Count Your Blessings

God has a plan for me, my friend Joe said. And all that's happening is happening for a reason.

I share his philosophy but confess that his faith is stronger than mine. He's been in recovery a long time, has worked all the steps and made his way through. He's learned to let go and let God. I still want things my way so it's a good thing when I get to talk with people like Joe. They teach by example, by how they see things and what they believe.

I'm fortunate enough to have a good many people in my life that lead by example. From my friend Tricia, I have learned about strength in times of crisis, courage under fire, loyalty and surviving loss.
From my cousin Linda, I see examples of patience, faith, tolerance, never giving up and being emotionally unafraid. From my friend Iris, the examples have been about generosity of spirit, about sacrifice, facing fears and working through trouble.

From my friend Henry I've learned that when in doubt, trusting your instincts will almost never fail.
And that friends take care of each other through good and bad times, especially bad times. My friend AJ is an example of a good and caring man, dedicated to his music, his family, and always ready to give of his time and talent. My friend Michael is the best example I know of seeing the good in everyone and never saying a harsh word against a friend or an enemy.

These are the people who influence and guide me, the people I listen to and trust, the people I turn to when in need. In the midst of their private pain, they all make time to help when they can and listen when they can't. Each is a gift in their own way.

The Slow Lane

I have a musician friend who has been away from the music scene for several months - his life has been complicated and highly stressed and he felt the need to take a break. His comeback begins tonight, an acoustic performance at a well known downtown bar. I'm not only glad to have him back, I'm glad to see that he's back stronger and restored in mind and emotions. I suspect that his music will reflect his feelings and the conflicts he's faced these past months.

Life comes at us fast and demands we keep up. Easy enough at twenty, thirty, even forty - but being on the downside of fifty, I'm discovering that I don't want to run in place just so I don't lose any ground. I look at the things I haven't accomplished ( an astonishingly long list! ) and realize that somewhere my priorities shifted. I'm not rich, thin or famous. I haven't been published. I haven't found someone to grow old with or keep me in the manner to which I'm accustomed. I haven't learned to tap dance, ride a horse, play tennis, or ice skate. I've never quite gotten the hang of mathematics or counting back change or driving a standard shift. I can't make adequate small talk or quit smoking or swim. I haven't learned a foreign language or how to appreciate opera or fine wine.
I don't have a Neiman Marcus card, I've never invented anything or been a heroine and will never cultivate a taste for snails, truffles, or caviar. And to my surprise, none of these non-accomplishments matter all that much. When push comes to shove, I'm content. Life still comes at me fast but I set my own pace. There's way less traffic in the slow lane.

The Business of Dying

My grandfather was a drunk. He was loud, abusive and unfaithful to my grandmother. He smoked vile smelling cigars, told dirty jokes, kept nudist magazines in his bedroom, and cheated at poker. He frightened everyone but somehow had built a successful business - a funeral home - and appeared to be idolized by everyone he served.
His own funeral was a packed house. He had, so it seemed, been kind and comforting to a great many families, just not his own.

My daddy had gone to work for him not long after marrying my mother and took over the business when he died. He was made for it - a soft spoken, gentle man who understood loss and pain, who could comfort the most grief stricken family members with kind words and kinder silences. He led them through the process with
patience, empathy, dignity and grace. People responded to him instantly and as naturally as if they'd known him all their lives. He listened, he cared, he attended to every small detail, and he was always there, always smoothing the way. He knew when to step in and when to back away. He never rushed mourning or tried to hurry grief or healing. He never acknowledged death as an ending, simply an inevitable transition.

I never thought it strange that we spent so much time there. My mother spent several evenings a week out and we were simply packed up and taken back to work with him. While wakes or visitations were going on downstairs, we did our homework in the tv room. When the downstairs services were over, we had the run of the place - the offices, the chapel, the autopsy room - Cambridge had no city morgue at the time so bodies were brought to the funeral home. Gunshot victims, stabbings, suicides, people who died in hotel rooms and car wrecks, the homeless who froze to death in the back alleys, the addicts who overdosed, all ended up in the autopsy room. I saw death early and was taught to be respectful but not afraid.

After my mother decided that the city had become too hot to live in, she bought a small cottage on a small lake in New Hampshire. Dad lived with my grandmother for a time and after her death, he lived at the funeral home and became a weekend commuter to the country. He said he found it restful and and free of all the material things that we work so hard to aquire. He had a roof, a bed, a small radio, several books, and his work. He said it was all he needed.

And the business he gave so much of his life to? Cambridge came under siege from renovation, a rising crime rate, urban blight, and a failing economy. My grandfather's business had had it's glory days and faded into a slightly shabby and shopworn relic. Sometimes change comes too little and too late.

The Whistle

I was maybe five or six when I stole the whistle.

Dad stopped at the corner store almost every night - a quart of milk, a loaf of bread - there was always something needed at home. He liked the tiny neighborhood markets - they were poorly lit, crammed with every kind of odd and end, and never crowded. That night, he bought whatever he'd been sent for, made a little small talk with the owner and paid. And I pocketed a red, blue and yellow pipe whistle. Halfway home, I began to play it and at the noise, he looked into the rear view mirror with a smile that immediately turned to a frown. He pulled over slowly and stopped the car then turned to face me.

A few moments later, we were back at the tiny market. He led me around the counter and lifted me onto a stool. I was at eye level with the owner, the whistle still in my hand. I held it out to him and he took it. I felt a gentle pressure on my back, heard Dad clear his throat. I stammered out an apology and began to cry and the owner smiled but Dad's face didn't change. He lifted me down and walked me out without a word.

My daddy had never raised his voice to me, let alone his hand but that night I prayed for a whipping. The disappointment in his eyes was crushing and even though it was gone the next morning, I thought I would remember it forever. Cross my heart and hope to die, I whispered to my stuffed tiger, I'll never make him look at me that way again.

It was a well intentioned promise and one I tried to keep but too many things got in the way. "Someone at this table," my mother said during supper and with unmistakable menace in her voice, "Someone has taken ten dollars from my purse." I felt my throat start to close up as my daddy slowly put down his silverware and looked around the table. Across from me, one brother looked surprised while the other looked down to hide a smirk. My daddy sighed. "Are you sure?" he asked her and she snarled back at him "One of these brats is a thief!" There was a long silence while he studied his plate and she drummed her fingers on the tablecloth. "Well?" she demanded, "What are you going to do about it?"

He sighed again and then reluctantly sent all of us to our rooms. I knew then that I would take the blame as surely as I knew which brother had taken the money and hatred quickly erased any fear of the punishment to come.

It was swift and his heart wasn't in it. Dry eyed, I watched him leave my room and thought I would never look at his disappointment the same way again.

Island Living

Every Saturday night, Aunt Vi came down to shampoo my hair. On the mainland, she had a small beauty shop and she would arrive with a basket full of shampoos, creme rinses, lipstick, rouge and assorted cosmetics. She would wrap a towel around my shoulders, drag out the small stepstool for me to stand on, and lean me over the kitchen sink. Afterwards, she dried and curled my hair and let me play with the makeup while she and my grandmother drank coffee and smoked cigarettes on the sunporch. We watched the sunset over the water and sometimes there would be card games or dominos.

