My Neighbor is Dead. Am I a Suspect?

If you have been reading my blog, you know about the fix I am in. I, an adequate but not terrific writer, moved into an isolated ELYSIAN house isolated from the distractions of life-- or so I thought. While I was dreaming of Best Sellers or Pulitzers or Nobels I had an ill-natured conflict with my young neighbors. The young wife's death by drowning in my pond is being investigated by local authorities. Ordered to 'remain in the jurisdiction', I have been for days more alone than I had ever imagined. The one soul offering me friendship -- even going with me for police interrogation-- was Jennifer. (For complete details read the two previous blogs.)

Now a Continuation.

The solitude sought and cherished last week reshaped itself into a sentence of solitary confinement. My days, filled with worry, followed by nights of sleepless tossing and jolting dreams when finally I do sleep have taken on a Sisyphean aspect.

The solitude I sought! Access to my pond free from the church-glazed judgment of my young neighbors! Gone now as was Harold, the young husband who had moved to the house of his father-in law, the preacher whose church I had dismissed as a nuisance.

Solitude is good only when it it is chosen. Never if it is imposed. I had neither seen nor heard from Jennifer, my only friend in this god imprisoned neighborhood since the 'don't leave the jurisdiction' pronouncement. The burden of once hoped for solitude, now hated, responded only temporarily to drink. Mt writing goal of ten pages a day fell prey to too much wine, too little food and sleep, no human interaction. Lack of real life interactions can be tolerated so long as I have the vicarious interaction with the characters of my stories. But they too had abandoned me.

Thus two days later  it was with a blood rush and racing heartbeat that I spotted Jennifer down the aisle of  FOOD TIME. With quickened step I drew my cart beside hers. "Hello, my only supporter."

"Connie, I wasn't  sure you were still around."  Her eyes never met mine; there was no smile.

"Really?" I tried to read her demeanor. "I'm still confined to 'the jurisdiction'."

In a small and shaky voice she said, "I'd forgotten. Any word yet?"

"Not a peep. And I've seen no-one. Not even Harold."

"He's with his in-laws. The funeral was day before yesterday."

"You went?"

"Yes, it seemed the right thing to do."

"Do you know if there's any word on the autopsy?" The conversation had gone from uncomfortable to intolerable.

"Just drowning is all I've heard. No way of knowing how it happened. It would have helped if you or Harold had witnessed it." she shrugged. "But--" she hesitated. "neither of you did. We may never know just what happened."

                *                           *                              *                                   *

Later at  home with my scant supply of groceries and adequate supply of wine put away Jennifer's cold, almost hostile, nature played over and over  in  memory. At one point I burst into laughter as the Wordsworth poem pushed into my thoughts.

                                            For oft, when on couch I lie                  
                                            in vacant or in pensive mood.
                                            They flash upon the inward eye
                                            which is the bliss of solitude.

But not the dancing daffodils-- the grassy bank of my pond. Not blissful after that first week-- likely never blissful again. I had to leave this place. What was to be my Eden, conducive to a burst of productivity, had turned into a life sucking prison. I must call the sheriff and find out were matters stood.  And I would.  I would call the sheriff-- tomorrow. I uncorked a bottle of wine.

More of CONSIDERING MURDER

Carti has blown her chance. She told me to take some time and space to work on my writing. I have not asked her if she is ready to share with us. I have gotten turned on with solving the murder of Amy Hayes.

Thus the third installment, but as turns out not the last.

                          

                                                     CONSIDERING MURDER

                                                                    Part 3

The pounding on my door jarred me from a deep sleep. The sunlight not streaming through my east facing window told me I had overslept. 11:30 my clock said.

‘Come by this afternoon or tomorrow morning’, the policeman had said.

The pounding at the door—louder and more urgent. The police no doubt. I exchanged my scanty shorts for my hole filled Levis and ran my fingers through my hair. Opening the door I sighed with relief. Jennifer Collins. “Good, it’s you.”

“How endearing. And I brought you more bread, cinnamon buns. May I come in?”

“Yeah. Sure. Sorry but I overslept. I’m supposed to be at the police station. I think I might be in trouble.”

Over coffee and her bread we discussed the events of yesterday or as she phrased it--  my situation. “You know what’s happened”, I asked.

She assured me the whole neighborhood knew what had happened. “And all the facts.”

“And the facts are what?”

”You likely did it.” I could not sort my fear from my anger from my confusion. “You did call her a little bitch. According to Harold ‘a fucking little bitch’. And everybody knows she took you to court.”

“I’m in deep shit trouble, aren’t I?”

Her grin softened into a warm smile. “Trouble anyhow. Want me to go with you to the police?”

“I don’t want to drag you into this mess.”

“I’m in it. We’re having an affair. Didn’t you know? I take that as an insult. All my other lovers have known. Come on. Change your clothes. You can’t go in those horrid jeans. And let’s go.”

                                                             *                      *                      *    

With Jennifer at my side I gave to the receptionist the properly written statement of my activities of the day of the EVENT-  as they called  it. “Don’t go yet,” the receptionist said, “Sherriff Marlings wants to interview you.  Just wait over there and I’ll tell him you’re ready.”

An overweight man, whose shirt gaped between buttons, whose face was puffy and red  came in. He extended his hand which I cautiously took and gave what surely was a wimpy handshake. “Mr.  Murdock, isn’t it?” He did not wait for an answer. “I just have a few questions before you go. Shall we go somewhere more private?”

He led the way. I followed him. Jennifer followed me. “I’m not sure we need the little woman. You two close?”

Without hesitation Jennifer said, “Yes, in fact we are. Very close.”

“I see,” he said. “And what do you know about this matter?”

“Only what I have heard. And that is quite a lot, not all of which sounds plausible.”

As it turned out his questions were simple and shallow. Nothing not covered by the police yesterday, or the statement I had just written. After a good hour of repeated and re-repeated questions, he said, “Well Mr. Murdock, you’re free to go. Do not leave the jurisdiction without informing us until this matter is cleared up. We’ll be in touch."

