THE FUR TOPPED BOOTS

It’s been two-and-a-half years since I lost my close friend, Doris Willman. June 25, 2015. Not one single day goes by that I don’t think about her. She wrote the following story many years ago and, just before she left, we talked about republishing it that holiday season. It is an honor and privilege to bring you her story once again. I don’t know when it was written, but please enjoy it. She was a very special lady and I’m so proud to have known her…

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THE FUR TOPPED BOOTS

By Doris Willman

[Here is a story I wrote when I was a member of an Amateur Writer’s Club…got 2nd prize, probably because I had all the judges in tears. lol] The Fur Topped Boots

AWC-02

Christmas was only two weeks away. As I sat by the window watching the snowflakes make their lazy descent to the ground, I was suddenly drawn into my past - to a girl of seven who was waiting for the arrival of Saint Nick. The memories came flooding back. I became that little girl again…

The snow was falling and I was thinking I could make a snowman if enough snow stayed on the ground. Snowball fights were lots of fun too, but my older brother always chucked his too hard. When I started crying, Mom would make us stop.

My dog, Patsy, was much more fun than Charlie, chasing and trying to catch the snowballs. When I went sledding, she would chase the sled and try to pull me off. If she succeeded, I would hug her and rub snow on her face.

I found Mom sitting at the kitchen table looking at the Eaton’s catalogue and writing things on a piece of paper. There was a worried look on her face, almost sad at times, as Christmas drew nearer. I heard her telling Dad that there just wasn’t enough money to go around. I had printed my name beside the fur-topped boots on page 32 and wondered if Mom would notice. She would be even sadder if she knew how much I really wanted those boots.

Patsy and I went outside to play in the fluffy white snow. I lay down to make an angel. Patsy tried to lick my face so I gave her a big push and she rolled over. She could make a dog angel.

When Dad came home from work, we went to the hen pen and I gathered eggs while Dad gave them clean water and wheat. I wondered which hen would be our Christmas dinner, and decided it would likely be an old one who didn’t lay eggs any more. As usual, Mom would say, “How can I cook this tough old thing?”, but it was always delicious with stuffing and cranberry jelly.

On Christmas Eve, I helped Mom put the pretty balls on the tree and decorate the house with red and green crepe paper chains. Some big parcels had arrived in the mail and I knew that they were filled with presents from my auntie Grace. I didn’t dare snoop in them because Mom would get mad at me.

Dad said, “Santa’s coming down the chimney tonight. You better get busy and write a letter to him.”

Well I sort of knew who Santa was, but in case I was wrong, I thought I’d better write that letter. The light from the kerosene lamp was poor but I pulled my paper close and wrote: “Dear Santa, bring me anything you want and bring something for my brother and mom and dad. Mom will leave you gingerbread and a cup of water. Love, Sarah” Then I put my letter inside of Dad’s big wool sock and set it by the tree.

That night, lying on the soft feather tick, I said a prayer to Santa. I didn’t figure God would mind. I asked Santa to try and bring me the black boots with the soft fur, which were on page 32 of the big catalogue, because I hated having cold feet. When I fell asleep, I dreamed of walking in the boots on top of big snow drifts.

On Christmas morning, Charlie and I raced to get our socks from under the tree. Reaching in, I pulled out a big red apple, a large orange and some nuts, but I loved the barley toys and ribbon candy best of all.

Next came the present opening. Dad found socks in his, while Mom had some nice smelling powder and a pretty handkerchief. Auntie Grace had given me some tinker toys and a pair of mittens. Charlie was happy when he opened up the plasticene.

I emptied the tinker toys out of the can and started to put them together.

Suddenly, Mom said, “Sarah, look. There’s a present still under the tree. You are the smallest, can you crawl under and get it?”

The present was wrapped in pretty red tissue paper with a big Santa Claus seal stuck to the front.

“Hey, Mom, it has Sarah printed on it!” I exclaimed.

“Well, open it up!”

I tore off the paper and opened the box. Inside were the fur-topped black boots. I took them out and rubbed the fur all over my face. They were as soft as I knew they would be.

I was so excited, I gave Mom a big hug and kiss, although I didn’t understand why she had tears in her eyes. I kissed Dad and Patsy, and I even kissed Charlie.

Suddenly, the oven timer sounded and brought me back to the present, but I will always remember that Christmas and the feel of the soft fur atop those little black boots.

SOCKS APPEAL

I’m always out looking for a girlfriend and every time I think I’ve found the right one, they get to know me and… and… and…

Well, it never seems to work out. Maybe, just maybe… my new one will love me for who I am – a soft, cuddly, sensitive, caring, honest and funny, all around good guy. “Funny” being the key word. I can only hope.

This morning, we were on the phone talking and I was telling her about doing my laundry and how I fold my shirts a certain way before hanging them up in the bedroom closet. You know, the usual routine. She mentioned a few things and one thing led to another.

I think it’s fair to say that everyone has some sort of quirky behavior, right? Peculiarities and the like, and I’m not talking about the bedroom variety. I mean in everyday life. Growing up, for instance, she knew women who starched and ironed their husbands’ t-shirts and handkerchiefs. Handkerchiefs, for crying out loud! I remember those days. My father always carried one and I thought it was a hideous practice to pull it out of the back pocket of their pants, blow their nose into it, and stuff it back into their pocket for God knows how long. Days and days. Enough of that.

