Whatever else one can say about my father — and much could be said, though little of virtue — I owe him this much: When faced with the prospect of his little girl never walking again, he taught me instead to read.

I recall sitting at the table with him at a tender age, less than four, certainly, in front of a newspaper. He would place one finger on the trembling page, holding it firmly with a hand that also clutched a Camel straight. A cup and saucer stood at his elbow, full of over-perked coffee. He probably had not shaved, and the acrid smell of last night’s beer mixed with stale smoke and chagrin. I might care, a few years later; but at that moment, I heeded none of that.

Instead, I squinted and fixed my blue gaze on the starkness of black type against a greyish background. His voice cut through my confusion as he sounded words and instructed me to repeat them. I couldn’t say, more than six decades hence, to where the other kids had scattered. Five older ones ranging from twelve to six probably had jumped at the chance to play for a bit without anxiously waiting for the sharp snap of a displeased patriarch.

Throughout my childhood, books comforted me. Our Grandmother Corley sent stacks of Reader’s Digest Condensed volumes, where I read classics without realizing their truncated nature. As an adult, I devoured the full-length versions, shaking my head, feeling cheated. But through my grade school years, those books meant so much — escape, education, enlightenment, everything that our chaotic home lacked.

Last evening, I struggled to find a comfortable position while thinking about various people whose current troubles worry me. Without a strong religion, I feel a bit like a fraud sending prayers into the ozone. That’s the trouble with basic beliefs. The existence of a divine entity gives me comfort but not bargaining power, usually reserved for those bound by an intricate and overbearing dogma.

I suddenly remembered a book that had come to us in one of the bonus boxes from Grandma. The Reason for Ann held a collection of novellas between its blue covers. The title story centers on two recording angels assigned to watch over a ne’er-do-well, whose earthly antics they bemoan. Each exploit and misstep reflects on ledger pages in carefully drawn red marks; the few good deeds appeared in black alongside credits for his mother’s prayers.

Somewhere along the way, their scallywag charge enlisted to serve in the Korean War. On the same day he met Ann, a beautiful, gentle creature for whom the angels could see no reason. The fellow did not deserve the lovely and kind woman. Yet she had come into his life. Against all odds, it seemed they loved each other.

Off he went to battle, earning his pilot’s wings. In the sky, as they watched, he met what the book marked as his certain end. The ink stopped; the remaining pages blank. One angel went off to see the fellow’s judgment hour, while the other hung his head and wept.

And yet: he survived. They watched from the golden mist and a figure emerged: Ann, on her knees in a chapel, head bowed, eyes closed. At last, they understood the reason for Ann.

In the dark of my tiny house, I said a prayer for my loved ones who face their own difficulties — none fatal, none terminal, but still bothersome, and still perhaps reason enough for divine intervention. Though I closed my eyes, I did not bend a knee. I did not want whatever divine spirit might be listening to find me pretentious. I only wanted to let he, she, or it know that if, somehow, the brush could raise and set a few more rows of lovely black characters to flow across the page, I would be ever so grateful indeed.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

I had to scroll through Rob Wells’ obituary to recall how we got connected. Mutual friends who attended the Gerry Spence Trial Lawyers College virtually introduced us. Years ago, I accepted his friend request on Facebook and I have followed his astonishing and poignant life ever since that fortuitous and ephemeral meeting.

Rob never knew the most ironic factoid about our dubious link. Both he and the people we knew in common had intensely positive feelings about the famous Gerry Spence, once oft-lauded advocate for the likes of Willie Nelson and Karen Silkwood. They studied his techniques and perhaps basked in the glory of his heralded light. I, on the other hand, knew him in a different time and place. I had a lesser view of the man. I never shared that with Rob, though; I never had or took the chance.

Instead, like many folks who knew him twice or thrice removed, I merely marveled at his unblemished but human persona. I read posts about his courtroom conduct, the meetings that he had with clients, his view of the law whom we and so many of our sisters and brothers at the bar hold dear. I watched clips of him playing the guitar and singing which he offered as gifts to anyone online late or early, anyone in need of something in which to lose themselves.

