O for a longer lens ... and a longer day

Talk about a big tease.

That's Springwood Cemetery in downtown Greenville, South Carolina ... a nearly 150-year-old grand dame sporting an elegant pearly mantle of over 7,500 pale, inviting tombstones.

The earthly remains of another 2,600 souls are safely interred beneath her generous (albeit temporarily winter-brown) grass skirts without benefit of grave markers.

And despite the fact that I've been in and out of downtown Greenville for years, until last Thursday I didn't even know La Belle Springwood existed.

See, what happened was this. On Thursday afternoon I received an assignment to cover two depositions in Greenville for the next day.

As is my wont, I hustled onto Google Earth to draw a bead on the exact coordinates of my destination. 

(When I know I'll be working in a highrise office tower, very little is left to chance. For example, I won't even crank my auto until I've established where I'll be parking on the other end. Because if it's in a multi-level parking garage -- which I hate -- I allow a little extra time for getting lost recovering from the dizziness that attends locating an empty parking spot not reserved for one of those "lucky" enough to park there five days a week, finding a route out of the maddening concrete maze, then wending my way via two or more elevators to the designated suite of offices, and on time, which for me means early.)

No sooner had I keyed in the address when up went my grave-dar because, lo and behold, clicking on an aerial view of the subject highrise office building using Google better-than-GPS Earth and Maps, what do I see stretching, yawning invitingly, directly across the street?

What I see is a ginormous cemetery.

Mentally, I immediately place it in the (m)oldy-but-goody category. A true formal pre-Civil War burial ground with a massive stone-and-wrought iron gate giving onto acre upon acre of names and dates, with wide paved lanes intersecting fields of tombstones in all sizes, and towering obelisks and bulky monuments and graven tablets and granite vaults and solemn watchful angels and iconic crosses and the mournful romance peculiar to such deliciously lugubrious real estate.

You know! The sort of place I'm always dying to explore.

How in the sam hill, I thought, could I have missed this supersized bone orchard smack dab in the middle of downtown, when you consider all the times I've buzzed in and out of Greenville over the last ten years?

It's a mystery.

Finding that a sunny and warmish -- if windy -- day was forecast for Friday in the upstate, and anticipating that we'd wrap up the depos by mid-afternoon at the latest, I packed my camera and my graving shoes. 

(Actually I forgot my sturdy trusty graving shoes at home, having set them down at the last minute beside the cabinet that I opened to retrieve a few CDs for the trip, and having walked right off without them, but in the final analysis, I regret to say it didn't matter.)

So on Friday I was up with the wee birdies preparing my own remains for viewing and by eight o'clock I was nosing my car onto I-26 westbound. Fortunately for me they hadn't moved Greenville. I was there in under ninety minutes. 

Due to flawless execution of my own expert Internet reconnaissance (knowledge is power and power is time and time is money!), I parked effortlessly and, within five minutes, was setting up movable shop in the showy window-walled tenth-floor conference room of a quasi-chandelier law firm.

Please Lord, remind me not to yawn! It would be most unprofessional if not downright rude.

(Law firms -- no matter how opulent -- ceased to enthrall me sometime during the first Clinton adulteration administration.)

I got organized and was in the stage where I decide whether to go for a cup of their coffee (they had a Keurig so I was briefly tempted but in the end I opted out, having upon waking used my beloved Bodum Chambord French Press to prepare my customary single cup of hot, strong, fresh Folgers Black Silk, liberally laced with pre-warmed real half and half, no funny flavors, no fat-free nonsense).

I had a Diet Coke instead.

Wandering a few feet over to the plate glass affording a view eastward toward the mountains, I was about to wave "Hi Mom!" (for my mother lives a scant ten miles away in that direction) when I thought to myself, that great big cemetery must be around here somewhere ...

Uhm, yes ... yes it was. When my eyes focused I realized the whole thing was sprawled at my feet.

I momentarily felt like a doofus but that's a familiar feeling so it's easily dismissed, and I did, because I had bigger fish to fry.

Namely, to grab the Nikon D3100 and begin wishing and hoping that, even though I'd left my graving shoes at home, I'd have time for at least a short stroll on the lanes, which were empty and calling to me.

I took a moment to snap a few before the room began filling with lawyers and plaintiffs and defendants (oh my) and I was obliged to arrange my smile so as to appear just interested enough to get the day's job done, but not sufficiently invested to devote even a brain cell's worth of concern to the eventual outcome. 

