JUne 27, 2011

Dear Cyndy,

Thank you for your letter. This morning I went to Lowe's in Abingdon and bought myself a present for my 81st birthday: Four gallons of Cabot alkyd exterior siding stain, tinted greyish blue to match the paint that was applied to the upper reaches of the house when the roof was replaced two years ago. After I arrived home I staged a solo birthday party by and for myself, painting the red cedar shingles on the front of the house, starting at the bottom and going as high as I could without resorting to a ladder, on the premise that if I'm going to fall from a ladder, my birthday is not the day on which to do it. I acknowledge the naughtiness of the question, but it insists on being asked: Aren't 81 birthdays enough? aren't 82 birthdays too many? Is it really necessary to go on and on when one can barely walk, and has to dial 911 to get from here to there?  I'm told that the fancy ambulance outfitted with the latest in resuscitation equipment costs 900 dollars from the house in Konnarock where it would be lovely to die, to the hospital in Abingdon, where dying is hell. Think of all the interesting, productive, edifying projects that Rebekah, Nathaniel, Benjamin, Leah could undertake with 900 dollars! It is, however, essential to die, where what's left over is easily found. Swimming out into the ocean beyond the point of no return is a no-no, because the fishes are notoriously uncooperative when it come to issuing death certificates, and without a death certificate, the estate can't be settled. Anyway, the theme is: Happy Birthday.

I like Arthur Sullivan's music; I'm charmed by W.S. Gilbert's libretti, but the Mikado notwithstanding, I'm opposed to all punishment. Poor William Ciarmataro, he's not a good plumber and he's a worse lawyer.  He may well win his case, because Nantucket has powerful friends everywhere. But "justice" is scapegoating - ask Isaiah - and the courts may just decide to "purify" the awful messes they make by sacrificing poor Billy, by stripping him of his inspector's job and even of his plumbing license. I would feel responsible; I would feel guilty, because it would be my intelligence and my eloquence that turned the tables on him, - not I hasten to add, my plumbing skills. At the conclusion of that scurrilous "inspection" I shook his hand and assured him that I had no ill feelings. I'm no more angry at him than I would be angry at a dog that barks and tries to bite me. On the other hand, if Billy succeeds in doing me in, I wouldn't be badly hurt. It would make a good chapter in the novel.

Stay well and give my best to Ned, and a reflexive happy birthday to me.

Jochen

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