Souvenirs I Still Cherish

Helen Stanberry’s Story

Read by Lindsey Beth Hummel

The young couple had just arrived in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. They had come from California to teach at the University. They sought property with “character” and with land. They were still amazed by a place with so many trees.

Graduate school and the cross-country move had considerably reduced their financial resources. When the agent showed them the large frame house with its towering trees and historic barn, they fell in love with the property. AND, it was one of the very few they could afford.

It would need some repairs and considerable modernization, but it was still perfect for raising their young sons.

A month or so after they had moved in, the young couple approached the barn. Its upper level was strewn with what looked like historical artifacts, things that seemed from another age. When they looked closely at these items, they found that they were actually souvenirs that someone had purchased. Each had a small tag with a notation written on it. For example, a moth-eaten, feathered Indian headdress said, Sioux Nation, South Dakota. A facsimile of the Declaration of Independence had a tag with Independence Hall, Philadelphia, and a dried-up container said, Salmon eggs, Grand Coulee Dam, Washington.

The family was puzzled. What was this collection? It obviously belonged to someone associated with the house. But who?

Then, carefully organized in a cardboard box, they found a collection of over 100 postcards. The postcards all seemed to be of the same time period, probably late 1930s, and they came from all over the United States. Only two had any writing on them.

One was addressed to Mr. S. O.  Stanberry and was signed Helen. It simply said, “mailed package of my souvenirs, hope they arrive safely.” It was postmarked Kalispell, Montana.

The second was a cartoon postcard of a car loaded with souvenirs. On the front someone had written “Helen” and “Ralph.” The message on the back simply said, “Heading home, S.E. Eggers.” The postcard had been cancelled, but there was no marking where.

The young wife took the box of postcards into the house and placed them in a safe place. Later, she inserted each card into a plastic sleeve. As she looked through them, she wondered, “Who was Helen?”

It was unbearably hot. The Sacramento Valley gets that way in August. Add the smog and the smoke from the all-too-frequent brush fires, and you have a hellish place that is literally unlivable. Still, it is where California has its State Capitol, and if you are an attorney defending various State agencies from the all-too-frequent lawsuits, it is where you must live. It is where I lived. I was such an attorney.

Almost every morning. I regretted having spent the $40,000 to get my law degree. I had wanted to be a new Perry Mason. Instead, I spent my days in the courts, arguing (correctly) that it was not the State’s fault that electric energy prices were so high.

There had been hearings ad nauseum about the rates that the private companies could charge. Months and months and months of hearings. Public input on the previous public input. Anyone could get their three minutes at the open microphone to present their opinions. It is a tedious and woeful process.

Still, no sooner had the rates been published, no sooner had the various tables become law, the lawsuits began. Not just one or two or even three. NO. Hundreds of lawsuits. Most often, it was the same groups, filing over and over, just changing the name of the plaintiffs on the filing papers.

It was a game they played. They knew that they would lose ninety-eight percent of the cases. But, sometimes, a judge would rule in their favor, and then an existing rate table might be thrown out, and the State would have to develop another. That’s what they wanted. They would begin “negotiations” for a new rate table that gave their particular industry the benefits of lower electric rates.

I was the attorney who had to go into Court and defend the State. The cases were so similar, I could quote them from memory without even having to read through them.  I often felt like screaming, “This is all a sham!”

 We had argued the exact same case last week! And the week before that. And the week before that.

“The State’s processes for setting electric rates are procedurally biased; meeting locations and/or times were not appropriately identified and publicized; hearing officers did not allow plaintiffs sufficient time to fully present relevant evidence . . . .”

I was not Perry Mason. I am, like him, by profession, a lawyer. However, I do not defend beautiful blonds wrongly accused of murder. No, I defend the State against frivolous lawsuits, shams, and falsehoods filed only to lower a company’s air conditioning costs. They are vultures looking for carrion, for bones to pick apart.

Yes, I have a bad attitude!

To make matters worse, it was nearly three o’clock on a miserably hot Friday afternoon, and I was waiting at the eastern end of the light rail line for the very late bus from Auburn to arrive.