I zoom-zoomed as much as possible on the alluring gravestones so enticingly near and yet so annoyingly far.

(With the Nikkor 18-200mm VR lens Mr. Jim and Miz Donna have advised me to buy -- which piece of equipment I am sad to report I do not yet have -- I could've read those puppies even without my graving shoes!)

Note to self: be patient.

It was soon time to administer an oath to a witness who would commence to prevaricate complain embroider whine testify ad nauseam, seemingly ad infinitum, all the while employing a mixed bag of childishly histrionic body language -- including but not limited to much eye-rolling, sighing, and exaggerated head-and-shoulder sagging -- meant to convey contempt for the proceedings at hand, which always amazes me when you consider that if it weren't for the fact that this very person saw fit to sue others for various and sundry grievances both real and imagined, none of us would be there in the first place and the answers to these two-thousand-or-so onerous and intrusive questions could remain shrouded in the mists of what-might-have-been-except-someone-was-smart-enough-to-avoid-it, for all eternity.

Let's pull over and park here for a mo, shall we?

In the annals of civil litigation, for a court reporter there is no more dream-within-a-nightmare scenario than that of being retained to report depositions in a case revolving around new construction -- whether it be of a dog house or an edifice designed to challenge the architectural relevance of the Taj Mahal.

Because what you have is people who spent at least one-third more than they could afford to build a five-to-ten-thousand-square-foot house (with a de rigueur four-to-six-car garage) either fronting on water or, at the very least, situated on a lot that would make a postage stamp look spacious, within a mucky-muck subdivision that hobbles its residents with a list of HOA-administrated rules that would make Barack Obama's Healthcare bill look like a milk-and-bread shopping list, just so those who "live" there may secure bragging rights amongst their friends, neighbors, and acquaintances and/or keep up with the proverbial Joneses, who in fact could care less.

Then, finding their little corner of residential heaven is going to cost way more than either they or their banker anticipated and they're destined to be buried in draconian debt up to their justifiably-furrowed brows until Judgment Day and beyond, said once-wealthy landowners begin sniveling because a drywall nail popped or a slate shingle was high by a sixteenth of an inch or a truss was left floating or their dwelling was placed three feet closer to the street and the facade angled six degrees more southward than they'd envisioned when planning their own personal hell on earth dream home.

It has to be somebody's fault! No one should be forced to live this way. This is America! Land of the free and home of the litigation-prone. So they lawyer up and sue every contractor who ever drove his battered pickup past the jobsite, much less set foot on it.

Thousands of hours of excruciatingly boring and ultimately-leading-nowhere testimony ensues. The truth took a hike when the first shovelful of dirt was moved and is not likely to be heard from again.

And that's where I and my ilk enter the dream-within-a-nightmare. It's a nightmare because of the reasons I've just enumerated, and about sixteen dozen more just like them. You don't want to know.

It's a dream because invariably you end up with lots of pages and not one, not two, but several copy attorneys who will most likely buy them, and that means more money for no more work.

So I guess it's a wash. Normally I take it in stride because, when you think about it, unlike the litigious nouveau poor homeowners, I have no choices. In for a penny, in for a pound.

But when a breathtakingly beautiful cemetery is enticing you from ten floors below on a springlike day in January and all you want is to haul your camera down there and walk in the gorgeous clear sunlit air, it's difficult.

In due time my echoing tummy threatened to render me a trifle truculent for the circumstances. I feared if I were forced to endure another syllable of pointless palaver about non-plumb walls and inadequate drains and contractors so stupid and unethical it's a wonder they can find their tool belts with both hands, a flashlight, a detailed map and a dedicated search party, I would locate a hammer and begin to pound on some heads of my own.

Before hunger-induced violence became necessary, we broke for a half-hour lunch.

Back at ground level and a few steps away from the office tower's doors there was a deli where I paid four dollars for a sandwich of pimento cheese on pumpernickel. That's life in the big city. From home I had brought half an apple and it would serve as dessert. But then the deli proprietor instructed me to take a cookie from a see-through acrylic breadbox near the till, so I did as I was told.

Chocolate chip.

The name of this particular highrise office tower is One Liberty Square. In the spirit of southern urban hospitality, there is a cobblestoned courtyard with a couple of benches and a fountain. Last Friday the fountain was filled to the brim with water but there was no movement. Still as glass.

I sat on a bench in the sun, listening to Mozart and Bach lending a sophisticated ambience from speakers hidden in bushes behind me, and ate my lunch.

