Fill in the Blanks

There was an exercise in aftercare about emotions. I feel ___________ when you ________ because _________.
It called for honesty and I was never very good at it. Just like a lie, truth spins its own spiderweb and it's a chore to get free.

We sat in a small circle, friends and families of the addicts in the next room doing the same thing. There were horror stories - a mother who watched as her child slept in an abandoned car in freezing weather rather than give up cocaine, a wife who's husband sat naked, screaming and throwing beer bottles until the police came, a sister who found her twin dead of an overdose. It was called "tough love" or "setting limits" but what it meant was watching someone you loved kill themselves and acknowledging your part. No addict really dies by his own hand alone - he must have a safety net, someone to protect him, cover up for him, enable him to keep drinking or taking drugs without consequences or pain. It can be an entire network between him and recovery but it really only takes one.

We do it for a variety of reasons - shame, fear of discovery, terror at the thought of being alone, martyrdom, a need to be better than who we love, a belief that love will win out over the addiction - sometimes we are just so beaten down that it's easier, sometimes we can't or won't confront our own contribution. Sometimes we want to save someone so badly that we don't see the harm we do to them and ourselves. Sitting in that small circle meant looking inward at our own motives, at out own behavior. It was painful and it left emotional wreckage. None of us wanted to admit to being wrong or at fault even in the smallest way. We wanted to be the heros, the saviors,
the long suffering, willing to sacrifice, abused and mistreated victims. We wanted to stand proud even if only in our own minds of what we had tolerated. We wanted to be the good guys.

Coming to terms with the truth trapped us as substance abuse had trapped the ones we loved. The way out was a small circle of trust where we could fill in the blanks honestly.

Snow on the Woodpile

"My own life is all I can hope to control.
Let my life bring peace to my soul." - Tom Paxton

A cold rain had been coming down all morning. The tree branches were hanging low with leftover ice and the ground was a mix of melting snow and dead grass. The sky was overcast and dim with no promise of sun or warmth and we were getting ready to drive upstate for a folk concert and a night in an old bed and breakfast inn. Music and a winter's drive along the Maine coast were calling. I could almost see the deserted beaches at low tide, could almost smell the ocean. We would eat along the way and stop at Portland Head so I could photograph the lighthouse. Winter brings a sense of beauty and desolation to the New England coastline like no other season.

When the 'phone rang, I answered without thinking, my mind lost in images of waves crashing onto rocks, ships fighting the seas, deserted breakwaters silouhetted against dark skies. A voice, familiar but one I hadn't heard in years, said my name and then Your mother died last night. When I said nothing, he went on, The funeral is Tuesday. Will you come?

The rain had stopped and I thought the sky was lightening just a little, as if a rainbow might appear.
In front of the wood stove, the dogs stirred and I could hear my husband whistling from outside. I stood with the 'phone to my ear and a dishtowel in my hand, looking around the cabin as if it were a new and strange landscape but filled with the old and ordinary things that make up a life. I could see the woodpile from the window, still piled high and tinged with snow. There were squirrels at the feeder on the deck and dogs barking somewhere in the distance. Spring was still a long way off but it would come, a new season with new promises and new life, a season of second chances and peace of mind, of resolution and hope.

Will you come? he asked again. No, I said finally, I'm sorry, but no, and I hung up the 'phone. It was over and I was up to my elbows in relief and gratitude. My husband came in, arms filled with wood for the stove and said Who was that on the 'phone? I hung up the dishtowel and reached for my jacket and gloves, checked the lock on the back door and said Wrong number.

Mrs. O'Brian's Piano Lessons

I hated piano lessons.

Every Tuesday from 3 til 4:30, I trudged to Mrs. O'Brian's and dutifully played what I had invariably not practiced.
She would give an immense sigh and clasping her hands in her lap in resignation and look at me with great sorrow. You didn't practice. I would hang my head. And why not? she would ask but I had no answer.

Mrs. O'Brian's grand piano took up most of her living room and faced double doors which led to a sunporch, which led to her vast garden. She was a retired schoolteacher, a substantial woman who had been widowed early and never remarried. She taught to supplement her pension and believed only in the classic composers. Once every year, her students put on a recital in one of the school's music rooms and she was determined that we would not embarrass her or the composers she so revered. Sitting there in her sunlit living room that smelled of sachet and flowers, I didn't know how to tell her - that our ancient old upright, painted for God knew what reason a horrific shade of aqua, sat in a basement made of cinder block walls. That it was musty, moldy, nasty smelling and always damply cold and that ten minutes or so into my practicing, the cellar door would be flung open and I would hear my mother's coarse, whiskey coated voice in some version of for Christ's sake, play it right or stop that infernal racket! I loved Brahms and Chopin and especially Mozart, but I would never play any of them the way Mrs. O'Brian
hoped and I prayed not to be included in the recital. I didn't know how to tell my teacher this, better for her to think that I just didn't practice. I suspected that the truth would get me into far worse trouble than my piano teacher's hurt feelings and exasperation.

So we went back to basics, back to scales and exercises and my lessons were extended to include practice sessions. I would play, Mrs.O'Brian would go about her business. I would finish, and Mrs. O'Brian would call out
Again! This time a little faster, please, and watch your left hand, it's drifting. Afternoons passed quickly as she taught and sometimes she would sit beside me as I played the same thing again and again and again. Don't look at the keyboard, she would say firmly, look at the garden. And sit up straight. Some of my fear of the recital eased but as the day drew closer, it was replaced with other, more realistic fears - unlikely as it was, the idea that my mother might actually attend made me physically ill.

In the end though, only my daddy was in the audience and I played passably well. Over ice cream sundaes afterwards, when I said I no longer wanted to take the lessons, he gave me a long, serious look before he said ok.
He didn't ask why and I didn't know how to tell him what he already knew.

The Prodigal Sheep

The fog had come in with what seemed to be supernatural speed. One minute the lights of Westport were clearly visible, they made shimmering paths of light out over the water from one end of the small island to the other. And then they were gone, engulfed in a dense, saturated fogbank. It closed around in around us like a heavy, wet blanket and when I stretched out my arm, I couldn't see my hand. We better try for home, Johnny said cheerfully,
Reckon it might take some time.

Just finding the car was a task in itself. He took my hand and led me up the rocky beach, one careful step at a time, around the piles of kelp and driftwood, through the now wet sand and the seashell debris. Every few steps he would stop and stand perfectly still, then adjust our direction, according to what I had no idea. There was no sound save for the fog horn's calm, steady call and an occasional screech from a seagull.

