September Song

September seems like a lifetime ago.  September of 2019 is when I vowed to re-activate my blog and start posting again on a regular basis.  I kept that up for two months.  Then came the holidays -Thanksgiving, Christmas and a New Year’s Eve wedding.  Then, in mid-January my wife had hip replacement surgery. For the next many weeks, I was her nurse, as well as responsible for preparing our meals and for any housework that couldn’t await her recovery.

Then just when things were beginning to return to normal, a worldwide pandemic occurs.  To reword a catchphrase from an old Monty Python sketch, “Nobody expects the corona virus pandemic!”  As a result, we’ve been instructed to “stay at home.” 

Even if we didn’t want to stay home, where else could we go?  Stores are closed.  Restaurants are limited to providing take-out or delivery.  Museums, art galleries, theaters, sporting events are closed, postponed or cancelled.  Even parks and hiking trails are off-limits. 

I’m not complaining, you understand.  I believe the doctors and epidemiologists who tell us we must practice “social distancing” in order to slow the spread of the virus.  The magnitude of this problem is brought home almost constantly as my wife and I sit in front of the television watching 24-hour news channels that regularly update infection numbers and death counts.

If fear of the sickness is not enough, we also need to fear the destruction of our savings as the engine that drives our economy is switched off.  The stock market is in free-fall.  I’ve been afraid to even peek at my 401(k)’s balance.  The news channels tend to show the markets losses in the same frame as the numbers of the sick and dying.  We’re faced with depression stacked on top of depression, leading to fear of another Great Depression. 

With this backdrop, some think this is a great time for writers and other artists.  I read an article in the March 26^th issue of The New York Times, by Ian Wheeler, the co-founder of Partisan Records and Talkhouse.  He writes, “There’s an expectation that, because artists are stuck at home, they will create amazing things.”  But Mr. Wheeler goes on to point out that these weeks of confinement have been “a living nightmare,” as we worry about our community, our state and our nation, watching the numbers of the afflicted go up while the numbers reflecting the state of our economy go down.

 

This is not a recipe for inspiration.  It’s no surprise that I have experienced writer’s block while taking my temperature several times a day and worrying every time my wife or I cough or sneeze.  Wheeler concludes his article by saying:

There’s also a human element that dispels the “tragedy = great art” fallacy. As I write this, I’m getting worrisome texts and emails from friends, colleagues and loved ones. I’m pausing to look at Twitter every few minutes. I’m bombarded by news alerts, each more terrible than the previous. The notion that creativity can flourish in these circumstances is absurd.

Wheeler advises that we should not feel pressured “to make the next great work of art during this time.”  That lets me off the hook for now – perhaps till some future September. 

A Kind Man

My uncle died last March. A host of medical conditions conspired to do him in at 93. His death certificate listed heart failure as the immediate cause of death. But macular degeneration, edema, and melanoma, among other ailments plagued him in the years leading up to it. Despite being hampered by the shackles of old age, my uncle always had a kind word, a smile, a gentleness that belied his suffering.  And his mind remained sharp till the end.

His final decline began with a fall in late January. Bruised and bleeding, we insisted that he go to the hospital. His wounds healed, but he failed to regain enough strength to walk on his own. When he stopped making progress, his medical insurance insisted that he be discharged. He wanted to go home, but he lived alone, miles from his nearest relative. I convinced him to go to a personal care home where he could continue receiving physical therapy. I told him it would be temporary – that he shouldn’t give up hope that he would get back home.

Regardless of what I told him, I worried, lying awake night after night trying to figure out how he could possibly go home in his disabled condition. My wife, God bless her, did not waste time worrying. She took action to get his house ready for his return. He would be using a walker or wheelchair, so she replaced his worn shag carpeting and curling linoleum with new, low pile carpeting and laminate flooring. She looked into 24-hour in-home assistance services. She did everything possible to facilitate his return home.  He never made it.

In the next few weeks, my uncle bounced between the personal care home, the hospital and back again. My wife was with him at the personal care home when he passed away in the early hours of March 4.  The nurse had sent me home earlier with the assurance that, “It won’t be tonight.”

