Somehow in the somnolent enjoyment of my retirement, I abruptly found myself working as a court clerk. Now at it for more than six months (part-time), it’s taken over a big swath of the days as I struggled to learn the ropes and simultaneously help streamline and modernize processes and procedures.

Recruited by neighbor, friend, and local town justice Bill Chernish, I started out inauspiciously with a letter from Tompkins County informing me that I was unqualified for the job.  In fairness, they were right–nothing in my background translated directly to the justice business.  Bill overrode the rejection and my next opportunity to get out of this was a fingerprint FBI background check.  Oh well, I got past that too.

It’s been fascinating being on the front lines of the justice system, however modest our little town endeavor is.  We have sufficiently “interesting” cases to belie Newfield’s sleepy-little-town characterization. But the bulk of our business is the routine processing of traffic tickets, dog licensing issues, etc.  The court clerk’s job throughout is to support the town justice to give prompt, fair, and correct processing through the judicial system for all who visit our court.

It’s humbling for me as I learn a daunting mound of procedures, tools, and forms. Most of what we do is watched over by state authorities to make sure we manage money, reporting, and administration within strict guidelines.

We’re just one of over 1200 town and village courts in New York State, each staffed with devoted court clerks making the jurisprudence machinery work smoothly.  My guess, based on observation at training sessions, is that at least 95% of clerks are women.  And most are impressively skilled and professional.  And they’re not earning what they’re worth.  (I’m not personally complaining because I’m doing it for entertainment and as a way to help our town.)

I have a letter from our county indicating I am unqualified to be a court clerk. I also have my court clerk ID card.

Newfield town courtoom renovation: visitors are greeted by an image of Themis, “Of Good Counsel”, at the door entering the courtroom.

The courtroom is small, modest, but well-appointed.

This is an unplanned shot of Lori, comfortably lounging in a bed, reading “How Not To Die”.  I like it because of the dynamic light, the muted hues, but mostly because it’s so Lori-esque: even relaxing she’s ferociously focused.

The topic of the book is how diet and nutrition affects our health and the title is a bit sensational given that current expert opinion is that we are biologically engineered to live 115 years at the most.  I’m betting that Lori lives to at least 150 years if for no other reason than to be stubbornly contrary.  Any winnings I make on that bet will, of course, be post mortem–I won’t have the patience to hang around that long.

While rummaging through some old papers I found some yellowed tearsheets from my brief inglorious career as an illustrator.  Well, it was more like a sideline than a career.

In the mid-1970’s I wrote to the editor of Susquehanna magazine, a Sunday insert in the now defunct Binghamton Evening Press newspaper, with a rather cheeky offer to provide better illustrations for their stories.  I included a cartoon drawing of an artist flinging pigment at a primitive painting.  To Darrel Burkhardt’s credit, he overlooked my youthful arrogance and offered to give me a shot.  I worked with him and a couple of his writers on various stories for several issues.  Sometimes they would provide me the story ahead of time and sometimes it would be a discussion about what they were going for.  I would provide pen-and-ink drawings that would reproduce well on newsprint.  I had some fun, made a few extra bucks, and they got some illustrations that were at least marginally better than the stuff they had been using.

It was fun while it lasted.  I don’t recall exactly how our working relationship ended but I recall it was kind of a fade-out.  They were going for more conventional stock illustration and I was realizing that this was too much like work with deadlines and specifications.  It’s a bit humbling to look at this stuff now.  Clearly I was not following in the footsteps of N. C. Wyeth or Norman Rockwell.

Mouse (one of our two cats, good friend, and family member) has passed away just shy of 16 years old.

She was, in fact, a better friend than a cat.  She lacked a few basic cat skills like catching mice and birds (total failure).  She never mastered use of her claws, frequently getting stuck when jumping up on an ottoman.

As a friend she was stellar.  She never bit or scratched anyone, was relentlessly friendly, ever affectionate, and forgave transgressions immediately.  She was an enthusiastic conversationalist, delighting in taking turns speaking in our respective languages.  Her purring was all out of proportion to her size.

Mouse was a consummate hedonist, spending all waking hours on the prowl for food, belly rubs, or noogies.  As a prodigious producer of hair, she relished her brushings when Lori could, in one sitting, brush out enough hair to knit a kitten. We often spotted her gazing at her reflection in a window or mirror–we shared her opinion of her good looks.

She always assumed that if anyone was in, near, or walking through the kitchen, the only plausible purpose was to serve her food.  She would relentlessly pace and exclaim her frustration at the staff’s inability to focus on this essential task.  Food finally served, she could purr and munch simultaneously.

Her naps were long luxurious embraces with a splash of sunlight, a vacant warm lap, or a cozy cardboard box.

As part of the family she was loved and she loved us, and we all (mostly) overlooked our respective shortcomings as any beloved family members do.

Mouse was a sweet sweet friend, will be dearly missed, and will be the subject of fond reminiscences for years to come.

Because we are new to our neighborhood since last spring, I’m reluctant to complain about other new arrivals in the area.  But a woodchuck has set up home here and we prefer he, well, didn’t.  His sprawling multiple-entry McMansion is a menace to tractors for one thing.

I can’t say he’s particularly obnoxious in most regards–he doesn’t pee in his yard, shout f-bombs in heated family arguments, ride ATVs back and forth, back and forth, back and forth like certain other white trash neighbors.

Nevertheless, I think I’ll encourage him not to live here any more and decommission his estate.

Lori arranged for Makayla and Nathan to visit us for a couple days. She thought they might like to see the ducks at our neighbor’s farm across the street.  Anne and Bill of Toad Hill Farm turned it into a major event to the delight of all.

First stop was the ducks, including one who has a role in an upcoming NBC crime program.  From there we moved over to the chickens and then went inside to harvest some eggs for Nathan and Makayla. Then it was over to see the young pheasants and finally the turkeys.  Bill was ever-patient answering the barrage of questions coming from all directions (including Lori and me).

Bill then fetched some fishing gear and brought us to the farm’s pond which is stocked with a variety of fish.  After some initial gear confusion, we got things to the point where Nathan was able to cast his lure into the pond.  It didn’t take more than a few tries for him to get the first and only fish of the day.  Meanwhile Bill and I caught our limit of pond grass and we reached our limit of fishing relaxation in short time.  Makayla was more interested in the frogs.  Lori mostly mocked us as she mistook skilled technique calibration for inept bungling.

We all then retired for iced tea and apple cider to recount the adventures with appropriate embellishment.  Bill and Anne went way “above and beyond” to treat us to a fun and memorable day, one that was a huge hit with Makayla and Nathan.

Lori has a birthday today. She consistently has one every year about this time. She’s very reliable that way. Normally we observe the occasion by doing a death march at Robert H. Treman Park in weather worthy of Satan’s hothouse.

This year was different on two fronts: the weather is uncharacteristically cool and Lori’s “on call” for customer service problems, limiting her flexibility. (It’s a new program her employer justifies by saying it helps software engineers develop customer awareness, much in the same way that requiring surgeons to rotate air-conditioning maintenance chores helps them develop operating environment awareness. Incidentally, in both cases money is saved by the employer–it’s a win-win! Except for the people laid off who used to do those jobs.)

This year we decided to visit Stewart Park in Ithaca; Lori had never been there and I hadn’t been there since my age was in the single digits. A windy cool day kept picnickers at bay but the park is quite the gem in any case. We will be back. We topped off the experience by having lunch at Ithaca Bakery, an old reliable favorite.