(If you ever have occasion to order a sandwich from the Manna Deli at One Liberty Square in Greenville, don't get the pimento cheese. Unless you happen to love mayonnaise more than life itself. Trust me on this one.)

When I walked in from the parking garage that morning, I'd noticed that embedded amongst the cobblestone pavers of the courtyard are numerous engraved tablets bearing quotes about liberty. 

A myriad of quotes disturbingly germane to the current social, economic, and political situation we face in America this very election cycle. Every citizen should memorize them.

The deposition droned on for three additional hours after lunch. On a break I suggested to one of the defense attorneys -- always a jolly lot, defense lawyers -- that instead of using controversial waterboarding at Gitmo, we should simply force enemy combatants to watch day-long videos of construction testimony. And take notes.

They'll give up Osama Bin Laden, his pet parakeet, Al Queda, their pet hamsters, and every falafel stand between here and Allah's doorstep, I pointed out. Like taking candy from a baby.

The attorney laughed but I think he was just being nice.

We went off the record after four. The wan winter sun had nearly completed its arc over charming Greenville and shadows were lengthening once again in Springwood Cemetery. I took a few last pictures before packing to go.

It was past four thirty before I reached my car. Too late to go a-graving; I had just enough time to get home before it fell dark.

Must abide by the terms of my parole!

As I drove away, out of the parking garage, past the iron gates and silent tombs of Springwood and the hopes and dreams that lie buried there forever, I comforted myself with a thought I often have when there's not time to do what I want, but only time to do what I must.

To wit:

The cemetery and its inhabitants aren't going anywhere. I'll come back another day to take pictures of the graves of folks who couldn't have imagined the times in which we live. The sort, lucky or unlucky, they did not survive to see. 

I'll do that, I promised myself, providing time does not run out for me as it did for them. Which of course I know it certainly will.

And as my little gray car joined the heaving stream of traffic back onto I-26 -- eastbound at last, headed home -- thinking as always of my children and grandchildren, I breathed a silent prayer:

Please Lord, may liberty outlive me. May it outlive them.

Bird brains

Whenever I travel -- as in, anytime I know I will be spending the night somewhere that does not feature my own bed -- my pillow goes with me.

Always.

I cannot sleep on any pillow but my own.

As alluring and comfy and soft and downy and plump and potentially pillowy as any other pillow may appear, the moment I lie down on it I hate it. 

I love my pillow. I need my pillow.

It is a king-sized goosedown pillow that was given to me by my mother-in-law over fifteen years ago.

And may I state unequivocally: until you have slept on a king-sized goosedown pillow, you have not been comfortable. Don't come on here and tell me about your awesome pillow! I don't want to hear it!

See, you can mold this pillow to your neck and shoulders fortune-cookie fashion and then punch it until it's just right for your face and your particular way of sleeping, and it stays where you put it but in the most mollycoddling way you could ever wish for. That pillow is mold-able and efficient and compliant and angel-soft and simply dreamy.

So imagine if you will the height and depth and width of my chagrin when, a few weeks ago when TG and I were en route to North Carolina on the first leg of our long journey north for Grandpa's funeral, I realized the awfullest thing imaginable:

I had forgotten my pillow at home.

Also my phone charger.

Now, the pillow, I have no idea how it got left behind, except, I remember placing it at the end of my bed so it wouldn't be forgotten, and then I know TG put my dress bag on top of it and we were both working to get my clothes organized, and next thing you knew he had taken the dress bag out to the car and I must've gotten distracted because clearly, I left home and my pillow didn't.

Disaster.

Forgetting your pillow is the bedtime equivalent of locking your keys in your car: once you do it, you know it will be a LONG time before you'll be making that mistake again.

As to the phone charger, it never even got unplugged from the wall. It was not remotely thought of, much less remembered.

I've no idea why, as we drove along, approaching Charlotte as I recall, the twin horrific truth(s) rather suddenly washed over my brain:

I FORGOT TO BRING MY PILLOW. AND MY PHONE CHARGER.

I nearly cried, right there on I-77.

You see, the prospect of spending at least eight nights in beds not my own was bad enough. But without MY pillow?

Unthinkable.

Disremembering the phone charger was little more than an annoyance in the grand scheme of things, but consider: once your phone goes dead, what then? 

Once your phone is dead, you can't call anyone. And they can't call you. That's what.

And that's not good, because I am dependent on my cell phone to the same degree I despise it.