Aunt Pearl usually came by on Sunday afternoons with homemade fish chowder and freshly baked bread. Nana put out the good china and we all gathered around the dining room table. When supper was over, she sent us to pick wild strawberries and she made strawberry shortcake with real whipped cream. Aunt Pearl almost always brought a newspaper and she would read us the local columns with Nana adding bits of gossip as she read.

One night a week we were allowed to go across the road to Uncle Willie's who had a television set. The reception wasn't very good and the only programming was the local channel from St. John but we were thrilled anyway. Uncle Willie was a widower and he would sit in his old rocking chair and tell us fishing stories about whales and storms and all the young men who never came back. Fillin' their heads with a lot of nonsense, Nana would say sharply, they all come back, one way or another.

During the week, there were always people dropping by. Uncle Shad brought fresh scallops, Lilly Small came by with vegetables, Uncle Len came by to do a little carpentry. Some came just to visit - Nana would make coffee and muffins for them in the morning and cookies and iced tea in the afternoons. On their way home, the fishermen stopped by with haddock or lobsters and Nana would repay them with blackberries or a six pack.
Sometimes she read their mail for them.

Trips to the mainland were always a day long adventure and carefully planned in advance. Nana kept a list of the things she was to bring back and who they were for. We left early in the morning, got to eat in a restaurant for lunch, shop in real stores all afternoon, and then head home in time to make the last ferry crossing. We carried liquor, cigarettes, fabrics, magazines, medicines, store bought linens, an occasional small appliance or
machinery part. Nana checked her list carefully and then we piled back in the big Lincoln and headed home.

My great grandmother spent the last summer of her life in a bedroom off the kitchen. When she died, her coffin was put in the living room and for two days the sun shone on her. She was buried in the small village cemetary
on a warm summer afternoon and my daddy held me, trying to find the right words to explain death and dying to me. I just knew I missed her. Ashes to ashes, Nana said, it'll make sense when you're older.

Around the point, past the last breakwater, there were a number of small shacks. A narrow path led all the way to the center of the island but there were hazards, namely Old Hat. She was a small, bent, wicked old crone who raised sheep and carried a shotgun. If you ventured too near her property, she emerged, shotgun in hand, an old, black hat crushed by years of wear perched sideways on her head. Her white hair flew out from under it in all directions and she would give a high pitched cackle before taking aim with the gun. The blast would always go far above our heads and the recoil knocked her to the ground most times. We were long gone by the time she was upright again. Nana said she wasn't protecting the sheep but a whiskey still she kept deep in the woods. Mad as a hatter, Nana said firmly, Keep your distance.

Further around the point, there were coves where driftwood collected all along the shore, washed onto the beaches by the truckload it seemed. There were tidepools to splash in, rocks to climb, abandoned fishing gear to explore. We uncovered buried shells everywhere, played tag with the tides as they came and went, watched the fog roll in and out like an endless damp blanket unfolding in smooth layers. We made our way home blind, following the shore line one rock at a time and listening as the fog horn on Peter's Island would get slowly louder. Use your ears, Nana said, If you get lost, just follow the sound.

But it was hard to get lost. Everybody knew your name and where you lived and what time you were supposed to be home for supper. There was always someone to hitch a ride with and no matter where you were or who you were with, you were always safe.

A Private Moment

"So," my vet said to me, "We need a urine sample from him." And handed me a small saucer.

Bewildered, I took the saucer and led Josh outside. He lifted his leg and I dashed to put the saucer under his belly. He immediately lowered his leg and looked at me as though I'd lost my mind. I muttered an apology and we resumed walking. We came to a post, he stopped, sniffed, looked around and raised his leg. Again, I quickly knelt and put the saucer under his belly. Again, he immediately lowered his leg and turned to look at me with a withering glare. "It's not my fault." I told him, "You have to do this." He gave a vigorous head to tail shake and started across the parking lot to the grass. On the third try, he looked at me over his shoulder, daring me to try and assault his dignity again and then cautiously raised his leg. Moving slowly, I inched the saucer under him. He lowered his leg and sat down. I scratched his ears, rubbed his back, told him what a fine dog he was. By that time, a crowd had begun to collect in the parking lot and I began to wonder if they were taking sides. "You think this is beneath your dignity?" I demanded of him, "What about mine?" He looked at me, looked at the audience, and woofed softly but there was menace underneath. Someone laughed and he whipped his head around with a warning growl. I all but dragged him around the corner to another grassy area and gave him some slack on his leash. He walked slowly, nose to the ground for several minutes, then stopped. I pretended not to notice and finally he raised his leg. I held my breath, continued to pretend I was paying no attention, and when the moment was right, I slid the saucer under his belly. With immense indifference and small dog grace, he finally decided to pretend I wasn't there.

We called it a draw.

Easter Christians

It was Easter Sunday and the church was standing room only. Parents, grandparents, friends and long lost relatives were there because it was the day for baptisms. Sunlight poured through the stain glass windows and made rainbows in the choir loft. There were lillies everywhere.

The preacher and I stood in the baptismal chamber waist deep in warm water. He locked one hand around my clasped hands and put the other firmly on the back of my neck. He smiled and spoke the words, Do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior? I made the proper response and he lowered me under the water. The last words I heard were In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. And like magic, I was baptized. I was twelve.

I didn't feel any different afterwards though I had half expected some miracle transformation that would save me from all the sins that were ahead of me. I'd played with the possibility that I might have different feelings once baptized, might see the world in a new way, might be given a chance to start again. Unrealistic expectations, perhaps, but I was twelve.

Truth is, I had no idea what the words meant or what I was promising. Sin seemed a long way off that Easter morning, a long way off and not much of a danger. When church let out, there was much congratulating and socializing - Easter Christians after all only see each other once or twice a year - and then we all went our own ways.

Despite the ceremony and my promise, sin sought me out. On the many mornings after that were to follow, I would think about the baptism with sadness, resignation and just a little bitterness. By then I knew that no twelve year old is old enough or wise enough to accept anyone as their personal savior and I knew I'd been had. I realized that it hadn't even been my choice, that my mother was doing what she thought would prevent people from talking about her unbaptized daughter. And maybe it did.

Just for Today

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Of all the prayers I have ever learned, this is the one that means the most to me. I wear it on a chain around my neck and recite it silently when I'm up against the dark side of my own self. It's a constant reminder that my own life is all I can hope to control. It's simplicity is profound and it has saved me time and time again from the sheer futility of chaos and the random and unpredictable actions of others. I think about the words and how they apply to every day living and all kinds of situations and they bring comfort, like taking a deep breath to calm down or a time out before I have the chance to say something that is bound to make a bad situation worse. Serenity is a place I can go that is free of wasted worry and misspent energy.

It's premise is so fundamental that it's easily missed. We have to look inward for change, for solutions, for peace. I can change the way I react to people but not the people. I can't fix anyone, can't free them from own demons or make them over. Blame is on the bottom shelf and the closest to me but reaching for it solves nothing. A mirror would be far more useful. And this I resist wholeheartedly - I want to be justified and in the right when I act badly. I want it to be someone else's fault. I want the fairy tale that love is the answer when love isn't even the issue.