I mentioned something – and I don’t think I’m alone – that I like to do. I only wear dark cotton socks. No matter what. No whites for me! Nothing wrong with that, I suspect. But I like to iron them. I own a sock iron, bought and paid for on Amazon Prime. It’s the best thing I ever invested my money in. Not only do I iron my socks, I collect them. Most of them are folded on special sock hangars in my closet, bought and paid for on Amazon Prime. They’re easy to iron except for the pleated ones.

Yes, I own scores and scores of pleated socks. Boy, are they difficult to iron.

She told me she had to go and hung up. Now, she’s not answering her phone. Do you think she’ll call back?

PROSECUTORIAL OVERREACH?

 

A lot can be said about the Kate Steinle death and the outcome of the trial of the man who killed her, Jose Ines Garcia Zarate, the Mexican citizen deported from the United States five times. Clearly, the man was guilty and the jury got it wrong, right? Actually, the answer is never that simple.

When it comes to presumptions, there are two courts involved. One is the court of public opinion and the other is the kind that takes place inside the confines of a courtroom. The latter is the only one that matters. Having been a part of two major murder trials – Casey Anthony and George Zimmerman – I clearly understand both types of trials and the only court that matters.

First, I want to make it clear that Zarate’s illegal status was not a factor in the death. If anything, blame the city and state for their sanctuary policies, if so inclined, but not the court or jury. Blame the way the federal government and ICE work. Argue all you want. I see things pragmatically. 

His prior felony convictions weren’t relevant, either, because none were acts of violence. (If I had three robbery convictions and accidentally killed a pedestrian with my vehicle while drunk, would those convictions matter?) Also, consider Casey Anthony’s prior record. She had NONE until way after little Caylee went missing. The jury was aware of his convictions, though, but was prevented from bringing up any politics related to immigration and gun control during the proceedings.

In the case of Ms. Anthony, the public was solidly behind a murder conviction from Day 1, yet she was found not guilty by a jury of her peers. With George Zimmerman, the public was split into many factions – whites against blacks, African-Americans against whites (just to be politically correct,) liberals against conservatives, and gun rights that centered around the interpretation of the Second Amendment. Zimmerman was also found not guilty and all that mattered was what went on in the respective courtrooms. Between both trials, I’m certain that I wrote several million words. I tried to explain courtroom drama, decorum, motions, rebuttals, and the interpretation of case law into layman’s terms that made things less complicated to grasp. Everything I wrote was open to discussion (of which there was plenty) and, to many people, justice was not served in either case because the juries came back with those verdicts. What about the Zarate trial? Did the jury get it right or wrong?

The first thing you might be inclined to think is that it was a stereotypical California jury, filled with “gentle people with flowers in their hair,” especially “for those who come to San Fransisco,” only it couldn’t be further from the truth. Juries are never predictable. Nothing in a trial ever is except the charge(s) filed against the Defendant that are laid out for everyone to read.

For a moment, let’s go back to the capital murder charge against Casey, which meant she faced the death penalty. While the State argued its case, many legal experts questioned how and why the bar was set so high when so many particulars weren’t established. There was no absolute date of death, for instance, no cause of death, which was mostly based on circumstantial evidence, and no solid motive. Casey was, by all accounts, a loving, doting mother until, BAM! She popped a cork and Caylee was dead. Even the police admitted it. Without going into the details further, I fervently believe a lesser charge would have rendered a guilty verdict of some kind; second-degree murder, manslaughter or, marginally, an aggravated child abuse conviction. The bar is set way high when it’s a death penalty qualified jury.

And so it was in the Garcia Zarate trial; the Prosecution aimed for the sky. While not a death penalty case, he was charged with first-degree murder. The jury was given the option of convicting him of that, second-degree murder, or involuntary manslaughter. Jurors said no to all three.

Zarate claimed he found the gun in a bag under a park bench at Pier 14. Grainy video showed several people hovering tightly together before he entered the scene and sat down. He claimed he picked the gun up from under the bench and it accidentally fired three times before tossing it into the bay, where it was recovered by a diver the next day. Whether his account was true or not, it established reasonable doubt. Apparently, the gun had a hair trigger, too, in single-action mode. Was it set in single-action mode at the time of the shooting? Who knows.

The bullet that struck Steinle skipped off the conrete floor of the pier before striking her in the back, penetrating her aorta. That showed it was not murder of any kind and why the Prosecution focused on it is beyond me. Could the jury have returned with a guilty of involuntary manslaughter verdict? That’s a good question.

In the California penal code, manslaughter is the unlawful killing of a human being without malice. Involuntary manslaughter means “in the commission of an unlawful act, not amounting to a felony; or in the commission of a lawful act which might produce death, in an unlawful manner, or without due caution and circumspection.”

What I don’t understand is that Zarate was a convicted felon in possession of a firearm. That made it a felony the moment he picked the gun up. That meant it produced a death in an unlawful, without due caution and circumspection, manner. Except for one minor detail the defense was able to cast doubt upon. The gun was wrapped in a cloth. Did this second-grade level person even know he had a gun? Well, the jury did convict him of possessing a firearm by a felon. Go figure. It means he did know he had a gun. Therefore, it should have been an involuntary manslaughter conviction. Except that, sometimes, when prosecutors aim so high a jury focuses on murder charges, they pay less attention to a lesser that lies beneath. Good criminal defense attorneys know how to take advantage of that.