Dear Santa (4th of four) -- flash fiction

This is Dee's fourth and final letter written in 2015

Dear Santa,

Happy almost Christmas!

I know you must be as tired as I am. It’s three o’clock in the morning here and I’m at the hospital with Becca and Thurman. You remember, my daughter and her family are staying with me while their fire-damaged house is being repaired.

Thurman was in the middle of responding to a burglary-in-progress when Becca went into labor. He met us at the hospital all out of breath and worried that he’d missed everything. The man’s done this three times already. You’d think he’d know it’s going to take a while.

The nurses say everything is going normally and we should have a new baby girl. Soon, they say. They always say that. I’m seriously considering going home to get some rest.

Before we left I woke Rodney. Rodney, of the umpteen rabbits in the basement. We left him in charge of the kids. I explained the situation. He promised French toast for the kids, rolled over, and went back to sleep. He’s tired, too.

He’s been accepted in culinary school. He’s a little old maybe, but like his father always said, better late, than later. I miss Marvin. He had a way with words. Sometimes the three years since he’s been gone seem like forever. And sometimes when Rodney smiles just a certain way or Becca rolls her eyes, it seems like yesterday that their daddy was holding my hand and telling me things would work out.

We’ve had the tree up for a while, and we’ve been putting a few presents under it as we go along. It’s an endless fascination for the children. They’re good about not bothering the packages. As much as it surprises me, I have to say the Labradors have been good about not bothering them, too. It all looks so pretty – blinking lights, shiny ornaments, and the star on top.

My favorite ornaments are the ones the children made. I’ve still got Rodney's and Becca’s little Rudolph the Reindeers from when they were in the toddler class at church. You know, with the little red pom-pom noses and googly eyes. Then the ones with their school pictures pasted on. Most of the glitter has come off of those. Thank goodness.

And now we’ve got ornaments the grandchildren made.

In fact, we spent most of the morning yesterday around the dining table drawing and cutting and pasting while Rodney tried out a recipe for shepherd’s pie. He likes to get a head start on whatever his next project is. I guess cooking classes are no different.

Jerry – he’s the eight-year-old grandchild – is very creative. I never thought about Spiderman riding in a sleigh, but he looks almost natural. Despite the odd angle of his legs. At least his mask is red. Mostly.

I think five-year-old Maggie is going to be our engineer. She pasted as many strips of paper as I would cut making the longest paper chain I’ve ever seen. And she doesn’t limit her links to traditional colors or designs. I don’t think I have an intact magazine left in the house.

At almost ten, Michael is the wise, elder brother. He worked diligently with a plastic Crèche kit, defending it against any assistance from his younger siblings. He did let Maggie put the Baby Jesus in the manger. And Jerry added a battered pick-up he called Mater. From the Disney film Cars, but I'm sure you already knew that. Sometimes I wonder if movies aren’t too easily available to children these days. What with DVDs and Netflix.

Then again, I do think it’s better for them to watch those at home than for their parents to drop them at the movie theater for the afternoon. At least there’s more parental supervision this way.

Not that they get enough of that at my house. 

Sometime after putting the Baby Jesus in the little plastic manger, Maggie disappeared. None of us missed her until a rabbit emerged from the open basement door. Luckily Thurman had just gotten up. He’s working graveyards. He saw Rocky’s ears perk up. The young Labrador had spotted the rabbit. Thurman shouted “Stay!” stopping all of us in our tracks. Including the rabbit. Thurman got the dogs out the back door and Michael caught the wayward bunny.

Rodney plunged down the stairs, his flour-dusted apron flapping around his legs. There were rabbits everywhere. Maggie sat in the middle of my bed petting my wide-eyed cat Cleo with one hand and a full-grown rabbit with the other.

After the boys lifted rabbits into their cages and Rodney latched the cage doors securely, the smoke alarm went off upstairs.

Poor Rodney. Smoke billowed from the oven. He turned the oven off and the exhaust fan on high while I flapped a tea towel at the smoke alarm. I would like to say tranquility was restored but Becca came in from work and Thurman made Maggie tell her mother what she’d done. The tale was told amid great sobs and the child was put in time-out while her brothers and Uncle Rodney made a trip to the Colonel’s for chicken.