Nearly nine months after my uncle’s death, I still feel the loss. I often think I should give him a call. It’s been too long since I last talked to him. Then I realize he’s no longer here.

He may best be described as an extraordinary ordinary man. Living through the Great Depression taught him thriftiness, but also generosity. Every time I took him to a doctor’s appointment, he insisted on buying me lunch.

In World War II, he was aboard the troop ship S.S. Leopoldville when it was torpedoed by a German U-Boat on Christmas Eve 1944. He spent hours in the frigid waters of the English Channel before being rescued and then hospitalized for exposure. 

He had a high school education, worked in one of Pittsburgh’s steel mills and married the girl next door.  Years later, when his wife was confined with Alzheimer’s disease, my uncle didn’t let a day go by without visiting her.

After my father died, I looked to my uncle as a surrogate, visiting and telephoning him as often as I could, and inviting him to dinner during the holidays. During those dinners, my children would tell him about whatever was going on in their lives. “Is that right,” he would say, more as an acknowledgment than a question. I never saw him lose his temper, treat someone badly, or disparage anyone.

I once asked him how he would like to be remembered. “As a kind man,” he replied.  That is how I will remember him.

For What It's Worth

There’s something happening here

What it is ain’t exactly clear

* * *

There’s battle lines being drawn,

Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong,

Young people speaking their minds,

Getting so much resistance from behind.*

Sixteen-year old climate activist Greta Thunberg organized a Climate Strike to raise awareness of the environmental crisis facing our planet.  Millions of young people from around the world participated.  Then on September 23, 2019, Ms. Thunberg spoke at the United Nations’ Climate Action Summit, pointing out that, “For more than 30 years, the science [of climate change] has been crystal clear.” 

She went on to admonish the assembled gathering of world leaders:

"You are failing us. But the young people are starting to understand your betrayal. The eyes of all future generations are upon you. And if you choose to fail us, I say: ‘We will never forgive you.’”

The reaction of our U.S. President to Ms. Thunberg’s emotional speech was to mock her in his favorite medium, Twitter:

"She seems like a very happy young girl looking forward to a bright and wonderful future. So nice to see!"

Our President’s cyberbullying of a teen-aged idealist is bad enough.  What is far worse are the actions taken by his administration to sabotage efforts to address climate change.  The New York Times recently reported that 85 environmental regulations adopted by previous administrations were being scaled back or eliminated under Trump.  These include withdrawing the U.S. from the Paris Climate Agreement, weakening fuel efficiency standards for automobiles, and repealing the Obama administration’s Clean Power Plan, which set strict limits on carbon emissions from coal and gas-fired power plants.  In early September, Trump announced a rollback on the phasing out of incandescent light bulbs.  According to the U.S. Department of Energy, LED light bulbs use 75% less energy and last 25 times longer than incandescent bulbs.  But, according to the President, the energy efficient light bulbs make him look orange. 

Donald Trump has, on numerous occasions, called climate change “a hoax” and has opined that, “The concept of global warming was created by and for the Chinese to make U.S. manufacturing non-competitive.”

This is embarrassing to me on at least two levels – first as a citizen of the United States, which is the world’s second largest emitter of greenhouse gases.  The U.S. President’s statements and actions serve to thumb our collective noses at the rest of the world that has committed to take steps to mitigate climate change.

Second, like Donald Trump, I am a member of the Baby Boomer Generation.  When we were young, like Greta Thunberg, we vowed that we would not be materialistic like our parents but would focus on making the world a better place.  We would clean up the environment, eliminate poverty, improve the education system and embrace civil rights for all.  In fact, many of my generation worked toward these ideals, though many others ignored them to focus on accumulating wealth.  

For most of his life, Donald Trump focused on accumulating wealth, while ignoring the efforts of others to save the planet.  But as President, he has chosen to undo the work of those who genuinely tried to take a few small steps to mitigate climate change.  

So exactly what is happening here, when energy efficiency standards are eliminated or rolled back?  More energy is needed, so more fossil fuels will be burned, resulting in more greenhouse gases being emitted, accelerating climate change.  If everybody’s wrong, and climate change is a hoax, these rollbacks will mean we are depleting limited resources faster than we need to, leaving less to meet the needs of future generations.

