Dear Cyndy,

It was this morning that I started to write to you,
but no sooner had I begun, than a storm of disrupting
thoughts intruded. I toyed with editing my Appeals Court Brief,
and ultimately spent all day working on it. Now it's finished,
but not quite. I must still sprinkle it with the citations
to cases which I have collected from the Newton Library,
print out as exhibits as many Internet advertisements for
do-it-yourself plumbing as seem appropriate, prepare
an appendix of laws cited, and prepare tables of contents
for the Brief, for the Exhibits and for the appendices.
It turns out then, that I'm not done yet, after all.

Thinking - and worrying - about your repeated falling, I have
some unsolicited advice: that you consider forming a habit of
using a cane, - not because you need the physical support, but
because the repetitive positioning of the cane as you walk 
will slow your steps, and is likely to keep you from stumbling
and tripping, simply because walking with a cane requires an
unaccustomed degree of attention.

What little I remember about your mother, about your father, and about
your step-father has been intermittently intruding into my thoughts,
not very forcefully, because I know so little, and some of what you've
told me, I have undoubtedly forgotten. I remember your mother, of course,
only in that summer of 1939 as an alternative to Sally, hopelessly
inaccessible to me, but the sketchy biography that I glean from your
occasional references tend to make me feel sad and lonely, as if all
our attempts to find happiness in this world were doomed to failure, -
but of course, considered realistically, they are.

My cousin Marion is away for three weeks to visit "a friend" in France,
where she doesn't have Internet access, and it is possible that after
this interruption, the e-mail exchanges won't resume. She has recently
started writing about herself, as distinct from her family, making me
uncertain whether I should forward her letters. What I write about 
myself is the same old recitation of my ideas with which I've
intermittently annoyed you for the past four years. It seems hard
to believe that it's been that long. I look forward to your hit-and-run
visit. Soon after that, the summer will be over, and time once more
for the Jeremiad of which I am so fond, and which becomes more true
and more threatening every year:
The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.
Jeremiah 8:20

Every day I make quick five minute electronic visits to Nantucket
and to Konnarock. Both houses are still there, so far as I can
tell from the images, intact. Klemens and I will be going over
to Nantucket for a day some time next month for the inspection
of the old car that I keep parked there. If it doesn't pass, there
may be more excitement if I try to bring it to the mainland for
repairs since driving a vehicle after failed safety inspection is
unlawful - a $35 fine, and maybe, just maybe, another lawsuit.
I hope, as soon as I get the appeal under control, which may
not occur until mid or late autumn, to go back to Konnarock,
at least for a few weeks. As the months and years pass, my longing
for my childhood becomes ever more poignant. Maybe the essence of
getting really really old.

Please stay well, don't fall, and give my best to Ned.

Jochen