After a late dinner, Thurman went to work and the rest of us went to bed. I'd only gotten a couple hours of sleep when Becca woke me to take her to the hospital. So here I am. Waiting on our new baby girl.

Drive safely Christmas Eve. I’ll be thinking of you.

Your friend,

Dee

P.S. Thurman just came out to tell me it’s a boy. We all thought it was a girl. The doctor said the baby was shy and they couldn’t see the hangy-down bit on the ultrasound. He said it happens sometimes. Wonder if they'll put him in those pretty little pink things they got at the baby shower. 

P.P.S. They named him Marvin.

P.P.P.S. If you’re not busy Saturday, we’re having a few friends in for a post-Christmas dinner and you’re welcome to come. Rodney is fixing rabbit.

Dear Santa (3rd of four) -- Flash Fiction

This is Dee's third letter to Santa originally written in 2015

Dear Santa,

It’s me again. Dee. You know, the 53-year-old widow living with her son, pregnant daughter, son-in-law, two grandsons, a granddaughter, two Black Labs, a cat, and umpteen rabbits.

I’m still sleeping in the basement which used to be very nice. Well, it still would be nice if it weren’t for the rabbits. Rodney assures me that the smell will not saturate the walls and flooring. The floors are quarry tile. Marvin, my late husband, chose the flooring because he thought it would withstand just about anything that could happen to it. Though I doubt he considered the possibility of rabbits.

Friday was the last day of school before Christmas break. I must have been mad to volunteer to watch the kids while Becca and Thurman are at work. Becca plans to work until she starts labor. I’m glad they’re expecting another girl. Then they’ll have two boys and two girls.

They’re having trouble scheduling contractors to repair their house. The holidays, and all that.

Maybe you remember that Thurman is a cop. He planned to take care of the children while Becca works, but he works all kinds of hours. Mostly while the children sleep, so he needs to sleep while they’re awake. I’m not sure how I’m going to manage.

I thought Rodney – my son, the one with the rabbits – would help. He quit his job. Said he just didn’t fit in. He doesn’t mind cooking for all of us and he’s good at it. But Saturday morning and all day yesterday with me and the kids and the critters was enough to get him job-hunting.

Not that I’m complaining. I know it’s temporary. Lots of grandparents don’t get to spend time with their grandchildren. Marvin would have loved the full house. Dogs, kids, and all. He was a dear, sweet man, but I don’t know how he would have felt about the rabbits.

Michael – that’s the oldest grandson – he’s almost ten and plays the violin. Luckily most days are nice enough he can practice outside on the deck. I don’t know what the neighbors think. Jerry – the next grand – is eight and has just started the violin which means he’s still playing on a tissue box with a paper towel tube for a neck. Learning to hold it properly, they say. Thank goodness for small mercies.

And Maggie, dear little Maggie. She’s five and very bright. She wants to know everything. But if I hear “Why, Grandma?” one more time, I’m going to lock myself in with the rabbits until New Years.

Cleo, my cat, hasn’t been upstairs since I rescued her from the dogs that first day. Truth be told, Becca rescued both of us. Not that the dogs are bad dogs. No one could expect a dog to overlook being attacked by a hissing, spitting monster.

If the kids slept as much as the dogs do, I’d be more rested. After Maggie’s nap, we went to the park. We had to walk the dogs anyway. I took Buddy. He’s like me. He appreciates peace and quiet. Michael was in charge of his little sister and I figured Jerry could keep up with Rocky. Maybe tire them both out.

At less than a year old Rocky is bigger than most grown dogs. But he’s still a rowdy pup. He tries to mind. You can tell. The way he looks at you knowing he won’t get permission to do whatever it is he longs for.

Our parks are well-used, especially on sunny days. Meredith, who lives two streets over was there with her daughter Meghan and their great lug of a dog named Bruno. Meghan is most likely on your “good child” list. I’m sure Bruno is good, too. He looks like a cross between a St. Bernard and a Great Dane – too much hair and too big.