Cartimandua Insists She Needs More Time.

Cartimandua is being difficult. She insists she needs more time and refuses to do anything just yet. So my story continues. This is Part 2 of CONSIDERING MURDER.
                                 

                                                                                                                 

Amy.Hayes was dead.

Drowned in my pond, whose bank belonged to her.
  

So I learned on my return from my trek into town to stock up on food and wine for what would be my self imposed writing stint.

On my return home I watched events unfold. One by one the vehicles left. Two state police cars, a sheriff’s car and an ambulance.

One car stayed behind. One car: two policemen. The questions began.

“You left exactly when?” the stockier and older of the two asked.

I shrugged. Rarely did I have to remember exactly when I left my house. “8 or 8:30. I didn’t exactly notice.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary before you left?”

“Like what? I saw a deer in the field below the house. That’s not exactly out of the ordinary.”

“When did you last see Mr. or Mrs Hayes?”

“Last week sometime. Thursday I think it was. They came by asking if I had seen their little dog. He had gotten out the day before and they hadn’t seen him since.”

“Which one came by?”

“The wife.”

“Any harsh words between you?”

Their demeanor seemed more accusative than inquisitive. “No, I told her if I saw the dog I would call her. I got her phone number, and she left.”

The silence as they both made notes in their little notebooks was unnerving. I am sure very little time passed, but it seemed like minutes. “How did it happen?” I asked.

.“Looks like she slipped on the bank. It’s muddy still from the past three days rain.  Likely she hit her head on something, fell into the water and drowned.”

“When?”

“Don’t know yet. How deep is the pond?”

“I don’t really know. Deep enough for swimming.”

The two looked at each other. The younger nodded and the older asked, “When were you last swimming?”

“Last week, the day before the rain started.”

First one, then the other, put away their notebooks. The younger and smaller who had said nothing yet spoke. “We will have more questions. Could you come by the station and write out a statement? This afternoon or tomorrow morning. Thank you Mr. Murdock."

Cartimandua Wants More Time.

Cartimandua says she is not ready to address the man or men in her life. She is not not sure her father is the right person. She has no desire just yet to address her husband who became her political enemy or her lover who had little character.

She suggested I take this space and and share one of my stories. So I will give the beginning of a story I am working on. The end will come later.

                                                         Considering Murder

                                                                    Part 1

I have always been hotheaded. I yell, I scream, I swear. But I never considered murder.

I am a writer. A writer finally successful enough to quit my day job. After two years of looking for my Eden I bought a small house off the beaten path. From the yard I could see nothing in any direction  but what I imagined - the day I bought it- green in spring, deeper green in the summer, a palate of color in the fall. In winter bare limbs peering out from the evergreens

.

The ideal place for solitude. On torrid summer days I could walk my Eden in scant clothing. On some occasions no clothing at all. That was the case on a hot humid day three weeks after I moved in. I had just shed my shorts when from behind the dense pine tree hedge as the back of my house I heard, “Yohoo. Mr. Murdock.”

Scurrying to retrieve the shirt I had hung on a tree branch I tied it around my waist.

Pushing their way through the low hanging pine branches the young couple appeared before me. “Welcome to the area,’ the young man said. “I’m Harold Hayes. This is my wife Amy. We live just over there.” He pointed. “It’s not that far, but you can’t see it for the trees.”

Before I could respond he continued, “My wife’s father is the pastor of the church just down the read. We’d like to invite you to join us. 10:00 every Sunday. 7:00 Wednesdays.”

Searching for a proper response which would not reveal my atheism I said, “That’s nice, but I have mu own church.”

“Where?”

“In town. I try to go as often as I can.”

I had not set foot in a church for over ten years—except for weddings and funerals. My evolution- or some might say my degeneration- had led me from my Southern Baptist roots to Methodism to Presbyterianism to Unitarianism and finally to no church but Nature Herself.

Would that that had been the end of my contact with the Hayes. But it was not to be. The following days revealed an open view from their mobile home of the pond below my house. The pond I envisioned perfect for nude swimming. With resentment bordering on hatred I hunted the bikini I brought from a recent trip to Munich.

Harold and Amy – no it was Amy who proved my nemesis. Days after that first encounter and my finding the bikini I met another neighbor. She appeared one morning at my door with bread (freshly baked if my smell was good). “Welcome to the neighborhood”, she said holding out her offering. “According to Amy you are totally lacking in decency. I knew immediately I had to meet you. You may not know that you are not only godless, but most likely licentious. That is not her word. I doubt she knows the word.” Her lips spread; her eyes smiled. “Are you licentious? Or are you just wicked?”

I extended my hand. “I’m Connie Murdock. Connie for Conrad and you're?”

“Jennifer Collins – down the road a quarter of a mile. Yellow house on the left. Married. No children. Not a member of Amy’s church.”

“What a relief.”

“But I’m not as sinful as you. She says you’re downright wicked. Your behavior leaves nothing to the imagination. She wants me to join her in raising objections to your living here. Amid god fearing people. And I assure you I am not the only person she has talked to.”

“What the Hell have I done to offend her? I only met her once.”

“You wear the most scanty pants she has ever seen. Scantier than her husband’s underwear.” Jennifer’s eyes shone.

“That little bitch.”

That little bitch. I should never have uttered those words – then or later on. But I did utter them.

In quite respectable shorts I was weed-whacking the growth around my pond’s edge whe I saw Amy coming my way.

“Mr. Murdock, I don’t mean to be unneighborly, but you are cutting into our land.”

“But this pond in mine – or so I was told when I bought it.”

“So it is. But the line goes – “ She came closer. “Here, let me show you.” She stood not a foot from the edge of my pond. “Right here—straight line from that oak tree over there, through here, to the big pine up there.”

I smiled. “Then I offer my weed-whacking to you free of charge.”

She did not smile. “We’d prefer you don’t mess with our land.”

As she left my pulse raced, my face burned. I admitted I was hot-headed. Never more than at that moment.