We reached the car and climbed in, cold and wet despite the fact that it has been a warm summer night. He toweled my hair off with his shirt, warmed my hands, lit a cigarette and grinned at me. Here we go! And we headed down the old dirt lane that led to the main road at snail speed. Branches swept at the sides of the car on both sides, a tree limb would randomly crack beneath the wheels, but Johnny drove on, miraculously never losing the narrow, overgrown trail. We reached the main road intact and laughing.

Once on paved road, things got surprisingly harder. Inland, the fog was even thicker and wetter and visability
barely extended to the hood of the car. Johnny hung his long, lean frame out the drivers side window and with one hand on the wheel, began driving. I leaned out the passenger window as far as possible and with him watching the center line and me watching the ditch, we began the drive back. And we might have made it except for the sheep.

I never saw them. My hand suddenly made contact with something far more substantial than fog - something that felt like wet cotton with ears. I shrieked and Johnny slammed on the brakes, nearly sending us into the ditch as I pulled my hand in. He got out and felt his way around the car slowly and by the time he got to the passenger side
he was doubled over with laughter. It's sheep! he yelled incomprehensibly, Sheep!

By then there was no hope of my getting home on time and we couldn't just leave the sheep, so one by one, we
stuffed them into the back seat and when we were reasonably sure we had them all, we set off again. It was hours later when we finally reached home and the sheep spent the night in the garage while Johnny slept on the couch.
Next morning as Nana looked on, we loaded them back up and set off to find their owner, a grateful farmer who insisted on giving us breakfast for their safe return. It was, as Nana said later, a novel twist to the Bible story.

Spirits in the Windows

The house that overlooked the ocean had finally changed hands, sold for taxes in the midst of a family dispute. I stood in the gravel driveway that cold spring day and looked at it while ghosts peered back at me through the windows. My parents and grandparents, my brothers, and all the friends and family that had come and stayed for a few weeks each summer over the course of years, some of which before I was born. The house had a long history,a long memory, and many spirits still within. The key in my pocket would open the house but I hesitated, not sure I wanted the spirts and memories to come spilling out.

The playhouse was still intact, the garage and the woodshed still stood. The flagpole needed painting, damaged shingles lay here and there, and there was a broken window pane by the side steps. Grass had overcome and obscured the well but the clothesline still hung and the path to the front road was mostly clear, worn down by the hundreds of fishermen who shortcutted around the curve twice a day. No one had ever minded their small trespassing except the dogs. On either side of the path the grass grew tall and wild and it bent gently with the wind. Mowing season was past and the field had been forgotten or passed over. The sunporch windows needed washing and from the front I could see the entire house suffered from neglect. The hurricane damage had not been repaired and the foundation was uneven, giving the house an off kilter look like a picture hung just slightly
out of alignment.

But from the road, sunlight reflected in the windows and the waving grass looked natural. The tide was coming in behind me and I could hear the ferry making it's crossing, the familiar and steady chug of the engine as it navigated the tide and the currents. The factory whistle gave a shrill shriek, then another. The boats were coming in from the day's fishing - seiners, draggers, even some scallopers from the mainland, all coming home at the end of the day. The ocean was churning and the whitecaps were showing in welcome. I walked back up the path toward the house with the wind at my back and the key I woudn't use still in my pocket. The spirits in the house wished me well and I left them in peace.

The Return of Mugglesworth

She rounds the corner like a runaway freight train, skids to a stop in front of the small brown dog then leaps over her and dives under the bed. There's a brief but vocal confrontation with another cat, then she streaks out - long, lean, low to the ground and moving so fast she's just a blur of tiger stripes and whiskers. Mugglesworth is home.

Somewhere along the road of life I took a wrong turn and became unable to refuse an animal in need. I never intended to be caregiver to seven cats and two dogs - I had a plan that involved quiet nights with music playing and books, being able to turn in my sleep without disturbing a half dozen cats, a pillow to myself, being able to eat in peace and sleep late. Instead, I manage my time around my animals, share my entire life with them, tolerate litter boxes and projectile vomiting, panic at the first sign or injury or illness, and can't imagine living any other way.

A few years ago I was driving home to let the dogs out and as I was about to turn a corner, a small
dog raced in front of me. I slammed on my brakes and turned the steering wheel violently, ending up mid street, inches from a stop sign and with the front half of the car on the sidewalk. The dog was
happily running in circles around the car, barking and seemingly well pleased with himself. He had no collar or tags but was wearing a bow made of red ribbon. Resigned, I put him in the car. He was clean and well cared for, the bow was only slightly dusty, and he didn't resist. I thought he must live nearby and that surely someone would be looking for him so I drove around the neighborhood in hope of finding his home. When that didn't work, I took him back to work with me.

During the course of the afternoon he became the talk of the store. Eventually, a customer recognized him, knew where he lived and called his owner who arrived in tears and shaking with relief. All's well that ends well, we said, happy to see the reunion.

So Muggs is home and all's right with the world. It's Christmas and my small house is filled with the ones I love.

In My Brother's House

The tree was huge for the small room and decorated to the hilt. We sat drinking eggnog laced with brandy as my sister in law put the finishing touches on Christmas dinner. Her small son played among the toys and discarded wrapping paper, trying unsuccessfully to tie a ribbon on the cat. I wondered when my brother had begun to lose his hair and become pudgy, a family man if ever there was one. My other brother sat in another room, close by but not part of the grouping, a perpetual smirk on his face and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He looked like 90 miles of bad road. My daddy was in the rocking chair, head back and eyes closed, the Sunday paper spread across his lap. His face was wearied and worn out, deeply lined with exhaustion and the effort of breathing. My husband, secured by his second six pack of beer, retreated to the kitchen, some alcoholic's instinct alerted to the tension even through the haze. And my mother, wasted and ill, her entire body a relic of the cancer she didn't even know about then, sat across from me, eyes sunken and hands shaking. There was no trace of the evil I knew to be in her, she had become a sad, repulsive, old woman who nobody really loved. When she reached out her hand to me, I instinctively flinched and drew back. There was still venom in her, sleeping perhaps, but easily awakened. I sensed it, smelled it, wanted no part of it. The cancer that was posioning her would not bring forgiveness or even charity. She looked bewildered, a little lost, like someone waking up in a strange room and just for a second not knowing where they were. That look was quickly replaced by one of low heat hostility, a look I recognized and knew well and had had enough of. I looked away.

