I Think It's a Good Omen

There was a bakery in our old neighborhood that Ash and I loved very much. It was literally just behind the apartment building where he lived, and when we first started dating, we went there at least once or twice a week, sometimes during the week (the bus that took us to law school stopped right in front of their door), and at least one weekend morning. When he moved a few blocks up the street and I graduated from law school, our trips became less frequent, but didn't stop entirely, especially when the weather was good and we could walk from Ash's place to the bakery, then from the bakery to a little park a few blocks further away. We would sit at a picnic table or on a bench, eating pastries, or if we'd been especially lucky that day, some of the much sought-after scones, and sipping coffee. Ash always tried to get a certain woman there to make the coffees because he said that it just tasted better for some reason-- a magic touch with the creamer and sugars, I suppose.

Then we moved to the neighborhood where we live now. And it's far enough away that we almost never made it back to the bakery in our old neighborhood. And then one day, I drove past on my way to church, and the bakery was closed. No warning, just poof, gone. It was one of those gasp-out-loud-and-nearly-hit-the-guy-in-front-of-you moments. We asked some of our friends if they knew what had happened to it, but they were as much in the dark as we were. Small details emerged over time, but nothing more substantial than the will-o-the-wisp of rumor: the baker was forced out when the building owners more than doubled his rent, the business had gone under, he'd moved to a nearby street... All of it plausible, but none of it confirmed.

A couple of months later, I drove past again, on my way to a Trustees meeting at the church, and the windows were covered with large sheets of paper. Large letters were painted on the paper, announcing that a new and exciting place would be OPENING SOON! with a DELI and a BAKERY and UNICORNS! Okay, maybe not that last one. Anyway, after the meeting, I asked our pastor if he'd heard anything about the fate of our beloved bakery. Pastor Fred is very involved in the neighborhood association, and he's also got a bit of a sweet tooth, so really, if anyone would know what happened, he'd be as likely a candidate as anyone. He told me that the baker had opened new premises maybe a mile or so away, in the border area between my old neighborhood, and a slightly sketchier neighborhood.

It was dark by the time the meeting adjourned, but the next Sunday after church, I drove over to the corner Fred had described, but I couldn't figure out where the bakery was supposed to be. Ash and I made a second reconnaissance trip, which involved me circling the block several times at the slowest speed that wouldn't result in getting honked at by other drivers with actual destinations while we both gawked out the window at the shops passing by. No luck.

I'd say we gave up at that point. Except actually, I didn't, because I would just google the name of the bakery and the baker every so often, hoping for a little article in some local newspaper or trade journal to either tip me off to where he went, or at least what had happened. And early last week, I finally hit pay dirt in the form of the neighborhood newsletter, which listed his new address and asked everyone to support him in his new location. I promptly googled the new address... and Google pointed me right to the corner we'd cased all those months ago. I could not understand it. We'd even pulled the car over to the side of the road so that we could take a closer look at the shops-- a closed Slovak bakery (no relation to our beloved missing bakery), an upholsterer's shop, a wedding shop, but definitely no sign of our missing bakery.

This morning, I went to church, and after services, I decided to take a little drive past the corner again. On the first go round, I started to stop and look, but a car was coming up behind me, so I went around the block again. I stopped the car near the corner and looked: closed Slovak bakery, upholsterer, wedding dresses. Disappointed, I started to drive away toward the highway.

That's when the baker crossed the street right in front of my car. He walked up to the door of the shop on the very end of the row and went inside.

I almost peed my pants I was so excited.

Back around the block again, park the car, walk up to the door, and push it open, heart pounding with excitement and anticipation... Holy Cow! It's our bakery! The woman behind the counter wasn't anyone I recognized from the old location, but the pastries in the case were definitely the same deliciousness, and there in the back was the baker himself. I cannot imagine what my face must have looked like. The woman behind the counter said "You look like you want to say something", and I burst out, "I can't BELIEVE I found you!!", grinning like a fool.

Not only did I find our long lost bakery, but they had Mohnschnecken! Oh, man, do I love poppyseed pastries. And they had one last cherry cheese pocket-- Ash's favorite. So here I am, on the couch in my snuggly fleece pants, drinking nice strong coffee and trying not to eat my last Mohnschnecke-- I want to save it for tomorrow, to start my spa day off with a special treat. This is a good start to thirty-two.