“You fucking little bitch,” I said, unaware was still within earshot.

My hope that I could avoid any contact with her was not be realized. Two days later I was not yet dressed when there was a knock at my door. When in hastily donned shorts and shirt opened the door, I found myself fact to face with the Sherriff. “Yes?”

“You’re Conrad Murdock?”

“I have a summons for you to appear in court.

                  *                            *                          *                              *                               *

Neither the lawyer I engaged not the judge I faced showed any concern for my plight. I was sentenced to probation pending refrain from inflammatory remarks to or about the claimant and from wearing inappropriate clothing within view of the claimant.

Now I was really angry. I was seriously considering murder. Far too many people act out of anger before careful planning. I had some careful planning to do. Thus began my entrance into murder.

     

Cartimandua Has Opted To Go Last So Jewellee Will Go

   Cartimandua begs off; her relationship with the men in her life she maintains were less that desirable. Perhaps she will do it when I have finished. That is if I ever do. I realize I have taken much too long.

  This has not been easy for me. Just five months ago P went out of my daily life. Sometimes it seems only yesterday; other times it seems a lifetime. Too many memories, too fresh wounds make concentrating my attention on exactly what I would say an overwhelming task.
   Forced to deal with some house maintenance problems I have been struck by how much you took care. Without much fuss or complaint. A plumbing problem. You did it. Electrical hassle. You handled it. Painting the barn and repairing the roof. You completed it. Mowing the lawn. Your task.
   Now all those tasks have become my responsibility. I handle them as best I can. It's not the same as when you were here.
   As I watch the construction crew work on gutters and soffits I cannot control memories of a time twenty five years ago. If I may steal a line from Tanaquil-- she said her Tarquinius took a mud hut village and made a world power of it.
    You my P did nothing so lofty as create a world power. But you took a shack and made it into a small villa. I remember so well the day we decided to buy our thirty-five acres with its breath taking view of rural scenery. It was wonderfully isolated from the ugly marks of modern building. Except for the shack. On the very heels of my agreeing I burst into tears. "I cannot leave my nice suburban house and move into this jagged shack."
  After laughing at my description you said with such sincerity, "I can make it a house you'll be proud of."

   You took that mud hut shack and made it into a villa, small to be sure but a real life villa. Thank-you. I cherish every moment I look on it and remember the love and care you gave to every nail, every two-by-four, every bucket of paint.

Tanaquil's Letter to Tarquinius

  Why I get second place no one has explained. But I am second. It has taken me some time to get my thoughts corralled. Lucumo was part of my life from that day I tumbled into his lap at the wrestling matches.
  Mother and Father had given me permission to go alone, without the supervision of the slave whose task was to keep me safe from or for something never explained to me.

   My letter to him who stole and held my heart.

   Lucumo, the day we entered the mud hut, mud mentality of that horrid village called Rome we agreed you would never again be Lucumo. Romans liked to think three impressive names was the way to go. That day you became  Lucius Tarquinius Priscus. We agreed you would never again be called Lucumo. But in my most vulnerable moments you always remained Lucumo, the Greek who never quite measured up to Etruscan standards. But you knew, and I knew you were destined to greatness. It was foretold by the eagle on Mount Janiculum; it was your drive, your vision, your ambition that made you what you were, that made Rome what she became.
   We entered that mud hut village. To the north the Etruscan alliance wielded great power. To the southeast Greek colonies thrived with no decline in sight. To the southwest Phoenicians ruled with little challenge. Rome, that mosquito infested land of backward thinking people was at the mercy of three powers, any one of which might one day control the whole area.
   But you set Rome on the road to greatness unequaled for so long, valued for even longer. You my dear unappreciated Greek alien were a nation builder. Julia, Cartimandua and Jewellee will, if asked, give testimony to your legacy. A legacy that has stretched from our time to Jewellee's.
   I cherish the day you stuck out your foot and toppled me into your life and into a life only princesses can dream of.

Letters to our Mates

   How does it happen that I, Julia, am coerced into writing the first letter to my dead husband? But I did agree. So here is my letter. First I had a serious decision to make. Since I was married three time, which husband would I address?

I decided.

Here is my choice and my letter.

To Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa
   We both know that few marriages in our age were born of love. The majority were negotiated for economic considerations - for the upper classes economic and political considerations. Never more so than in our marriage. On your part and mine.
   When I was married to Marcellus I was caught up in the passion of young love. I was so sure of my destiny. I would be the wife of the Emperor of Rome -- the First Lady of Rome. The first lady of Rome-- equal to or greater than my step mother, Livia. Marcellus was Augustus's nephew, and lacking other offspring he was destined to succeed him.
   But Marcellus died and with him my dreams. Until you. You were second only to  my father. Augustus may have inherited his position from his uncle Julius Caesar, but it was in great part your military and administrative genius along with your loyalty that catapulted him into the power he had. Therein lies our alliance.
   You needed a secure link to the imperial power. What better way that a marriage connection to Augustus? And who was available but me?
   What better chance did I have to achieve my dream of being First Lady than to be married to you? We met each other's political needs.
   Ours was a complicated relationship. You so much older -- my father's age. You were gone so often and for so long to far flung corners of the Empire. I was alone at home with the children. I, fun seeking, sexually adventurous and restless was not faithful to you. You knew. You, who unlike most other men were never unfaithful to me.
   But my dear Agrippa, amid my rashest moments I knew no one who so calmed my restless spirit, who checked my careless behavior. For all your gruffness-- and we both know you could be gruff-- you made me feel like a  woman, a wife, a mother. Your death was my downfall. Would that you had been allowed to live into real old age. I would have had a different destiny. I would not have have compelled my father to exile me. You may believe that of all the men in my life I truly loved you with a love that surpassed mere sexual passion.

Let's Get On With The Grief

   In the weeks and months following my husband's death I carefully kept at bay my classical friends. Julia, the spoiled emperor's daughter, Cartimandua, that wonderful Roman Celtic Queen and Tanaquil, the Etruscan wife of the fifth king of ancient Rome. But it was not to last.