On the surface, I suppose it was like any other Christmas with any other ordinary family. Dinner was served with all the trimmings and we ate with little conversation but much complimenting. My sister in law and I cleared the table and washed dishes in not an uncomfortable silence while the others regrouped in the living room. My husband and brothers smoking on the tiny front porch, my daddy half asleep in the rocker and my mother in the new reclining chair, hands folded in her lap, an utterly blank look on her face.

I didn't know it then, but that Christmas in my brother's house was the last time I would see any of them. The cancer was diagnosed a week or so later and with the diagnosis came the final family split. I chose to be outside the circle.
We left late in the afternoon, making the drive home in darkness and silence. The man I had married was numbed by alcohol, I had only my demons for company and even they were fading and unnaturally quiet. Perhaps they knew what I didn't even dare hope - that the wind was about to change at last.

Room for Rent

Sometimes a picture reaches out to me and demands that I pay attention. It speaks without words and calls up images too numerous to sort out. When I saw my cousin Linda's shot of this empty bird's nest, emotions and images flooded through my mind - lonliness, abandonment, sadness, outlived usefulness, desolation and stark despair, a cold and dark winter's day at the end of life. At the same time, I saw a home built with love and care, a home that had served it's purpose of bringing new life into the world and then setting it free to find it's own path. A baby bird's first solo flight and the pride it's parents must've felt in knowing that their child was prepared to go it's own way. The nest had served it's purpose and it's occupants had moved on, perhaps to a more upscale neighborhood, perhaps south for the winter, perhaps to a bigger nest in a higher tree. Images of freedom clashed with images of desolation and I found myself thinking, damn, I wish I'd taken that.

Nature will reclaim the nest eventually and take back the bits of branches and grass and odds and ends. Another family may recycle and reuse the materials for another nest and another few baby birds will spread their wings and leave home.
Meanwhile, the empty nest waits patiently, becoming part of the winter landscape while waiting for spring.

The Christmas Village

Every Christmas, my grandmother gave her yardman a handful of cash and an errand. The woods are full of Christmas trees, Joseph, she told him seriously, and we're going to let them stay that way. And Joseph would climb into his rickety old pick up truck and go in search of a suitable Christmas tree lot. He would return and haul the tree inside where Nana and he would set it up in the living room on an ancient wooden stand - Nana didn't hold with the new fangled metal kind - then he retrieved the handmade tree skirt and the Christmas village from the attic, got all the ornaments out and the lights strung, and he and Nana would have a small glass of eggnog. Merry Christmas, Joseph,
she said and raised her glass. Merry Christmas, Missus, he would say in return, drink his eggnog, and leave. He had worked for her for most of his life and this was the only time of year that he was allowed inside the house.

The Christmas village was meticulously set up in front of the fireplace. My grandmother and I got on our hands and knees and laid cotton for snow. We tucked in all the tiny lights and then set up the church, all the little houses,
the picket fences, the trees and the village square complete with gazebo. Miniature people were in doorways and miniature deer grazed off to one side of the woods. There were tiny snowmen in tiny yards and children pulling sleds.
Nana unwrapped every piece slowly and carefully and handed them to me for placement, always with a reminder of how delicate everything was. The village had been passed down from her mother and her mother's mother and she treasured it.

When we were done, she would take my hand and lead me to the entry hall where she flicked a switch and the entire village lit up in a blaze of light, twinkling and casting shadows over the room. The room had been transformed to a wonderland and it was officially Christmas. Nana put on Christmas music and we spent the rest of the night piling presents under the tree by the lights in the village and on the tree. Before she sent me to bed, we sat and drank a small glass of eggnog together while she read me "The Night Before Christmas". There was peace on earth all through the house.

No Minute Like the Last Minute

There's no minute like the last minute.

It's remarkable how calm and under control can go to frantic and spiraling downward in a matter of seconds. A lost email from Saturday is finally found on Tuesday and my peaceful world unravels in a frenzied search for telephone numbers and questions of availability and raised voices. A casting company has scheduled auditions for 9 in the morning and it's 4:25. Though temporary and brief, madness reigns. It is at this moment that the telephone, which has been unusually silent all through the day, begins to ring incessantly and at this moment that the delivery companies choose to arrive with Christmas packages that must be inspected and signed for. It's a simulcast of chaos.

Order is eventually restored, as of course it must be, and the day winds up. We look back and laugh at our own selves and at how we behaved. I think we are fragile beings, far more susceptible to unanticipated events than we want to believe and far more easily panicked than we want to admit. The illusion of being in control is powerful and we all share it to some degree so an unexpected crisis can be beneficial - it can help bring us back to our senses. Like it or not, we all need a reality check every few thousand miles.

One Good Shot Is Enough

I woke up to the sound of my cell phone ringing, a small paw brushing at my hair, and a cold black nose insinuating its way under the quilt. It was Sunday morning and I dug deeper under the covers. The black nose followed and in a few seconds the entire black dog was under with me, all get-up-growls and nudges. I pretended to be asleep but it was too late - the small brown dog slid under and wound her way around my neck and the bed was getting heavier with the weight of multiple cats perching on my hip, my shoulder, and where my feet wanted to be. It was nine against one and I know when I'm beaten.

The morning was slightly overcast, cold but clear - perfect for the family portrait I was to take later in the day. The color of winter in the south is hazy and tinted with just a suggestion of rose. The light sifted through the trees, more dusky than mid-morning but much softer than dawn, like seeing the whole world through a warming filter. It would be a beautiful winter day.

I have never missed snow, not even at Christmas. Picture post cards of Colorado or Vermont don't move me and I have a suspicion that all winter landscapes are made in Hollywood. Alaskan cruises
are for the deranged of mind and spirit, chalets should be forbidden to all but the Swiss who have to live in them, and sleigh rides should be outlawed even for the horses. It's a harsh attitude, I know,
born of too many New England winters, too much time being cold, too much snow glare. My relatives would, it seems, be of sturdier stuff.

So I pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, pack my cameras, and head out to do a family portrait, hoping against hope that even on this perfect day, it will be inside and knowing it will not. The outside light is too good not to use. I will do my best and keep my fingers crossed for one good shot because one will be enough.

Snowbound

The n'oreaster hit as predicted and came straight up the coastline. New England towns from Providence to Bar Harbor were snowed in overnight, airports closed, snow emergencies were declared statewide. The drifts were massive, the highways deadly. Morning came and it was deceptively clear and bright with a brilliant blue sky and no clouds to cover the sun. Icicles had formed and were just beginning to melt while tree branches were bent to the ground with the weight of the snow. Trails of chimney smoke drifted across the sky and the sounds of snowblowers echoed through the trees.