How a Field Trip Changed My Life

(NOTE: This was supposed to be published back on March 19th. Apparently I can't tell the difference between "Save as Draft" and "Publish". Or maybe Blogger was just being wonky. Either way, here it is.)

It all started quite innocently. German was the last class of the day in the 10th grade and I was planning to drop it after I finished that year. Only three years of a foreign language were needed for an honors diploma and I was sick of memorizing conjugations and trying to remember which prepositions are Akkusativ, which are Dativ, and which are indecisive and follow what seemed, at the time, to be nothing more than a random system of assigning a case to any particular instance. I liked the teacher, though, and several of my friends were in the class with me.

One afternoon in late January, Mr. K asked me to stay after class. I hadn't been doing my homework on what you might by any stretch of the imagination call "a regular basis", so I figured I was about to get a bit of a chewing out. Imagine my surprise when he asked me whether I had considered joining our school exchange trip to Germany. Truthfully, I hadn't. A trip to Europe would be far out of the range of what my family could afford, and I was certain that they would never be willing to host a German student for the "exchange" part of the trip. I told Mr. K exactly that, and he waved his hand impatiently, brushing these concerns away like nothing more than a buzzing, irritating fly. "Yes, but do you want to go?", he asked. Well... yeah. I mean, who wouldn't want to? "OK. We'll talk later." And he was off, leaving the room unlocked and me standing in the aisle, wondering what just happened.

Shortly thereafter, my presence was requested for another little after school meeting, but this time he shut the classroom door. "Do you still want to go to Germany with us?" Heck, yes. I mean, I may never get the opportunity to go again, how could I pass that up? (And the sad, telling thing is that I really thought that was true. It makes me so sad for my fifteen year old self, that I thought my horizons were so limited.) And kindly, good hearted Mr. K had a way to make it happen.

Obstacle number 1: All students who participate in the program are required to host the student they intend to stay with in Germany. It's an exchange program in the truest sense of the words. And I simply could not see a way for that to happen for us. Not only was there no place to put an exchange student-- my own room was a walled off part of the finished basement-- but the fact was that my family was in the middle of a very stressful and chaotic couple of years and life at home was in a fragile, tenuous place that simply would not stand up to the stresses of hosting a student. In fact, at that moment in time, my parents were talking about divorce, and I knew that I could not possibly ask to bring some unsuspecting foreigner into that mess.

American foreign policy to the rescue!

One of the students who had participated in the previous year's exchange had signed up for a second trip. As luck would have it, the program was structured such that the German kids came for September and the American kids made a return visit around March-ish. That meant that the previous year, the German kids came for their Fall visit, but when the time came to get things ready for the Spring visit, the First Gulf War was in full swing. After some back and forth, the decision was made to cancel the trip, just in case. Those disappointed students were being included in the return visit that Spring of 1992. That meant that Rachel, who had now hosted twice, had her pick of two families that she could stay with, and Mr. K thought that it would be a grand idea if I took her place with the other family. They apparently did not want to be deprived of the chance to host a student and had asked Mr. K's counterpart at the Gymnasium to see if they could get another student. In retrospect, I see just how amazing that fact is. At the time, I'm not sure that I realized how special, how unusual that attitude is.

Obstacle #2: Money. This was really the roadblock. It seems like everyone likes to tell "top me" stories about how they were so poor growing up, and I certainly don't want to imply that we were truly impoverished. I never went without a meal and I had a roof over my head and clothes on my back. But we were absolutely what is meant by "the working poor", especially after my father lost the job he'd held since graduating from high school when the company folded and then spent over two years looking for work, accepting a series of low paid, dead end jobs to keep the food on the table and the roof over our heads. We were lucky, though, because we had a good social safety net of friends and family who pulled together and kept us afloat.* Still, a three week trip to Germany wouldn't be cheap. Airfare, spending money, incidental expenses, passport fees, bus fares, host family gift... it adds up fast. But Mr. K had a solution for that, too. If my parents would pay my incidental expenses, spending money and get me a passport, Mr. K had found a grant that would cover the rest.

I took a packet of information home to my parents and we talked it over. I had saved some money toward a car by babysitting nearly every weekend night and delivering newspapers. Together with the grant money, it made everything suddenly seem possible. A few weeks later, I got a blurry photocopy of a profile with a grainy picture attached: Bettina. A few days after that, I was on a plane on my way to Germany, nervous and excited and not entirely certain if Bettina and her family knew that I was coming**, and then I was standing at baggage claim, surrounded by people speaking a language I couldn't understand, breathing foreign air, a little dazzled by it all, when a tall blonde walked up and said "Are you Katze?".