So please, young people, speak your minds, regardless of the resistance you are getting.  Because, Greta is right.  We are failing you, and if we don’t correct that failure, you should not forgive us.

*  “For What It’s Worth,” Stephen Stills, 1966.

This Wheel's on Fire

If your memory serves you well
We were going to meet again and wait
So I'm going to unpack all my things
And sit before it gets too late
No man alive will come to you
With another tale to tell
But you know that we shall meet again
If your memory serves you well*

July 14, 2018.  If your memory serves you well, that was the date of my last blogpost.  So I’m going to unpack all my things, and post again before it gets too late.  And there is a lot to unpack.

1. Movin’ & Shakin’ – Officially, my wife and I moved from our home of 34 years in Pittsburgh to our new home in the Borough of West Chester in May 2017.  We undertook several major projects at the new place in 2018 including a new roof, a small deck (“steps replacement project” if you talk to the building inspector), a Sunsetter awning over our hot tub, and re-landscaping of the backyard.  In August 2018 we sold our Pittsburgh home to our youngest son.
2. Addition and Subtraction – Technically, our grandson Miles was born before my last blogpost (May 17, 2018).  Anticipating Miles’ birth, my wife and I leased a studio apartment in Queens, and we spent nearly every Wednesday through Friday providing daycare for our grandson so our son could continue to stay active as an entertainer and our daughter-in-law could continue working as a fashion designer.  Our lease ran till the end of April 2019. Knowing we wanted to continue to be an active presence in our grandson’s life, we purchased a studio apartment in the same building in May.  Then in July 2019, our first granddaughter Ilona was born in West Chester, bringing the number of our grandchildren to three.  Often with great joy comes great sorrow, and in January 2019, my dear, 93-year old uncle took a bad fall and spent the next 6 weeks between hospital and personal care home, only to pass away in early March.
3. Writing – Though I haven’t posted anything on my blog in over a year, I have not stopped writing altogether.  I wrote a couple of articles for the newsletter of the antique car club I joined.  I also participated in a writing workshop in June 2019 at Hollins University in Roanoke, Virginia.  I continued to work on my novel, “The Letter,” and submitted several chapters for critique by professional writers.  Many of the comments I received were helpful; some, not so much.  Perhaps the biggest project over the past year has been my chronicle of our time in New York.  I may post some of that on my blog.
4. Blog On – There’s a lot that needs to be said.  While there are many other voices saying much of what I want to say, I feel I should add my voice to the conversation.  Since my last post on gun violence, there have been countless deaths from guns, and Congress refuses to do anything.  Since I last wrote about global warming, the concentration of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere has increased significantly, and the average temperature of many areas of the earth has increased beyond the 2°C level that will cause major problems for future generations.  Yet the Trump administration continues to roll back environmental regulations put in place to slow the dangerous build up of greenhouse gases.  We live in the world’s greatest democracy but can no longer feel sure that our election process is secure from tampering.  I want to talk about these and other important contemporary issues.

So, I am re-activating my blog. I plan to post new material at least once a month.  Some will be opinion, some will be discussion, and some will be just for fun.  Just count on the fact that I will come to you, with another tale to tell.  You know that we shall meet again, if your memory serves you well.

*This Wheel’s on Fire, Words and music by Bob Dylan and Rick Danko.

The Letter - Chapter 70 (Epilogue)

Two Months Later

Jennifer elbowed me in the ribs.

“Ow, that hurt,” I whispered.  I had mostly recovered from my gunshot wound, but there was still some residual soreness on my left side.

“Shhh.  Get ready.  This is his big number,” Jennifer whispered back.

The music started. Jeff, as Action, stood among his fellow Jets gang members and started to sing.

Dear kindly Sergeant Krupke,
You gotta understand,
It's just our bringin' up-ke
That gets us out of hand.
Our mothers all are junkies,
Our fathers all are drunks.
Golly Moses, natcherly we're punks! 

The number continued with Jeff and the other Jets dancing and singing up to the crescendo of the final chorus.