We cleared the doorway and the dogs bounded out joyfully - it was their first major storm on the mountain and they were thrilled. They leaped over or plowed through the drifts, falling down and tunneling under, tails wagging and tongues hanging out, barking at the unfamiliar landscape and each other. The woodpile was buried under a staggering amount of snow and it took most of an hour to reach it and bring in wood for the stove but the cabin was warm and snug when we finished. We made hot chocolate and marshmellows for breakfast and while the dogs curled up by the stove and napped, we debated how to begin shoveling our way out and if we should begin at all.
Another 6 to 8 inches was forecast by the next morning.

Surprisingly enough, we still had power so the day passed quickly. By mid-afternoon it had begin to snow again and the dogs delighted in trying to catch the snowflakes and retrieve snowballs. By dark we were all worn out and retreated again to the warmth of the woodstove. We ate popcorn and tuna fish sandwiches and drank more hot chocolate while the snow fell fast and furious. It had been a good day on the mountain.

The Woodcarver

Uncle Willie had lived alone for as long as I could remember. His house sat across the strawberry field from our's, a clapboard, two story in need of paint and other repairs. He lived only on the first floor in a living room with a small kitchen and an even smaller bedroom. He was old and grizzled with skin like well worn leather and an unkempt beard. He smoked a pipe now and then but mostly would roll his own. He would sit in his old rocking chair in the evenings, flannel shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, smoking and reading the paper while we played at his feet - he taught us dominoes and cribbage and hearts -and when it was time for us to go, he always saw us to the door with an old oil lamp and waited until we were safely across the road. Nana would then flick the backporch light to let him know we were home and he would swing his lamp in acknowledgement then return to his pipe and paper. His lights stayed on all night.

He had been a fisherman all his life, Nana said. And had had a wife and raised a family but they never visited and he never left to see them. Nana would mutter something about bad blood but when pressed to explain, she'd give us a half hearted swat and a Never you mind. On Sundays, she would fix a plate and send us across the road with it. Uncle Willie returned the favor by keeping us supplied with homemade ice cream with real bits of ginger. I've never seen ginger ice cream since.

He kept chickens and a couple of goats and during the day he would tend his vegetable garden or sit on his front steps and mend his old, no longer needed fishing nets. Sometimes he would carve or whittle, turning bits of wood into whistles or tiny figures that we carried as good luck charms. He was a solitary, silent carver but I imagined that his wooden animals made up for it. I had an entire
collection of small animals by one summer's end and they all talked to me non-stop. Uncle Willie would listen to these conversations and smile and rock and smoke but say nothing. Now and then a tourist would see his work and stop by the old house - Willie would always oblige them, accepting their money with an I thank ye and a tip of his cap. To them, I suppose he was just another one of the island's many eccentrics, their version of the old Gloucester fisherman come to life. To him, they were just "from away" with more money than sense.

He was well into his 90's when he died and his funeral was held on a clear and bright, beautiful summer day. His daughters and their families came for that last time and Nana worked round the clock to get his old house ready for them but they simply saw him buried and left. People who forget where they come from, Nana told me at the grave, don't get to go nowhere.

The Courthouse Lawn

The courthouse was lit like a wonderland - lights in the trees and on the lawn, wreaths intertwined with sparklers at every window, lights strung lampost to lampost. They flashed and danced and lit up the square with holiday spirit. It was just past 2am on a Sunday morning and bitterly cold, Christmas was very near and all of downtown was in celebration.

Near a bench off to the side of the brightly shining courthouse, light glinted off a shopping cart piled high with boxes and bottles and assorted possessions. On the bench, I could make out a form huddled under layer upon layer of newspaper and what looked to be ragged blankets and quilts. A striped knitted cap at one end and the heel of a heavy workboot at the other. I heard coughing and saw breath being exhaled on the frozen air before she stirred upright, rearranged her covers and settled back down, pausing only to give me a brief glare in the lamplight.

I packed my camera away and started the car, a nagging need to do something and a loss as to what quarreling in my head. The car slowly warmed up as I dug in my pockets, finally finding a five dollar bill and some change. An old bank envelope was in the glove box and I wrapped the bill and coins in it, and leaving the car running, walked across to the sidewalk and to the bench. She didn't move as I placed it near the rear wheel of the shopping cart and backed away.

Christmas was very near and all of downtown was in celebration except the forgotten ones trying to survive on benches and heating grates, alleys and doorways. It was a very cold night and I hoped they would see morning. When it comes right down to it, maybe all any of us want for Christmas is a little warmth.

Dance With Me

Dance with me, he whispered into my ear and held out a hand.
Thanks, but I don't ....I began automatically and stopped because I was suddenly looking into the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. Without another thought, I got to my feet and accepted the outstretched hand. I'd love to, I heard myself say.

Chemisty is such a mystery. He led me to the dance floor and slid one hand behind my back. There was a comfortable distance between us but no conversation and I prayed he wasn't aware of the butterflies that were dancing with us. I could feel sawdust on the old wooden floor, could smell his aftershave, and was intensely aware of his hand in mine and the slight pressure on my back. He was humming along with the music, an old blues song someone had requested. His breath was warm in my ear and when he pulled me just a little closer the sheer physical proximity was devestating and I began to think that my knees weren't going to keep me upright. Just follow my lead, I heard him say and I could feel the smile in his voice. My voice had suddenly taken leave of me and for no good reason I began to suspect that he could hear my heart beating. The music seemed to be coming from a distance and when it ended and he was gone, I managed to convince myself that I'd dreamed it. I picked up my camera and pointed it at the stage again but found I couldn't hold it steady. Furious with myself for not being able to
get a grip, for being so susceptible, for giving in to chemistry of all things, I took a few deep breaths, reached for my cigarettes and ordered a drink.

Whatever it had been eventually passed. I found steady hands once again and went back to shooting. The music was everywhere and gradually its magic replaced the unreality of the dance but not the memory and not the feelings that had surfaced. At the end of the night, I went home alone and dreamed of dancing on a sawdust floor.

