Δαφνη Ευτυχια Αρθουρος

"This [attempt to discredit Nate Silver] is, of course, reminiscent of the attack on the Bureau of Labor Statistics -- not to mention the attacks on climate science and much more. On the right, apparently, there is no such thing as an objective calculation. Everything must have a political motive.

"This is really scary. It means that if these people triumph, science -- or any kind of scholarship -- will become impossible. Everything must pass a political test; if it isn't what the right wants to hear, the messenger is subjected to a smear campaign."

-- Paul Krugman, 2012-10-28 (thanks to multiple people who linked to that in multiple fora)

I've told this story many times before, about how Douglas Adams was responsible for my learning to drive a manual transmission, but I've got a special reason for telling it again now -- I've been meaning to sit down and write it for the past several days.

It was many, many years ago, while I was still living at my parents' house the first time, bodger was still living in Bowie as well, scarlettj9 was living in or near Annapolis, and dianec42 was living in Riverdale at a house known as Mouse House. We'd heard that Douglas Adams was going to be speaking at the University of Maryland, and several people in the local fannish community just had to go hear him. Since Jeanneane had to drive past Bowie to get there, she suggested that she drop by my house and pick me up. I accepted, and on the day of, that part went as planned -- she picked me up in her Chevvy Shoveit Chevette, and we headed off to College Park.

Now at the time she was really, really sweet on Spam (and I had a huge crush on Diane), and during the drive Jeanneane asked several times whether I thought Spam would be there, in between the bits and pieces of a conversation we were having about what was involved in driving a manual-transmission car, quirks of her Chevette, and so on. Her mind was more on one part of the convesation than the other.

We got to the University, noted which of our circle of friends had made it -- Spam and Diane both showed up, Diane being there despite having the flu or the nastiest cold ever or something, and later said she barely remembered that night. Many of us exchanged greetings and hugs, and found seats. Douglas Adams was suitably entertaining, and the main point of the evening thus went well. Afterward, a bunch of us were hanging around casually. I was sitting with Diane wishing there was something I could do for her (and, yes, wishing she were well enough that we could flirt), and Jeanneane was realizing that since she really wanted to ride back with Spam, taking her car (instead of switching to my car when she got to my house) had been a tactical error.

I was still sitting with Diane, worrying about whether she was well enough to get herself home, when Jeanneane wandered over holding out her keys. "Glenn," she said, "I've got it all figured out. I'm going to ride back to Bowie with Spam, and you're going to drive my car back to your house, and we'll all meet up there."

"Uh, are you sure about this?" I asked, thinking about our earlier conversation about standard transmission vs automatic.

"Yes, I'm sure. It all works out this way."

I assumed that her emphatic tone of voice meant that she'd considered my inexperience and deemed it not a big deal ... rather than the idea that she'd forgotten our earlier conversation on the subject. I took it as a sign of her confidence that I'd pick it up quickly. I asked whether it'd be okay to make a small detour to drop Diane off at Mouse House, and got an okay on that, and Jeanneane asked me to put gas in her car on the way as well, and handed me some cash for that. So off we went, me a little nervous about my first time driving clutch, and Jeannene with her eyes on Spam.

I'm not sure how long it would've taken me to get the Chevette out of the parking lot if I hadn't had Diane advising and instructing me -- which is one of the parts of the evening she's said she doesn't remember due to fever-haze. She was alert enough to coach me, thank goodness. Mouse House wasn't very far away, but that leg of the trip did give her a chance to provide a few more helpful suggestions. I still stalled the car several times trying to execute a three-point turn after dropping her off, but at last I managed to get underway again, relaxing a bit as I got used to what I was doing, feeling satified each time shifting to a higher gear went smoothly, feeling pleased with myself the first time I shifted on a curve, satisfied when I managed to start up from a traffic light or stop sign without stalling again. "Jeannene was right, this isn't such a big deal after all," I thought, "though I'm glad Diane was there to help me get started."

I got back to my house, saw Spam's car there, and parked Jeanneane's car on the street, remembering what she'd said about which way to turn the wheels when parking on a hill and such, and feeling quite pleased with myself I strolled back to Spam's car, where he was looking out his window at me with ... well, he has this "I know something's about to happen" grin that I recognized, but was mystified as to why he was wearing it.

Let us jump back a little way in the story, for what took place in Spam's car, as related to me afterward (much more fun for those of you who know how both parties speak):

Spam: Uh, Jeanneane?

Jeanneane: Yes, Spam?

Spam: I just thought of something. I don't think Glenn drives stick.

Jeanneane: What?!

Spam: Come to think of it, I know Glenn doesn't drive stick.

Jeanneane: Spam, tell me you're joking!

Spam: All right, I'm joking.

Jeanneane: Really?

Spam: No.

Jeanneane (mournfully): Myy caaar!

So there I am, pleased that I've lived up to what I thought was her confidence in my ability to pick up this skill quickly, and a soon as Spam has finished saying, "Hi, Glenn," Jeanneane thrusts herself across Spam to get her face to the window to ask breathlessly, "Is my car all right?"

"Yeah, sure," I answered, confused, "I stalled it a few times, but I never ground the gears, not even once! I even remembered what you told me about parking on a hill! I, uh, did accidentally screw up one of your radio presets though. I'm sorry about that."

"Glenn, why didn't you tell me you don't drive stick-shift??"

Now even more confused, I answered, "I thought you knew -- we talked about it on the way down ..."

And that's how, as I usually put it, Douglas Adams was responsible for my learning to drive a clutch, but of course, it was even more directly because of Jeanneane, helped along at a key point by Diane. I think Jeanneane eventually forgave me for my part in the misunderstanding that turned into a useful educational experience for me. I think.

And it's really Jeanneane I'm thinking about as I tell this tale again. Alas, she died on Saturday. I have many memories to treasure; this was the easiest to tell as a story (I've had lots of practice), even if she's off-stage for a big chunk of it.

M Jeanneane Cramblitt Morrison, b. 1963-10-13, d. 2012-10-27.

She teased me for years about leaving a "sex toy" in her car on a different occasion -- about three years, I think, bringing it up time she could construe a conversational cue as an excuse -- before finally showing me the alleged sex toy (which I'm pretty sure was a bodhran tipper, and not even mine -- I never did figure out where it actually came from). Come to think of it, I'm not sure she ever completely stopped mentioning it.

I -- and a great many other people -- will miss her. As with too many of my friends nowadays, I had not seen her in person in a while ("when we're both feeling halfway decent and have time" turned into too-late, a common enough tale, alas, and the only regret that comes to mind regarding her), but I'm glad that our lives had overlapped.