   "If you're going to keep pushing us away because you're not handling your grief, then let's just do it, and do it right." Julia's school marm tone had no warmth, no sympathy.
   "Let her be," Tanaquil said. "It hasn't been that long."
   Julia's horse snort laugh left no doubt of her feeling. "For Juno's sake, Tanaquil, don't you remember how within minutes of Tarquin's death you were actively coniving to make your son-in-law, Servius, the new king? Did you stop to wallow in self pity?"
   "But that was different," Tanaquil said.
   "Ye Gods, give me a break. A dead husband is a dead husband whether he died in battle, from assassination or from some illness. Dead is dead. Now this grieving -- we all have to deal with it. So let's do it right. Let us each write a letter to our dead mates, bearing our minds and souls, stating our loves and pains."
   Cartimandua's words were short and chilly. "I would have welcomed Venutius's death. And Julia, if I may ask, which husband will you address? Or which of your lovers?"
   "I can handle my choice. Can you? Address your father. I remember you mourned his death. Or your chariot driver lover." Julia's voice grew softer. "It will help Jewellee."
   So we agreed. Each of us would write a letter to someone important to us-- who was no longer with us. Tanaquil and Carti demanded that Julia write the first letter. Then we follow in turn.
   Next time Julia's letter to -- we'll have to wait. Will it be Marcellus, her first love, or Agrippa the father of her five children or her father on whom she really did dote?

Mimosas and Butterflies

                                         Mimosas and Butterflies

                                     On my kitchen wall hangs
                                      a montage of nine photos
                                   Butterflies on mimosa blooms
                                          with poetic captions
                                  Produced by my just deceased mate
                            ' In mid August', he said, 'the blossoming mimosa
                                        flutters with butterflies'
                                                It's August now
                                The mimosa outside my kitchen window
                                       The mimosa he cherished 
                                          Flutters with butterflies
                                               

Do We Really Choose?

   'That standing pants tale.' Julia's piercing voice cut through the silence. 'Ladies, did you read that? How endearing. How many of us had such a romantically experience in deciding whom we would marry? Certainly not I-- not for any of my three marriages. I had very little, if at all any. As I am sure is the same with you.'
   'Not the case with me,' Tanaquil said. 'I chose my man, over the harsh objections of my family. With harsher warnings from the priests, and with the rejection of the whole Lydian population. Surely I have shared with you my meeting with Lucomo.'
   'Not that old story about falling into his lap at the games', Julia did not fall easily to arguments questioning her prejudices.
   'I too made my decisions,' Carti said. 'Jewellee has done a fine job describing it. There was that horrid interloper from a northern tribe. He came as a foster son to us. I hated him. At least I think I did. For the most part all the foster sons were bothersome. But then my cousin, Branwen, -- the vamp she was-- set her sights on him. It was disgusting and degrading how she threw herself at him. And he took notice. Oh did he take notice. But then how does a hot blooded man not react to over exposed breasts and endless flirting? I decided she would not have him. Don't let me go on and on. Read Jewellee's account.

        

                   FROM JEWELLEE'S ROMAN CELTIC QUEEN 

Cartimandua peered into her father's workroom.  King Orain, his back to the door, twisted the left side of his long mustache as he leaned forward to examine the sword on the wall. Presented to him by the king of the Parisi, who had extolled the hardness of the iron from which it was forged, it had  not yet been used.

"Is it true," Cartimandua once asked when she was but a child, "that the Parisi once lived where Vercingetorix did?" 

Orain had dropped the shield he was polishing. "Vercingetorix? What do you know of him? And how?"

She had shrugged; then she shrank under her father's piercing stare. "Somebody said it. Sometime."

"You amaze me, daughter." Smiling with obvious admiration he had added, "As far as I know the Parisi are no more related to Vercingetorix than you or I." Then he fell silent. She had never gotten around to asking him again. Someday  maybe.  Cartimandua watched her father, occupied with his thoughts. She bumped the stool near the door, toppling the basket of torcs to be presented to the young recruits at their next inspection parade. 

"Is 'not to be disturbed' an unclear order?"  Orain turned to see his daughter backing away from the door.  "Wait," he ordered and burst into laughter.

Finally he stopped laughing and dabbed at the tears running down his cheeks. "What do I see before me?  Can this really be my Sleek Pony?  And with properly braided hair and -- if I may say so -- a charming tunic, with as far as I can tell not a single grass stain.  And a shawl."

Cartimandua winced at the 'Sleek Pony'. Orain's eyes softened when she did not protest. "Well Cartimandua, what is so important that you need to interrupt me when you know I am at work and specifically asked not to be disturbed?  Or is it that you just wanted me to see you all decked out and were afraid you'd tire of maintaining your appearance until I'm done here." She reddened.  "Well what is it?"

"Father, I wish to marry."

His smile fell away.  "Marry? Did you really say marry?"  She nodded.

"I see.  You wish to marry.  And just whom, if I may ask, do you have in mind? Just whom do you wish to marry?"

"Venutius."

He shook his head while keeping his eyes on her. "Venutius?  The same Venutius you said you detest? The same Venutius you've done everything imaginable-- and some things quite unimaginable-- to irritate.  With the hope, I'm told, to have him go running back to the Carvetii?"

She lowered her head to avoid her father's stare. "Cartimandua, look at me.  You're seriously telling me you want to marry Venutius?"

She met her father's stare.  "Yes."

"And just when did you decide this?"

She shrugged.  "Just lately." She could not confess it was because her cousin wanted him.

"And does Venutius agree?"

"I don't know."

Orain crossed his arms across his chest.  "A permanent connection," he said, "with the Carvetii can only help the Brigantian Federation.  And young  Venutius is quite suitable, I would say. He is turning out to be a promising warrior, better than either of your brothers.  And if what I hear is true better than his brothers.  But are you serious?"  He smiled softly as he looked on face of his most promising child. "I rather imagined Venutius with someone like Mertha or Branwen.  I see the way he looks at them, especially Branwen."