Waltzing Matilda

Her name was Bertha. She was a patient in a nursing home, a victim of dementia, old age, and poverty. She never spoke but she hummed constantly, never anything recognizable or familiar, just a song that played over and over again in her mind. She was, so the staff nurse said, perfectly harmless but she did like to roam the halls at night. She would crawl out of her bed, leave her nightdress behind, and creep into the night lighted corridors. More than one aide had come across her unexpectedly in the small hours and more than one patient had been awakened by the ensuing shrieks. Once out, Bertha was reluctant to return to bed - she refused to be coaxed or bribed and she laughed at threats of restraint or sedation. She would crouch down in a corner and smile and from a distance all you could see was a black shadow with one gold tooth flashing in a mouthful of otherwise perfect teeth. Her dark skin made for nearly perfect camouflage.

The night I came across Bertha for the first time, she jumped out at me from a laundry closet. The medicine tray I was carrying went flying and I screeched while she laughed, gold tooth glittering, eyes bright, proud of herself. It was impossible to be angry with this tiny, naked, black woman dancing around in the linen closet so I retrieved the medications and put them out of harm's way then gathered up a spare nightdress and headed for the closet. Bertha was rocking on her heels and humming and when I held out the nightdress, she obediently slipped it over her head.
I took her hand and she slowly stood up and consented to be led back to her room. As we walked, I listened closely
to her humming, thinking that it wasn't just random but an actual song. When we got to her bed, she crawled in and as I pulled the covers up she smiled at me. I leaned over and whispered Waltzing Matilda? but she just closed her eyes and buried her face in her pillow.

I straightened up, looked around to make sure that all the other beds were occupied, and felt a tug at my sleeve.
Mrs. O'Reilly was awake and gesturing me to come closer with one finger while the other was held against her lips.
She was born in Australia she whispered to me and winked, She don't know her own name but she knows where she come from. Ain't that somethin'?

And it was.

Full Dark

Come the end of the day, I sat on the front steps and watched the sky turn dim to dark. Streetlights came on, then front porch lights, then the insides of the houses began to light up. It's hard to find your way in the dark. The evening was very warm for so close to December - the neighborhood cats were on the prowl, the neighborhood children were making their slow ways home to supper, and I could hear neighborhood dogs in the distance - they howled at the lack of the light, lonely and solitary sounds that carried clearly on the still air. Full dark had come with a remarkable quickness. It's a time for dreams and nightmares, for lovers that shouldn't be, for things better done in the dark. Sometimes the night is so black, it's hard to imagine that there will ever be light again.

Yellow lights came from my own house and the animals were restless. For them, the dark signals feeding time and they pace and cry as if they've never eaten. I often lose patience with them as their impatience gets in the way as I try to arrange food dishes and open cans. They are underfoot and in the way, anxious for me to provide in a "me first" kind of way, indifferent to any needs but their own. The small dog sits quietly, knowing I'll get to her, while the black dog races around in a frenzy of anticipation.

Once fed, the dogs and I go outside to the backyard. I sit on the deck and wait for them. The stars are out and it feels like rain. There is always light somewhere, waiting to come 'round again.

A Gathering

The bar was warm, smoky and filled to capacity with musicians and friends of musicians come to help one of their own. A donation box was passed frequently and almost everyone left something as they passed it. Guitar players, horn players, keyboard players, harp players ... all changing places on stage with ease and smiles, handshakes and hugs. Some played together regularly, some intermittently, some had never shared the stage before. They came, they took up their instruments, they drank and they left. Perhaps the next day they would all be in competition again but for this night, they united to help make a friend's loss a little easier.

When I was a child, we honored death, it's universal power, it's total control and it's complete lack of discrimination. No one escaped it, no one defeated it. Now, while we still respect it and keep trying to outwit it, we celebrate the lives it takes instead of mourning them. Death has become the next level and while we may not give in easily, we do move past it. And friends gather to comfort, to raise money for the family, to recognize the loss and acknowledge the life taken, to be together.

The bar was loud with music and conversations and laughter. There is a kind of reverence in blues lyrics, respect for all the trials and troubles, lost loves, cheatin' hearts, no good women and do you wrong men that other music can't manage. Opera just can't sell it's soul to the devil...so the blues plays on and it's played in memory of the ones who have left and in tribute to those left behind. The musicians drifted in and out of the smoky haze all night long. In the end, we beat death by the difference we make while we live and we beat the devil with the blues.

The Music In Us

The boy looked to be in his late teens though it was hard to tell. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and brand new Nikes with flashing lights at the heels. He and his mother had found a niche in back of the stage where the music echoed in the open air like thunder. She sang along, tapped her feet and swayed to the sounds of the old blues songs and every few minutes would get to her feet and take her son's hands in her's and move back and forth. She smiled at him and cradled his head, kissing him gently on the forehead. When the music ended, she would kneel in front of his wheel chair and take his hands and clap then brush his hair back, kiss his cheek and speak to him softly. I couldn't hear her words but I didn't need to - love was written all over her face.

His responses were limited by his muscular paralysis and he could only sit slouched in the chair. When his hand would slip off the wheelchair arm, she patiently put it back. She adjusted his feet, his sweatshirt, held a drinking cup to his mouth. When the sun came around to where it was shining directly in his face, she produced a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on. Physically, he acknowledged none of her actions but there was love in his eyes. Did he hear the music, I wondered as I watched her toss her dredlocks and laugh and two step around his chair. She had brought it with her before any of the musicians began to play.

To raise a disabled child must take incredible patience and energy and sacrifice yet there they sat on a warm fall afternoon without a care in the world. The music plays on in all of us - we have only to listen.

Glamor Girl

At a recent fund raiser for animal groups I was again reminded of what it's like to be an afterthought.

With Butterbean in her Christmas collar and red sweater tucked under my arm, I walked in. I'd only gone a few feet when there were cries of "Butterbean!" and "Look, Daddy, it's Butterbean!" and we were instantly surrounded.
This continued the entire length of the mall - at each table, she was recognized and fussed over and she responded with kisses to anyone who got close enough and tail wagging so enthusiastic that it shook her whole small body. When a friend approached with her husband and son and said to her husband, "Jack, you remember Butterbean .............. oh, and B too ...." I was put in my place once and for all. Butterbean, of course, was delighted with it all, having been raised on the counter of a retail store she was socialized early on with a steady flow of customers of all ages and she takes it for granted that people want to meet her and love on her. I've become used to being her accessory and her transportation. She's been in the newspaper, on a billboard, and has her own calendar but success hasn't spoiled her a bit.

She's a one of kind little dog and I'm blessed to have her.

The Thanksgiving Table

Nana's Thanksgiving table was always perfectly set - a handmade crocheted lace tablecloth over felt with a centerpiece of silver candlesticks and artifical fruit. She brought out the heavy linen napkins and crystal water glasses, used only the good silver and the fine china. Every place setting was aligned, every juice glass just so and she always remembered the butter knives. She tolerated no help in arranging the table - it was a labor of love.