That was fifteen years ago today. I simply cannot imagine how different my life would have been had I not gone on this trip. It changed my entire life. In fact, I don't think it's at all an exaggeration for me to say that the woman I am today is a direct result of Mr. K's invitation to join a three week program semi-jokingly referred to as "the Ultimate Field Trip" in my high school.





* A few years ago, my mother was buying what seemed like an outrageous amount of toys for two of my younger cousins, and I asked her about it. That's when I learned that when we were children and my parents were struggling, her younger sister bought us all of those presents that were labeled "From Santa" under our Christmas tree, just to make certain that no matter what, the kids would have a good Christmas. All those years later, my aunt was having financial difficulties and my mother was the one who bought and wrapped a pile of presents "From Santa" so that two little girls would have a good Christmas, no matter what. Other people at church "just happened" to have extra lasagna in the freezer, or a pretty dress that their own daughter outgrew, or some Zoo passes that they just weren't going to get around to using... and so on. Those things are what made the difference for my family, keeping us sane and healthy and enabling my parents to pull themselves slowly out of "working poor" and into "working class".

** Was I crazy? If I wasn't, my parents certainly were! What if I'd had to sleep in the Munich airport for three weeks?

Thankful

It's hard to quantify and list the things I am most grateful for this year. It's been a wonderful year, and I've never been happier. Odd, perhaps, seeing as it's not like I haven't had some setbacks this year, careerwise. But instead of feeling angry, anxious and hopeless, I find that I am utterly unworried about the details. The future doesn't seem scary. I feel hopeful in a way that I haven't felt in years, like life is full of possibilities and good things are... not even just around the corner, they're all around me. I'm thankful for that.

I have enough to eat and a warm home with nice things. Yes, I'd love to have more money, and sometimes I get sick of sticking to a budget. But I'm not making decisions like "Medicine or Breakfast?", "Rent or heat", "Pay the doctor or lose the car". I may wish for certain material things, but I have everything I really need and lots of things I want. I don't wqrry about where my next meal or the meal after that is coming from. I'm thankful for that.

I have friends and family who love me, even though many of them are far away. I have companionship and solace, we share our joys and our sorrows. I've said goodbye to some people whose idea of "friendship" was too different from my own, losing two of the more negative influences on my life in the process-- a fact that I was too blind to see until after they were gone. At the same time, I've deepened my ties to other people, gaining new and more satifying friendships. I'm thankful for that.


I do not live in a perfect society, but I live in a time and in a place where I can be fairly certain that I will not the victim of violence while going about my everyday life. I probably won't have to leave behind my family, my friends, my home, all of my belongings, everything I've worked for in order to flee violence or starvation. I can work and study, and no one will force me to marry against my will. My water supply is clean and plentiful. I won't be denied opportunities or be beaten or threatened or killed for my religious beliefs. I'm thankful for that.

I'm thankful for the beautiful days, for the starry nights, for the rise and fall of Ash's chest as he holds me close, for the friends who make me laugh until I'm physically ill, for small hands tugging at my pants leg to get my attention, for hot chocolate with marshmallows, for friendly dogs and snuggly cats, for cozy evenings knitting on the couch with all of the mantle candles burning, for fresh bread, for raw cookie dough, for the enormous bluejay that sits in the tree outside Ash's living room, for the smell of a fire on cold winter nights, for second chances, for serenity, for love. As Garrison Keillor once said, "Thank you, God, for this good life, and forgive us if we do not love it enough."

Holy Crap, I'm a Doctor!

I was never really into the whole idea of walking at graduation. I walked in high school, which meant less than nothing to me, but was very important to my parents. I walked again in college, which was of inordinate importance to me. I went to both ceremonies: the one for the whole enormous university, where they announced entire colleges at once ("School of Engineering"-- all the engineering grads stood up-- "College of Arts and Sciences"-- all the liberal arts graduates stood up, etc.), as well as the "smaller" one for just the students in my college at the university, where they called us up by name. Several thousand students graduated at the same time, so it was a mad house. I was totally into it, though, in part because I was the first person in my family to graduate from college, and in part because I had to work so freaking hard just to finish.