Cartimandua's eyes twitched as she drew her lips tightly across her teeth. The King shook his head.  "As do you, I see.  Well, I'll take the matter under consideration. Now I have work to do."  He waved his hand to dismiss her.  "And Cartimandua, maybe you'd better find your young man and present yourself before you've lost your shawl and dirtied your tunic."

She heard his laughter as she left, but could not know the joy he felt. His chosen heir had made an entirely satisfactory proposal.

   'So,' Carti said. 'My father may have agreed, but it was I who made the choice So your highness, you are not so right this time.'  In a rare time of silence Julia sat sullen and withdrawn.

My Husband's Clock

   It's Sunday. It's noon. Every Sunday noon (for years whose number I have trouble counting) my husband, Paul, pulled the chain of his seven day clock, (fashioned after Thomas Jefferson's eight day clock). Every Sunday since his death in April I have pulled that chain. Most Sundays it seemed a part of my Sunday tasks. Today it was different.
   My coffee cup was empty; the crossword puzzle was done (with cheating only three times). Paul would have disapproved of the cheating. I deem cheating a replacement of his share of solution.  A few minutes after 12 noon I approached the clock. With one hand I held the left chain; with the other I lifted the weighted chain.
                A simple pulling
                A simple pulling
That was all that was needed. I stood before the clock chains in hand. My left hand felt numb; my right hand tingled. Laughter erupted from my constricted throat. Piercing my consciousness was the old song -- My Grandfather's Clock.
    Who besides me remembers it?
                  My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf
                  It stood ninety years on the floor.
                  Then it stopped, never to go again, when the old man died.
  Paul  would remember it.

   Then I knew. This clock cannot stop. This clock must not stop. Paul wants it to run. Paul whose spirit has not died. As long as that clock runs; as long as those who knew and loved him are alive, so is he. When his memory is removed from us who loved him I shall not do this Sunday Clock Ritual. Until then--- The clock shall not stop.

From Here Where?

   Four short months ago (one hundred and twenty long days ago) my mate of fifty four years died. In another time I could count on one year for mourning -- without pressure from those would control any money left to me, from those who would exploit my vulnerability of loneliness.
    Four financial groups have offered advice. Each suggesting they are not pressuring me, but what they have to offer is--.
    Four computer sites offering to find me mate have sent me multiple e-mails.
                  If I am a Christian I can find the perfect mate.
                  If I am over fifty-five I will find  a suitable mate.
                  If I sign up I am assured a match.
    And not to be taken lightly the acquaintance who would move in on my grief offering a shoulder to cry on.
              How does one deal?
              One problem at a time.
    My guidelines, and I think I have my head screwed on right,  are:
    For finances take time to evaluate where I  am financially. Consider offers to help with dubious inspection, knowing that offered help is not without costs.
    For attacks on my loneliness take time to corral emotions, knowing that a wounded heart needs time to heal.
           TAKE TIME
           TAKE TIME

When Is Poetry Original?

   Julia rarely knows when to keep her silence. Today was the typical day.
   "Your attempts at poetry - I read your poems. The ones in your last blogs."  Her voice permeated what I wanted to be my silence. "Your attempts at poetry are pathetic. How trite and unoriginal can one get?"
   Had I been in full control of my emotions I might have dismissed her crass remarks. But I was not in control of my emotions. The bulk of the day I had spent with boxes and trash bags. The sorting of what to toss, what to donate, what to keep was a major issue. Culling one's own possessions is one thing-- not easy to be sure--, but removing the possessions of a newly dead mate is quite another matter.
   How dare Julia call my attempts at poetry trite and unoriginal? How dare she?
   "Tell me, your Highness-- if one in exile deserves that title-- can you do better? Did you do better? How long were you exiled before you begin to write poetry? And what did you write? May I quote. It is a matter of record you know in the story of your life, THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER.  Your poem I believe--
                     
                      My fair face is lined with age
                      My black hair bespeckled white
                               But I am here
                               What can I do?
                          My life cannot be redone
                            nor can it waste away.

   "And what is wrong with that?"
   "Absolutely nothing. It's classic. Absolutely classic. May I quote?
                           
                              All my flesh is wrinkled with age
                              My black hair has faded to white
                              My legs can no longer carry me,
                                  once nimble like a fawn's
                                      But what can I do?
                                     It cannot be undone.

Sappho's I believe. Tell me, Julia, just how original was your lyrics?
   Uncharacteristically Julia was at a loss for words. I felt none of the pleasure I expected.
 

Look Not On My Works But my Dreams

                  Behind my house -- how strange is 'my house'
                            'Our house' for so many years
                      Behind 'this house' stands an obelisk
              fashioned of concrete, ceramic tiles and creativity
                            Buried within its dark interior
                          the 'frozen in time' dreams of us
                           who love its now gone creator.
                         Opened one day by plan or hap
                            it will not ring of Ozymandias
                         No one said 'Look on my works'
                            Our vision is less lofty            
                                       LOOK ON
                                  'the places I will go'
                                  'the things I will do'
                        'the peace I will work to bring'
              'the reading list I have left for an increasing oral world'
                      'the best sketch I have done to date'
            Behind 'this house' the still yet unfilled dreams of us
        who survive the creator of this small but lofty monument.

The Girl In Standing Pants

This is written for my late husband.

