Dear Cyndy,

A letter to you has been on my mind for several days.
I very much hope Ned has recovered from the cutting of the trees.
I'm very sympathetic with him, inasmuch as I also identify with
every tree that is felled, and resist all arguments for the 
necessity of such destruction. In Konnarock today it's a huge dead
locust which is looming over the house, ready to collapse, I hope
on the driveway and not on the roof. Some 10 days ago, I telephoned
my friendly lumberjack, asking him to schedule prophylactic surgery.
He put me off for a week, promising to appear at 9 a.m. on Sept. 21.
When he did show up, albeit an hour late, it was in his new red truck,
same color as my new van. He was wearing his Sunday best (although it
was Tuesday), without any intention of cutting down even a single tree.
He wanted only to talk. He asked me how I liked my new car, - and
my answer "not at all" cemented the bond between us, because that's
just how he felt about his new truck: too many gadgets, too expensive
to have repaired professionally, too compact and computerized to do
it yourself. And when he lamented that do-it-yourself plumbing and
do-it-yourself wiring was now being outlawed in Washington County,
he found, as you can imagine, a sympathetic hearing. I tried to
cheer him up, by telling him that I myself had never been involved
in the making of the laws, but had found the legal avoidance of them
an exhilarating exercise. He promised, though not terribly convincingly,
to come back next week to cut the tree. If he doesn't show up,
I'll do it myself, provided I can get the chain saw started.

My cousin Marion has been engaging me in a lively correspondence
concerning the ethics of voting. She's trying to convince me that
my vote will decide not only the election, but the future of the
country and the future of humanity; while I propose to her that
the contemporary political ethic is a species of mysticism, a
secular religion whose prophets Thomas Jefferson and Tom Paine
have usurped the function which Jeremiah and Isaiah should fulfill
in the spiritual experience of us Jews.

Thank you for asking about my novel. Progress is slow, but much is
happening. The two policemen, Buddy and Billy, who are helping me
out, have carted Mengs and Magus to the police-station jail in an
improvised contraption: a flat bed truck on which a large cage has
been mounted. - On "The Island" anything goes. - During the bumpy ride
through the quaint historic cobblestone streets, Mengs and Magus 
have been shackled, feet to the floor, wrists to the walls, while
balancing themselves on hard wooden benches. Now, having arrived in
the police station parkinglot, Buddy has opened the cage, Billy has
climbed into it to unshackle the prisoners and to direct them to
jump out onto the pavement where Buddy is waiting to resume custody.
Joachim Magus, young and agile as he is, complies, but Mengs,
a generation older, pauses at the latch, looks down at the all too
distant pavement, and hesitates. He is afaid, afraid of falling,
afraid of breaking a leg. He stands in the opening of the cage,
unresponsive to Buddy's commands that he jump immediately, or else.
When Mengs, frozen with fear, fails to move, Buddy's temper, which
he has always had trouble keeping under control, erupts into a torrent
of shouted abuse and vulgarity. Summer visitors to The Island flock
to the scene and block the street. It's greater entertainment
than they would ever have dreamed. Finally Buddy, at the end of his
tether draws his pistol, and points it at Mengs. Seeing Buddy's 
uncontrolled anger, it's Billy's, the other policeman's, turn to become
frightened. Billy pulls from his pants pocket a small oblong device
called a "fob" and presses the PANIC button. (I leanrned about PANIC
buttons only last month. Finally some benefit from buying that fancy
new car.) The ensuing pandemonium that my mind conjures up, far outstrips
the imagination of the Chrysler engineers who designed the gadget. Not
only does the horn of the police truck start blaring, its headlights,
tail lights, blue lights, red lights start flashing, but the sirens in the
turret of the police station begin to wail, as do those on top of the
fire station, the doors of the firestation open automatically and the
engines of all police cars and fire trucks start by themselves, and
all over town, in the church steeples, the bells which have been wired
into the system begin to ring, - I could go on, and maybe I will, but
first a sacrilegious disgression for which I preemptively ask forgiveness.
I can't resist reciting the account in the Gospel of St. Matthew about the
PANIC that ensued upon the death of Jesus.

51 And, behold, the veil  of the temple was rent in twain
from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent;
52 and the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose,
53 and came out of the graves after his resurrection,
and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many. (Matthew 27)

or, to help you brush up on your 16th century German:

51 VND sihe da / Der Furhang im Tempel zureis in zwey stück /
von oben an / bis vnten aus.
52 Vnd die Erde erbebete / Vnd die Felsen zurissen /
Vnd die Greber theten sich auff /
vnd stunden auff viel Leibe der Heiligen die da schlieffen /
53 vnd giengen aus den grebern / nach seiner Aufferstehung /
vnd kamen in die heilige Stad vnd erschienen vielen. (Luther 1545)
_
What happens next is that the clerks and secretaries pour out
of all the Town offices, certain that Osama bin Laden has struck
again, until finally the Chief of Police appears and takes charge.
For the sequel, stay tuned.

Margrit does (did) have a bottle of Irish Cream stored in the dining
room breakfront, - what tense do I use, where the bottle is there,
but Margrit is not - but I haven't touched it for two days, and the
enebriation is surely endogenous.

Stay well and give my best to Ned.
Jochen