Law school graduation not only seemed utterly unimportant to me, I was actually dreading going through with the ceremony. I tenatively broached the idea of not walking back in the fall, and my mother was so upset, I knew I had to go through with it. I'm still the only one to finish college-- though my sister is about to finish a certificate program in office management, and I have a cousin who went to nursing school, and her younger sister just started college this fall. My finishing law school is a huge deal to them, sort of the culmination of their deepest hopes and dreams that I would be able to acheive higher things than they had the opportunity for.

So I sucked it up and rented the cap and gown, cleaned my apartment, and borrowed an air mattress from Ash. Friday afternoon, while I was waiting for my family to decend on my peaceful apartment, I decided to press my gown. When I took the stuff out of the package, I found that I had been given the wrong size cap, so I thought it might be a good idea to try on the robe and make sure I had the right size. I stood in front of my full length dressing mirror and put the robe on. And I looked at myself, standing there with the velvet stripes and it hit me: I am a doctor.

I mean, yeah, it's not that kind of doctor. But still! I am now the proud holder of the degree of Juris Doctor.

After the shock of discovering that I have not been sitting in classes for the past three years for nothing, I decided to deal with the whole cap thing by calling one of the deans. No messing around for me! And I was assured that they would have a smaller cap for me, all I had to do was come and find them up by the stage about 15 minutes before the ceremony started.

When we arrived at the hall on Saturday, the lawn was filled with people wandering around with their caps and gowns on, squealing and pointing and taking pictures, and generally in high excitement. I had left my camera at home because what on earth was I going to do with it during the ceremony? but I regretted it because I really wanted to take pictures of myself with my friends. I got to meet the Dirty Birdie's parents, and they were so cute I wanted to die. Unfortunately, I didn't get to stay and chat with them because the dean was not where she said she would be, and I needed a cap that wouldn't fall off my head.

I finally tracked down the dean's Administrative Assistant, who guided me to a small box with spare caps in it-- all of which, except for one, were the exact same size as the too big one I had been given. What. The. Hell? Why have all the same size if you're supposed to be taking care of mistakes made by Herff Jones? I ended up bobby pinning the stupid cap on.

And then we were lined up in alphabetical order in the hallways, smothering in the robes, and waiting impatiently for everything to start. I realized that I really had to pee. But there wasn't time for that anymore, so I'd just have to suffer. The line started to shuffle forward and suddenly, there we were at the door to the auditorium. I could hear the sounds of Pomp and Circumstance in the distance. As I stepped over the threshold, I saw a sea of faces, all turned to watch us walking down the aisle, taking pictures, flashes going off all over the place, and I almost stopped short because it was a little scary. Is that what it's like to walk down the aisle at your wedding? Because I'm not sure I want to do it, ever again.

The ceremony itself was quite nice, though the dean-- a novice at this Commencement thing-- kept forgetting to stay close to the microphone during her speeches, and the class president gave a speech memorable for its inanity and illogical structure and phrasing. The commencement speaker was excellent, one of the best I've ever heard, making my record two for three (Bill Cobsy gave the speech at my undergraduate Commencement and was phenomenal).

And then came the hooding ceremony. I hadn't bothered to read up on the ceremony beforehand, despite being advised to do so by the dean. I figured it wouldn't be too difficult to wing it. So I was mildly surprised by the fact that you face the audience while being hooded, though I kind of liked the symbolism of it, once I got used to it. Of the three professors doing the hooding, I had been in classes with two of them and liked them both very much, so I was hoping to be hooded by one of them. Unfortunately, that was not to be. I was hooded by the former dean of the law school, who I am told is a very nice man and a great scholar, but who I do not know and have never actually spoken to. Then I walked across the stage to have my hand shaken by several people I didn't know, plus the dean and associate dean.

Back in my seat, sitting next to the girl I sat next to in first semester Legal Process, being strangled by my hood, I watched a parade of faces go by, almost all of them familiar. A few of them, I'd forgotten about ("Hey, look! Gilligan graduated after all! I thought he'd transferred!"). A few of them, I won't be too sad not to see again. Soulless Evil Goblin was the queen of tacky when she came forward to be hooded, and the Queen Bee had both colored and straightened her hair, making her look like Tammy Faye Scarecrow. But mostly, there were people I laughed with, worked with, sweated through exams with, complained about the administration with, and shared this intense experience with. People I spent more time with over the past three years than my best friend or my family.

And then the Dean presented us, the Class of 2006, to the audience. We stood together while our families and friends applauded. I felt a lump in my throat as I realized the enormity of what we'd accomplished and also realized that this was the last time we'd ever be gathered together like that. All of these people who had gathered together in the Courtroom less than three years ago for Orientation were standing together one last time for Graduation.

