When Death Wins

Durham, New Hampshire is a very small New England town, close to Portsmouth and the home of the University of New Hampshire. When we lived in that part of the country, I worked at the University bookstore and my husband worked just down the road at a veterinary clinic. The clinic was owned by a woman veterinarian who happened to be married to a professor of history at the University so it was more or less expected that we would all connect at some time.

Being wary that business and friendship can sometimes be a poor mix, we became friendly but in a distanced sort of way. I liked her compassion and love for animals and I enjoyed his humor. They seemed to complement each other nicely and we spent several evenings together over the course of several years. He traveled a good bit, back and forth to publishers and conferences, mostly in New York, but sometimes much further away. He looked every bit the absent minded professor - tall, thin, with silver hair and a salt and pepper beard. He was rarely seen without a stack of books under one arm and his pipe between his teeth. He never came into the bookstore that he didn't stop and speak to me. His students thought the world of him and when he was selected to chair his department no one was surprised. He was a dedicated teacher, an able administrator, a good man with a touch of old world elegance and easy charm. And on the morning of September 11th, 2001, he was on an early morning flight to New York City.

I found out when our local paper began publishing names and pictures of the passengers. Discovering that I actually knew someone who'd been on one of the planes was horrific and devestating, making the unimaginable loss of life personal for me. It didn't bear thinking about then and even now I can't reconcile it with reality, at least not in any comprehensible way. The sheer magnitude of it obscures the individual lives lost. The images are indelible in my mind and I can't even begin to understand what must have been going through the minds of the passengers in their last moments. And that's what I keep coming back to. He was a small town history professor on a routine flight and along with so many thousands of others, he died without warning and without cause. Death may have won that evil morning but I doubt it was proud.

Interstate Transport

Oh, no, not again, I thought as I watched him get out of the truck with a pet carrier in hand and a grin on his face. He walked up the path and met me at the door and said You'll never guess!! What I could guess was that it would have four legs and be in need of care, feeding and attention in an already overcrowded and overburdened household. My vet tech husband opened the carrier and not one but three baby raccoons spilled out, tumbling over each other and chirping. A split second later, all hell broke loose as the dogs caught the scent and the cats scattered in alarm. He shouted at me, They're orphans! I sighed. They'll be no trouble, this with all the sincerity he could muster, they don't take much raising. I sighed again.

We lived in a log cabin on top of a mountain in Maine and had just finished adding a screened porch where we would sit and watch the sunset and enjoy the peace and stillness of the country. Having no close neighbors, the dogs could run free and the cats spent their days lazing in the sun and bird watching from the safety of the porch. It was a tranquil place, filled with the serenity that comes from nature and I treasured those quiet evenings. It all came crashing down with the arrival of the raccoons.

They had to be bottle fed and then cleaned several times a day. They learned to climb in a matter of hours and the screening gave in almost immediately. We replaced it with chicken wire, not being willing to invest more than that on what was sure to be a casualty again. They had to be taught to swim and to wash their food - each day we would make several treks to the pond - and they would follow us with enthusiastic chirping and relentless curiosity about everything. I drew the line at letting them in the house and it was a line they crossed with reckless abandon. The dogs took to them immediately and although the cats were initially apprehensive, they came round soon enough.
They were amazingly active little creatures and in no time had learned how to open cabinets and get into anything that was paper or plastic. Metal took a beating but maintained its integrity. Their climbing was more agile and adept every day and the night of the thunderstorm they were up a tree when it started to rain and no amount of coaxing brought them down. We found them the next morning, curled up and asleep on the back deck.

Weeks turned into months and as they grew and matured, I knew we would have to face the inevitable task of returning them to the wild. One sunny Saturday morning, it was time. We loaded them into a carrier, packed a basket of fruits and nuts, and headed for the Massachusetts state line. We'd found a nature preserve where there were vegetable gardens and deep woods and a small lake. I felt like it was the best we could do to protect them and give them their freedom at the same time. We took them far into the woods and waited until they were distracted to make our escape. Then we walked quietly out, praying that they would not follow. I knew that if they did, I'd never find the strength to leave them again. I listened for little footsteps or their familiar chirping but I never looked back and eventually I couldn't hear them anymore. We had given them back to nature and and although I knew God would keep His eye on them, a little bit of my heart was broken.

Nip and Tuck

The face I see in the mirror could use work, I admit. There are lines etched in, circles under my eyes, crowsfeet. All "correctible" if I should choose to indulge in cosmetic surgery. I'm not as young as I used to be and for that I'm grateful every day...I've discovered that there's no age I'm willing to trade for even if it included wrinkle free skin.