                    THE GIRL IN THE STANDING PANTS

                            His eyelids were leaden
                        His body wracked by weariness
                          He had too long been here
              Nature whence he came was summoning him
                     The woman beside his bed faded
             Gray hair and wrinkled skin morphed into youth
                              His brow furrowed
               His lips spread recalling the first time he saw her
                           He the new shy student
                She seemingly secure in her too tight pants
                             Both were standing
                            She amid her group
                              He at the edges
            Urged to sit he shrank back with mumbled refusal
                 She without a hint of self consciousness
                "I can't. I'm wearing my standing pants."
                     He knew then; he knew now
               He wanted the girl in the standing pants

Sorting Shirts and Junking Jackets

   If you have no packrat tendencies or do not deal with someone who does, read no further. If you do, stay with me. Not that I can help you. I can't. But you will feel better about yourself and your packrat friend. Like the dismissed Men's Warehouse founder, 'I guarantee it'. You will re-evaluate the dimensions of 'packrattedness'.
   Those who have followed me for the past year have shared my emotional roller coaster as I watched the love of my life succumb to leukemia. It has been eighty short days; it has been eighty long days; it has been eighty chaotic days. But I have begun the physically laborious task, the emotionally draining chore of sorting his 'things'. I realize 'things' is an insipid term.
   Insipid-- that's how I feel.  Perhaps that is the proper feeling for sorting 'things'. I began with his closet. I had a plan. Sort by category --shirts, shoes, jackets, etc. Sort by condition - what to keep, what to throw away, what to donate. Sounded do-able. His closet, unlike mine, is organized. Shirts together, pants together, jackets --you get the picture.
   I began with shirts. After tossing the nearly cheese cloth ones, removing two that I could not part with, I had forty for donation. Forty shirts, some of which I had not seen for thirty or more years. The jackets proved a more daunting task. Most of his jackets I made; he refused to say 'made'; he said 'I tailored them'. Two I could not put in the donation box, the two which, according to him, fit so well no one could have tailored them better. The donation boxes have been hauled away. Next I tackle pants and sweaters.

We're hostile--we women of today?

"Why are you women so hostile?"  I was annoyed at Julia's insensitive question. But for whatever reason Julia feels it her right to say whatever she feels like saying.  With little regard to what one would consider thoughtful consideration before opening her mouth. But anyone who knows Julia would expect little else.

I was at a loss whether to ignore or argue with her. How does one argue with such as she? Then and there or here and now.

My dear husband and I so frequently let the discussion of such matters degenerate to an argument in which I did become hostile. But consider---

Women from the beginning of recorded time (check when and where you can--but check) have been compelled to live as adjuncts to the men in their lives. With the exemption of the Amazons, whose existence is questionable, equality of the sexes is tenuous.

Across distance and time there have been those matriarchal tribes, but matriarchal lineage is far removed from matriarchal control. I neither want  nor need to give footnoted proofs.

Julia, and to a lesser degree Cartimandua and Tanaquil, question my assertions. Not rightly so. Think of them in their time and setting. Think of me and women like me in my time. And try to find a difference.  Did Margaret Truman face the problems of Nancy Garth? And who is Nancy Garth?  Point taken. Do the Bush twins have the uphill climb of the twin daughters of the off and on again employed factory worker? How do they differ from the weaver in the shop not so far from the royal house of Augustus? Or the widowed woman reduced to prostitution in Tanaquil's time?

They -- Julia, Tanaquil and Cartimandua-- see the world not just from their times, but from their positions. There is the oft offered, poorly thought out argument that the very biological demands of  women dictate their position in the scheme of things. They are the ones who give birth to the young, suckle the young. Such activity demands subservience.  Such thinking reduces me to hostile thoughts.

I am compelled to question, to doubt the easily spouted, argument that  Poor Nancy Garth, (mentioned above) whom you do not remember, struggling to keep a roof and food for her two children, the youngest two months old, is filling her proper place in the larger scheme of things.

Is it possible for Julia or Carti or Tanaquil to really understand the plot of Nancy? Do I really understand it? Or do I like so many across time and distance ignore it or at best pay it lip service?

My Daughter and Me at Mermorial for my Husband and her Father

The picture below was taken by a dear friend, a sensitive person, a good photographer. She sent me a whole album of pictures she took, chronicling the the 'Celebration of My Husband's Life'. There are inadequate words to thank her for her pictures and my daughter for her support the ten days before the service. She lives in Alaska, almost as far away as Julia or Tanaquil. She is, however, more available on an intimate basis. Enjoy her beauty and believe me when I tell you her spirit exceeds her physical beauty.

Celebration of Paul's Life

You're ignoring me," Julia's voice assaulted my consciousness. "You know you are."

"I do and I am. Go away. I need my space," I said aloud and was grateful no one could hear me. Else I might appear befuddled. And I was alone. So alone on this day. For the crowd of two days ago was gone.

Persistence was needed for Julia is not easily put off. Finally she relented.

My house is small. How strange that sounds. My house. Just two and a half months ago it was our house. Paul's and mine. Now it's mine because Paul died after a two year battle with leukemia.

Two days ago we --my three children and I-- held a 'Celebration of Paul's Life'.

              Forty or so people we invited.
              Twenty five or so we expected would come.
              Forty five or more showed up.
              A tribute to Paul or me or both?
To whom matters little. It was not a lengthy program-- two pieces of music and five short passages selected from the booklet Paul lovingly and laboriously worked on the last years of his life. Sixteen pages entitled
                                       
                                         Uncommon Senses
                                              Aphorisms  
                                                Epigrams
                                                 Quotes
                                                     and
                                                  Poems

The small booklet includes bits and pieces of philosophy, poetry and witticisms, some original, others not.

We read his obituary:
           
             Nature whence he came has reclaimed his body and spirit
              A body nourished by vigorous exercise and healthy food
                     A spirit fed by passion, curiosity and principles
                       A need to live, to laugh, to love and play
                  A love of nature compelling him to salute the sun
                Revere the trees, bow to butterflies and laud the birds
        An addiction to the arts leaving his domed, mural walled folly
                                 His tiled towering obelisk
        His indomitable spirit and active body have returned to their
                                            proper place

We then spread his ashes around his folly and obelisk, the art works in the backyard. A sharing of cheese, crackers, grapes and wine followed.  I am sure Paul would have approved.  I suspect Julia would  approve. It was just that I did not feel like sharing the intimate moment with her.