She served mashed and sweet potatoes with real butter, onions in a thich cream sauce, and fresh peas. A basket of hand made dinner rolls sat at one end of the table and a crystal platter of olives, celery and cheese at the other. There was tomato juice or apple cider to drink. Dessert was apple, mince and pumpkin pies that she had made that very morning, served with coffe laced with brandy. The turkey was carved by hand - no electric carving knife at Nana's table and no casual dress. Thanksgiving was a dress up holiday. After her death, we had Thanksgiving dinner out or ate off rickety card tables covered with plastic tablecloths - she must've turned in her grave at the sight. My mother never wanted to do the work involved and always claimed that it ruined the day for her to spend it mostly in the kitchen. Although I'm not much for traditions, I do think of and miss that one - Nana's house at Thanksgiving was warm with love and the smell of freshly baked bread. I still remember the cranberry sauce as it was only thing she store bought and the silver two piece gravy boat with the ladle. The serving of alcohol was kept to a bare minimum - Nana paid attention.

After dinner, the adults read or watched football or knitted or napped while Nana cleaned the kitchen, again with precious little help. She was particular and I suspect didn't believe anyone else could do it up to her standards.
Traditions change with time and circumstances and my current Thanksgiving Day one is to sleep late, eat whatever's on hand, and spend the day with the cats and dogs.

Nana would be appalled .... but she'd get over it.

Point & Shoot

Hold fast to your dreams, Langston Hughes wrote, without them, you are a broken winged bird, unable to fly.

The muse of poetry, just like the muse of opera and impressionistic painting, may have knocked on my door, but if so, I was out. I get my poetry and my art from music. Recently I was asked to photograph two family portraits and though I said yes it was with the strong understanding that such photography is not my strong suit. I'm more the blue jeans, smoke filled bar or outdoor festival kind of shooter. Give me a blues band and a harmonica player who pay no attention to what I'm doing and I'm in my element. But it's flattering to be asked so I almost always say yes.

My camera travels with me pretty much wherever I go and people have become accustomed to it. I shoot mostly on instinct, catching people unawares and genuine, intent on what they're doing or saying. Musicians are the best subjects - they provide a range of movement and gestures and expressions as naturally and effortlessly as they make music. Like a lot of photographers, I dislike having my own picture taken - my place is behind the lens not in front of it and that's by design. The pictures I like the best reflect an almost intimate connection between lens and subject, between shadow and light, between music and musicians.

There is poetry and art in photography. Sometimes it just happens, sometimes it has to be worked for and sometimes only I can see it. For me it's always been about patience, practice, timing and luck and the rare joy of having a picture turn out exactly as I saw it in my mind. These are small dreams but they matter, just as all dreams do. I think we all have art in our lives and that it manifests itself according to our personalities - music, photography,
writing, a flower garden, painting, poetry or even the children we bring into the world can all be forms of self expression, and self expression is a just a dream made real.

I will keep my dreams, no matter how unlikely they may be. Unrealistic or not, they are the source of hope.

Child Proof

Nothing changes us and those around us as much as having children.

This past weekend at the wedding of a dear friend's daughter, I reflected on my friends who have become parents. Life's entire focus shifts, priorities change drastically, time evaporates. Those who become really good parents see
the world in different terms - they open their hearts to this new life and would willingly exchange their's to protect it.
Those of who have chosen not to have children have no choice but to adapt and accept that the friendship will be altered forever, no matter how close it might have been. If we are fortunate and choose to work at it, it will be altered for the better.

Most things about having children are beyond my grasp. I think I am, by nature, too selfish to be a parent. I made the choice very early in life and have never regretted it but I confess that I'm sometimes curious. Watching parents interact with each other and their children is fascinating and becomes more so as the children grow and change.
Everything is connected yet stands alone. Good parents never stop being parents and bad ones never begin. At the wedding there were new friends and old friends who had watched her grow up, watched her go from childrens birthday parties at the lake to a candlelight wedding service and all the days in between. I had to smile remembering my own wedding - my mother had concealed an onion in her handkerchief. She wanted to be able to cry at the appropriate times. Though furious and ashamed at the time, I've come to see the humor of standing on the church steps with fall and the scent of onion in the air.

Good parents let their children go but they never really let go of them. You just can't child proof parents who love you.

Chained Out

Civility. Described in the dictionary as "an act of courtesy or politeness". If civilization as we know it were to depend on it, we'd be doomed. Every fast food restaurant would be closed, thousands of retail stores would be out of business, convenience marts would be a thing of the past, and not a single drive through pharmacy would be left standing.

I am fortunate enough to live in a small town with a great many family owned businesses - the people who run these businesses have taken the time and trouble to learn and remember my name. They still smile and mean it, still care that I'm happy with whatever services they provide, still are willing to go the extra mile that differentiates them from the chain businesses, all television advertising to the contrary. Unrealistic as it may be, I'm still hoping to find one of those smiling, literate, and pleasant people I see in the ads actually in a Walmart or McDonald's or a drive through pharmacy or a chain pet store.

If a waiter or bartender or bank teller or local mechanic can manage civility, why can't the chains? After 10 or 15 minutes in line, why is there no apology for keeping me waiting? If I ask a question, why can't I get an answer that is articulate and clear instead of muttered and sullen? Business is business, I suppose, but it doesn't have to be totally without grace.

Very late one night, I stopped at a Wendy's and found myself eleven cents short of the cost of my square cheeseburger and fries. I scrounged for it, emptied my pockets and searched the bottom of my purse, all to no avail. I offered to bring it back the next day, offered to drive home and get it right then - and I left hungry and empty handed. Typical chain thinking - lose a customer forever rather than sacrifice eleven cents.

On another night, I inadvertently left a local restaurant without paying. When I realized what I'd done, I called and assured them that I'd come take care of it - no problem, they said, whenever you have time, don't worry about it, we covered you.

Civility is home grown and a lot more than just Thank you, drive through.

Out of the Closet

If you look too long into the mirror of the past, I heard the public radio commentator say, You'll fall in and drown.

