Chopped Liver

In my late thirties 12 hours spent in jury duty motivated me to change careers. I had redirected several times before this event, but not to get distracted I will stick with the above. 

 

On the designated day, I closed the office and reported to the Cook County Courthouse at the Richard J. Daley Center in downtown Chicago. The prospective juror’s waiting room was a large drab room with musty speckled brown carpet, and grey walls. The aluminum furniture had a comfort quotation of zero. Large windows looked out onto one of Mies Van der Rohe’s gloomy buildings.

 

Life was suspended in that room, controlled by forces so large that it was better not to dwell on it. I searched for a quiet space and settled into the scholarly task I had assigned myself. Maybe it was Ulysses or Moby Dick, or maybe I was more practical and began to study for upcoming relicensing exams. I deemed it futile, and began to contemplate my navel.

 

Fate was surrendered to a lottery. As groups were called to duty or dismissed, there was an audible sigh. Too quiet to echo off the windows, the hushed tone faded as quickly as it began. Make or break it time approached. I forced any optimism of leaving into the background not wanting my hopes dashed. They were.

 

My group lost the lottery in mid afternoon. We dutifully followed our guide and were corralled in a stately courtroom. The walls were covered floor to ceiling in richly finished walnut. The chairs were cushioned in black leather. The jury’s bleachers were to the port, and the attorneys and their clients to the starboard. The clerical staff was at the bow and the muscle was aft. There were the usual symbols of government: country, state, county, city, and departmental flags, along with their corresponding seals. 

 

We awaited the judge and stood when he finally landed on the plinth. He did not hesitate to begin a lengthy explanation of our duties. He reformatted them for multiple grade levels. He thanked us for our service and explained our compensation. And then he summed up his remarks as a stern father (unlike my dad) would when describing the “real” world to his coming of age children. 

 

Of course, we knew this was coming. Before he was allowed in the courtroom, his weary bailiff prepared us for the worse. She explained in stark terms what we were in for. She was not wrong. I thought, lambs-to-the-slaughter, and restrained myself from running to the exit. There is a reason that an armed guard is posted at the backdoor.

 

The roll call commenced. Groups of ten were seated in the juror’s seats and questioning began. One by one, jurors were sent home. Most of them had a script prepared. At various times the judge interceded with the admonishment that no one was going home until a jury was selected. The sun began to set.

 

I began this tale by telling myself not to get distracted, so I need to backtrack. After the judge delivered his opening remarks, he reverentially acknowledged two of the juror applicants. 

 

The first was a pillar-of-the-community executive dressed in full Brooks Brother’s pin stripes. He had contributed to several of the judge’s causes. Then he followed with a glowing portrayal of a youngish, not quite so well dressed, newly minted Northwestern Hospital cardiologist. We were informed that the good doctor’s wife was also a physician and that a stork had recently delivered them a son.

 

I pride myself on being egoless, but when he deemed them too vital to waste their time – not in those words – with this superfluous personal injury case, and sent them out the very doors I had contemplated my escape through, I thought, what am I chopped liver!

 

Not chosen, I limped home physically and emotionally exhausted. I never imagined that a day of jury duty would leave me in such a state. It was too late for dinner, so I had a snack and went to bed. In the morning, I awoke with my future course decided. The timeline is now lost to me. It is safe to say it occupied the next fifteen years.

 

When summoned to jury duty in my late fifties, and seated in the dock, a woman with a striking Chicago accent lean over and asked, “What do you do for a living?" I told her, and she nonchalantly said that they would never pick me because I was too smart. She was correct.

Get Back

 

It is time to get back to boating. I admit there were times in the last year when I forcibly chose not to think about floating on the water. Certain images come to mind when I think about Carrie Rose (CR). This hunk of fiberglass and metal takes up a lot of space in my neural network.

Four years after Charlotte and I commenced summer cruising, I realized that we had spent one year living exclusively on her, (I should probably start using the gender inclusive “they” when referring to CR) now with ten years of summer cruising behind us that number has tripled.

 

Summer coastal cruising is a compromise with my younger self. My younger self would have ridiculed me. Then I was a devotee of an austere lifestyle on a simple but seaworthy sailboat. The sailboat did materialize in the form of Lenore, a 31’ seventies Hallberg Rassy, but career, lifestyle, and practicality force a change to power. There was also the realization that I was probably not of the correct disposition for a trek across the North or South Atlantic.