Endive in June

    Julia tires so easily of anyone or anything that is not somehow connected with her. That is most likely the reason she came to the bad end she did. But that is not important today. She will have to wait.  For Today I have my own problems. Today I have to deal with curly endive Have you ever noticed how in times of crisis the smallest event can set off a torrent of emotions. That happened to me today. It started out innocently enough. I went grocery shopping. I wandered through the produce section of the supermarket. My whole being was shaken by curly endive.   

                                                       CURLY ENDIVE

                                 Curly endive available in June from any grocer

                                                        One might think

                                                   One would be wrong

                         How many years now have I looked but not found curly endive in June

                               Two years I grew my own which barely was ready by June

                          Other years I went from grocer to grocer in towns near and far

                                                    I always managed

                                                    I had to manage

                             My husband wanted curly endive for his June birthday dinner

                                                     It’s June again

                        This week without looking I found curly endive in three grocers

                                         I easily found curly endive in June

                                                  He died in April

Dealing with Grief

  The  noise of my riding mower, the sun beaming down on my head, the sweat stinging my eyes and dripping from my hair kept a persistent Julia at bay. There must be a reasonable explanation of the varied 'pushiness' of my little group. Cartimandua abd Tanaquil are not intrusive. There when welcome, absent when not. But Julia! Julia knows no boundaries. Her 'in your face' presence is the result, no doubt, of her sense of entitlement from birth, her self confidence.

   "You're stressed out, and you have every right. I do know it's not easy losing a husband. I if you remember lost two." her voice rose above my mower's noise. Not rose above exactly, for she is quite the product of my mind. Her voice slid under is perhaps more accurate . "I do hope you're not tempted to solve your problems by turning to wine. I did and it a great-- and I do mean a great mistake. But you know, for you described it so well in THE EMPEROR'S DAUGHTER. Share that with us."

   "If it will send you away for a while. It was just after you discovered you were in danger of being arrested on a count of adultery. But your political activities were the real reason. Herein is your story."

           "I 'm going mad. I will rage through the streets like a Bacchante," Julia said.

            "Lady, you've always been impatient. Since you were a little girl you've never waited gracefully for anything or anyone."

            "Gracefully!  What in Hades is graceful about  this? I wake up all hours of the night worrying about it.  Every day I expect Tata to send for me. Livia watches me all the time. And you expect me to be patient. You know I've committed a crime."

            "Only technically," Phoebe said

            Julia snorted. "Then only technically will I pay for it.  You know a woman who commits adultery can be charged by any citizen? Tata made that law.  Can he get round it if someone insists he enforce it?"

            "Lady, there may be no reason to work yourself into a state. All we can do is wait and not imagine the worst."  Phoebe's pacing belied her lack of worry.

            "I sit here day and night, day after day, losing my mind."  Julia buried her head in her hands. "And all you can say is 'be patient'."

            None of Phoebe's tricks worked.  Brushed hair, massaged temples, monotonous talk failed to calm Julia's raging fears.  It had been nearly a month-- twenty five days - since the games.  Twenty five days since she'd heard from Iulus.  It seemed an eternity. "I can't leave the house without being followed.  Did you know that? Every time I leave someone is right behind me."

            "But Lady, that's somebody's job. You know that."

            "But this is not the same. I know a slave when I see one. These are not slaves. They're spies. I'm being followed by spies."

            'You imagine too much." Phoebe arranged and re-arranged toilette articles.

            Julia spun around and slapped Phoebe's cheek with a force that made her lose her balance.  No sooner than the blow struck Julia grabbed Phoebe and pulled her close.  She buried her head in Phoebe's shoulder and sobbed. Barely able to get out her words she said, "I didn't mean it.  I didn't mean it." 

            Phoebe released her tight embrace. "There, there, Lady."  She smoothed Julia's hair with one hand and wiped tears with the other. "Come, lie down."

            Julia surrendered herself to Phoebe's care. The tension fell away in waves.  Calm crept in, first in the muscles around her mouth and eyes. Then weightlessness of arms and legs. Her body seemed to float in air above her bed.  She was near sleep when the knock at her door jarred her into awareness. She sprang up, every nerve in her body re-wound to the snapping point.

            The slave held out a scroll which Julia grasped away from Phoebe's extended hand. "Lady, let me open it for you."  Phoebe reached for the scroll, but Julia tightened fingers.  Phoebe dismissed the slave and twisted the scroll from Julia's hand. "Lady, you need time right now." She tucked the scroll in her belt.

            "Time for what?  Ye gods time is all I have these days."

            "Time to think, to get hold of yourself. Time to--.  Have you eaten today?"

            Julia lowered her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks; she burst into laughter.  "Have I eaten? Is that all you can say? Is food is going to solve this?"

            Julia drank the unwatered wine Phoebe poured for her, both unconcerned that it was an indecent hour for wine. She refused the bread and cheese Phoebe insistently offered. The wine did not produce the calm Phoebe intended. It fueled Julia's fears, doubts and anger precluding sleep or peace of mind.  "Phoebe, where is that damned scroll?" Give it to me.  Now!  Else, as Juno is my witness I shall have dismissed." Her uncontrollable laughter returned. "Did you hear?  Isn't that laughable? On my way into exile or to the executioner's sword I shall have you dismissed. She reached for her wine. "And call Ancus.  We need more wine."

            "Perhaps it would be better to wait, for both the wine and the scroll,"

            Julia threw the pewter cup she emptied in one gulp across the room.  It bounded from the wall and fell to the floor. "Do it now.  Else I shall do it myself."

            Phoebe relented and ordered the wine. Julia stopped her from watering it.  For the next few hours Julia cried, fumed and drank: cried, fumed and drank. When darkness fell not intoxicated enough to fall into a stupor but enough to be hostile and wreckless she said, "Phoebe, that scroll, what did you do with it?"

            "I put it aside.  Tomorrow when we're thinking  clearly, we'll look at it."

            "I'll look at it now." Phoebe produced the scroll. Julia fumbled with the seal and finally unrolled it. She blinked once, twice and again before she realized she could not sort the double images. Thrusting it at Phoebe she said, "Read it."