Gee, Officer Krupke,
We're down on our knees,
'Cause no one wants a fellow with a social disease.
Gee, Officer Krupke,
What are we to do?
Gee, Officer Krupke,
Krup you! 

The audience started to applaud wildly.  Jennifer stood up and continued to clap.  Liz on the one side of her and I on the other side pulled her back into her seat.

“You’ll have to save the standing ovation for the end of the show,” I whispered.

“He deserves it!  Why wait?”

I smiled and shook my head.  When the show was over, the audience did give the cast a standing ovation.  Of course, Jennifer jumped the gun and stood up as soon as Jeff came out for his curtain call.

In the lobby after the show, we met up with Jeff’s parents and told them how much we had enjoyed Jeff’s performance.  Cast members filtered out.  Jeff’s parents handed him a bouquet of flowers.

“Thanks for the rose,” Jeff said to Jennifer.

“What rose?” I asked.

“I sent a rose to Jeff’s dressing room – for luck.  Jeff, you were so good.”  She lowered her voice.  “Actually, you were better than the guy who played Tony.”

“Thanks, Jen.  But Tom’s got a great voice.  You can tell he’s had some professional training.”

“A good singer, yes.  But I thought his acting was a bit stiff.  You, on the other hand were a natural.”  Jennifer took hold of Jeff’s arm and gave it a squeeze.

“You were really good, Jeff,” added Liz.  “You wowed the audience in that Officer Krupke number.”

“Thank you, Liz.  You’re very kind.”

“I gave you a standing ovation after that number, but Liz and my Dad made me sit down.”

“There’s a time and place for everything, Jennifer,” I said, smiling.

“Hey, we’re going to Eat ‘N Park for coffee and dessert,” Bill Radakovich said.  “Would you guys care to join us?”

“Hot grilled stickies ala mode!  Say, yes, Dad.”

I looked at Liz who had come with us.  “Would that be okay with you, Liz?”

“Sure, Mr. Leskovic.  I’ll text my mother.  Hot stickies are my favorite too.”

“Okay, we’re in,” I said to Jeff’s father.  “Meet you there.”

At the restaurant, we chatted about the coming summer and college in the fall. 

“I’m really going to miss you guys,” Liz pouted.

“You should have applied to IUP like we did,” Jennifer said.  “West Chester is so far away.”

“I know,” said Liz.  But they have a good dance program, and I can minor in it, with an elementary education major.”  Liz sipped her coffee.  “At least Jen and I will be able to spend time together this summer at the Jersey Shore.”

I had given Jennifer permission to accompany Liz and her parents on their vacation to Sea Isle City, New Jersey. 

“And what about you, George? asked Marnie with a knowing smile.

“Dad is finally working on a novel.  He’s been sending chapters to his girlfriend in Seattle to edit,” said Jennifer.

“She’s just a friend, Jen.”

“Yeah, right,” Jennifer grinned.  “He’s planning to fly out to Seattle in September – when I’m out of the way at college – to  . . .” she made air quotes, “work on his novel.”

“Ellie has proven to be an excellent editor,” I felt myself blush.  “Besides, I’ve never seen that area of the country.  She’s offered to show me around.” 

“That sounds exciting,” said Marnie.  “How long do you plan to be there?”

“This is the most interesting part,” said Jennifer putting a bite of ice cream covered stickies into her mouth.

“Uh, that’s not been determined,” I said sheepishly.  “At least a few weeks.  Maybe longer.  It somewhat depends on my progress in finishing my novel.”

“We will not ask him where he’ll be staying for those few weeks, or maybe longer,” said Jennifer.

“What’s a fitting punishment for a daughter determined to embarrass her father?” I asked Bill and Marnie.  Everyone laughed.  I continued.  “But seriously, if not for a mysterious, lavender letter, and if not for some amazing detective work by my daughter . . .”

“And her able assistant,” Jennifer said pointing to Liz.

“And if not for the heroics of her boyfriend,” I added, noting as an aside, “It’s okay for a father to embarrass his daughter.  In fact, it’s an essential part of the job description.  Yes, if not for all that, who knows what path our lives would have taken?”