Louise Fenton was there with her little Dachshund Mac. Louise always looks so nice, full make-up and coiffed, just to walk her dog.

When I stopped to talk to her, I guess Mac thought Buddy was too close to his Mistress and she needed protecting. He screamed and went for Buddy. (I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a dog make a sound like that.)

Buddy and I were shocked. Rocky apparently thought the Dachshund was attacking us – which I fully believed, myself. He came across the playground at a dead run, dragging Jerry behind him. He charged under the swing Maggie was in and tipped her out onto the ground. Jerry lost hold of Rocky’s leash when he crashed into Michael who was trying to catch Maggie.

Poor Buddy pulled back on his leash trying to stay away from Mac. I guess with Rocky bearing down on him, that Dachshund felt the need to run. His leash was around Louise’s ankles when he ran between Bruno’s legs. And then Louise was on the ground with me standing over her holding tight to Buddy’s leash so he wouldn’t join Rocky in the chase.

Bruno pulled free from Meredith and knocked poor little Meghan down. Now, there were two little girls crying. And Jerry was screaming at Rocky.

As big as Bruno is, I doubt that he’d ever felt the need to be fierce. He must have felt threatened or he’d never have attacked Buddy.

There I was hanging on to Buddy’s leash for dear life. Because I wouldn’t let go, Buddy couldn’t get away from Bruno. He had to fight back. But I knew if I let go, I’d have no control of either dog.

You’re never supposed to get in the middle of a dog fight. I knew that, but what could I do? I jerked on Buddy’s leash and pulled him away enough to thrust my hip in Bruno’s face and get between them. The minute I got between them, they stopped fighting.

Forgetting that he wanted to defend Buddy from Mac (the crazed Dachshund) Rocky ran away from the commotion toward the street with Jerry hot after him. Such screeching and honking, you’ve never heard. I can’t imagine what good those idiot drivers thought they’d do honking at a dog and a boy plunging into the street. Luckily, the cars got stopped before they ran down my grandson and his dog.

That Dachshund sat there as calm as could be watching the whole thing. Like none of it had anything to do with him.

Hope your day went better than mine. I think I may have pulled something in my right side.

Tomorrow is bound to be better.

Hopefully yours,

Dee 

Dear Santa (2nd of four) -- Flash Fiction

Here's Dee's second Letter to Santa originally written in 2015.

Dear Santa,

   It’s me again. Dee, the woman from the Thanksgiving Day parade. My son moved home and my daughter’s having a baby, remember? Well, Becca's not having a baby right now, but maybe by the time you get this letter.

Becca and her husband Thurman had a setback. Thurman’s a policeman. Very nice man. Becca’s a loan officer at the credit union. Anyway, their house caught fire. Thank goodness no one was hurt and the house didn’t burn to the ground. But there was extensive smoke and water damage, so it looks like it’ll be after Christmas before they can move back in.

Marvin – you remember my husband that died three years ago on Black Friday? I do miss that man. He had no idea how much we’d need the basement. The kids being grown and gone by the time he got around to it. I just thank goodness he put in the bedrooms and bath. My cat Cleo and I are in the front bedroom down there. Rodney – you remember my son? The one with the rabbits? He’s in the back bedroom.

I let Becca and Thurman have my bedroom upstairs and their two boys have the other upstairs bedroom. Maggie, my five-year-old granddaughter, is sleeping in my sewing room on the futon. That’s upstairs, too. So Becca’s family is all upstairs.

And their two Labradors.

Cleo wasn’t best pleased when the dogs moved in. We had quite a rodeo. They didn’t know much about cats. I guess Cleo decided to indoctrinate them right from the get-go. She bowed up and hissed and spit at Buddy. He’s the old dog. Poor thing. He wasn’t sure how to act, but then she slapped him – claws out – right across the muzzle. He wasn’t having that at all. And the chase was on.