I like faces with character, faces that you can read as if they were stories, faces that reflect a life lived whether it be lived well or hard. I look at scars, smile lines, frown lines, wrinkles - and I see history, I see experiences and trials, successes and failures, secrets, pride, and pain, all blended together to make an individual unique. The best faces wear their memories and feelings and have honest eyes and easy smiles. They are genuine and they don't mind if the wear and tear shows. I believe we are meant to age naturally and honestly, to highlight and not erase the signs of our years. We each have a story behind our eyes but it's read on our faces.

The smooth, no lines look of plastic surgery create a blank slate - tight with no give. Artificial and superficial youth in exhange for the realism of substance and the integrity of character. Such faces arouse no curiosity, they offer nothing to explore.

Let your face be a roadmap of your travels, destination unknown and in no hurry to get there.

'Possum Rights

The 'possum in the back yard is becoming a problem.

He's making the dogs on all three sides frantic. He's tearing up trash. And tonight my next door neighbor arrived with an axe in his hand and bloodlust in his eyes, but the 'possum had vanished. I agree that this latest backyard invader is a nuisance, but I don't think he's earned a death sentence by a madman with an axe.

A 'possum is not a pretty animal. Not cuddly, not cute, not big eyed or endearing. But still a creature of God and here for a reason. I hope he will move on rather than face the wrath of an axe.

And when the axe came into the forest, the trees whispered, "...he's one of us ...".

Locked out

The very instant the front door closed behind me I knew I'd grabbed the wrong set of keys and was locked out. I cursed - loudly, creatively, and at length - then called my friend Henry who keeps a spare key for me for those times whem he tends my animals. In less than 15 minutes he arrived - my white knight, complete with British accent, just picked up and left work to rescue me.

It's not the first time. A few years ago I came down with a nasty flu and got myself into what the doctor called third stage dehyration. Henry came and took me to the doctor's office, held my hand during the exam, then stayed with me all through the admitting process. While I was hospitalized, he took care of my animals and arranged coverage for me at work.

Before that, I'd gone to the emergency room with an especially vicious case of bronchitus. They gave me Xanax to help me sleep and the next morning I was counting money and couldn't remember what came after three. When I called Henry to tell him I was having a little trouble remembering how to count, he firmly told me to stay exactly where I was, that he was on his way. I protested and explained that I didn't need any help, just needed him to tell me what came after three and he told me a tad more firmly, do nothing, I'll be right there. He got the store open, took me home and put me to bed.

When Josh had his stroke and later when he died, Henry was there. At a funeral, Henry was beside me. When I've been too sick to sit up, Henry was there. At the end of an affair, Henry was there. He is a source of comfort, love,
encouragement, humor and understanding. I hope it works both ways.

Bluegrass

The dog was young, some mix of husky and malamute with one blue eye and one brown. The man driving the pick up truck pulled to a stop in front of the service station window. He saw me smiling at the dog, gave her a quick
hug and smiled back at me before getting out. Beautiful dog, I said as the door closed behind him. Thank you, he replied, still smiling, pound puppy. We began talking the way strangers who both love dogs do - small talk about dogs, who has how many and why. I asked her name and he said Bluegrass.... belongs to my daughter.

He got in line to pay for his gas and by the time he was done I was standing outside waiting for one of the guys to drive me back to work. He hesitated a second then turned and asked if he could me a ride somewhere. She'll go in the back he added, she's used to riding with people.

His name was James and he and I and Bluegrass drove the few blocks to my office where he left me off. It was only then that I realized that based on his being a dog lover, I had just accepted a ride from a complete stranger who just as well could've been a serial killer who lured women into his car with a pretty dog. VIsions of being the next movie on Lifetime danced in my head and I heard a little voice in my head saying dumb, dumb, dumb. But it was done, and he hadn't been a serial killer, just a nice guy with a dog who offered a lift to someone he didn't know. For all he knew, I could've been a serial killer.

There's two sides to every give and take.

Aquistitions & Mergers

I've been watching the squirrels preparing for winter. They spend their days gathering and stashing, discovering this or that nut and taking it home or burying it. It's a survival strategy, long term squirrel thinking. They collect what they need and at winter's end it will be used up and gone. Squirrels seem to care about only those possessions with essential value.

Humans collect as if a lifetime could be measured or appraised by aquisitions. At a recent estate sale I found myself wondering exactly how many sets of china can one family use, exactly how many jewels can one woman wear, how many Tiffany bowls does it take to be satisfied. And why. Why do we seem to need so many things? We come into the world with nothing, we take nothing when we leave, but in between we seem to need to be surrounded by material things as if they will weld us to life. As if the higher the price, the stronger the weld.