So I keep the prayer close to me always. To keep me in touch with something greater than myself, to help me remember not to cling too tightly to the wrong people or the wrong notions. To remind me to slow down, take life one day at a time and not get lost in the past or overwhelmed by the future. It helps me let go of the pettiness and the resentments, the hurt feelings, the grudges, the everyday fears and stress.

Just for today, I will keep my temper, hold my tongue, and be positive. Just for today I will smile, be cheerful, and not critisize. Just for today, I will look for the good in everyone I meet. I will be patient and pleasant, gracious and grateful. Just for today I will not hold to yesterday or worry about tomorrow. Just for one day.

Kindness Matters

Who was that on the 'phone my husband asked from behind the newspaper.
What did she want? when I told him.
She asked me to lunch. I said cautiously,
Really? The newspaper was lowered for an instant then raised again. Were all of her real friends busy?

Malice comes in all forms and from many directions. Sometimes it's dressed up as humor, sometimes it begins or ends with an endearment, and sometimes it's just a straight shot - mean spirited and designed to inflict maxiumum damage. People who feel the need to target others are a mystery to me though I suspect it must reflect some missing part of their own selves - lack of security or self esteeem, some dark cloud over their emotions that pushes them to strike out and harm others.

I don't get much of it anymore because I choose to be around people who care for me, support me, and value me as I value them. These are people who have no need to be the center of attention in all situations, who can feel good about themselves without having to make someone else feel bad. They can build without first tearing down, they can win without fixing the race. And they can share the spotlight without feeling in the dark.

I have come to a safe place where kindness matters to me more than sparring with the dark side of an ex-husband or a former friend. I am free to walk away instead of fighting back. I can distance myself without compromise from people who would draw me into quicksand. I believe more in the goodness of people than I used to and I have more
patience and understanding of their flaws and my own. We are all works in progress.

Understanding Sixteen

Being a good and loyal 32nd degree Mason, my daddy took us to the annual Masonic Christmas party every year without fail. The Masonic Hall was enormous , like some ancient, well kept and mysterious Roman temple. There were Christmas carols, a 50 foot if it was an inch tree, and of course, at the end of the night,
a cheerful visit from Santa Claus.

While the adults ate and drank and danced and did whatever grown ups did, we played hide and seek in the cavernous rooms, raced up and down the endless , marble stairways, and caused mishief wherever possible. But by the time I was a teenager, I'd outgrown the games and preferred to wander quietly with my own thoughts. I'd walk the halls and listen to my heels as they staccato'd on the black and white floors.
Sometimes I brought a book and would find a corner to read and watch the people. The men all wore tuxes
and the woman were in floor length gowns of every conceivable color - it was all glamorous, intricate and decadent.

Wanting to be seen as a young adult, I joined my daddy and a circle of his friends. He put his arm around my shoulders and kissed the top of my head and someone remarked that I'd certainly changed from the picture. That was when I noticed that Dad had his wallet out and had been passing around a snapshot.
When it was handed back to him and he tucked it back in his wallet, I caught a glimpse. And discovered the true and ultimate depths of teenage humiliation. Knowing that there was no way I'd be able to hold back the tears or face any of these men ever again, suspecting that my life was over, I made my way to the ladies room, praying to be forgotten and left behind forever.

My daddy found me. He dried my tears, soaked paper towels in cold water and pressed them against my eyes, combed my hair and made me fix my face. Then he looked at me, trying hard to keep his eyes serious and not smile at my anguish. Very softly, he said "I'm sorry. I'll get a different picture." And he hugged me.

I was sixteen then, he was somewhere in his late forties. Signs of the trouble down the road had already appeared between us but that night, my daddy understood sixteen.

The Back Garden

On the wall in the kitchen at the farm, far out of the reach of small, curious hands, hung a pair of antlers. Uncle Byron would sometimes hang a jacket or a shirt on them. Above them, hung a rifle.

One warm summer night, Uncle Byron took the gun down and slung it under his arm. He reached for his pipe and old green cap and headed toward the back pasture. I caught up with him at the gate and begged to go along and he gave me a long, contemplative look before he nodded. We walked up the hill together, not talking. I watched the smoke from his pipe making wispy trails behind him. He walked in no hurry, even paced, eyes down - past the hay wagon, past the barn. He was the first born of the family and his skin was leathered from outside work, his hands already gnarled and scarred played the accordion, milked cows, cut wood. He wasn't old then except for his eyes.

We reached the top of the hill where the back pasture sloped down and away toward the woods. He tapped my shoulder and when I looked up he put a finger to his lips and shook his head then knelt down on the gravel path that led to the back vegetable garden. He settled the rifle on his shoulder and whispered to me "We're downwind of them....venison it'll be for Sunday dinner." I looked in the direction of the rifle and saw my first deer.

There were several of them in the garden. They stood like statues for a moment, heads up, sniffing the air, absolutely silent. Then the buck lowered his head to the ground and resumed eating. Moonlight illuminated them
brilliantly, sleek coats dark noses and huge eyes. I remembered Bambi and thought this is so much better! I had never seen such delicate, beautifully crafted animals. I tugged on my uncle's shirt to get his attention and tell him so but he shushed me.

Several things then happened in rapid succession. I realized with horror that my beloved uncle was about to shoot
one of these magnificent animals - an image of the antlers in the kitchen flashed in my head and I suddenly remembered what "venison" was. So I kicked him. As hard as I could. He lost his balance, the shot went wild and cracked through the night like the ax he used to split firewood with. The deer scattered before the echo of the shot even started and I ran for my life with "Son of a bitch!" ringing in my ears.

In all the summers that followed, I never saw the rifle taken off the wall again and my uncle never spoke to me about that night. We had a quiet understanding.

Meltdown

It's just wrong to call something that can last 20 minutes or an a hour a "flash."

I've been going through menopause for what seems like years now - I don't recall mood swings ( though others might ) or irritability ( other than normal ) but I do have night sweats and lately the hot flashes have been in fine form. They strike out of nowhere and with no warning - suddenly the back of my hair is wet, sweat is pouring down my back and into my eyes and my temper flares at the nearest target. Over the weekend, all this was accompanied by a vaugue sense of nausea and some not so vague cold chills. With what I hoped was a deadly serious tone of voice, I looked at each of the animals and warned them, "Trifle with me at your peril."

This is as close as I can come to understanding how a mind and body can be in conflict or how one can betray the other. Chemistry simply takes over and wreaks havoc and there's nothing I can do except wait it out. Being in control is an illusion that simply evaporates in the face of these attacks, attacks that go straight to my sense of self and dignity. Given no choice in the matter, I'm forced to stop whatever I'm doing, put aside my vanity and face the fact that I can't will this away. A hot flash doesn't care that I've just gotten my makeup done or my hair right or that I'm in the middle of taking a picture or an intimate conversation or on my way to a wedding.