“So here’s to Aunt Ellie for coming up with her devious plan to bring us all together,” said Jeff raising his glass of cola.

“Here! Here!” The rest of us laughed, raising our glasses and clinking them together.

The End

The Letter - Chapter 69

“Did I hear something about a letter writing lady from Washington?”  A blonde woman with wire rimmed glasses walked into my hospital room carrying a vase filled with daffodils and irises.

“Ellie?  Is that you?”

“It is, George.  Are you okay?”

“I’m getting better by the minute.  Ellie, this is my ex-wife, Melissa Zingerman.  Melissa, this is Ellie Barnhart.  We graduated from high school together.”

“I was just leaving,” Melissa said.  “Nice to meet you, Ellie.  Melissa nodded toward Ellie and then turned to face me.  "George, take care.  Speedy recovery.”  Melissa waved as she left my hospital room.

“So, Ellie," I said smiling at her.  "We finally get to see each other after . . . how many years?”

“No need to count them on my account, George.”

“Ellie, thank you so much for the flowers.  I love them.  A breath of spring to chase away the midwinter blues.  I’d offer to shake your hand, but as you can see, my right hand has an IV and my left is in a sling.”

“Then how about a gentle hug – if you think you can bear it?”

“Sounds good to me.”  Ellie leaned down and attempted a hug.  I got a pleasant whiff of her Wind Song perfume.  “So, how did you hear about this?”

“It was all over the news in Cleveland.  But even before I heard it was you that had been shot, I was packing to drive to Pittsburgh.  I just had a feeling you were one of the victims.”

“To quote Ronald Reagan, ‘Honey, I forgot to duck.’”

Ellie chuckled.  “I hope that’s the only time you quote Reagan.”

“Actually, he supported the Brady Act when it was being considered by Congress, but I disagreed with him on most other issues.”

“I’m relieved to hear that.”  Ellie took off her coat and sat down in the chair next to my bed.   “So George,” she looked at me and smiled, “it appears you’ll do most anything to avoid a date with me.”

I laughed.  “Yes, I was planning to drive to Cleveland on Saturday to take you out to dinner, wasn't I?”

“Will you even be out of the hospital by then?”

“They haven’t told me yet when I’ll be discharged.  But I’ll be one armed for the near term.  I’m not sure when I’ll be cleared to drive.”  I heard a knock as the door to my room opened again.

“You are not going to stand up this lovely lady on Saturday, because I will drive you to Cleveland.”  Jennifer strolled into the room with a stuffed bear.

“Isn’t that your bear?” I asked.

“Yes, it’s Zachary.  I’m loaning him to you to keep you company and growl at the nurses if they don’t treat you well.  Or if they try to flirt with you,” she giggled.

“Well, I guess I’ve been promising to find you opportunities to get more highway driving experience.  So I will accept your offer, young lady.”  I looked at Ellie.  “Can you recommend a hotel for us in Cleveland?”

“I most certainly can.  The Hotel Barnhart.”  Ellie smiled.  “My son Jimmy insists that you stay with us.”

“So he can keep an eye on Dad, no doubt,” Jennifer grinned.

“No doubt,” I grinned back.  “So I’ve heard that your boyfriend Jeff is a hometown hero.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, he’s just a friend.”  Jennifer blushed.

“Really?  Not based on what I saw when the two of you returned from your date the other night.”

Jennifer gave a sheepish grin.  “Okay, he is my boyfriend.  Or was until I mistakenly thought he shot you.”  Jennifer described her shock and confusion when she saw Jeff holding the shooter’s gun.

“Well, it sounds like your boyfriend is a brave young man,” said Ellie.

“We’re both going to IUP in the fall,” said Jennifer.

“Who’s going to IUP in the fall?”  Jeff walked in with his parents.  Jennifer met him with a hug. “Hi, Aunt Ellie.  Hello, Mr. Leskovic,” said Jeff.

Bill and Marnie Radakovic each hugged Ellie.  “Jimmy called to tell us you were coming here,” said Marnie.

I assured Jeff and his parents that I was doing fine and on the road to recovery.  I thanked Jeff for his bravery in subduing the shooter.