            "It's from Iulus, Lady.  He asks that you stay put until you hear from him.  He's checking on things."

            "Things.  What things?  Read it, Phoebe, word for word."

            Slowly Phoebe read in a voice almost too whispery to hear.

                        Julia, I implore you to stay at home until I contact you.This evening

                        pridie idus-- I go to Puteoli to attend to critical matters. When I return,

                        I shall contact you. Avoid your father and Livia. Sempronius and Pulcher

                        are still scouting out the situation. I miss you.  Iulus

            Julia asked, "That's it?" She blinked her eyes returning the double Phoebe to one.  "Nothing  about Tiberius?"

            Phoebe looked puzzled."Tiberius!"

            "Yes Tiberius. You know who Tiberius is, don't you? Iulus hates Tiberius. Once he said he'd kill him rather than let him rule Rome."

            "But Tiberius --" Phoebe shook her head.  "Tiberius is no threat. Not from Rhodes.  He's not likely to come back. Your father will never allow him to return."

            Julia laughed, "Silly, as long as Tiberius is alive -. Tata said the same thing about Agrippa.  How long did that last? Just until he had  to have Agrippa.  It's the same only different. Iulus is going to poison him. Maybe he's finding some body to do it.  It's not hard to get a poisoner. All it takes is money, and Iulus has enough of that.  I suspect that's why he's in Puteoli."

            "Lady, that's you wine talking."

            "He hates them all. He was always open about it.  Even when he came to Greece to work with Agrippa. He really hates Tiberius." Phoebe shook her head.  She reached to remove the wine decanter, but Julia grabbed it and  took a long drink directly from the decanter. Wine dribbled down her chin which she wiped against her sleeve. "Oh yes Phoebe. He hates them because they killed his father.  They cheated him out of his legacy. You know if Mark Antony had won Iulus would be heir to the throne. You know what he told me? It would be just as easy to kill Tiberius as to discredit him. That's why he went to Puteoli."

            Phoebe managed to remove the wine decanter.  Not that it mattered for it was empty. "Lady, you're starting to repeat yourself."

            Ignoring Phoebe Julia continued, "I think he hates me too. Antonia said he was using me. Phoebe. Do you think he hates me and is using me?"

            "I think, Lady, you're drunk."

            "And who in Hades cares?  Does it really make a difference?  My children don't need me, not since Tata stole them.  And Tata doesn't need me anymore. Who can he marry me too now? Now that Gaius is a man and Lucius nearly is I have no voucher value. You know what voucher value is, don't you."

            Phoebe began her routine to calm her mistress-- the gentle hands and soothing voice.  But her efforts were no match for the erosion of sensibility brought on by worry, fatigue, hunger and wine.  Despite Phoebe's insistence that she was not properly dressed and her hair was down and that it was much too late. Julia left the house. Phoebe followed at a short distance and further back  the agents who had followed her for several months.

            The walk down the Clivus Palatinus was not long.  Although the starless night was dark and despite the toll too much wine had taken on her equilibrium she made her way without incident to the Forum.  She mounted the Rostra and stood in the spot her father had stood when he issued his lex de maritandis ordinibus and lex de adulteriis coercendis-- which people hated, and which if enforced would affect most people except for the likes of Tiberius. Phoebe stood at the speaker's platform and called to her mistress in a calm soft voice. "Lady, come, let me take you home before we are found here."

            Julia's eyes searching for Phoebe located her in the dimness."Home! Why would I go home? Tata doesn't want to see me, and I don't want to see him. Livia does and I don't want to see her either.  And Iulus says I should avoid them."

            "Lady, he also said you were to stay at home until he came."

            "But I have to talk to people. I have things to say, important things, things about adultery and laws." She peered out over the darkened Forum and yelled, "Friends and Patriots, gather round. I came because I need to warn you about fucking." She raised her arm to gesture grandly and lost her balance. She quickly regained it and faced a man creeping from behind the statue of Marsyas. He was middle aged, haggard and illy dressed. Had Julia not herself smelled of wine she would have smelled his drink. She brought her face near his. "Did you know," she asked slurring her words, "that fucking is a crime?  Do you like to fuck?"

            "Hercules be praised,"  he said backing up. "What do I see?"

            "Welcome friend," Julia said. "Join me. Here by me."  She peered out again, and in a louder and more slurred voice called, "Come out, come out, wherever you are. Gather round.  We need to consider matters important to the state.  Do you know if you're unfaithful to your mate you are in  bi-ig trouble.  That's the law. And if your mate doesn't fuck you, you're screwed."

            One by one stragglers seeking shelter against the elements and protection from marauding thieves and vigiles came out from behind temple columns, building doorways and bushes big enough to hide them.  Silent at first, then quietly talking, their voices rose, and amid the noise and chaos two men mounted the Rostra. They began to paw Julia.  Phoebe called frantically, "Lady we have to go home."

            "But I have a speech to make. These people want to hear me."

            The man standing next to her shouted to the crowd, "Look what we have, a real live woman, a pretty one too. Now do we want to hear her speech or not?"

            From the crowd came a commanding call, "Not a speech. We want her.  We want her don't we? Come on lads. Don't we want to fuck her?"

            "Yes, Yes, Yes."  They clung to edges of the platform, ready to climb up.

            Julia surrendered herself to the arms of the man next to her. She  leaned forward as he tried to remove her clothing.  When torches appeared the crowd scattered. The men on the platform jumped down and were lost in the darkness by the time the vigiles arrived to find Julia quite alone, quite naked.

            "Where did they all go?"  She looked into the darkness.  And to the watchmen said, "You scared them all away."

            "Come with me."  One of the watchmen put his cloak around her shoulders.  The other collected her clothing and they stepped down from the platform.

            "Thank-you," Phoebe said, "I'll see her home."

            "We'll tend to it."  Then turning to Julia he said, "Come, the party's all over."

LXVIII