Becca may be pregnant out to here, but she reacted immediately, plunging headlong after Buddy. The younger dog Rocky cowered against Thurman’s legs and tripped him when he tried to help Becca. Their two boys laughed to high heaven and Maggie screamed like she was the one being chased.

I was so shocked, I just stood there watching the cat, the dog, and the pregnant girl. Through the living room into the dining room, then the kitchen and back into the living room. Cleo must have recognized me as some kind of King’s X. Her second time around she ran right up me. Thank goodness Becca grabbed Buddy’s collar before he climbed up me, too.

Cleo’s staying pretty much in the basement now. We have to keep the door closed to the storeroom where the rabbits are. I don’t know if she’d hurt them, but she certainly paid them a lot of attention, so I’d rather be safe than sorry.

You know, even with Rodney changing their litter every day, it’s pretty ripe down there. I asked him what he plans to do with those rabbits. He said he’s not sure.

We don’t really need anything. The insurance gave Becca and Thurman some money to replace some of the necessities. They’d already bought most of their Christmas presents and were hiding them at his mother’s house. So come Christmas Eve, the kids will still have a nice visit from you.

Thurman’s mother has a nice house. They’d have stayed with her, but she’s the nervous sort and they were afraid the three kids would be too much for her.

We went to the thrift store and got a bassinet, some linens, and clothes for the baby when she gets here. It’s a girl, did I tell you? They’re going to name her Sylvia after Thurman's mother. I guess that's okay.

I know you’re busy – and heaven knows I am too – so will sign off for now.

Sincerely,

Dee

Letters to Santa (1st of four) -- Flash Fiction

In 2015 I wrote this series of four letters to Santa -- all flash fiction.

They will be reposted on consecutive days. Enjoy.

Dear Santa,

    I saw you in the Thanksgiving Day parade yesterday. You looked right at me. I was between 14^th and 15^th Streets. In front of the Silver Spoon. You have such kind eyes. 

You probably think I’m too old to be writing to Santa. Maybe I am. But 53 isn’t so very old.

Anyway, my husband Marvin died three years ago today. Ironic isn’t it, him dying on Black Friday.

Rodney’s moved back in. He’s my son. Thirty-two years old. His wife served him with papers last Monday. Pretty cold-hearted to do that Thanksgiving Week, don’t you think? Still, it is nice to have the boy home again. He made the Thanksgiving turkey. The whole dinner, actually – green bean casserole, dressing, stuffed celery. And three pies. Apple, pumpkin, and pecan. Marvin always liked pumpkin. My favorite is strawberry-rhubarb, but never mind.

I thought Jennifer was a nice young woman. She just didn’t appreciate Rodney’s financial ventures. Adventures, more like. Not long after they married, he went in with a friend raising ostriches. You know, the birds. Turns out the people already in the business were selling breeding stock and dreams of wealth. They convinced people that there would be a market for the meat and hides. It never developed and Rodney got stuck with the birds. Those birds will eat anything. One of them knocked my sunglasses off and swallowed them before I could pick them up. I covered the vet bill since it was sort of my fault.

I’m glad the zoo agreed to take them. Abandoning them in the national forest just didn’t seem right.

Then Rodney bought gold when it was at its height. And there was that land in New Mexico. The photos were beautiful. Mountain scenery. But no access and no water. I’m not sure what he intended to do with it.

But the boy’s always worked. It’s not like he spent her money on any of these, shall we say, investments. I think she objected to the way he works, too. He can’t seem to stay with a job very long. He was at that investments counselling place the longest. Good money, but his heart just wasn’t in it.

I don’t think the girl was pleased with him raising rabbits either. He brought the rabbits to my house when he came home – two does and their litters. I’m not sure how many babies there are, but their eyes are open and they’ve got hair. Or is it fur? They are so cute.

I know my Home Owners’ Association probably has some rule against keeping rabbits, but he’s got them in the basement so nobody will ever know. I’m glad Marvin had the foresight to finish that basement.

We do have some good news. My daughter Becca is expecting. A little girl, due in a couple of weeks give or take. You know how that goes. Anyway, hopefully by Christmas. That’ll make four for her.