“Yeah, I was thinking about studying to be a social studies teacher, but I’m reconsidering.  I’ve heard IUP has a really strong criminology program.

“I can’t believe you’re considering becoming a cop,” said Jennifer.  “I would be worried about you constantly.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said.  “You’ve got a lot of time to think about the future.”

We all chatted for a while, recounting the events of the night before.

“Lunch time!” an orderly carried in a plate with my lunch, bringing our conversation to a halt. 

“Well, I’ve got to get back to Cleveland,” said Ellie as she picked up her coat.

“Are you sure?” I replied.  “Jennifer can put you up in our guest room.”

“And you’re always welcome at our house,” said Marnie.

“That’s very generous, George, and Marnie, but Katie’s counting on my help.”

“Sure.  I understand.  Well, thank you again for the flowers, Ellie.  Jennifer and I will plan to see you in Cleveland on Saturday.”

“Looking forward to it George.  See you then.”

My visitors left the room.  Jennifer said she’d get some lunch and would come back to visit for a while longer.  I thought about Ellie and how fate had re-introduced us after so many years.  She had a very nice family here in Pittsburgh.  I looked forward to getting to know her better and to meeting her son and daughter-in-law in Cleveland.  I smiled as I wondered how we could build a relationship separated by so many miles. I pushed the thought out of my mind. If this shooting had taught me anything, it was to not worry about the future.  I was happy to be alive today.  I would enjoy life minute by minute, day by day.

The Letter - Part 4, Chapter 68

I opened my eyes, and the room slowly came into focus.  I was in a hospital.  An IV was inserted into my right arm.  Another tube was attached beneath my nose, blowing oxygen into my nostrils. The window curtains were closed, but the morning sun was peeking through the gap at the bottom.  Sunday morning?  I wasn’t sure how long I had been out.  I saw a female figure sitting in a chair next to the bed.

“Jennifer?” I croaked, struggling to sit up.

“No, George, it’s me.”

“Missy? I’m sorry, Melissa?”

“It’s okay, George.  Missy is okay.  You just relax.  You’ve been through a lot.”

I fell asleep again.  When I awoke, my ex-wife was still there.  Memories of the previous evening came flooding back. I had been shot.  I passed out and woke up in an ambulance.  The paramedics told me we were going to Mercy Hospital.  I remembered being wheeled into surgery and then waking up in this room with Melissa in the chair beside my bed.  I turned my head and tried to focus my eyes to see her better.

“How long have you been here, Melissa?”

“Ever since they brought you back from surgery late last night.”

“What about Richard?”

“What about Richard?  He’s back in California preparing for a trial and analyzing whether this is going to have an impact on his election.”  Melissa forced a smile.

“Where’s Jennifer?”

“She’s staying with her friend, Liz.  She’ll no doubt come to visit you later today.  I’ve been texting her through the night with your progress.  Luckily the news has been pretty good.”

“What can you tell me?”

“I assume that you know you were the victim of a shooting during your rally against gun violence. Pretty ironic.”  She paused, pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed her eyes before continuing.  “Sorry. The doctor stopped by while you were sleeping and gave me the details from your surgery.  He said the bullet wound came from a small caliber handgun. The bullet went clean through you.  It just missed hitting a lung, which would have been bad.  Miraculously, no vital organs or arteries were hit.  They cleaned out the wound and patched you up.” Melissa stopped again, dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.  She looked at me and tried to smile. “The Doc said you should be fine in a matter of a few weeks or months depending on how fast your wound heals and how well you do in rehab.”

“Was anyone else shot?”

“Yes, the guy who introduced you.  He was shot in the arm.  They weren’t sure if it was a separate bullet or the one that passed through you.  It shattered some bone.  They had to remove the bullet, plus bone fragments.  His rehab will take a little longer, but he should be okay as well.  I know all this because I stopped by his room and spoke to his wife.  He’s just three rooms over. Sadly, this hospital has a wing devoted to gunshot victims.”

“Did they get the shooter?”

Melissa laughed.  “Yes, they got the shooter.  Now that’s an interesting story.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our daughter’s new boyfriend – Jeff?”

