Burglary

The shredded screen on the upper floor window

Three times in my life, I’ve experienced burglary.

The first was when I was living with a friend just north of Ypsilanti, Michigan. We shared a tri-level house in a working class neighborhood that featured winding streets, cul-de-sacs, and probably all of about five different floor plans among the hundred or so houses in the sub-division. Both Kevin and I were early in our careers and still living on hand-me-down furniture, using milk crates as shelf supports, and traveled or reveled quite a bit . . . we were not home much.

Kevin arrived home in the early evening and sensed that something was amiss. I don’t remember if it was a door ajar, movement by someone in the house, or some other tipoff; Kevin wisely yelled that he was home but walking out the door.

After a prudent amount of time, Kevin walked back into the house to discover that our stereo equipment was all lined up on the floor with cords carefully wrapped for transit. A screen had been pushed through an open window on the “middle” level – later judged by the police officer as the likely entry point. One stereo component and quite a lot of our minds’ peace were stolen.

The second time was in January 2008, here at the farm. A friend had recently lost his wife and, shortly thereafter, his administrative assistant lost her mother. I offered to drive him to the mother’s memorial service as it was so close to his wife’s funeral that I thought it the prudent option. He agreed.

While driving back from a northern suburb of Detroit, my cell phone clamored and the good folks at ADT informed me that my alarm system was showing either a malfunction or tamper. This was around 3 pm.

Arriving home, I saw that the storm door wasn’t closed tightly (unusual as I am a bit meticulous about my lockup rituals). I entered the house and saw my breath. The Blackdog greeted me but was a bit out of sorts. It wasn’t long before I understood why the house was cold – a back door had its window removed and a second door had been kicked open. The alarm panel was beeping and reported that there was a problem in zone six as of 10:18 that morning. Nothing was missing.

As best as I can ascertain, the perpetrator opened the screen door and knocked to see if anyone was home then removed the window from the rear door, attempted to reach in and open the door (the door was reinforced closed by a cross bar), then decided to climb through the opening. At this point, he (assumption – not trying to discriminate against what are probably very able female burglars out there) then kicked a locked door open between this back area and the kitchen to find a very annoyed Blackdog (while he loved everyone, he was protective of the house from strangers when I wasn’t home). Climbing out, the burglar knocked off part of the alarm apparatus, triggering the error message.

Nothing taken, about a $1,000 worth of repairs necessary, some sense of violation, relief that the pup was fine, and extreme irritation with ADT for waiting several hours to alert me that something was wrong. Door replaced with a solid steel version, repairs to trim and plaster damage and, a general upgrade of all doors and locks on the house.

Fast forward to this week. After a great weekend hosting friends in town for the Art Fair and laughing long and loudly, I settled into bed around midnight on Sunday evening. I remember drifting off to sleep smiling about the various antics and adventures of the weekend.

Something suddenly wasn’t right – an odd sense or sound or sight roused me. I asked myself why there were workmen on my roof and what were they doing? I stood, turned on a light and realized what my dreamy state registered as workmen, was in fact someone attempting to enter my bedroom through a second story window. At that time, I also heard a crashing noise downstairs. I managed to yell a loud and very creative string of expletives and threats – I heard voices outside and watched the intruder run from the window. Yes, I did grab my well-hidden gun and removed the trigger guard. I headed down the stairs and knew that I may have to defend myself with force. I crept on, switching on every light as I went as well as lighting up the air with new and very poignant strings of threats and expletives.

The scene downstairs betrayed several attempts on the part of the burglars (I’m fairly certain there were at least two) to enter the house. Exterior screens had been removed from first floor (fortunately locked) windows and a small port door into which fireplace wood is loaded from the outside was removed. Every motion sensing light outdoors was illuminated. No one, I’m thankful, was in the house and nothing was taken.

