Caprice

My father in 1989

I haven't been incorporating Dad's writing of late. There are just so many pieces that it is, frankly, overwhelming to be retyping them (scanning wouldn't be clear enough for ease of reading) and, I think, it is impersonal to do it that way. And, for some reason, I have been feeling inertia.  I have not been tackling many of the things on my long term "to do" list.  Then a sudden spark of realization of the transience of life in general, and mine, in particular, reminds me--at this stage of life I cannot assume the long term. And whatever I am going to leave behind for a memory of my immediate family, as I am its terminus, is only going to be in the computer ether. This generates urgency.

Let's see how long the current resolve lasts. Probably not long. But at least now, this moment, another of Dad's stories, this one about his response to a political call for a local candidate back in the 1990s. 

The voice had a child-like quality.  I could not immediately place her age. 
"Is this the Gochis residence?"

High school or early college--a newly installed telemarketer, I thought. But I wasn't sure. I decided to use my least offensive method for cutting unwanted calls short.

"Mr. Gochis is on a tour of the Cayman Islands," I answered.  "I'm the butler."  I find this method useful in discouraging the telemarketers.

She laughed. She was not put off by the tactic and the tinkling sound in her voice tempered my impatience.  I decided, instead, to listen to the sales pitch.

"What's your name?" she countered.  There was generous good humor in her tone.

"My name is Constantine." I replied, fully expecting the usual incomprehension, the hesitant garbling response to the name.

"Contantine!" she exclaimed. "That's a nice name."

I was pleased. I continued with an expanded comment. "Yes, the thirtieth in line from the one who had his head stuck on a pole for talking to the wrong people.  He had unfriendly conversation with Mohammed II when the Ottoman Turk took Constantinople in 1453."

She laughed again.  It had a genuinely pleasant sound.

"I'm not selling, I am offering hope, hope for the children of our schools."

The "children" I thought.  Another chant from the Dome in Washington.  My enthusiasm was slightly dampened.

"Are you running for something?"

"No," she demurred, "just helping the fight."

"Are you in college or an aspiring political who has been promised a fat I.O.U.?"

"I'm a sophomore." 

"What's in this thing for you--a job, a novitiate aspiring to more ambitious internship--pardon the expression."  I felt a little guilt at the question.

"No," she said, without indication of offense taken, "all I want to do is to help Caprice in her work."

"Who is Caprice?" I asked.

"Caprice is our hope for better schools, for the children. She is running for leadership in the coming School Board primary on April 13."

"Rather an unfortunate name for a politician," I suggested.  "Haven't we seen enough capriciousness in politics in the last several years?"

She had no response.  She seemed rather to be reading now.

"Caprice Young is endorsed by the Los Angeles Times. . ."  Mentally, I made this one count against her.

". . . and Mayor Riordan. . ." her voice continued. Again not a recommendation in my book.

". . .she will provide the kind of thoughtful common sense and leadership, and accountability, that our system desperately needs. . ."  I had had enough of the lyrics and so interposed, "Do you believe all of this?"

"Yes, I do," she said with that enthusiasm only possible in the very young and as yet unspoiled.  "Will you come out for her on the 13th?"

I thought it would be sinful to deny her a small victory  Such innocence deserved at least tolerance.  "Yes, I will," I encouraged.  It would be capricious of me not to"

She laughed a third time.

Last night I channel-surfed the news for the election results. If there was any, I missed it.  I learned however that some unfriendly bees were swarming in the vicinity.  On a happy note, the last of a trio of criminal beavers was capture.  California trees are now safe from these marauding dam builders.  Last but not least Arkansas judge Susan Webber Wright discovered that President Clinton lied.  Now that's news.