I’d want to read.” Judging by its thousands of enthusiastic reviews, and the fact that it is still selling nearly 50 years after publication, a lot of others seem to have found McCullough’s Johnstown Flood a book they want to read.
A few McCullough observations on literature and life:
How does one become a writer? “Start writing. And thinking. John Adams sometimes in his diaries would simply make a one-line entry: ‘At home, thinking.’ Imagine anybody doing that today?”
About Wilbur and Orville Wright’s achievements despite having only three (Orville) and four (Wilbur) years high school education? “They grew up in a home which encouraged and stimulated intellectual curiosity.” Reading the classics that filled the home amounted to what McCullough terms a liberal arts education. “There are over 1,000 letters (written among the Wright brothers and family members) and it is humbling to read those letters. Not only were the brothers brilliant, they were superbly educated.”
Is there anything about American law and politics you would change? “The role of big money has become a disgrace. It is rank corruption. I think of Harry Truman. After he left office, he would never accept a fee for making a speech or serving on a board because it would be a disgrace to the office of president. When the Kennedy campaign announced they were having a dinner to raise money, Truman said, ‘There goes democracy.’”
After lamenting the fact of political fundraising dinners with $50,000 price tags, McCullough closed the San Francisco event by leaning forward in his chair and addressing the audience with a mix of righteous indignation and urgency: “We need someone who will lift the American spirit,” he said; “don’t you agree?”
He got a responsive standing ovation.