I considered this. It sounded right. Cleaning out a closet can not be done with mercy or faintheartedness, there's too much debris to sort through in the search for what you salvage and what you discard. I looked resentfully at my "keep" and "give away" piles and then with grim determination at the box I'd mentally labeled "maybe". Taking a deep breath, I dumped the contents onto the "give away" pile and resolutely turned my back on it. A grey cashmere sweater tumbled into my hands along with a gold trimmed black purse and a pair of 3" black evening shoes. My hands almost shook as I put them in the "give away" pile. It's been five years since you wore or carried these, I said outloud, let them go. A pair of jeans that had fit at one time but that in my heart I knew never would again...a skirt I could no longer zip ....a pair of sandals that always put my right foot to sleep ...a sweater that had never looked quite right....a dozen or so t shirts, some faded, some stained but all with some kind of foolish meaning for me. I examined each one before tossing it aside. Move on, I kept repeating under my breath, keep only what you need to move on.
There's a fine line between remembering the past and getting stuck in it. Yet at the same time, you have to keep your dreams and your hopes intact.

More clothes, shoes, purses, pillows and assorted things that I hadn't wanted to deal with at the time. Soon I was on the floor buried in remnants of what felt like past lives. The dress I was married in, the pullover sweatshirt that had belonged to Ran, old photo albums, yellowed with age and made fragile by time but still with the power to make me smile. Greeting cards I'd never sent by the boxfuls and needlework pieces I'd never get to. A couple of the cats made their way through the maze of stacks and piles and sat down, looking at me with "You can't take it with you" faces.

Well, I told them as I went back to the job at hand, We'll always have Paris.

Arrive Alive

The customer set the camera on the counter none too gently, looked me square in the eye and said in a matter of fact tone of voice, Damn thing don't work. The strap had been chewed through, the body was dented, mangled, and covered with teeth marks. Have any help gettin' this way? I asked neutrally, trying to maintain a serious tone. Nope, he said with a perfectly straight face, Just found it like this.

As I sat in the dentist's chair this morning, pondering how to explain how the dog had gotten to my bridgework ( for the second time ), I recalled that conversation about the camera but knew I wouldn't be able to pull it off. The truth is not always the easiest road especially when telling it is going to make you look like a profound idiot, but that's part of what being a grownup is all about.

The truth is a one way street with a low speed limit, my grandmother used to say, stay between the ditches,
don't speed and you'll always get there in one piece.

Children of the Corn

It began with a rustling in the plants behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder, saw nothing out of the ordinary - couch, chair, two potted plants in front of the window. No rustling, no movement. I shrugged and went back to my computer screen. A few seconds passed and I heard it again. I turned, fully prepared to write it off to having an overactive imagination and being alone in a very large, very old house. The telephone was ringing, Mozart was playing, and the leaves on the plants were in motion. I froze. As I reached for the telephone, the rustling intensified. The doorbell rang and I realized I could hear my heart beating.
I eased out of the office and answered the door then cautiously came back down the hall, stopping at the doorway to listen before I looked around. Not a sound.

Although I was beginning to regret having read one too many Stephen King novels where everything begins so normally, a couple of things were clear to me. Whatever was in the plants had to be small or I'd have already seen it.
Second, it was frightened - more so than me? - third, I had work to do and couldn't afford to be driven from my office,
fourth, I was weaponless. Don't be an idiot! I said outloud and the plants gave a great shiver as the aluminum foil in one made contact with something in motion - something that I couldn't see but that clearly had claws because I could hear them scrabbling on the brick floor and tearing into the foil. The noise was louder, closer and had suddenly become threatening. Scenes from "Children of the Corn" leapt into my mind as I watched the taller plant begin it's frantic dance and then the doorbell rang again and I heard myself shriek. Get ahold of yourself right this minute! my mind demanded.

As I walked down the hall toward the front door, comforted by the sight of the fedex delivery man and trying to get a grip on my breathing, something small and very fast streaked across the living room floor and leapt onto the window sill. I shrieked again and fell against the wall, one hand on my chest, causing the fedex man to give me a very concerned look through the glass. Are you allright? he mouthed at me and I nodded, regained my footing and went to open the door. He stepped in, looking at me oddly and said I heard you scream and I nodded and pointed to the living room where a baby squirrel was casually perched on a couch cushion, regarding us with mild curiosity.

He was in the plants, I said weakly, and I didn't know what it was. Like to scared me half to death. The fedex man
smiled at me and said Reckon it would've me too.

I breathed a sigh of relief and set about opening the front and back doors. After just a minute or two, the little squirrel tapped his way around the corner and slowly crossed the threshold and onto the front steps. When he saw me, he
immediately went back into the house but only as far as the entry where he stopped and sat down facing the open door. He seemed to evaluate the situation, then calmly started forward again. He paused momentarily on the outside steps to examine a leaf, then crossed the brick walkway, ducked under the railing and into the front flower beds. He didn't look back.

Face your fears and you may find you've been afraid of nothing but shadows and baby squirrels.

The Ferryman

Like a tree planted by the water,
I shall not be moved - Mississippi John Hurt

There was no moon and he was driving too fast down a dirt road. His reflexes were dulled from drinking and at the curve he stepped on the brake just a few deadly seconds too late. He was killed instantly as the old car collided head on with a massive tree. His name was Gene. He was tall and broad shouldered with intense Montgomery Clift good looks. He was nineteen.

The small island community reacted immediately. Within an hour, the island women had gathered at his wife Anne's side with quilts and comforters, coffee and food baskets, Bibles, home remedies and what little comfort they could offer. The men towed the old car from the ditch, disposed of the whiskey bottles and took his body to the doctor's house. The church opened it's doors to all and by
morning people began arriving from the mainland. The ferrymen, most of whom he'd known all his life and worked with for years, steadily shepherded passengers until well after dark. They were silent even with each other. The undertaker and hearse came early in the morning and out of respect were ferried across alone. Arrangements were made with the family, and Gene was taken back to the mainland. A day or so later, his body was returned and he made his last crossing just as the fog began to lift and burn off. After a simple service, he was buried in the small cemetary behind the church. His dad, Doug and his wife, Anne stood together and at their feet sat a shaggy black lab mix named Buttons who Gene had raised from a puppy. They had been almost inseparable in life and I was sure that Buttons could feel if not comprehend the grief. His sad eyes searched the crowd and as we all walked slowly away, he laid beside the grave and would not be moved.

Teach and Be Taught

The impact of a teacher on a student - whether good or bad - is hard to overestimate. I'm frequently complemented on my handwriting and each time I think of Mrs. Fowler, her 3rd grade penmanship class, and the ever present ruler she carried behind her back.