I resent menopause. Worse, I can't beat it and I can't find a saving grace in going through it. I feel targeted by my gender and age and find myself bitterly thinking that if men had hot flashes, we'd have a cure. And that's the most rational menopausal thought I have - the rest are too inside out and upside down to even mention.

So I try to cowboy up, stand straight, get a grip and remember that in the grand scheme of things, a little menopausal madness is meaningless and that it will pass in the fullness of time. Unless, like the bad witch in "The Wizard of Oz", I should melt first.

Some Things I Think About God

Here are some things I believe about God.

Despite how it often feels, He never gives us more than we can handle. How He determines what each of us can handle remains a mystery.

He never shuts a door without opening a window. The window might be on a third or fourth floor and we might get snagged trying to get through, but nevertheless.

He answers all prayers even though He often says no.

He doesn't do parlor tricks anymore, preferring to work through the people around us. And reasonable or not, He expects us all to find our own miracles.

Imagine you have a blood disorder that threatens your very life with every misstep. Some of your earliest memories are about hospitals and some of the first words you ever heard were warnings to be careful. You bruise
almost with the touch of feather, the bruise bleeds under your skin and keeps bleeding. People around you panic
and almost suffocate you with concern. Wisdom teeth, stitches, transfusions, a fall .... things most of us come to expect and overcome ....could re-hospitalize you for weeks. People tend to want to handle you gently as if you might blow away in a strong wind.

Where would you put the blame? How would you escape the well meant words of sympathy? How could you not be furious with a physical body that has betrayed you and cares not in the least for what you want or need or dream of? Where do you find the strenght to keep faith with any God who would do this to anyone? Why would you not simply give up?

Every moment of every life is a control issuse. Every human dymanic, every interaction, every relationship we have or don't have, every disagreement, disappointment or conflict is about control. Who has it, who wants it,
who can take it. To be easy in our own minds, we each must find our own way and our own peace within. It's no small thing.

I want to tell my cousin Linda that I understand, but I don't. I haven't lived her life. I can't even imagine some of what she's endured and managed to beat back, can't even comprehend the battle she's fought all her life. All I can tell her, is to stay in the day, to make the best choices that she can and to know that she has friends and family that are on the less traveled road with her.

And that she'd damn well better get this most recent bruise to a doctor.

Cat Protocol

"We all have feelings that need a gentler touch." - Guy Clark

I've been watching the new kitten interacting with the cats.
There's a great deal of hissing and spitting, they circle each other with hackles raised, they growl and snarl. The dogs have been far more accepting and tolerant. It's mostly all show, of course, but there are parallels to human behavior. We spit and snarl though frequently not at the object of our anger, as if directness was a flaw. We defend our territory as if it were sacred but often fail to tread lightly on the territory of others. We hold on to what is our's yet take from others without a second thought. We are jealous of attention shown to others but shy away from attention shown to us.
The cats, however, do not say one thing and mean another. They do not backstab or work against each other in the shadows. They do not hand out praise with one hand while serving malice with the other. They do not disguise contempt with concern or falsify friendship to gain the upper hand. They do not seduce you with
smiles and hugs while engineering your downfall.


Cats will not celebrate your losses or begrudge your victories. They won't talk behind your back or campaign against you. Do something wrong and they'll confront you, they won't go running to the dogs. Cats are fair and if you wrong them and they forgive you, you'll stay forgiven. If they don't like you, you'll know it and they won't care. They won't pull together for the sake of the family if the family is a lie.

There are no two faced cats.

The Red King

In "Alice in Wonderland", Alice whisks the Red King out of the ashes and deposits him on a table. Breathless and shocked, he tells the Red Queen "My dear, I shall never forget the horror of that moment!" The Red Queen replies
calmly, "But you will, my dear, if you don't make a memorandum of it."

And so it goes with most of the ugliness, sorrow and pain that we encounter in life. The agony of childbirth is forgotten in the joy of children. The end of an affair becomes a warm memory. Loss turns to acceptance. Broken bones mend, harsh words fade, tears dry. We go forward because forward is the only way to go.

Recovery, they say in AA, is a journey not a destination. Living is in the traveling.

Remembering the Rules

Every now and again, I have the kind of day that makes me understand why someone would climb a tower with a high powered rifle.

Sometimes the sheer everyday-ness of life is overwhelming. The routine, the rituals, the sameness, all the small things that go just slightly wrong can suddenly become more than I cope with. The cats are hungry and the can opener decides to be tempermental. There's a knock on the front door and Maya explodes - for the 8th or 9th time in the last half hour. The curling iron tips over and I unthinkingly reach for it by the wrong end. The trash bag tears in mid litter box change. I just get to the car and realize that I've forgotten the mail...and it's raining. I remember to bring everything to the wedding I'm shooting except a memory card for my camera. I lose my glasses and need my glasses to find them. At the drive through I realize I have no cash. The front door closes and catches the heel of my shoe just as Maya forces her way past me to freedom. I open an envelope and give myself a wicked paper cut. I make a list for the grocery store and leave it at home. I don't write down the last check I wrote. My morning antidepressant falls out of my hand, into the kitchen sink, and down the drain. I lose just one of a pair
of favorite earrings. Halfway home, I can't remember if I locked the office door.

By themselves or one at a time, a nuisance. String them together and I remember why I take antidepressants in the first place.

The front of one of my favorite t shirts reads "Rule #1: Don't sweat the small stuff."
The back reads "Rule #2: It's all small stuff."

Easier said than done but I'm working on it.

Linda's Wolves

Early this morning I read my cousin Linda's story "The Two Wolves in My Heart". Whether it was the imagery or the fact that it felt like she was writing directly to me, I'm not sure, but it's stayed with me all day and I have a feeling it has made a permanent place in my heart.

In college, we read "The Octopus" by Frank Norris. It was a brutal story of the conflict between a greedy, ruthless, corrupt railroad and a community of hard working, self sacrificing, and painfully honest farmers. To my surprise and dismay, the railroad won. In desperation, facing the loss of everything they had, the farmers became corrupt, were exposed, and finally destroyed. Generations of their work was in ruins, their families were shattered and the railroad emerged richer and more powerful than ever. This was not the way of the world I'd been taught and I hated the novel but it's still with me as is the lesson that sometimes evil wins.

It's tempting to think that evil or negativism or sorrow or rage only wins when we allow it. Tempting, but not true. The world is beyond our control. We can change ourselves, our attitudes, perspectives and actions, but not others. We can decide which wolf to feed.

