Dear Marion,

Thank you for your letters and the many important topics
begging for comment which you raise.

First things first. Kevin Dowd and I are in complete agreement:
A maritime creche which depicts the Virgin Mary as a Mermaid without
a Tail is sacrilege. 

As for our correspondence, my computer, whose primary passion is binary
arithmetic, tells me that from the inception of our correspondence on
June 12, 2009 until yesterday, I dispatched to you no fewer than 313
letters comprising 271111 words, or 678 pages of printed text, assuming
400 words per page. As long as I can remember, imaginary conversations,
dialogue, observations, thoughts, arguments addressed to another person
have proved for me to be the primary vehicles of thought. Your humor,
tolerance and inquisitiveness have been responsible for many of the ideas
that have occurred to me in the past 18 months. How can I say Thank You?
I am grateful for your patience, but I understand that our correspondence
cannot continue forever, and when you discover that enough is enough,
please let me know. I myself can't imagine curbing my loquaciousness
as long as there's a cortical neuron able to fire.

Yesterday's trip to Nantucket was exhilarating as always. For many years,
expeditions to go hiking or cross-country skiing have turned into festivals
on the calendar of the spirit, occasions that make life lucid and
meaningful. Now, when Margaret and I are physically no longer capable of
such extravagances, their place has been taken by less conspicuous but
economically more rewarding efforts, such as a year ago, clearing
Margrit's apartment, the regular sallies to Konnarock, and not least,
the demanding and perhaps ultimately very effective day trips to
Nantucket which, for the forseeable future, I would like to repeat at
intervals of two, three or four times a month.

The weather was not as adverse as one might have feared. After slithering
out of our snowy driveway at 6 a.m., the wheels made firm traction all
81 miles to Hyannis. The highways were wet but not icy, and a heavy
overcast masked the glare of the rising sun which would have posed a far
greater driving hazard than the few snowflakes that melted as soon as they
struck the windshield. On Nantucket light rain was falling, and the roads
were clear to within 600 feet of our house. There the taxi driver, a middle
aged woman, proposed to deposit Margaret and me, my heavy packframe and
Margaret's knapsack onto the slush. She agreed, however, to wait until
I had retrieved my rusted 1995 Dodge that was parked next to the bulkhead.
I had no difficulty steering it through the drifted snow. The various
tools I had brought to thaw a frozen lock proved unnecessary. The key turned
freely in the lock.  Margaret and I had no diffculty getting into the house.
We warmed ourselves in the glow of two radiant heaters. The air temperature
which initially registered 36 F ultimately rose to 52. For lunch we had
several glasses of Ginger Ale as well as a box of chocolate (devil's food)
doughnuts, with which I had stocked up at the Cumberland Farms store in
Hyannis at the time that I refilled the gas tank of the car.

The plumber, Mr. Dennis Parks, arrived promptly at 12:30 as he had
promised. A genial, tall, burly man, round faced, almost bald, but
with a crown of blond curly hair. Attached to each ear lobe, a small pearl,
of such metal as befits a master plumber: brass. Margaret tells me
his nose was simiarly adorned. I did not look, probably because I
avoided eye contact. When I later described Mr. Parks' appearance to
Klemens, with a comment about its not fitting into the the social
landscape of Nantucket, Klemens clarified the plumber's apparition
with a single word. All he said was "Queequeg".

So I showed my plumbing instllation to Queequeg, and as I had expected,
he found the PVC plumbing not compliant with the code. I thought it
interesting however that his criticism diverged from that of Mr. Liffey, 
who had rejected my plumbing the previous week. Mr. Liffey had found
the appearances of the glued PVC joints objectionable; he had stated that
allegedly blackened copper pipes showed that in the process of soldering,
they had been overheated, that the clean-outs were in the wrong position.
Queequeg on the other hand declared that copper supply plumbing was o.k.,
but that the two inch traps under the shower stalls, though sold here by
Home Depot, were not legal in Massachusetts, that the clean-outs were
appropriately placed, but improperly oriented. Queequeg said it would
be cheaper to pull out the PVC drain and vent plumbing that I had installed,
rather than to bring it up to code, defect by defect. I apologized profusely
for my incompetence, promised never to do it again. Queequeg in turn agreed
to send me a written proposal. Given that it's the holiday season,
I don't expect a letter from him for at least a week. Mr. David Kinney,
the plumber who had promised to come at 2:30, did not appear. 

At 3:15, I telephoned for a taxi, which for which Margaret and I waited
in my old blue car by the side of the road. By 3:40, the taxi had come,
I had replaced my car by the side of the house and walked back to the taxi.
The large clock in the Steamship Authority ticket office showed 4:00 p.m.
when Margaret and I sat down to wait. The trip back was uneventful. By
9:45 p.m. we were home and I was unloading the car.

Another occasion to reflect on my staircase wit (Treppenwitz). I had made
it a point not to dispute the plumbers' arguments. In retrospect, I 
conclude that for both of them the plumbing code is an undefined lattice
onto which they project their preferences and habits. "The way I practice
plumbing is the way that plumbing should be practiced." As in the coming
weeks and months, I interview as many plumbers as will talk to me, I should
get a clearer idea of their beliefs concerning correct plumbing. To what
extent these notions converge onto a parochial, local Nantucket plumbing
tradition, remains to be seen. I suspect however that such a tradition,
if it exists, will have only a remote resemblance to the plumbing code.

In reviewing the records of the State Board of Examiners of Plumbers
and Gas Fitters, I note that the plumbing inspector, Mr. William Ciamataro
is himself not a licensed plumber. I can find no record of the plumber's
license of the man who inspected my plumbing last week, whose truck was
emblazoned with the legend "Liffey Plumbing, Inc."; the license of Mr. Chris
Gordon, who left his name in my "voice mail box" as being interested
in helping me, expired last May. Mr. Joseph Ciamataro, the Inspector's
brother whose plumbing license expired in 1992, advertises himself as 
a plumber 18 years after that fact. Am I permitted to ask, how many
plumbing licenses Mr. William Ciamataro, the unlicensed plumbing inspector
has granted to Mr. Joseph Ciarmataro, his unlicensed brother? Are these
facts relevant to the "integrity and fairness" of the plumbing inspection
from Mr. Ciarmataro to which my plumbing is entitled?

The consideration of the need for society, - as I biologist you won't
be offended, if I allude to Nietzsche's term, "the herd instinct", I'll
defer to another letter, because consider it of much importance, and feel
a bit too tired to tackle this topic tonight.

If I don't write again before you leave, I wish you a New Year's weekend
filled with wonders, at the Farm, and a happy and healthy New Year.

Jochen