I have a weakness for table linens. I have several drawers full of placemats and napkins, most with the price tags still on. I haven't used any of them in years and am mystified by own inability to give them away. Do I unconsciously hope for a third marriage and keep them just in case I should inherit stepchildren? Other high risk items include but are not limited to earrings, handbags and greeting cards, nothing outrageously expensive in and of itself but things do tend to add up over a month's billing cycle of my Visa card.

We are all drawn to things in one way or another - for status or security or comfort or to leave to our children. Whatever the reason, they're still just things. As my friend Jim used to say, I don't want to be rich, I just want the trappings. Don't we all.

Don't Weary

Of all the expressions I heard growing up, one of my favorites has always been my daddy saying, Don't weary. It was an all occasion phrase and always came with a smile.

Children get a lot of the same advice. Always wear clean underwear in case you're in a wreck. Clean your plate, there are children starving in Europe. Don't pet strange dogs. Tell the truth and I won't be mad. Don't take candy from strangers. Don't be late. Call when you get there. Children should be seen and not heard. Don't forget to brush your teeth. Wait two hours after you eat before going in the water. Don't play with your food. Wash behind your ears. You'll spoil your supper.

But it's my daddy's Don't weary that has stayed with me the longest, maybe because it's been the hardest to follow.
Maybe the best advice always is. I do weary - of working and struggling and not getting things right. A couple of times a year I weary of the animals I love more than life and long to wake up just one morning without them. I weary of being a grownup with responsibilities and chores and bills. I weary of all the complications of life, of the day to day stress and never having enough time. I weary of insomnia and coloring my hair and washing dishes. I weary of worrying.

Somedays it's just a weary old world. But I'm still glad to be here.

With Love

Ten years ago this month, my friend Ran died. It doesn't seem possible that so much time has passed without him. It was a senseless and tragic death, one that tested my faith in a gentle and loving god. I couldn't find any good or any comfort in the fact that his suffering had ended, couldn't see why it was inflicted in the first place. He was a good and uncommonly decent man, generous, dedicated to his family, his work, his community and his friends. He was funny, impatient, bright, politically active and involved. He cared deeply and he gave to the people and things that he cared about. He was much respected and much loved. And he is very much missed.

It's impossible to comprehend why such a man should be taken at just 47. He had so many things left to do, so much that he could have accomplished, so many dreams to make come true. I tried to visit every day in the hospital and once he came home as well. He didn't always know I was there.

His life wasn't finished and we were all cheated by his death. But he lived well, he lived proud, with grace and honor and a style his very own. All of us who knew and loved him count ourselves lucky to have been his friends. Cousin Linda sent me a quote that is perfect for what I feel about Ran, from an unknown author: Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.

A War Story

The glass ashtray flew by my head and I ducked. My brother screamed a string of curses at me, some I didn't even know, and reached for the next mssile - the imitation Swiss cuckoo clock came of the wall easily and went sailing past me. It was followed by small piece of pottery, an unwashed coffee cup, another ashtray and finally a case of knitting needles. Then, barefoot, wearing just his pajama bottoms and still cursing, he jerked the front door open and fled across the snow covered yard. It was Janauary and he had turned nine the spring before. My other brother, standing out of range on the stairs, shrugged as if to say, What the hell, you know he's crazy.

It wasn't the first time and it certainly wasn't to be the last. He was a dangerously troubled child - sullen, stubborn,
slow to learn, constantly in and out of fights. He was a bully, tormenting the neighborhood children and their pets without mercy. He never made eye contact unless forced, he took punishment with rigid defiance, he was hostile and prone to violent rages when he didn't get his way. He was never to be left alone with the dogs. I tried to keep as much distance between us as possible, having learned early that neither mother or dad could handle him. In his teens, he devloped a taste for setting small fires, petty theft, reckless driving and vandalism. To everyone's relief, he finally joined the army and was sent to Vietnam but when he came home it was with horror stories of war and killing
and he told them with huge pride. He married quickly and divorced almost overnight and eventually moved to somewhere in Florida. I haven't seen or heard from him since.

Everybody had a theory. He had fallen and cracked his skull as a small child. He was learning disabled. He was mentally ill. His features hinted at being mongoloid so it was fetal alcohol syndrome. My grandmother saw it in simpler terms - he's mean, mean as a snake and no damn good. Nana had seen The Bad Seed once too often and the resemblance she saw was too close for her own comfort. He spooked her.

The ashtrays, coffe cup and pottery were all in pieces but somehow the Swiss clock had survived. I rehung it on the walll and set the small ceramic figures back in motion. The brightly painted little boy and the little girl with the yellow braids began to swing back and forth, keeping time with each tick tock, as if nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary had happened. They had seen it all before.

Sometimes You Just Know

Buy land, Mark Twain said, it's the only thing they're not making more of.