From Linda:

The Two Wolves in My Heart

An American Indian story tells of a grandfather who was talking to his grandson. The grandfather says, "I feel as if I have two wolves fighting in my heart. One wolf is the vengeful, angry, violent one. The other wolf is the loving, compassionate one." The grandson asks, “Which wolf will win the fight in your heart?” And, the grandfather replies, "The one I feed."
Most of the time, I prefer to see myself as willing to get involved to help others. I don’t perceive myself as vengeful, angry or hostile. Yet when I come across aggressive people, like some of the drivers I encounter when I venture into the city, I realize that I also refuse to be bullied.
The other day, I was driving through a city that, many years ago, was quite familiar to me. A lot of the land marks I formerly used to help me navigate are gone now. There are empty lots where I remember buildings and construction has changed the look of the area enough so that I slowed down in an attempt to read street signs. It seemed like a reasonable thing to do. An impatient driver with a very large red truck pulled up closer to the rear bumper of my car than seemed safe to me.
Sensing by his hand motions and reading his lips in my rear view mirror it was clear he was angry at my driving speed. Yet, on the narrow streets he was also unable to pass and I was unwilling to pull over. Instead of speeding up, as the man in the red truck seemed to want, I slowed down. Much to my companions horror I said, “You think this is slow, now try this!”
Now the truth is, I value slowness more and more as I age. It has wonderful benefits to my health as well as my spirit. The cliché about stopping to smell roses is indeed true for me. Several years ago, the story about the two wolves fighting inside of the grandfather inspired me to maintain a regular meditation practice. For meditation one must slow down to be aware of just one moment at a time. I believe that practice feeds the part of me that is loving and compassionate, making it stronger. The vengeful side of me is still there, although less and less these days. And, when it arises, I do not let it win my heart.

High Tide

Willie Foot lived up the road from us in a falling down, gray clapboard house, surrounded by weeds that grew taller than most of us kids. He was, so the ledgend went, crazier than a bedbug. He walked most everywhere,
a crooked, short figure in dusty, ragged clothes, always having animated conversations with friends only he could see. These were extravagant conversations with wild, energetic gesturing and sometimes he would pause, do a few dance steps to the music only he could hear, and then resume his pace. He walked very quickly with short, jerky strides and would often stop to shift invisible burdens from shoulder to shoulder. He was crippled and walked with a pronounced limp, a defect from being born, my grandmother said, but she never did explain any more than that and we were too young to know the word inbreeding.

He survived, so it was supposed, on disability benefits and pity. Odd jobs turned up routinely all over the island, jobs that really didn't need doing - an errand to be run, a letter for the post office, a sack of feed to be delivered.
Willie was paid in food or cigarettes or household goods. Once, Nana let him draw water from the well, not prepared for him to strip down and bathe in the backyard, as she said "...buck naked in front of God and everybody..." . She happened to glance out the kitchen window and in the next moment had gathered an armful of towels, cast her eyes heavenward and was marching toward the well. She never missed a step.

It was rumored that Willie had once worked on the mainland as a busboy for the Chinese cafe but that the tourists had been put put off my his multicolored hair which stood up on his head like spikes and his crossed eyes. Nana maintained that there was no truth in that whatsoever because no self respecting tourist would ever actually eat in the cafe. Everyone knows, she advised me sternly, that those people serve dogmeat.

One summer, Willie found a red wagon. He would carefully pull it down the hill and load it with rocks, then haul it up the hill where he unloaded the rocks and started down again. The following day he reversed the process. We watched with fascination as this continued day after day, not understanding what he was doing or why but still taken with his dedication to the task. Down the hill, back up the hill. Strictly speaking, the corner really wasn't quite wicked enough to be considered a hairpin turn but it did curve sharply and the guard rails on the ocean side hadn't been put up that summer. When Willie discovered that it was much faster to ride down the hill rather than walk, even the kids recognized the potential for danger. He began at that top, put one knee in the wagon and pushed hard with his other foot. The wagon picked up speed and was going like the wind by the time he hit the curve then sailed out over the embankment, arms outstretched to the sky and shrieking.

High tide and a quick thinking fisherman saved his life although the wagon fared less well. Willie was pulled from the water and brought ashore uninjured but the wagon sank like a stone into the Bay of Fundy and was never recovered.

Willie stopped moving rocks after that. He had learned to fly.

Taking Sides

Upon discovering that my parents are not buried together, my first thought was "He had to die to do it, but he beat her in the end." An appalling thought, full of bitterness and rage toward the dead. I tried to regret thinking it and found I couldn't.

My daddy lies in a small cemetary in a small village, close to where he was born and where I think he was the happiest. In the end or maybe even long before the end, he chose not to be alongside my mother, chose not to validate her any longer. For me, it's a satisfying if sad kind of justice. That he neglected to tell his sons about this decision, tells me he knew how ugly it would've been and wanted to avoid what would've been an inevitable and drawn out confrontation. He broke free.

For better or worse, people who are chained together can only move in the same direction, whether they want to or not. When I would ask him, why do you stay, he would look at me and shake his head wearily and his answer was always the same, she depends on me for everything, she couldn't survive without me. It wasn't true, the only thing she depended on him for was money but he believed what he believed. I'm responsible he would say with a resigned half smile, she's had a difficult life and I've been a great disappointment to her. How is it your fault I would demand with righteous teenage rage. And he would begin an answer, not be able to find the right words, and fall silent. She has everything I would yell at him, a car, a closet full of evening dresses, she doesn't have to work and she only wants to make us all miserable. And he would say, hush, now, you'll understand when you're older.

One of the things I came to understand is that addiction casts a very wide net and it entraps not only the addicted but families and friends as well. Addicts manipulate and lie as a means to an end, they use guilt as a tool and shame as insurance. The only side worth taking is against the addiction.

Would my mother have been different without the alcoholism? Outwardly, probably so. Would it have changed her basic nature? Made her less hurtful, less miserable, less determined to strike out at everyone she hated or was jealous of? Would she have been tolerant instead of racist, loved her children instead of resenting them, supported her husband instead of blaming him? Would she have been generous and kind instead of selfish and venomous? I've never thought so but who can tell.

To Name a Cat

Cat naming is exhausting.

A name must reflect something - color, personality, origin, temperment - and after all, the poor animal must live with it's name for a lifetime so you can't just pull something out of thin air. The new kitten is very small, her weight is still measured in ounces. She's also very fast and can turn a corner on a dime, particularly if there's another feline either in front of or behind her. And at five weeks, she is absolutely fearless. She does her little crab dance across the floor then leaps into the air and with remarkable self confidence confronts her prey eye to eye. Her entire body language is challenging.

I've gone through names for the past week, even resorting to the internet - celebrity cats, celebrities who have cats, literary cats, cartoon cats, fictional cats, film cats, cats of famous authors, cats of myth... I rejected name after name. Friends even made suggestions but nothing seemed exactly right.

It occurred to me that perhaps the reason I was having so much trouble was that this was a kitten who preferred to choose her own name. I've known such independent minded cats before and she was showing all the signs. I drew up a list of the top ten names and waited until she disappeared into the closet then in a firm but open minded tone of voice, I read each name aloud. She emerged on the 7th name.

The first rite of passage was behind us. Welcome to the family, Mugglesworth. Live long and prosper.

Night Fishing

One late summer night, my friend Michael called and asked me to go fishing with him. Michael is a photographer by trade and a fisherman in his heart - fishing is his passion, his purpose, his life's pursuit. He fishes alone and with friends, day and night, in any season and in any weather and in every tournament he can find.