Circle of life and all.

We took pictures on the front lawn, me sweltering in my gown, but unwilling, really, to take it off. I wanted so badly to take pictures with Dirty Birdie, but in the crush of things, I couldn't find her, and the opportunity was lost. Finally, when almost everyone had gone to the reception, I turned in my cap and gown and my hood. It was really hard to give up that hood. I don't understand why we didn't get to keep it, or at least didn't get the option to buy it. Not that I know what I'd do with it.

And that was it. I'm officially Katze, J.D. And I have to study for the bar exam.

At church on Sunday, one of the professors from the law school came up to congratulate me and said "Isn't it a dirty trick they play, making you take the bar exam after you've graduated?" Yes, in fact, it is. The dirtiest trick there is, if you ask me.

True Love in Action

Monday, May 7, 2006:
Katze: You know, one of the great joys of being an adult is that no one makes me eat my pizza crusts. I hate pizza crusts.

Ash: [snatches pizza crust from Katze's plate] I love pizza crusts.

Katze: It's a match made in Heaven!

Friday, May 12, 2006:

Ash: [Having finished his own lunch, reaches over and grabs the large chunk of cheese and pepperoni that has fallen off of Katze's slice of pizza and pops it into his mouth]

Katze: Hey!

Ash: [grins, very pleased with himself]

Katze: That's my lunch!

Ash: Anything that's yours is mine!

Katze: Remember how I told you about not liking pizza crusts?

Ash: Yeah...

Katze: Well, you've just turned my entire slice of pizza into a big soggy piece of crust!

Ash: [snickering] Yeah!

My Mom Will Be SO Proud

I just got my MPRE scores-- and I PASSED! In fact, I did far better than I expected to do, well enough that I could take the bar in New York if I so chose.



I just cannot tell you how relieved I am by this. All of my friends warned me that they left the test feeling certain that they'd failed, but then passed anyway. I knew that. But some part of me was still certain that I'd failed. It wouldn't be the end of the world to fail the MPRE, really. I'd just take it again in August and study harder than I did before this administration. But it would still have been really, really embarrassing to have to tell my mom that I failed the Ethics Bar.

Behold the Cute!

My belated birthday present from Ash!*

You know I love a pair of shoes when I'm planning my wardrobe around the shoes instead of matching my shoes to my wardrobe.


*It's not belated due to any fault of Ash's, it should be noted, but rather because I couldn't make up my mind what I wanted, and then I couldn't find them in my midget-foot size.

Good Morning

It didn't start out auspiciously: the alarm went off at 4:30 a.m.

Ash is off to the Moot Court competition, and I'd agreed to take him and his partner to the airport for their very early flight. Neither of us wanted to get out of bed at all, but Ash dragged himself out from under the heavy duvet. I went back to sleep, given that I didn't need to shower and put on a suit before leaving. The next thing I knew, Ash was calling my name and it was already 5:30. I dressed and brushed my teeth quickly, and in only 15 minutes, we were rolling out the door.

Turning onto the main street by Ash's place, wheels zzzzzisssshing on the pavement still wet from overnight rain, that same strange, melancholy joy I always feel when I'm out and about at this time of the morning washed over me in a wave. I hate to get up so early, but I love to be out in a city that's still mostly asleep. Things are calm and quiet, but not in the frozen way of 1 a.m. or 2 a.m. Somewhere in the short span between "the middle of the night" and "the crack of dawn" is a magic realm.

As we climbed the hill, heading toward the airport, the sun started to peek over the horizon. It was still overcast and misting, so there was no real moment of sunrise, just a gradual lightening of the sky. By the time I'd waved Ash and his partner off at the airport, it was full daylight, and my stomach was growling.

I pulled into the parking lot of the Cracker Barrel and found it nearly empty. Inside, it was quiet and clean and I was seated right away, with a cup of hot coffee appearing nearly simultaneously. Only three other parties were there, and the manager had built a large fire in the fireplace at the front of the room. That surprised me-- I'd always assumed that it was decorative, not functional. He came by every now and again and stoked it, so that it crackled merrily and smelled perfectly lovely. I ate and read my book for a while, enjoying the hot coffee and crunchy bacon. The soft hum of conversations wasn't enough to drown out the crackling of the fire. It was cozy and warm and not at all what one thinks of when one thinks "Breakfast at the Cracker Barrel".