It's just as well that Rodney and Jennifer didn’t have any children. Under the circumstances.

You may think I’m crazy, but I’m going to mail this. I’m not really expecting any response. I would have written to Marvin, but that seemed wrong somehow, him being dead and all. I just needed someone to talk to.

Very truly yours,

Dee

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood -- A Review

Tom Hanks and the real Mr. Rogers

This is absolutely the best movie I have seen in years. It is beautiful. It is a great relief to know that the real world is not limited to what we see in the news or in too many movies or on television. Like the real Mr. Rogers, this movie helps. 

First of all, let's be clear about this: This is NOT a children's movie. It celebrates imagination. It has music and lyrics, but it is not escapist entertainment. There is violence seen and unseen, but it is not a shock-and-awe noise fest. There is goodness and light, but as with real goodness and light, there is pain and shadow.

It is also not a biopic about Mr. Rogers. That's why Tom Hanks has been nominated for a Golden Globe as Best Supporting Actor. That and the fact that he does a really good job being Mr. Rogers.

Oh dear, oh dear. There is so much I would tell you about this movie. But, it truly is best if you see it for yourself. The writers Micah Fitzerman-Blue and Noah Harpster and director Marielle Heller have given us the great gift of a movie that is innovative, relevant, inspiring. It uses silences, music, thoughtfully slow-speed pacing, and our own memories to move us through anger to hope. Hollywood can make an artistically sound movie.

This is Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. And just like the real Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood you venture into reality through the Neighborhood of Make Believe. Pittsburgh, PA is beautifully portrayed by scale models, as is New York City, and, of course, Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. There's Mr. Rogers' house. Remember it? The little one at the end of the street. Just as it was when you visited it as a child. Or, if you are like me, when you visited it with your child.

The movie begins "Hello, Neighbor." Mr. Rogers introduces us to his neighbor Lloyd Vogel.

This is Lloyd Vogel's story. He is an investigative reporter for Esquire magazine. (Which by-the-bye, you'll get to see how a magazine is made. This is, after all, Mr. Rogers' neighborhood. Remember when he took us to a graham cracker factory and showed us how graham crackers were made. And one time it was crayons. And blue jeans. And even zip-up cardigans like he always wore. But I digress.)

Yes, Lloyd Vogel is well-played by Matthew Rhys. He's a hard-bitten reporter looking for the truth about his subject. The real truth. The sordid underbelly truth. Having grown up in a dysfunctional family (Didn't we all, in our own family's way?) Vogel comes to his perceptions logically.  

But Lloyd Vogel's editor gives him an assignment -- profile Mr. Rogers for a series Esquire is running on American heroes. I would tell you why she chose to assign Mr. Rogers to Lloyd, but better you should discover it in the movie. It does make for some very funny moments as the cynical reporter tries to deal with the real Mr. Rogers. Oh the looks on Lloyd's face!

 And evocative moments when Mr. Rogers speaks to us, individually.

What's new in his life that sets Lloyd Vogel on this path with Mr. Rogers? Besides the work assignment, that is. His father comes back into his life. If that's not enough, Lloyd has a new baby. A new baby to whom Lloyd is giving an equal opportunity to grow up in a dysfunctional family. 

The overarching theme of the movie is Forgiveness, perhaps one of the hardest feelings to achieve. And feelings were what Mr. Rogers' life's work was spent helping us learn to deal with.

Feel free to sing along!

     "What do you do with the mad that you feel
     When you feel so mad you could bite?
     When the whole wide world seems oh, so wrong...
     And nothing you do seems very right?"

Or

     "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

     A beautiful day for a neighbor
     Would you be mine?
     Could you be mine?
     Won't you be my neighbor?"

Mr. Rogers, we love you, just the way you were.

Leadership: An Essay

Our World, Our Home

There are some books worth reading more than once. At least they're worth it to me. One is Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series. I know, I know. I've mentioned it before. It's a fourteen volume fantasy series, the volumes ranging from 681 pages to 912 pages with so many named characters and so many invented terms that each is followed by an extensive appendix of names and terms. It's not everyone's cup of tea.

