John Swinburn

We sometimes keep meaningless records longer than necessary. Much longer than necessary. As my wife was going through some old papers this morning in preparation for shredding paperwork we no longer need, she came upon a folder with records of a citation I received in the mail in December 2003.

The ticket alleged violation of 5620, Chapt. 7A-18, litter. In a note on the citation, the issuing officer, Cheryl G. Daniels, had written “debri (sic) adjacent to premise.” The citation said the date of offense was 12/19/2003. I had no idea why I would have received such a citation. I went outside, looked all around my house, and found nothing that might have warranted the issuance of a ticket. So, on January 1, 2004, I wrote a  letter to the City of Dallas Municipal Court, pleading not guilty to the alleged offense and, on the back side of the ticket in the place reserved for declaring my intent, requesting a trial by jury. Not long thereafter, I received in the mail a notice that my case had been scheduled for September 1, 2004 at 8:30 a.m. I was given the opportunity to summon witnesses (which I opted not to do). According to the notice, “the State will summon its own witnesses. A $5.00 witness summons fee will be assessed if you are convicted.”

On the appointed date, I appeared in Municipal Court, prepared to defend myself against a false allegation of being a litterer. I remember sitting in the courtroom, waiting for my turn to take the stand in my defense when, after several other cases were discussed and scheduled, the judge asked an attorney for the city to proceed with my case. The attorney recommended dismissal and the judge agreed. I was invited to the bench, where the judge, Daniel F. Solis, handed me a slip of paper with details of my case and upon which “dismissed” had been stamped.

I have no idea, to this day, why I received that citation in the mail. But I was prepared to fight it, tooth and nail. As I think about the alleged offense and my reaction to it this morning, Arlo Guthrie’s story-in-song, “Alice’s Restaurant Masacre,” about being arrested for littering. Except he was guilty; I was not. And I have no idea why, almost thirteen years after I was cleared of the charge that might otherwise have sullied my reputation and ruined my life, I still have a copy of the ticket, my letter, and other records surrounding that dark event in my life. Well, I can tell you this: after today, I will no longer have those records. I’m going to cleanse that incident from my past with the help of a shredder.

My wedding anniversary approaches. In a matter of days, my wife and I will have been married for  thirty-seven years. We will have lived together for between thirty-eight and forty years by then (I don’t recall precisely when we began “living in sin,” but it was quite some time before we agreed to allow the state to sanctify our commitment). The fact that I do not recall the year we moved in together is testament to the fact that we viewed intimacy from a more casual perspective than our parents (and, by the way, many of our contemporaries and their children and grandchildren); not an earth-shaking adjustment to relationships but, rather, an easy comfort that grew out of familiarity. Our celebration of the event will conclude with dinner at one of the newest and most upscale restaurants in Hot Springs, Arkansas, The Avenue. The Avenue, located inside the the Waters Hotel (formerly the Thompson Building) recently  opened after an extensive renovation to the property.

We will commence the celebration with a trip, tomorrow morning, to the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville, Arkansas. An exhibit I’ve wanted to see at the museum, Border Cantos, is ending soon, so we decided we ought to hurry and see it before it goes. On Wednesday, on the way back home, we’ll make a brief detour, stopping outside Winslow, Arkansas to visit a friend and former employee who just bought five acres in the country; she opted to abandon Dallas for the wide open spaces.

It occurs to me that we build monuments in our minds to the experiences we’ve lived through, like our wedding and our thirty-seven years of marriage. But we (i.e., people, “we the people”) also build monuments to experiences we should have had, and would have had if we’d taken the opportunities presented to us. That idea just sprang into my head as I was writing this; it’s too abstract and only tangentially related to what I’m writing here to warrant a more extensive exploration at this moment. But it’s sufficiently intriguing that I wanted to get it down “on paper” so I can attempt to recapture it some time in the future. While I’m writing, though, let me consider this: is it possible (or likely) that our memories are shaped as much by wishes as by experience? Do we recall what we wish we’d experienced, rather than what actually happened? The answer, of course, is “yes.” Not always, but sometimes. If that’s the case, then how can we differentiate between accurate memories and memories bent and shaped by desire or, conversely, distaste? I think this train of thought belongs in the fiction I write; and one day it will be so.

This has been a stream of consciousness message, brought to you by coffee, insomnia, over-thinking, and genuine daydreaming.

Yesterday, I ordered samples of several products that, if their promises hold, could transform the appearance of our fireplace and, perhaps, the look of the brick on our house. As I wrote a few days ago, I was considering putting in an order. Instead, after looking at many of the company’s products, I contacted them by email, asking which of their several products might be best-suited to accomplish the look I want to achieve. Their response was by and large a non-answer; “you might want to get a sample of this product or that product to see which one is best.” But they did suggest one product might not work. Their response notwithstanding, I ordered samples of several products. I decided I might as well determine immediately whether any of the products can accomplish my aim: turning a pinkish/whitish/grayish conglomeration into a light mottled grey.

This morning, as I consider what I did, I began to question my sense of reason and rationality. The cause of my self-doubt arises from the fact I spent my time and energy addressing aesthetic issues as opposed to more pressing practical issues. Specifically, the deck. Less than two yeas ago, we had our deck cleaned, sanded, and painted with a product ostensibly designed to protect and restore badly weathered decks. That decision, it now seems, was a bad one. The considerable expense associated with it was wasted.  The deck is peeling worse than before; the boards are splitting and cracking and I’ve come to the conclusion that the deck boards need to be replaced, which will be an extremely expensive undertaking.  That’s the first thing that caused me to question my sanity. The second thing is the fact that an area of the trim and siding, a good twenty feet off the ground—damaged by wildlife (probably woodpeckers, I learned yesterday, courtesy of the Garland County Extension Service)—needs repair. That should take precedence over brick color, methinks. So, what was I thinking when I decided, instead of tackling the more pressing matters, to devote my energy to aesthetics? I suppose I was thinking of aesthetics to take my mind off the more pressing and far more expensive issues.

Perhaps a second cup of coffee will help ease my mind. It’s been a good hour since I began sipping on my first one; all that remains of that once hot, dark brew are a few drops at the bottom of my mug. I’ll remedy that right now, then turn my attention to other, more pressing matters.