The 911 dispatcher was very efficient and promised a quick response from the state police – and she was accurate. Within 15 minutes, two troopers were walking the perimeter of the upper lot, guns drawn, flashlights searching – they pronounced the area clear and began the process of taking statements, dusting for finger prints, and giving advice to this homeowner on some small security upgrades I might consider (consider? Hell, I’m thinking razor wire). It was now about 3:30 am – I’m guessing that I was roused around 3:00 am.

The investigation lasted until nearly 5:00 am and some usable fingerprints and other evidence were found. I thanked the troopers, offered them coffee, and walked back into my somewhat less happy home.

Monday was a mix of anger and nausea. And through the week, I’ve realized that I’m now changed. I’m willing (though loathe) to use deadly force against those who threaten me and the sanctity of my home. I imagine if I had children, I would have reached this conclusion far sooner. I’m saddened as much as I’m emboldened by this realization. I will not be a victim.

Thank you for letting me vent. Oh, and lock your windows, even the ones on the upper floors.

Rain, Art, Friends

Well, after more than a month, we’ve finally got some rain on the farm and a bit more is expected later this evening. The lawn, long reduced to a taupe mat, hasn’t needed a mow in a few weeks. The corn in the south field is much stressed and the sunflowers became full victims of the draught.

Of course any long-time resident of the greater Ann Arbor area could have predicted the rain – it always coincides with the start of the annual art fairs. Each year, about a half million people come to town to survey the juried art, dine al fresco, and drive strollers into my shins. Sweaty, uncomfortable babies and tots spend most of the day staring at people’s knees and howling for respite while their parents debate the proffered esthetics.

This four-day event is an economic boon to the area and has a multi-state draw. Yesterday, I met a couple who came on a tour bus from Cleveland. He achieved both his undergraduate and law degrees from the University of Michigan and cheerfully volunteered that his first stop of the day was to the alumni office at the law school to drop off a donation.

I don’t usually spend much time amidst the hordes, but I met my friend Anne, who came to town for the event, for lunch. We were surprised by the ease with which we secured a table – lunching during the art fair can be a contact sport; we thought we’d eat light. As we shared antipasto and a salmon mousse accompanied by a chardonnay for her and cold pilsner for me, we thought we should probably check in with her husband. Grant’s a real food buff so it made sense that we send a photo of the meal (reproduced here) along with a “wish you were here” message. His reply was cordial but with the admonition: “Keep a lid on her spending!”

After lunch, I thought I would walk with Anne through the heart of the exhibits then head back to my office. I’m not sure, but I doubt that we were a hundred yards from the restaurant before Anne fell in love with some ceramics. I can best describe these as Tiki torches shaped like modernistic heads – they really are fun. After getting the artist’s attention, Anne eventually bought about half the available inventory and added a couple of other pieces. These translated into six parcels, each about the size of a rugby ball.

We are on foot, a half mile from my office or truck, a mile or so from her car, the sun was burning off the rain clouds and humidity was starting to taunt us (and, I had already suffered two significant shin/stroller encounters by this point). We distribute the load between the two of us and head through campus to deposit these awkward and fragile treasures in my truck.

Along the way, we encounter a police officer coming our way. He smiles and asks if I was available to take his wife shopping. Had my hands not been full, I’d be writing this from jail.

The packages were safely ensconced in my truck and we had a plan to transfer the goods later in the day. I go back to the office; Anne goes back into the fray.

Around five, we meet at a bistro somewhat removed from the oceans of people to make the transfer – there I got to see the jewelry and other treasures she secured.

Despite the Sherpa work (and Anne, if you are reading this, it wasn't bad at all!), the lunch and the shopping caper were nice diversions during my work day. I can’t report to Grant that I successfully “kept a lid on the spending,” but I’m certain he wasn’t surprised.

The rain has restarted – with it a cool breeze and fresh smell. I’m looking forward to seeing the totems along with Grant and Anne next time I visit.