We practiced on blue lined yellow pads with freshly sharpened number 2 pencils. Every capital letter had to go exactly from the bottom line to the top and every lower case letter had to go exactly half that distance. Mrs. Fowler was meticulous and unforgiving about these rules and every failure brought a sharp rap to the knuckles with her ruler.
She missed nothing and accepted nothing less than perfection. T's were crossed and i's were dotted just so - self expression was discouraged. Children, she would say sternly as she peered at us over her bifocals, The object of proper penmanship is to be legible, not creative. We do not improvise here. She spoke slowly, with emphasis and clarity. There were no misunderstandings in Mrs. Fowler's 3rd grade class. In this class, she would say, slapping the ruler against her palm, In this class, there will be no slackers.

After Mrs. Fowler, there was Mrs. Rankin's 5th grade class. They were almost interchangable though Mrs. Rankin did not carry a ruler. She was a fearsome teacher - short, stout, with tightly waved iron grey hair, gold rimmed spectacles, a suggestion of a mustache and an obsession with state capitols. She loved geography and drilled us
endlessly. You will be able to recite in your sleep she warned us at the beginning of the school year. States, state capitols, rivers, oceans, mountain ranges all were second nature to us by the time she was done.

Mrs. Hansen's 6th grade class, in comparison, had no resemblance to our prior grades. She was petite, pretty, and young and her ideas about teaching appalled her colleagues. She took us on field trips, taught us about fiction writers, encouraged independent thinking. She smiled a lot, didn't mind if class discussions turned loud and tolerated any and all questions. One day a week she took her whole class to the library where we took turns reading whatever struck our fancy and then dissected its meaning. We adored her and the freedom she allowed us. She opened doors for us and made us curious and excited about learning and she was always careful to remind us that Mrs. Fowler and Mrs. Rankin had laid the foundation - she was just putting on the finishing touches. Open minds and hearts will always learn faster and go farther she would say with a smile.

All my teachers cared deeply. All good teachers do.

Caller ID

"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." the Queen said to Alice. "I daresay you haven't had much practice."

I was sitting at a red light downtown this morning, watching one of the homeless in the shelter of a doorway. He was dressed in rags with mismatched shoes, a shopping cart by his side and a mangled umbrella propped up beside him. He was sorting through a plastic bag of aluminum cans and muttering to himself as he separated them. He stopped now and then to stroke his beard and glance around the intersection and when he saw me looking at him, he waved a can in my direction and gave me a snaggledtooth grin. It was warm but he was in several layers of clothes, including two hats and a glove on one hand. What looked like a hair dryer was tied to one wrist and kept getting tangled with the plastic bag. He was missing two fingers on his other hand which I noticed because when his phone rang, he saluted before carefully setting the bag down and commencing a search for the source of the sound. He had a brief and annoyed conversation before replacing the phone deep within the layers then returned to the aluminum cans.

Who calls the homeless, I found myself wondering as the light changed and traffic began to move. Better still, how many of the homeless carry cell phones? Like Alice, I haven't had enough practice believing impossible things but I'm betting that old man has. I could see him in the rear view mirror as I drove away, waving cans and grinning at passing drivers, happy in a world of his own making.

For some of us, the only difference between his world and ours, is a paycheck or two. It was something to think about.

Reincarnations

The sun was just beginning to set and it cut bright almost blinding ribbons of light across the lake. In the distance, there were sailboats, their sails pure white against the blue water. From almost anywhere in the house I could look out and almost imagine I could see the ocean. If I lived here, my friend Tricia said, I'd never get anything done. I felt exactly the same way.

Inside, we were sorting through and packaging up the remains of a life. Books, dishes, table linens, china, knicknacks, furniture, lamps, Christmas decorations ... in another week, they would all be neatly wrapped, arranged and priced and set out for sale. Possessions of one life would pass on to others, perhaps to fill a need, perhaps because they fit someone else's collection ...jewelry, glassware, candles, a fur coat .....they would go on being useful for someone else. I imagined their former owner would be pleased. Even the grand house on the lake would go to someone else, though in this case it would stay in the family and perhaps re-adapt itself.

Garden tools, planters, napkin rings, paintings, pillows, toys ....all would find their way to other homes. Tricia makes her living at estate sales and I like how she does it. She recycles possessions and preserves memories. Nothing is too small or to large to live another day.

A Change in Vision

The aftercare counselor held up a magazine and said What do you see? I said a Queen's Guard at the same time my husband said Jack Daniels. The counselor smiled and said And you're both looking at the same picture. Aftercare counselors can be such wise asses but he'd made his point about how we all the see the same world so differently and therefore react to it in such different ways.

I try to keep this in mind as I go through my days but it's tricky since my natural reflex seems to be to expect everyone to see things as I do. Horseracing, Nana would say, would be a damned pitiful sport if we all thought the same. Sometimes the simplest concepts are the easiest to forget.

Nana wasn't much for frills.She never went a day without stockings and her corset. She and her sensible shoes descended the stairs each morning, dressed and made up, tied on her ever present apron and went straight to work. To do otherwise would've been an insult to the work ethic. She made breakfast - dry toast, orange juice, coffee - then washed the dishes. She swept, mopped, dusted, did laundry, scrubbed the bathrooms, changed the linens and baked. She had her hair done and a manicure once a week, she answered mail and watched an occasional soap opera at lunch. Your problem, Jan, she would say to my mother, is that you're not useful. Usefullness was a cardinal virtue to my grandmother and idleness a serious lapse if not a potential sin. God dislkes idle hands but He despises an idle mind was one of her favorite sayings. My mother and grandmother did not get along well. Although they spent considerable time together as adults, they saw the world very differently. Play the hand you're dealt, Jan, Nana advised her, stop wishing for different cards. My mother was rarely out of her nightclothes until noon, she bathed every other day or less, and after one or two visits to our house, Nana put her foot down and came no more. She couldn't abide the lack of housecleaning.

I didn't know it at the time, but each summer when we were in Nova Scotia, my daddy cleaned house from top to bottom, a solid year's worth of grime and dirt was attacked and removed. But he was very careful about the process because if my mother had discovered these goings on, there'd have been hell to pay. He needn't have worried - she never noticed. She cleaned with a lick and a promise, a practice my grandmother found despicable. I raised you better than this! she would snap at my mother, look at this floor! My mother would snap right back about not living a privileged life and there they would stay, two hard women, spitting venom and worn out with each other. It might've been comical if it hadn't been so unrelentingly sad.

Nobody gets along with everybody all the time but it seems to me that we can stay at odds with the world or make peace with it, depending on how we see it.