Dear Marion,

About 5 feet in front of the porch window where I am sitting
I have positioned, suspended from a five foot pole of one
inch PVC pipe, a hummingbird feeder filled with sucrose syrup
which is dispensed to its clients through four bright red plastic
cups, each shaped like a large flower in bloom, each with its
own individual match-stick perch from which even now, two of the
busy birds are sipping the nectar which I have prepared for them.
On the tip of the pole from which the feeder is suspended there
sits from dawn to dusk, a little male hummingbird tyrant guarding 
his realm. For all I know, that's also where he spends the night 
when I can't see him.  He tolerates guests only occasionally, and 
from an outsider's viewpoint, quite arbitrarily.  On one occasion
this morning I noticed that three of the matchstick perches were
occupied by quaffing clients, the fourth, by the tyrant himself.
More commonly he sits on the tip of the pole, his head swiveling
like a radar antenna in search of enemies. When one approaches,
he swoops down on him or her as if intent on impaling the visitor
on his sharp beak. There ensues a brief colibri skirmish, then
the intruder flees and the tyrant returns to his throne on the tip
of the pole, in sole possession of his precious realm. He must be
very lonely.  In fact, I believe he may be demented and in desperate
need of a hummingbird psychiatrist. Margaret is concerned that his
unending contest with his enemies may so exhaust him, that finally,
when he realizes, with Jeremiah, that the harvest is gathered, the
summer is ended, and we are not saved, he will lack the strength to
fly to Florida or to Mexico or wherever hummingbirds go for the
winter. I describe him to you at such length in an effort to
convince you that there are creatures in this world crazier even
than myself, though admittedly not many.

You are generous in overlooking the contradiction in my two letters,
in the first of which I write that the singalong was the ultimate
accolade to Margrit, expressing as it did her affection for her
friends and her political values, and doing sombre justice to her
disaffection from her parents and particularly from her brother.
In the second letter I write that such a statement, if false,
was the ultimate defamation, and if true, the ultimate insult
to her memory.  Perhaps there is truth in neither, or perhaps
in both.

In pursuing this poignant and potentially fruitful topic, we
must be careful to avoid imagining disagreement and conflict
where no disagreement and conflict exist. Margrit is dead.
Her ashes have been buried in a dignified ceremony, her memory
has been celebrated in Detroit by a memorial meeting in the
library of the Friends School, in Green Cove with a cookout
and singalong which expressed the wishes and satisfied the
needs of her friends.  Her apartment has been dissolved. Her
debts are paid. Her estate has been settled.  What else, other
than bringing her back to life could one desire?

My reflections about Margrit's death and the ensuing events provide
me with an opportunity to try to deepen my understanding of the
society which Margrit created, my understanding of my family, which
includes not only my parents but you as well, and ultimately of
course my understanding of myself, of my thought and of my feeling.
The primary focus of my efforts to understand is Margrit's
relationship to our parents, to Klemens and to me. Margrit lumped
these relationships together and disparaged them as a unity. She
complained that her natural family did not value her or her
lifestyle and struggled valiantly to create an anti-family of 
protegees and friends who would do her justice. It is undeniable
that Margrit did not want to be taken care of by me or by Klemens.
She said she would rather die, and in fact, she did.

Your analysis of the folk-song universe is valid and compelling.
I believe we are in agreement in all respects. The circumstance
that American folksongs mean little to me is beside the point.
It is the "fellowship", the community which these songs are
expected to foster which seems insignificant to me, - and not
for the reason that I don't respect or value the individuals
who are to participate in that fellowship; it's that I respect
them, I like them too much, and that the fellowship distorts
and distracts from the relationship which I deem valuable and
which I seek to foster; while the other potential members of 
the fellowship are made uncomfortable by such relationships
and resort to the convention of the party or the singalong to
frustrate them. Ultimately, as I grow older, my relationships
to others, including Margrit's friends, reach an equilibrium
free both of disappointment and unrealistic expectations. That's
as it should be.

Where I was fortuitously forewarned and was not required to
participate in the Memorial Singalong, I have no desire and 
no need to be critical. However, the undeniable discrepancies
in sensibility and rationality made manifest by singing in
memory of Margrit, such as "I've been workin' on the railroad"
and "She'll be coming round the mountain when she comes," are
pointed reminders of my father's protective reaction: "Das hat
mit mir nichts zu tun," which lies at the root of his
disappointment with his daughter, and cannot but raise in
my mind the question, What did he mean? My mother's answer:
Es ist unkultiviert, would have raised the further question:
What, and of what value, is "Kultur"? I'm not ready to try to
answer that question, but it's not too soon to think about it.
(My very tentative answer: "Kultur" is any focussed lifestyle
which nurtures sensitivity and rationality to an extent that
makes possible the efflorescence of art. "She'll be comin around
the mountain when she comes" is inconsistent with this
specification.)

In answer to your question about the scheduling of your visit
to Belmont, I would like to leave our plans as we have made them.
I have a firm commitment from Sandy Greene, the woman who drove
Margrit and her Miata to Detroit on December 9 of last year, to
appear at our house in Konnarock at 8:30 a.m. on Friday July 23,
and to help me drive us back to Belmont in one day. We should
arrive early in the morning of July 24. After a night's sleep,
Sandy will turn around and drive the Miata back to Konnarock,
where Jeane Walls is waiting to accept it as a gift from me.

I will meet you at Logan Airport arriving on Icelandair flight #631,
July 26, at 6:35 p.m. Margaret and I invite you to stay in our
house in Belmont as long as is convenient for you, and to come
with us to Nantucket on August 1 or 2, at least for the week that
Klemens and his family are on the Island, provided that that by
those dates the Appeals Court has not ruled against me. I also
offer to drive you to, and to fetch you from Truro, provided I
am in Belmont on the days you wish to travel.

Jochen