Here is basically what it is. It is an epic telling a Good vs. Evil story. It has heroes, both male and female. It has villains, both male and female. It is a world of discrete nations and many distinct and identifiable cultures with their various concepts of honor and appropriate behavior. This world and the Wheel of Time were established by the Creator. The world and the Wheel of Time were endangered by The Dark One once before. He was defeated and imprisoned by a previous Dragon. Now in this new age, The Dark one is breaking out of his prison and again threatening the world and the Wheel of Time. The Wheel of Time has spun out a new hero, The Dragon Reborn. He must bring the disparate factions of the world together to meet The Dark One and his forces of evil at Tarmon Gai'don, the final battle. If the good guys lose it will mean the end of the world and the end of the Wheel of Time. The ultimate end of all.

There are small slices and great swaths of wisdom throughout the books. Wisdom that easily applies to our world and the age we live in.

The White Tower is an institution of powerful women led by their Amyrlin Seat. During the course of the story, it is taken over by a tyrannical Amyrlin and is divided. The rebel faction chooses their own Amyrlin, Egwene al'Vere. Her story arc rises to its climax in Book 12,  The Gathering Storm.

Egwene unites the White Tower and is raised Amyrlin Seat of the unified Tower. As Amyrlin she chastises the loyalist members of the Hall of the Tower.

     "You are a disgrace. The White Tower--the pride of the Light, the power for stability and
       truth since the Age of Legends--has nearly been shattered because of you," she says.

Egwene continues,
     "Elaida [the former Amyrlin] was a madwoman, and you all know it! You knew it
       these last few months as she worked unwittingly to destroy us. Light many of you
       probably knew it when you raised her in the first place!

    "There have been foolish Amyrlins before, but none have come as close to tearing down
      the entire Tower! You are a check upon the Amyrlin. You are to keep her from doing
      things like this!

     "You dare call yourself the Hall of the Tower? [the Aes Sedai's legislative body]  You
       who were cowed? You who were too frightened to do what was needed? You who
       were too caught up in your own squabbles and politicking to see what was needed?"

In the United States, we too, have a government that depends on its constitutional checks and balances to assure good leadership. Our leaders do not rule, they must "Lead by presence instead of force, uniting instead of dividing." -- Siuan Sanche Sedai, supporter of Egwene Sedai, Amyrlin Seat.

Our Congress has the same responsibilities as the Hall of the Tower. And we, as citizens, are responsible to hold our representatives to account.

A Day in Court -- Nonfiction

Jefferson County Courthouse

The courthouse is rather impressive, doncha think. You can see why the locals call it the Taj Mahal.

As you may recall from a post back in March Luck of the Draw, I was summoned to serve as a juror in our local County Court. As it turned out, I called the court as ordered and my number was well within the range stated by the recorded message. Lucky me.

The summons required that we be there by 8 a.m. explaining that the courthouse opens at 7:30.

They warned that parking would be limited due to ongoing repair work and recommended that we take public transportation -- a welcome excuse to ride the light rail. Checking the light rail's schedule online. I planned leave home at 6:45 to be at the station by 7 then catch the train at 7:15 and arrive at the courthouse by 7:24. So about 40 minutes. The courthouse is maybe 20 minutes from my house, if I drove. But this was to be an adventure. I wanted nothing so mundane as driving my car when I could take the light rail.

Having been retired for a number of years I'd gotten used to not wearing business attire and makeup which means I'd forgotten how long it takes to "get ready" to go. I thought I'd gotten up in plenty of time.

After worrying about what to wear, I'd settled on black pants and a teal, long-sleeved shirt. Dark enough to be serious, but not severe. And my Washington, D.C. shoes.

I bought those shoes almost six years ago to wear on a vacation trip to D.C. I wanted them to wear when I visited some of the churches. They're black sandals made by New Balance so they're intended for walking and D.C. is definitely a walking town. In addition to NOT being sneakers, they're almost closed-toed, so they meet my standard for "respectful." Long story short -- I forgot to take them on that vacation.