It was a night of magic. The water was still as glass and the boat glided in effortlessly and with hardly a sound. Cypress trees were silhouetted against the dark sky and not a breath of air stirred. The moon was very bright, throwing narrow paths of light across the water and all the stars were out. There was no noise save for an occaisonal fish breaking the surface of the water and then disappearing. I heard crickets and frogs very far away and when we would drift toward shore, I could hear the water ever so gently washing up against the docks. Spanish moss hung from the trees like yards of tattered old lace and as Michael guided the boat in and out and around the cypress stumps, the moss would drape and drag across the boat, soft as whispering.

When we spoke, it was in soft voices and low tones so as not to disturb the night. We drifted and while Michael cast, I laid on my back and looked up at the sky, counting stars and blessings. When the sun began to come up, we called it a night.

Michael and I are just friends these days but the gift of that night is still precious. There was peace on the water, serenity in the air and fish in the lake. Nature and God came together and made magic.

The Ice Below

People often ask what brought me to Louisiana. I say that I married a southern boy but the truth is that it was slush - that unattractive mixture of freezing water, ice and snow that lays in wait for unsuspecting
pedestrians on downtown Boston streets.

We lived outside the city and getting to work involved first Amtrak and then the subway. It was 40 or so cold and crowed minutes on the train to the downtown station. Then a couple of blocks to the subway for several icy stops and finally we would reach Milk Street. I trudged up the subway steps, adjusted my gloves and scarf, made my way through the snowdrifts and prepared to walk the remaining blocks. I stepped onto what should have been the street and the ground cracked then dissolved under my feet and I found myself thigh deep in slush which instantly filled my boots and froze my soul. I cursed God, the weather, the city's snow removal system and New England in general. It was a pivotal if miserable moment, A Gone With the Wind moment as I shrieked curses to the dead gray sky and vowed that I would never be cold again. The following spring, we packed a U Haul and began the journey south.

In retrospect, slush-filled boots on a freezing, windy Boston day are a powerful motivator but it's possible that I overreacted. I was not prepared for the culture shock of moving to the south or the consequences of my husband returning to his roots. People in New England seem to be in a never ending hurry. They are clipped and literal in their speech patterns. They keep their distance. Southerners stroll. They drawl. They embrace it all. I felt as if I'd landed on an alien planet where everyone dressed for the grocery store and never missed a church service. And there was worse to come - unprepared, ill equipped, inexperienced , shy and armed only with reticence and a wedding ring, I had entered the land of the monied.

It is not a land for the faint of heart. This is society page territory where fashion matters and hunting trips are for quail in Scotland. Doors are opened with last names, business is conducted at private clubs, tennis is played indoors and Sunday lunch is served with a very good wine. This is old school, upper class with servants, old money living, a blur of social obligations, charity events, black tie dinners, weekends in Dallas
and membership in the symphony. Small talk has been perfected to a high art and marrying well is required. It was light years away from anything I had ever known.

You can't change where you come from and in the end the differences did us in. We had married fairly young and in many ways had grown up together although ending up in very different places. We went in opposite directions, gradually drifting further and further apart until there was nothing left to keep us together. Two people on a narrow path just get in each other's way unless they travel single file so we moved aside and each let the other pass. It was an amicable and painless parting, much as our being together had become.

Take what you need from people when it is offered. Accept that not every relationship is meant to be and move on. Learn as you go and be stronger for the next time. Keep in mind that things are not always what they seem. We are meant to be teachers as well as students.

Street Corner Kitten

The kitten came in from the downtown traffic and the city heat through a garage door. She was scrawny and undernourished and skittish but easily won over by a common offering of tuna fish. Everyone liked her but no one wanted her enough to take her home. She was nothing special, just another castoff street kitten at the mercy of strangers and fast moving cars.

Taking her home to six grown cats and two dogs was madness. I could see the headlines - "Old Mad Cat Woman Found Dead on Baltimore Avenue!". ...."Police Suspect Jealous Dogs!". I saw vet bills that I'd never live long enough to pay. I saw myself being buried in kitty litter. I thought about naming her Trifle because she'd only be a trifle more trouble.

I really did make every effort to get a grip but I could feel the resolve slipping away when I held her. She weighed next to nothing and immediately began to purr. I thought about the range wars over territory that would be inevitable - the night fighting that would keep me up - about how the dogs would react - about how tiny she was and how hard it was going to be to intergrate her without bloodletting. The balance of power in my home is very delicate. Occasional outbreaks of domestic violence do happen but they usually resolve themselves without the need for arbitration or intervention. That, however, is with existing treaties - an intruder was undoubtably going to call for UN peacekeepers. So I tried out a tentative " No" in my mind but it was weak up against the furry little face that was nuzzling under my chin.

A quiet voice in my head says "You can't save them all".

But I can save the ones who make their way to me.

Safe Harbor

My cousin Linda is a remarkable woman.

She has fought serious illness her entire life. She has been through the dilemma of aging parents and come out a stronger, more dedicated person. She has great patience and great compassion. She pays attention and she learns from everyone she encounters. She writes with flair and a touch of poetry. She has been a librarian in the prison system. She has been with the same partner for thirty years and still loves. She takes in an animal for it's lifetime. She has a strong spirituality, an every day kind of faith that is beyond religion. She believes in random kindnesses, liberal causes, justice. She believes in herself and she makes a difference.

She made a difference to my daddy between his first marriage and his second. She was there when I couldn't be and now she is sharing some of that time she spent with him, with me. Her writing has come to mean a great deal to me. She is, like my friend Tricia, shelter from the storm.

We all have to come ashore sometime.

Housekeeping

I used to keep a diary until I discovered that my mother routinely read it. It was a place much like this, to put down all kinds of thoughts, to vent although that wasn't a word I knew, to explore all the feelings and wonder about the mysteries of living. To keep private thoughts in a private place wasn't easy when you weren't allowed to have them. Ironic, in a home that survived on keeping secrets.

I never talked about my mother's drinking outside the family except to Lee. I didn't understand it, didn't know it wasn't normal. I did know that we never had friends sleep over or come to dinner. There were no birthday parties, no family outings, no picnics, no monopoly games after supper, no bedtime stories. We were five people under the same roof who happened to be blood related and who, most times, didn't even much like each other.

We formed and re-formed alliances. Dad and me. Dad and one or both of my brothers. My brothers alone. My mother almost always stood alone although infrequently she and Dad allied against a suspected bad influence or a poor report card.

So now I'm back to keeping a diary. Only this time, I'm calling it housekeeping.

Off Limits

One winter there were several stories in the newspapers about the slaughter of baby seals and I wrote an angry letter to the editor. That Christmas, my friend Pat gave me a framed charcoal drawing of a baby seal and in front of a roomful of people, I cried. At the time, I had mixed feelings - half of me wanted to choke her for hitting a nerve, the other wanted to hug her for the very same reason.

I cried for Magic and Josh and all the ones that came before and after and there is one note that Aj plays in "1510 Fairfield Blues" that brings tears every time I hear it. I cry each time Cary Grant opens that bedroom door and sees the painting in "An Affair to Remember" and ten minutes into "The Bridges of Madison County" I was crying too hard to hear the dialogue. And as I stood at Ran's grave, unable to pick up and lay down a rose, the tears came. But for the most part, tears are best left to those who cry easily. Emotions were off limits in my family and tears were a manipulation technique used when sulking and threats hadn't worked.