For additional information about the Art Fairs, see http://artfairs.visitannarbor.org/

Swift action

In his first major (and perhaps most complex) satire, Jonathan Swift introduces us to three brothers who each were gifted new coats by their father. These coats had two virtues: “One is, that with good wearing, they will last you fresh and sound as long as you live; The other is, that they will grow in the same proportion with your Bodies, lengthening and widening of themselves, so as to be always fit.” (P. 302) I refer to A Tale of A Tub published in 1704 - likely written in the 1690s.

The boys were to “wear them clean, and brush them often” and full instructions relative to their wearing could be found in the father’s will. Each brother’s adherence to these instructions would determine future fortunes; and the boys were to live together in one house “like Brethren and Friends, for then you will be sure to thrive, and not otherwise.” (P. 302)

While I’m confident that the metaphor is familiar to most readers, I’ll go ahead and provide a spoiler: the coats are Christianity, the father’s will, well, is the Father’s Will, and the admonition to live together like “Brethren and Friends” suddenly becomes clear.

The boys, upon reaching adulthood, generally did a good job keeping their coats in good order even though

they quickly began to improve in the good Qualities of the Town: They Writ, and Raillyed, and Rhymed, and Sung, and Said, and said Nothing; They Drank, and Fought, and Whor’d, and Slept, and Swore, and took Snuff; They went to Plays on the first Night, haunted the Chocolate-Houses, beat the Watch, lay on Bulks, and got Claps; They bilkt Hackney-Coachmen, ran in Debt with Shop-keepers, and lay with their Wives; They kill’d Bayliffs, kick’d Fidlers down Stairs . . . . 

Swift concludes this portrait that the “three Brothers had acquired forty other Qualifications of the like Stamp, too tedious to recount, and by consequence, were justly reckoned the most accomplish’d Persons in the Town.” (P. 302-303)

With this firm moral grounding, the brothers Peter, Martin and Jack, fell prey to cultish movements that encouraged adorning their coats with lace, gold, shoulder knots, and other refinements (P. 306-310) to the point that the coats were no longer recognizable as the coats gifted from their father (remember the whole Christianity thing?). And, to deal with their digressions from their f(F)ather’s w(W)ill by claiming allowances, interpretations, and other edits. The original document eventually being locked up in a strong box (sourced either from Greece or Italy! P. 310).

Longish story shortened – in time, the brothers Martin and Jack (ahem, Luther and Knox) soon realized how far afield they were relative to their coats and rebelled against Peter. Peter told them they were no longer welcome in the house and sent them on their way. The metaphor continues (showing Martin as the eventual hero – that is, the first generation reformer – whom had Swift’s natural sympathy as he was an Anglican). Martin carefully restores the coat by delicately removing all the trappings without harming the original fabric. Jack (lampooned by Swift as a rabid second generation reformer – I’m assuming you figured out Peter represented the Catholic Church in Swift’s satire) rips the trappings willy-nilly from the coat tearing the original fabric to shreds.

Throughout A Tale of a Tub, Swift blasts politicians, pseudo-science, modernists, politicians, royalty, etc. While it is a book that gave me hours of entertainment, it is probably best enjoyed well-armed with historical context and an appreciation for the author’s bias.

So, how does this relate to the Blackdog Bog? Oh, I don’t know, but I have had a few experiences lately that can also be cut and sewn as clothing metaphors:  I had a chance to try on a new shirt but decided that it wasn't going to fit - even before trying it on; been contemplating a rediscovered, once comfortable, shirt that may not fit as well anymore (did I grow or did it shrink?); finding a shirt that fits exceptionally well, but realizing that I’ve grabbed it out of the wrong locker; designing and fabricating a shirt that everyone loves but having to trust others to produce it; asking when was the last time I gave the shirt off my back to someone in need; trying on a shirt that may or may not reflect my style – but being told it looks good.

Yes, I’m being more than a bit vague – kind of the fun of the metaphor and the privilege of the author! What personal metaphors contribute to your understanding of your life?