I found myself replaying these musical gems time and time again. I knew the small smiles he made at slight stumbles, and the little gleam in his eye when he finessed a complicated bridge. I anticipated the heartwarming glow at the end, when he closed with a gentle comment. I felt his warmth penetrating the vastness of the space between us.

Of his prowess as counsel, I have not one tiny shred of doubt though I’ve never seen him argue in a court of law. His posts convinced me that he knew of what he spoke. The zeal shone through the monitor. I know quality legal representation when I read about it. As a forty-plus year attorney myself, I envied his relentless dedication and the deftness that I could discern between the lines of his accounts. Though I never sat in the courtroom where he practiced, or heard a recording, I have no doubt that he commanded the respect of any jurist before whom he rose to assume the podium.

Years ago, I sat in my parents’ living room talking about law school with my uncle Bob, an attorney himself and my father’s baby brother. A final exam in my Contracts class loomed, posing me a bit of stress. My uncle smiled and linked his hands around his knees. Contracts are easy, he opined. Offer, acceptance, consideration, bargained-for exchange, capacity to contract, and adherence to the requirements of the statute of frauds. As I struggled to repeat the litany, he laughed. Once you get beyond this simple stuff, you’ll ascend to glory, he assured me. Trial advocacy, that’s the thing! That’s the real heart of the law.

Rob Wells understood that. He stayed true to the purpose of our profession: Representation of those who cannot adequately speak for themselves. For that, though I did not know him in person, I much admired everything I knew of him. Most of us strain to make our mark as guardians of democracy now and again; Rob Wells personified that mandate.

But wait; there’s more. In addition to his obvious prowess in his chosen vocation, Rob Wells also appeared to be an amazing husband and a truly astounding father. His photographs of himself and his beloved Ceil; his proud boasts about the accomplishments of his adult children; and the stories that he told of his life with the whole lot mesmerized me. If his wife set a pretty table or sewed a lovely curtain, Rob posted snapshots taken from every angle. The dogs cavorted; the mother-in-law visited; the children and he organized glorious vacations. All of it deserved to be documented and catalogued, then shared with his friends in the virtual world.

We hung on every word. I don’t know how others responded, but from the other side of my laptop, I gravitated between delight and jealousy. But I could see the virtue of his life, the connection among the members of his inner circle, and the deep devotion that they all held for one another. It rang true. I never doubted; I never once thought, Ah, but what about when there’s no camera? What am I not seeing? What Rob Wells felt for his family, and they for him, cannot be easily faked even in this day of dazzling artificial intelligence.

Rob Wells died three days ago. I did not know he had been sick, nor had I noticed a dearth of posts from his page. My life gets busy and I spend less time on social media. In retrospect, I realize that his name had not appeared in my feed of late. His son posted about his death and the illness which he deliberately hid from the outside world. I chuckled when I read that, for such self-effacing modesty seems entirely consistent with what I knew of him.

His wife and children will miss him with an excruciating pain that I can only imagine. His pets will pace in the hallway, looking to the doors, awaiting his step. His pen will lay motionless upon his desk. Clients will let their hands drop to their sides, forlorn without their champion. There is now, and will ever be, a Rob-Wells-shaped hole in the universe. A much-loved man has passed from this world, to what ever reward the universe holds for him. Rest well, my friend. Though I never met you in real time, I mourn your passing even as I stand immeasurably grateful for the gift of knowing you.

In my lost year, 2014, I could go to a coffee house, post my presence on social media, and within a half hour, someone would appear at the doorway to spend time with me. Jeanne Jasperse, Penny Thieme, Genevieve Casey — any number of wonderful folks would stop their normal daily routine to come order coffee and share the events of their lives.

Today the press of my solitude bears upon me. I gaze outside at the painfully tender blue of the sky and wonder what my friends back home would think of my life today. Jeanne left us years ago but I still see her in relief against the bright sun of the open doorway of Homer’s Coffee Shop. I still hear the lilt of her voice as she pulled out a chair. Hey girl. My heart beats within my chest in an unbearably poignant rhythm.