So I was pretty much caught off guard as I was reading my cousin Linda's email this morning. We've been corresponding a lot lately about our family and I think we are each taken aback by how different our memories of the same people are and by how our experiences of those people can be so far apart. She wrote about my daddy, "I know he loved you more than anyone else in the world" and "that when he stopped calling you, he seemed to call me more and more often." And I began to cry.

Until my mother was hospitalized, I had felt the love of one parent even if I'd rarely heard the words or seen much physical evidence. Afterwards, as I watched the wagons being circled around her and knowing that I was on the other side, I felt he had made a choice between us. I suspected it hadn't been entirely voluntary - the woman was dying, after all, that much at least was real and what an edge that gave her - but instinctively I knew that dying or not, she wouldn't miss one last opportunity to try and drive a wedge between father and daughter.

This morning, through long overdue tears, I learned a little more about Dad. He did make a choice between us although I doubt he felt like he had any other option. I made a choice as well, between him and myself.
I'll never know if he ever understood or forgave me but at least I know he loved me in spite of it. And maybe that's the first step in my forgiving him.

We are, as Linda reminds me, a stubborn family with a long tradition of addiction, enabling, suffering in silence and making drink the devil's work. Oh, yes - we had our anti-addictionites as well, cards, dancing, alcohol, all products of the devil's workshop - my Uncle Ernie took me fishing once and unintentionally taught me a cussword which I made a point of sharing with Ruby. It was the first time she ever told me to "go get her a switch." But we survive, my cousin and I, miles and much lost time between us but still each on her feet and moving in the right direction.

A day without either laughter or tears is wasted.

No Regrets

My house is wall to wall pictures - every shelf or bookcase or desk or nightstand is littered with them. It's a gallery of
memories and dreams, of moments when everything was right, of time standing still. In every room I see the people I love, the animals that are waiting for me, the magic places I've been to. I live surrounded by the beginings and endings of the past and the hopes of the future.

If you look closely, the pictures tell stories ... about music and those who play it, about the colors of emotions, about lonliness and the joy and bitter sweetness of being in love. They're true stories, about the give and take in being with someone who stirs your soul. They're about waiting and longing, about hot summer nights and the blues drifting from a stage. They're echos that don't stop, smiles that linger, touches you still feel the morning after. Mostly, they're about not having regrets.

Some pictures are no more than snapshots, brief moments born of luck and timing. Others are tricks of light and shadow, they endure but have little substance. Some however, are genuine photographs, taken with patience, practice and love. They capture not only the moment but the feeling behind it and the stories they tell are private and precious.

Steve Goodman wrote "It's a mighty short trip from the cradle to the crypt, so you better get it while you can." Be grateful for the story or the picture or the song. Share it while you can, be a part of it, and don't waste time on regrets.

A Lesson in Trust

"This, " my dentist says reluctantly, " may be a little uncomfortable." Of course, what he means and won't say, is that it's going to hurt like hell. My breathing speeds up, I can hear my heart beating and my fingernails grip the arms of the chair like a vise. There's a scream building in my throat and every prayer I know is running through my head. This is what he calls "dental anxiety" and what I call unrelenting, overwhelming, suffocating terror. The sound of the drill
brings on a full scale panic attack and my spinal chord freezes. I can't move, I can't speak, I can't breathe and I can't run. My faith in God evaporates and I'm absolutely convinced I'm going to die.

My dentist is not only an old friend, he's a good, kind, gentle man and he hates putting me though this. He has led me, small step by small step and with impossible patience, to a place where with enough anesthesia and enough nitrous, there is relative trust and safety. If only my reflexes had made the trip with me.

Trust is difficult for children of addiction. An inner voice is always on the alert. It listens for the fraud in people, it pays strict attention to each tone of voice, it evaluates for hidden agendas. It takes notice of the smallest lie. If you overcome it and are then betrayed, it shouts "I told you so!". It's a voice of protection and self preservation and even if you may longer need it, it will not be silenced.

To the people I trust, I am grateful. They didn't give up when I resisted.
To those I don't, watch your backs. Trust me.

Family Ties

I never knew my grandfather, Samuel. He died before I was born and I can't even remember seeing pictures or hearing him talked about. Way later in a rare conversation about his family, Dad said that his horse and wagon had gone off the road and there was considerable talk about it not having been an accident.

His wife, Ruby, was a little bit of a thing. She wore spectacles and kept her hair in a bun and always seemed to be in an apron. I remember thinking that she reminded me of a smaller version of Mrs. Santa Claus. She and Samuel had ten children and a small farm in the Annapolis Valley of Nova Scotia. They raised pigs, kept cows and chickens, grew vegetables and had a maple sugar camp. There were always cats around and they always seemed to be having kittens and there was always one old work horse in the stall. Work on a farm never ends so it was an early rising family. I was allowed to help feed the chickens and my uncle taught me how to brush and groom the old horse. Milk came directly from the cows to the separator where it was bottled still warm and all the leftover cream rose to the top. Ruby seemed to cook and bake every day - the massive cast iron stove in the kitchen was always
lit and coffee and biscuits always ready. Freshly made cookies were kept in the pantry and the entire house would smell of fresh bread. She kept an old rocking chair on the front porch and it was there that she taught me to shell
peas, husk corn, and peel apples, all the while telling stories from the Bible.

I think she was happiest when as many of the family as possible were there and there was barely room enough at the dining room table. She made chicken and deep fried dumplings that we ate with maple syrup and the house rang with music from the old pump organ and the noise of everyone trying to be heard over everyone else. Children who got underfoot were swept outside with dire but idle threats of a broom to their backsides. This was a family who made do, a family of hand-me-downs and hard work, overalls and work boots. They'd been taught to share and share alike, value themselves and each other, and say grace before meals. It was into this family that my mother - a spoiled, selfish, only child from a background of privilege, accustomed to having her own way and whose hands would never know a callus - chose to marry.

The divisions worsened over the years as her drinking progressed. Inevitably, his background became a target and his family the enemy. We spent less and less time at the farm and eventually only Dad went back for a week or two every fall. The house still stands, the woodpile and the pasture gate are still there, and the empty hay wagon still sits silhouetted against the sky. In the end, the battle between homegrown and storebought was a draw and in time was all but forgotten. My cousin Hughena inherited Ruby's love of cooking ... her brother is writing a book about the family ...the family's gentle spirituality was passed to my cousin Linda ...and my daddy's love of music is alive and well in me. The passage of time has allowed us to reconnect and I think Ruby would be pleased.

A Prayer for Joshua

Joshua's time came when he was eighteen. I was devestated and for the first time ever, discovered that I couldn't do it alone. He'd had a stroke at sixteen and had slowed down considerably by the time the glaucoma in his eye ruptured. I sat in the waiting room waiting for the surgery to be over and praying for all the wrong things. Karen carried him out, bandaged, woozy from the anesthesia and one eyed, but very much alive. He came home the following day.