“Yes?”

“He’s something else.  You know he punched Henry, my chauffeur at that dance?”

“Yeah, I know.  I’ve seen Henry.  He could have broken Jeff in two.”

“Jeff’s either fearless or crazy.  He tackled the shooter and disarmed him.  The gun went off into the air during the struggle, but apparently no one was hurt.”

“Thank God!   What a story.  I’ll have to thank Jeff.  He may have saved my life.”

“Perhaps.  In any event, I’ve heard rumors that the Mayor of Pittsburgh is planning to present him with some kind of medal or plaque.  It will probably wait until you and Mr. Corey are out of the hospital and able to attend the ceremony.”

A nurse came in to check the IV and take my temperature and blood pressure.  She seemed satisfied that everything was as it should be considering my condition, and she removed the oxygen, making it a little easier to talk.

When she had left the room, I said to Melissa, “I’m thankful that you’re here, but I have to say I was more than a little surprised when I woke up and saw you at my bedside.  I guess we’ll have to ask our lawyers to postpone our Tuesday meeting.”

Melissa sat silent for a moment.  Then she looked directly at me and said, “George, there isn’t going to be a meeting.” 

“Really?  Why not?”

“This is a little complicated, so let me try to explain.  They identified the shooter on the news.  He apparently has a history of mental illness.”

“And yet he was able to get a gun.”

Melissa continued.  “Maybe he wasn’t the only mentally ill person with a gun in that crowd.  Maybe there was someone else – a very bitter woman who was jealous of the love clearly evident between a father and his daughter, who for a split second had the insane thought that she could steal that love for herself if she could just make the father go away.”

“What are you saying, Melissa?”

“George, I can’t say for sure why I came to that rally.  Maybe it was to spy for Richard.  I’m sure he would like to hear my thoughts on the strength of the local anti-gun movement.  Or maybe I came to see the man who once loved me come into his own leading that movement.”  Melissa gave a short laugh and then continued.  “Or maybe I came hoping to see Jennifer.  I don’t know.”  She paused.  “But for a moment when I saw you standing at the podium, it occurred to me that I had a gun in my purse.  I’m an expert shot, George.  If I had decided to use it, I wouldn’t have missed.” 

“Melissa, do you really think you could have gone through with it?”

Melissa took a breath and looked at me.  “No, George.  I may be many things, but I’m not a murderer.  Moments after I had that crazy thought, I recognized the consequences.  You’d be dead, I’d be in prison or worse, and our daughter would be all alone, trying to make sense of it all.”

Tears welled up in my eyes as I thought of Jennifer.  Melissa placed her hand on mine and looked me straight in the eye.  “George, I tell myself I could never do that, but the fact that I considered it for a second – the second right before that maniac pulled the trigger, made me think – I mean really think.  Melissa paused, looking away for a second and dabbing her eyes with a tissue.  “And I’ve been thinking ever since I saw you go down and followed you here.”

Melissa took a deep breath to compose herself, then turned to me again.  “George, I love our daughter, but I realize now that I’m in no condition, mentally or emotionally, to take over your role.  I’m abandoning the custody action.  First thing tomorrow morning, I’m asking Sidney to end it.”

I sat silent for a moment, trying to process what Melissa had just said to me.  “Thank you, Melissa.  But I think it’s important that Jennifer and you have a relationship.”

“That’s kind of you, George.”  Melissa stood up and walked to the window.  She opened the curtains letting in the morning sun.  Then she turned to face me.  “I’m going to seek counseling, George.  And I know for the next few months, I will be heavily involved in Richard’s campaign.  Let’s see where I am after that’s over.  In the meantime, if you’re looking for a female role model for Jennifer, perhaps you should get to know your letter writing friend from Washington better.  Presuming, that is, that I didn’t destroy your chances for a relationship with that crude letter that I penned to her.”

I smiled.  “No, Melissa, the letter writing lady from Washington and I have been corresponding quite a bit over the last few weeks.  I’m not sure where it will lead.”

Melissa walked back to where she had been sitting and picked up her purse and coat.  “George, I have to be going.  Get well please.  And give my love to Jennifer.”