Well, I ran out of time to get ready, so my husband kindly put my breakfast in a plastic container. I put my mascara and lipstick in my purse and off I went. The sun was just coming up while I waited for the train. It was a beautiful morning, clear and cold.

At the courthouse, there were hundreds of people in line waiting to get into the jury gathering room. Hundreds! All with their summons in one hand and various bags and books and the necessaries we arm ourselves with for planned days of waiting. The people were all ages, all ethnicities, and many different levels of physical fitness including a man with a walker and on oxygen.


I needn't have worried about what I was wearing. Or makeup. There were people dressed to the nines -- men in suits, women in dresses and heels and professionally coiffed. There were men and women in jeans and t-shirts or sweatshirts. Footwear ran the gamut from shiny dress shoes to sneakers to well-worn work boots.




No flip flops, but even being March in Colorado with patches of snow left from the last storm, there could have been. Coloradans are a hardy lot. (This was the view looking toward the foothills from the courthouse that day.)

                                                                              

The people around me knew as little about what we were doing as I did. We didn't know what kinds of trials were held in this court. Or how many were on the docket for this jury pool. Or what kind of food would be available in the cafeteria. (I was just relieved to hear there was a cafeteria in the courthouse.) But we all agreed we probably had little chance of being chosen for a jury.

As we filed into the gathering room, we turned in the portion of the summons which we had completed with our names, addresses, if we had family in law-enforcement, if we had ever served on a jury, and if we ourselves had ever been involved in a court case.

There, they explained how it all works. They use three-person juries for civil cases, six-person juries for more complex civil cases and some criminal cases, and twelve-person juries for more serious criminal cases.

We would be called by name and follow a bailiff  to our assigned courtroom. If we were then NOT chosen for the jury, we would be told whether to return to the gathering room or we would be released and could go home. Whether or not we were chosen for a jury, this would meet our responsibility for jury service for this calendar year.

My name was called next to last of the first 20. Then in the courtroom I was in the first group of twelve to be installed in the jury box. Six of us would be impaneled. If they decided not to keep six from this initial twelve, they'd call up more from our original 20.

They explained that this would be a criminal case which gave me pause. The prosecution and the defense, each then described to us various scenarios involving whether or not we thought we could tell if someone was drunk or under the influence of drugs by their behavior or speech

My husband had said "they don't want smart people on the jury." I pooh-poohed that. But maybe he right. The first to be excused was a high school science teacher. Then a woman who said she had an in-law who drank too much and she could tell when he was drunk. Then a nineteen-year-old who said he'd been arrested for Driving Under the Influence and he didn't think he'd been treated fairly by the court.

Then there was a member of the ski patrol. Being from Oklahoma, the ski patrol seemed quite exotic. They provide medical and rescue services to injured skiers. He had some kind of medical certification. He explained that it was necessary to determine if alcohol or other drugs were involved before providing emergency medical care to an injured skier. He was excused.

It became clear pretty early on that whatever the case was, it involved alcohol or other drugs. I was one of the chosen to serve -- three women and three men. At 71, I was the oldest and the only retiree.

The youngest was a 21-year-old woman who worked at a department store and had the most amazing fingernails. Quite long and each had sparkly bits and ornaments. Beautiful, but how in the world could she put lotion in all those nooks and crannies in her ears. Colorado is so dry, ears get crusty without moisturizer.

The rest were a mix of business people.

Our case was Driving Under the Influence. The defendant had refused the proffered blood test and relinquished his driver's license for a year. They had not offered him a breathalyzer test. The prosecution's only witness was the arresting officer. The officer's descriptions of what had happened and where seemed unlikely, given that it was rush hour and we jurors were very familiar with that stretch of I-70. There's no way the officer could have seen the traffic pattern he described from where he was getting on the highway. The defendant's explanation of what happened and his witness's testimony were much more reasonable. I don't know why the prosecution had pursued the case.









Not guilty. Case closed. Back to the light rail. That's Green Mountain behind the light rail station and my house is just on the other side of the mountain.