Citations from The Writings of Jonathan Swift, edited by Robert A. Greenberg and William B. Piper, published 1973 by W.W.Norton & Company, Inc.


Title page of the 1704 Tale of a Tub was set and produced by John Nutt, 1704, and is in the public domain. Reproduction is from an original.

Oh, brother!

Edwin Thomas Booth

I’m not sure why, but Edwin Booth (1833 – 1893) came to mind this evening. Edwin was, almost without argument, the greatest Shakespearean actor of the 19th Century. His portrayal of Hamlet is still lauded as legendary.

Unfortunately, Edwin’s legacy is shadowed by his brother, John Wilkes Booth (1838 – 1865) who is infamous as Abraham Lincoln’s assassin.

Both boys were the illegitimate children of renowned actor Junius Brutus Booth and his mistress Mary Ann Holmes; both sons were born in Maryland and both were actors. Edwin was a Unionist, John, a Confederate sympathizer. John was also a respected actor as was a third brother, Junius Brutus Booth Jr.

John’s actions that April evening in 1865 at Ford’s Theater caused Edwin to put his career on hold and withdraw from the public eye. Eventually, Edwin founded the Booth Theater in New York and, despite the critical acclaim of its productions, it was closed within five years.

John Wilkes Booth

One fun little parallel I’ve learned is that Edwin had his own interaction with the Lincoln family shortly before the assassination. Edwin saved Abraham Lincoln’s son, Robert, before John shot the President.

Documented in John Goff’s book Robert Todd Lincoln: A Man in his Own Right (Univ. of Oklahoma Press, 1968), Robert Lincoln reported Edwin’s role in saving his life in a 1909 letter to Richard Watson Gilder, editor of The Century Magazine:

The incident occurred while a group of passengers were late at night purchasing their sleeping car places from the conductor who stood on the station platform at the entrance of the car. The platform was about the height of the car floor, and there was of course a narrow space between the platform and the car body. There was some crowding, and I happened to be pressed by it against the car body while waiting my turn. In this situation the train began to move, and by the motion I was twisted off my feet, and had dropped somewhat, with feet downward, into the open space, and was personally helpless, when my coat collar was vigorously seized and I was quickly pulled up and out to a secure footing on the platform. Upon turning to thank my rescuer I saw it was Edwin Booth, whose face was of course well known to me, and I expressed my gratitude to him, and in doing so, called him by name.

I am not entirely sure why this is of interest. Perhaps it is a simple as a reminder that there is always more to most stories.



Helpful sources:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edwin_Booth#cite_note-5

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Wilkes_Booth

http://www.amazon.com/Robert-Todd-Lincoln-Man-Right/dp/B0006BUL3Y

God Bless America

Wow.

Two-hundred thirty-six years old. The Republic of the United States of America is still around and doing fine despite ourselves. There is debate, and I’m not absolutely sure, but the longest reports of the existence of the Roman Republic were about 400 years – the shortest around 250 years. I invite my more learned friends to weigh their thoughts.

At one point, our Constitution allowed us to count some citizens as 3/5 of a person; we added an amendment to outlaw alcohol; it took a while to allow women to vote. Yep, we sure screwed a few things up.

I, for one, am very willing to forgive these boneheaded decisions as long as we’re committed to learn from them. I’m confident that some current decisions we’re making may also need forgiveness.

But, here’s my point. We live in the greatest nation in the known history of our planet. Yes, we do. Tomorrow, July 4, 2012 is the birthday of our nation. That we can so adamantly disagree, that we can publish our distemper and opposition, that we can vote – these are the things we should celebrate. I have no naiveté that things are not perfect but nor are they that screwed up. . . I truly believe that through constructive debate we’ll continue to prosper.

God bless America.

American Flag art courtesy of:

http://karenswhimsy.com/american-flag-clipart.shtm

Kate Smith video from:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r26_CSzk3Xw