Heading home...

When I checked my flight home, it turned out to be a 6:30 am flight out of JFK. Figuring 90 minutes to check in, another 20-30 minutes of nonsense associated with checking in the rental car and having them drop me off at the terminal, and another hour or so driving to the airport, and we arrive at a departure time of oh-dark-thirty.

So I changed my flight, which now leaves in the afternoon.

I took the opportunity yesterday to walk to the beach that's part of my parents' property owner's association. The walk evoked a lot of memories.

Back when I was a kid living in Queens, my parents would occasionally visit a friend of theirs who lived in the community (and naturally, I'd be along). It was she who owned the "original" Ming Toy, one of a series of Pekingese. I seem to recall that each dog's friendliness was exceeded only by its size, but I digress...

The beach, situated on the North Shore of Long Island, differs from those located on the Atlantic shore in that there is almost no wave action (certainly no breakers). Also, the beach seems to consist of pebbles that are a little hard to walk on, as opposed to the fine white sand grains of the South Shore beaches.

I remember, as a kid, picking berries - I think they were blackberries - along the dirt road that led to the beach, as well as an old beach house with many small cabanas on the shore itself.

The area of the beach house has changed. The berry bushes are all gone, replaced with something that's perhaps more pleasing to the eye, and thornless. There's been construction in the area, not the least of which was the rebuilding of the beach house, to replace the one that burned down some years ago. The new structure looks much like the old one, but there are differences.

One of the non-architectural differences is the proliferation of signs. Upon entering the grounds of the beach area one sees a "No Dumping" sign, next to one that threatens towing for cars not identified as belonging to members of the Association. Another sign forbids motorcycles or scooters from crossing the bridge to the beach house. On the other side of the bridge, another sign announces "No dogs beyond this point." The beach house itself is festooned with signs prohibiting smoking and providing helpful hints in other areas of human endeavor.

Looking out at the swimming area, I halfway expected to see a sign along the lines of "Backstroke prohibited after 6 pm," or some equally imperative message.

The tide was high, which prevented me from climbing out onto the jetty where I spent long summer hours one year letting a scab form over some deep emotional wounds. All in all, the place looked prosperous, and the few people that were at the beach looked happy despite the plethora of signs that strictly delineated the proper conduct of their lives.

My dad and I visited my mom, who's undergoing rehab here locally. We actually visited twice; once in the morning, and once in the evening. My mom is not a happy camper, but that's to be expected. Someday, I shall write an essay on the relationship between the women in our family and providers of health care, but I'm in too good a mood to start in on that now.

After the visit, my dad and I went home to rest for a couple of hours, and we then visited a local restaurant for a Father's Day dinner. By happenstance, we ordered nearly the same things (the difference lay in our choice of cocktail). The Caesar salad was very good, as was the sirloin steak.

While resting, I watched a little television and read a bit. I happened to run across a completely engaging "discovery" concert on the local public television channel (WNET, if memory serves). The program basically dissected the third movement from Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 4, and gave the attentive listener enough grounding to do more than simply "hear" the music. I regret I did not take notes.

While reading,I ran across the following passage, from something by James Joyce. In it, the interpretation profession ends up wearing a small black eye (yes, I understand that Joyce is not talking about all interpreters, but still...). This is from what appears to be a really short piece, The Hanging of Miles Joyce:

Neither the old man nor the others accused knew any English. The court had to resort to the services of an interpreter to hear their evidence. The questioning, conducted through the interpreter, was a times comic and at times tragic.

On one side of the courtroom was the excessively ceremonious interpreter, while on the other stood the patriarch of the miserable tribe unused to civilised customs, who seemed stupefied by all the judicial ceremony.

At one point, the magistrate said to the interpreter, "Ask the accused if he saw the lady that night?"

The questions was referred to him in Irish, and the old man broke out into an involved explanation, gesticulating, appealing to the others accused, and to heaven. Then he quieted down, worn out by his effort.

At this the interpreter turned to the magistrate and said, "He says, 'No, your worship'."

"Ask him if he was in the neighborhood at that hour?" the magistrate went on.

The old man again began to talk, to protest, to shout, almost beside himself with the anguish of being unable to understand or to make himself understood, weeping in anger and terror. At last he fell silent once more.

And again the interpreter said, "He says, 'No, your worship'."

When the questioning was over, the guilt of the poor man was declared proved by the court. He was remanded to a superior court, where, with two others, he was condemned to the noose.

The next thing I picked up to read was by Damon Runyon, which resulted in some strange thoughts, as I began to wonder how Runyon would have handled the description of poor Miles Joyce's situation.

In any event, I must check to make sure I've got all my stuff together, and then spend a little time with my dad before I disappear again.

Cheers...