He recovered quickly, adapting easily to having only one eye but he was old and tired and spent the majority of his time lying in sunspots and sleeping. He had to be lifted on and off the couch where he would circle once or twice and then ease himself down into my lap. I stroked him, able to feel his ribs, and listened to his breathing. I made him boiled chicken and fed him by hand, coaxed medicine into him with cheese or peanut butter, made sure the heating pad was always plugged in for him. I would leave in the morning and at lunch would find him exactly as I had left him. He'd raise his head, wait patiently to be taken outside where he would sniff the air and walk ever so slowly around the yard and then I would carry him back inside. I refused to think about the fact that he was dying, preferring to concentrate on the positives - he was still eating and drinking and he wasn't in pain. But late at night as he laid beside me, his sleep was troubled and his breathing was labored. I slept with one arm around him, hugging him to me and praying that God would take him in his sleep.

Not long after, the glaucoma in his remaining eye ruptured. I wasn't sure he was strong enough to survive a second surgery and I prayed harder but in the end, it was left to me and Doc. I called my friend, Henry and asked the unthinkable and he said yes. Josh was already at the vet's and as they carried him into the exam room I felt something inside myself give way. It was denial and heartbreak and a sorrow so intense, so painful that I almost changed my mind. They put him in my arms and I buried my face in his fur while the tears came and held him while Doc gave him the injection. I watched him close his eyes, felt his breathing slow and then stop. And it was over.

We wrapped him in his blanket, Doc hugged me, and we left for the country. Henry drove silently, knowing that there were no words which would comfort me, knowing that the tears were necessary, understanding the depth of the loss completely. Now and again he would reach over and gently touch my shoulder, saying more in a touch than he ever could have with words.

Like Magic, like all my animals, Joshua was a gift from God, given to me for a too short a time. I prayed for God to make him well and was told no. I prayed to God for strength and it came. Henry, who loves animals the way I do, was beside me and he shared the pain of Josh's death. All prayers are answered.

Misadventure & Magic

Dead Horse Hill had gotten it's name from the number of horses that had died pulling carts and carriages up it's icy incline during 19th century New England winters. It was a narrow, steep, treacherous road and we lived at the very top. Driving home one freezing and pitch black January night, I was intent on maintaining traction and a steady speed and I very nearly missed seeing the small black cat who passed me going in the opposite direction. I had a glimpse of yellow eyes reflected in my headlights and the impression of a small animal walking downhill in the snow.
And rational or not, I knew instantly and without the slightest doubt that it was Magic.

I pulled into the very next driveway, threw the car into park and took off running and calling his name, unspeakable images of him lying dead flying through my head. But he came to me immediately, wet, shivering and meowing four letter words loudly. I wrapped him inside my coat, so angry with him that I wanted to spit and so relieved that I was in tears. I could hear every beat of my heart and feel every beat of his and a hundred if's went though my mind ...if I'd left work five minutes earlier or later, if he'd tried to cross the street, if the hill hadn't been iced over and I'd been going faster, if I hadn't seen him, if I hadn't known it was him, if he'd frozen to death ....

We got home and I dried him off, brushed and fed him, checked for damage and found none. He curled up in my lap and went to sleep, the adventure over and forgotten. It was the first of many near disasters all of which he seemed to take in stride while I balanced on the verge of a breakdown. At work with me once, he scaled a wall, got past the ceiling tiles and worked his way into the adjoining building where he dropped casually onto a work table. Thinking him a stray, they put him out and it was only after hours of frantic searching that I finally found him , perched on a stack of empty milk crates on the sidewalk. Of all my cats, he was the most trouble, the neediest, the bravest
and when his health finally failed, he was the hardest to give up on.

I drove to Texas that day, to a crematory. While I was waiting, I discovered a pet cemetary - fresh flowers on every grave and loving inscriptions on every headstone. I sat among them and reflected, remembered, and grieved for this small black cat who had spent his life with me. The October sunshine turned to shadows and the shadows to sunset and I gathered my things, picked up the small urn, and made the long drive home.

"I have sent you on a journey to a place free from pain, not because I didn't love you but because I loved you too much to force you to stay."

Open Arms

The masive collie dog came bounding across the street, full speed ahead and directly at me. On his heels was a heavyset woman in a long, loose flowing dress, her black hair flying around her face, a leash in one hand. She was yelling at the dog and laughing at the same time. The dog reached me first but she was close behind, laughing even as she collared him and pulled him off me. With the dog securely leashed, she straightened up, gave me a huge smile and said in a good natured and musical voice, "Hi!" And that was how I came to meet the lady who was to bring love, sanity and balance into my life.

Her name was Lee. She lived across the street from my grandmother with her husband, daughter, mother, and a collie dog named Laddie. The house was like nothing I'd ever known - it was, by my grandmother's sterile standards,
a mess. Thick rugs, chairs and sofas you could crawl into, newspapers, books and magazines were here and there.
There were actually traces of dust on the little tables. The front hall was littered with mail, a record player, things to be put away. The telephone had an impossibly long cord and traveled from room to room, chair to chair, to wherever it was needed. At Christmas, a tree so tall it scraped the ceiling sat right in front of the windows and was almost overcome by decorations. We watched the moonlanding on a tv on a rolling cart in the living room. We drank champagne and ate red velvet cake in the dining room. Supper was thrown together in the kitchen and eaten there right next to the washing machine and dryer. The house didn't just say welcome, it shouted it. And Lee didn't just say come in, she opened her arms and enfolded you, flaws and all.

She would sit with her legs tucked underneath her, caftan spread out over her ample lap, throw her head back and laugh - real laughter, the kind that was contagious and comforting. There was always a throw close by, in case the house was chilly. Music always seemed to come from somewhere and she never minded if you put your feet on the furniture. Laddie was never too far away and Ray's pipe tobacco left a sweet scent whenever he came and went.
It was a house of warmth, of family, of shelter and acceptance.

I spent as much time there as I could. I was protected, counseled, praised. I was listened to, guided by the most gentle of touches, chided with loving smiles and hugs. She taught me to stand straight and stand my ground, to risk but only after I'd thought it through, to be optimistic, cautious, open, prepared. Her feelings were public property. She shared her advice firmly but with kindness. She was articulate, she spoke softly and she spoke out at length.
If you asked her opinion, you got all of it.

She was there when I was in trouble. She encouraged me to go to college, to explore, to see challenges instead of obstacles. She talked patiently with me about addiction, education, sex. She answered questions about boys,
religion, books, dancing. She taught me about boundries and self respect and accountability. She drilled self esteem into me like a dedicated dentist going after a deep cavity. She countered each negative my mother threw at me with a more powerful positive. And she never tired or gave up. No battle was too small or too hard, no feeling too trivial.

My mother and grandmother disliked her and disapproved of her influence. My mother actively sought to end my seeing her and campaigned hard to break up my friendship with her daughter, all to no avail. We are friends to this day and even though Lee is gone, I still hear and see her in her daughter. Her legacy is alive and well in her child who now has a child of her own.

This amazing woman opened her home and her heart to me and to many, many others. She took me in and helped me find my way, one step at a time. She allowed me mistakes even when she knew I'd be hurt, she gave me room to grow, space to be myself, and a safe place to come to when I was lost. She had the heart and hands of a healer.

For Rory.