 

We have done our share of coastal ocean cruising. We have come to grips with tides and currents, salt water’s corrosive effect, confounding weather systems, and different docking protocols for every 100 miles traversed. There have been hundreds of locks from tiny to gigantic. There are the vagaries of US and Canadian custom practices. And then there is the sheer willpower it takes to keep our floating home in one piece.

 

Of course, none of this is to complain or to try to elicit sympathy for an enviable and privileged position in the economic stratification of the planet. We both have lots of education and on my part, lots of false starts before finding a niche. Boats played a part in motivation. One day in my twenties, while daydreaming of high seas adventures, it dawned on me that if I was going to fulfill any of them I needed to increase my earning potential. 

 

It seems flippant to have material goods drive ambition, but there it is. For all my reading of Zen philosophy, I was never going to throw it all away and live the life of a monk. We humans are an inquisitive species. I often think: so many gadgets, so little time. 

 

And what is CR if not a multi headed gadget. There are diesel engines, intricate electronic systems, and enough plumbing to complicate life. There are pumps galore and an exterior that is on constant self destruct mode. There are the appendages of two rotting wooden boats, two rusting bicycles, and miles of line and chain deteriorating in the sun. 

 

A boat is a historical challenge to maintain. A challenge, despite constant attention, can never in the end be met, and there in is the beauty. But I should get back to the images that CR conjures up. There are several coursing through my mind: one when we first entered the Rideau Canal just north of Kingston, Ontario, the other, again in Ontario, this time in Lake Huron’s North Channel nestled between the mainland and an unidentified island in Beardrop Harbor.

 

The Rideau Canal offers few anchorages. Entre into the canal was via a three step lock hidden in a rocky gorge north of Kingston, and the anchorage was not far from that. Whereas before entering the canal we were motoring in a shallow marshy lane, now suddenly we were surrounded by granite. 

 

A narrow steep sided path lead us into a well protect bay that was surrounded by even taller and steeper granite walls. As we carefully squeezed through a narrow opening in the wall, a pair of loons confronted us. They had purposely swum from along the far wall and loudly challenged CR. It was obviously directed at us and finding myself playing chicken with the pair of raucous loons, I alter my path deciding to anchor farther into the bay.

 

With the anchor firmly set in Canadian mud, I turned my attention back to the loons and saw a third, their Chicago softball sized fluffy child. They had been protecting their turf against the interloper. If I remember correctly, we spent a couple of days there, watching their antics, which included a lengthy and rowdy courtship dance complete with soundtrack. 

 

Beardrop Harbor was in a way more remote, while at the same time being more populated with boats. It is a popular anchorage when entering Lake Huron’s North Channel from the west or for that matter when leaving the North Channel heading west. We were on the tail end of our summer cruise and had decided to leave CR in Mackinaw City, Michigan rather than cruise back to Chicago, thus we had time to spare.

 

On the Great Lakes, the weather tends to run in three day cycles at least in the summer. We would often find ourselves rushing from one safe anchorage to another to avoid storms. And we were not the only ones. The harbor was not a harbor in the common sense but a well protect longish narrow bay. Other than our fellow boaters, there were no inhabitants. 

 

We firmly anchored and waited out several days of wind and rain with low clouds racing overhead. When the weather finally cleared there was a mass exodus. Since we had decided to move to a nearby island, we took it easy being in no hurry to leave, a real luxury in the usual frantic pursue of new and better scenery.

 

Going about my business, I looked up to see the last boat in the harbor wave goodbye. The silence overcame me. CR was solo. We were a little outpost, in a little bay, in a Canadian National Park. It was ours alone. 

 

Nothing dramatic happened. We put the dinghy in the water and wandered in the bay’s back channels, and spent a profoundly quiet day contemplating our navels. At about 4PM the latest batch of boats trickled in to anchor for the night and the spell was gently broken.

 

And these reminiscences are quietly breaking 2020’s spell. I know it is said that a doctor who treats himself has a fool for a patient, but I think I will forgive myself this self therapy. Sleep should come easier tonight with the sound of the anchor chain rattling through the capstan as it sinks into the mud. 

April 2021