I took that step this morning, when I filed for my divorce.
I was stressed, nervous, and flustered, certain that I hadn't all my paperwork filled out, but I figured I'd have someone official tell me what I'd missed.
They did, and sent me to the courtroom labeled "Ex Parte" to request that my filing fees be waived.
Traveling by bus, and having to restrict the items with me in order to make it through security, I didn't have my normal backpack... which made it awkward to carry everything. I had my briefcase (which is roughly twenty years old now--- yikes!) and a small basket with me, as well as my raincoat, which fortunately has a lot of large pockets. But I hadn't expected to need to remove my sweatshirt due to my overheating in the courtroom while I waited... and juggling all of these items as well as the papers I needed in-hand made for a difficult time on top of my stress. The sweatshirt landed on the floor more than once, remarkably remaining folded each time.
The judge spent several minutes reading the paperwork I presented him, his expression a cross between puzzlement and disbelief and becoming more pronouncedly so with each successive sentence. He asked me only one question: "Are you filing this today?"
I gulped and said, "Yes... if I can."
He waived my filing fee.
Next, along with a younger woman whom I vaguely knew from yesterday's visit to the Family Law Center, I was led downstairs by an even younger lady who I guess was a law student. As we walked down the stairs, she explained what was to happen next.
Naturally, I forgot every word she said.
We found ourselves in a line in front of the filing clerks' desks. I did some spindle-spinning, shuffling my basket and briefcase along the floor as the queue made its way forward, one person at a time. The girl who'd brought us down soon deposited two more people behind us, telling them the same thing she'd said to us. As she left, I said, "I'll bet you say that to everybody."
That brought a few chuckles from others in line.
Finally it was my turn at a window. The girl behind the counter looked at me expectantly.
"Um..." My faulty memory held nothing. "I'm not sure what I'm doing..."
She remained calm. "I don't know what you're doing here," she pointed out, not unkindly.
"Oh." Something clicked. "I'm getting a divorce. I just got the fees waived."
She got my name and retrieved the papers that the judge had signed, then stamped, stapled and wrote the case number on various papers. Then she asked if I had copies of any of them. I hadn't, nor did I know which ones I needed to have copied... and she couldn't tell me, because that's considered "giving legal advice."
I paid $5 to get copies of all twenty pages. *sigh* But that was the end of it.
I had finally filed my petition for a divorce from my husband of twelve years.
Then I went downstairs to the Family Law Office, to have the clerk there verify that I had everything else filled out.
While I was waiting, I overheard a young man talking with the clerk about his having mailed the papers to his wife, who was in jail in another state. He'd made the mistake of mailing them directly to her, instead of to a sheriff in that county, and thus he had no proof that she'd been served. So he needed to have her served again... and in the meantime, she'd been released from jail and had vanished.
I made a mental note to ask specifics for my own case.
When it was my turn, the clerk carefully explained that if I have the sheriff serve my spouse, I will get my proof of service. (Whew!) She made a number of copies for me, had me sign a few more places, made notes of what I needed to do next (like serving a second set of papers to the Child Support Department, or whatever it's called), and then as I gathered my papers, she asked me to read off the case number so that she could enter it in her computer. I did so... and we both stopped, frowning.
We both remembered the last number differently.
We double-checked all the papers.
More than half of them were labelled with the wrong last number, as compared to the court number written on the receipt of my fee waiver.
The Family Law clerk corrected them quickly, and agreed that I should go upstairs to make sure the clerk there had caught her mistake. I pointed out that I did not want to go through the whole routine all over again simply because one number was written incorrectly (!), and hurried upstairs after thanking her profusely.
I was just in time. The clerk who'd filed my papers was just leaving, and I ran to catch up with her. After I quickly blurted out the problem, she immediately turned back, indicating that I should return to her window. She found the papers quickly and corrected them, thanking me for letting her know. I wished her a good weekend, and she laughed softly, murmuring, "Oh, you have no idea!"
I didn't ask. I just thanked her again and left the building.
I called my BFF as I strode toward Pearl Street. I explained that I needed to serve the papers on the Child Support Division (or whatever), and then I was free for the day. We made tentative plans, and I told her I'd call her after I was done serving the papers. I started down Pearl Street toward 7th, according to the address I was given on a Post-It note.
Two blocks later, a scruffy-looking older man called to me, asking if I knew the local bus routes. I hesitated, admitting I didn't know them very well. Very seriously, he told me, "I missed the bus. Maybe you can help me find my way. Which bus will take me to Hawaii?"
I broke into a slight grin. "Oh... I think your best bet would be the Greyhound bus down the street here," I told him, shaking my head as I chuckled.
One of his companions agreed. "Yeah--- they have those floaters now..."
At this point, I suddenly realized that I'd been walking the wrong way--- I was nearly to 10th Street, not 7th. I reversed direction, wishing the men a good day as I went.
The building I needed was across the street from the courthouse, as it turned out, and I was done with my task within five minutes. I called BFF again, and we hammered out plans to meet at the Target on West 11th in an hour. I strode to the nearby bus station (the local bus, not Greyhound) and boarded the Number 43.
Seated on a bench in front of Target, I pulled out my spindle and started drafting out the merino batt I'd brought with me. The sun was warm on my face, and I was grateful I'd brought my sunglasses. A man crossed in front of me... and slowed.
"That's really neat!" he said, smiling. I smiled back.
He sat down next to me. "Do you know how to sew?"
That caught me off guard. "Um... a little?" I admitted.
"I need the pockets fixed on my work jacket."
Nonplussed at the apparent implication, I stopped spinning. "I don't have anything with me to be able to fix it," I finally managed.
"Oh, I don't have it with me anyway," he told me blithely. "How do you tie a knot?"
I considered that carefully, wound the working single around my spindle shaft and put it away. I pulled the cord closure of a small bag out of my basket and showed him how to tie a half-hitch. He asked if a square knot would work, and I allowed that it would, as would several half-hitches in a row. After he suggested that he would then use the needle up the side of the pocket, I recommended that he go up and down the pocket sides several times, stating that the more stitches he put into it, the more secure it would be in the end, and the longer it would last before he had to repair it again.
He looked at me with wide eyes. "That's good to know. I was just going to go up it once."
I'd suspected as much.
He got up then, and I pulled out my spindle again. He commented again about my spinning, and asked what I would do with it, so I gave him a wee spinning demonstration, finishing up with a brief example of plying. He bent close to look at the resulting yarn, smiled, and said, "That's cool. Thanks for helping me." And he continued into the store.
The rest of my day was rather tame after that. BFF brought me home, and I took Lucy for a walk, then started split pea soup in the crockpot. I called my first stepmom and broke the news, and she offered to go with me to talk to the sheriff in Marion County. I then called Dad, and he said he'd send me money to cover the service fee and gas funds to drive up to Salem early on Monday morning, to make sure the papers were received by the sheriff's office so that my soon-to-be-ex-husband can be served as soon as possible... or at least before Friday.
My split pea soup was a fitting reward for finally filing. I truly enjoyed it for my supper tonight.
It'll be even better tomorrow.