I had a sudden urge to see a particular picture of my mother and me. I struggled with the search bar of my old laptop. Something in my eyes, I suppose; a sudden sting. I tried to sort by name but the download grouped itself by date. The longest bunch just bore a simple heading: A long time ago. Oh yes.

I realize that I lost most of my scanned photos in the hack of my website. I get a little desperate, running search after search. Finally I find it in an album on Facebook. I study our profiles. I remember that day. I’m 17 or 18 in the photo; my mother must be nearly 50. You cannot see the sorrow in our hearts but those years held very few quiet hours. Yet in that moment, on the porch of an historic house in St. Louis, we could have been any mother, any daughter. My heart contracts.

Years ago, in a book of essays and short stories called Solo: Women on Women Alone, I read someone’s account of solitary life. Most of the time, I’m all right, she remarked. I go about life without a care. But once in a while, I come home and check the closets and under the bed. I imagined her going through the apartment. Did she fear finding someone hiding there? Or would she draw him out, make a cup of tea, and serve him dinner? Was it the thought of a crouched figure that frightened her or the anguish of the empty spaces?

Today I dwell on every bad decision that I’ve ever made. I cannot help it. It is I who finds the silence haunting; I who parks the car and listens as the motor cools, wondering what everyone else has found to occupy their day. I talk to my mother, to Penny, to my sister and my son. But mostly in my head, in the stillness. I study Jeanne’s grin as she strolls through the coffee shop. Hey, girl, I tell her. Long time no see.

Life among the missing holds little joy, except the vague shadows of pleasant hours gone by. Yet still do I cling to its brittle contours. The faces might eventually fade, but the feelings will ever linger. I find some comfort there.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

I fought a sudden rainstorm to get to a stopping point and roll down my window. Still, I did not move with sufficient speed to snap a decent photo of the rainbow over the Pacific. I had kept my eye on it, stunned. I could see both ends, sharp against the grey sky over the stormy expanse of sea. But the rain dissipated the dazzling color. I did as well as I could, content with a pale glimmer of the vivid arch that I will never forget.

My engine hummed as I sat, awe-struck, delighted. Eventually, I put the car in drive and continued south. Pigeon Point stood tall against that same drab expanse. On my first trip to California, a friend had admonished me not to miss the sight of her. I still cannot travel westward without straining to rearrange my schedule for a fresh glimpse.

She rises from a field of ice plants, small buildings crouched at her majestic base. I study the grand height, noting the guy wires that signal rehabilitation underway. How many ships have found the harbor with the steady flash of her light? I take some comfort from her constant presence.

After a brief detour for coffee and a gluten-free muffin, I headed inland with a profound sense of deep ambivalence. My mood darkened as I drew further east, as the ocean’s heady fragrance faded from the air around me. Grim news blared from the sound system, podcast after podcast that I had ignored all weekend. The nation’s prospects had not improved since I left home on Friday. Perhaps I should have hunkered down at Montara.

As I trudged from car to house, something different about the display of plants around my porch steps caught my eye. A new rock admonished me: Be Kind! I studied the writing, wondering who had stopped to leave this message. Had they singled me out? Did the entire park receive this guidance? And why face it towards my returning gaze, instead of hitting me with the firm suggestion as I left home of a morning? Did the speaker want me to treat myself with care? Was the rock intended as a condemnation or an entreaty?

I went inside, none the wiser. I left the rock where its creator had chosen to place it. Being kind has always been my goal, even though reasonable minds could differ on the method to my madness. I suppose I might have wronged someone. I send a silent prayer to the universe, that it might always help me strike a balance between my moral underpinnings and the social niceties that others expect me to observe.

Sitting in the perfect chair that my friend Tim Anderson gave me, fatigue washes across my aching body. I walked too far on Saturday, consigning me to rest that evening and into Sunday. I need to lose ten or twenty pounds; I must get back to regular yoga and deep breathing. Be kind, indeed. And lest we not forget, charity begins at home. Perhaps the rest will follow as night flows from the dying day.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®