And that's a lot.

It's become too easy to stay connected to TG and the kids with that phone. We all call one another whenever we feel like it. In normal circumstances that might be anywhere from once or twice or even three times a day, to once or twice or even three times a week. It just depends.

The point is, when you want to communicate with someone, it's as simple as palming your cellie and punching a few buttons. 

Now, granted, we were all going to be together on this trip north. But hey! We took three cars, y'all. Three cars on the last -- and longest -- part of the trip, those 444 miles of I-75 that extend like a dirty gray ribbon between Powell, Tennessee, and Rossford, Ohio.

And you've got to stay in touch so as to know where to stop for hamburgers and donuts and coffee and sody-pop, and use the facilities, and fuel the autos, and give Javier a potty break. And you must be able to call and tell one another where Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity can be found on the radio in that part of the world.

You know! Important stuff!

Well, of course, you know what happened: that first Sunday night at my daughter's house, I slept about two hours.

The next day, TG went to TJ Maxx and bought me the plumpest king-sized pillow he could find. And pillowcases to go on it. Also he bought a car charger for my phone.

Good man. But wait! Not so fast.

The pillow LOOKED comfortable but it was a mere illusion. The moment I lay down on it, my head went straight to the mattress and the fluffy pillow ends came up around my face and practically smothered me.

No matter how much I pushed and shifted and cajoled and pled with that pillow, whatever was stuffing its insides was so stubborn and so determined to do what IT wanted to do instead of what I wanted it to do, it was hopeless.

(I've since found out, after getting that pillow home, it's wonderful for propping behind my perfectly excellent goosedown pillow while sitting up in bed for reading or working a crossword, or eating ice cream while watching midnight reruns of The Nanny. So all is not lost. Also, I love having a car charger for my phone and wonder now what I ever did without it.)

By the time we showed up at the funeral home the following Thursday afternoon, I'd slept so little and so ill for four nights running, I avoided the undertakers.

I was afraid they'd throw me in the first available coffin and bank me with carnations and fire up those pink spotlights.

And as tired and unwell as I felt, I wasn't ready for that appalling scene.

One wouldn't want to steal another corpse's thunder, after all. Everybody gets their turn to be star of the show and let's be civil about it.

Fast forward four more nights and I'm back in Knoxville, spending the final night without my pillow at the lovely home of daughter Audrey. 

The next day Audrey was still on bereavement leave from work and so we had the luxury of lingering over a scrumptious breakfast of homemade french toast (with hot cherries and syrup and confectioner's sugar) and bacon and copious amounts of hot, strong, fresh coffee (with real half and half).

In mid-afternoon I left for Columbia, anticipating a joyous reunion with my beloved pillow and bed.

It was a four-hour trip and I was down to the last fifty miles when it happened. I was trucking eastbound on I-26 and it was beginning to spit rain. Also it would soon be dark. I wasn't exactly speeding but I wasn't strictly observing the speed limit either. Know what I mean?

I think you do.

I was alone because TG was working in North Carolina, and we were actually talking on my car-charger-enthused cell phone when it happened.

From my left-hand field of vision something large -- very large -- and dark -- very dark -- featuring huge -- very huge -- wings hurtled out of the heavens on a collision course with my chariot.

It was over in a nano-second: an oversized bird hit my car and bounced off. For the slightest instant I'd seen a spread of massive brown-and-white tailfeathers as the bird made contact with the outside of my driver's side exterior mirror.

I glanced into the rearview in time to see his carcass caroming around the interstate like an errant bowling ball, feathers flying everywhere.

I sort of started yelling to TG on the phone, telling him what had happened. He said he thought he'd heard the pronounced thrump as the bird hit my car!

It was that loud.

And then I saw it: the bird had struck my mirror housing so squarely and so hard, he'd pushed it in on its hinge until it was all the way flush with my car ... and there was no longer a mirror. Just innards and flapping wires.

So! A confirmed birdbrain who leaves her feather-filled pillow behind when she goes on a trip, will not return from said trip without inadvertently braining a bird who, thanks to her, no longer needs his feathers.

What are the chances?

I don't really want to know.

And what are the charges? Uh, well, can you say deductible? To the tune of $250? Add another $200 on top of that, all to replace an eight-inch by six-inch mirror.

My guess is, as long as I can put shoe leather to accelerator and terrify birds along the interstates, I'll be bailing out General Motors.

C'est la vie, mon ami! C'est la vie.