For years, I owned a piece of property west of town. The plan had been to build a small cabin on it and live out our years away from the city. I would read and stitch, he would fish and work on the land. After the divorce, the land sat there, listed with one or another agents as the mood struck me and costing me tax dollars every year. I would sometimes get questions about it - my favorite was what kind of trees are there, to which I replied, the kind with leaves - but mostly I never gave it much thought. Then one day, the couple who had sold it to us called
and asked if I'd be interested in selling it back to them. They didn't want to build on it or develop it, they wanted to keep it as it was, a small island between their land and the highway. I immediately said yes. They are good people who love nature and respect wildlife and I knew they would be the perfect caretakers. It felt right.

Now and again, I get to make decisions based on a feeling I recognize as "right". I can't explain it, can't describe it, but I know it. Something falls into place and even if there's risk attached, I go with it because it feels right.
It may be at odds with logic or reason - feelings so often are - and it may not even stay "right" - but it's the best starting place that I've found.

Like a crossword puzzle clue, sometimes you just know the answer's right.

Mind and Body

Sometimes I forget to take care of myself in terms of the mind-body connection and the results tend to be unpleasant.
For several weekends in a row, I have been mid house cleaning when taken over by the threat of nausea and a low grade headache. Now, to be clear, I would rather be in hell with a broken back than vomit so when every swallow wants to reverse itself, I go to the couch and try to nap while I wait for it to pass. I don't have the fortitude to induce it even when I know I would feel better afterward.

As a result, nothing gets done and my mind and body are soon in a race for which one can feel the worst. Hours go by, an entire night goes by with all my focus on the weight in my chest that is suppressing the nausea. I don't eat or drink, I don't sleep, and I haven't the will to shower and dress. I know I'm backsliding but can't bring myself to care. By Sunday night, it's full blown depression, physically and emotionally.

As I went through this yet again this past weekend, and pulled out of it by Monday afternoon, I began considering causes. And decided that it's mostly that I haven't been taking care of myself. Too much nicotine and chocolate, not enough greens, exercise or sleep. What the body feels, the mind will wrap its arms around. So I bought myself a salad, drank two bottles of water, got on the treadmill and went to bed early.

Health is a precious gift and we should maintain it as best we can. Cause and effect, mood and behavior, feelings and actions - they all work both ways for the good or the harm. All the parts need to be healthy to be whole.

Mrs. Arnold's Fourth Grade

How, I said to my daddy, did Uncle Vern get his wooden leg? He smiled, then told me the one and only war story I ever heard from him, about he and Uncle Vern and a landmine in France. You saved his life? I said in awe, and he nodded solemnly and then showed me his hands, almost all his fingers crooked and bent towards his palms. From the explosion, he said, but we don't ever talk about it, ok? And I promised.

It was a promise I kept for years, until in grade school we had a Parent's Day. My daddy came and was standing in the back of the room with the other parents, patiently listening to the children. He was wearing a black pinstriped suit - he had a wake to attend to that afternoon - and was carrying his hat in one hand and had folded his overcoat over his other arm. He was young and handsome and I remembered the pictures I had seen of him and his brothers in uniform and I suddenly decided that a war hero was far more exciting than a man who planned funerals. So I told how my Uncle Vern had stepped on a landmine and how my daddy had saved his life but not his leg. Even my beloved fourth grade teacher looked suitably impressed and everybody clapped. Then I noticed my daddy - slumped against the blackboard, jaw hanging open in disbelief. His coat and hat had dropped to the floor and he was holding
himself upright by hanging onto the door. I didn't know the expression "eyes glazed over with shock" but I got the general idea. He struggled to speak for a second or two, then gave up as Mrs. Arnold, looking her usual capable and concerned self, approached him. She spoke softly to him, carefully putting her body between him and the class then
retrieved his hat and coat and they walked out together. Before the door closed behind her, I thought I heard him say But I never ....and then footsteps and very faint laughter.

How Uncle Vern came to have a wooden leg is still a mystery to me but I soon found out that my daddy's hands were from a genetic muscular contraction that I have as well, although not nearly as severe. Not nearly as exciting as a war story but reality often isn't. Ask any teller of tall tales.

There's a Hole in My Sidewalk

I first heard this many years ago in an aftercare session and it's always stayed with me - I think it's a lesson about everything.

Chapter One
I walk down a street and there's a big hole. I don't see it and I fall into it. It's dark and hopeless and it takes me a long time to find my way out. It's not my fault.
Chapter Two
I walk down the same street. There's a big hole and I can see it but I still fall in. It's dark and hopeless and it takes me a long time to get out. It's still not my fault.
Chapter Three
I walk down a street. There's a big hole. I can see it but I still fall in. But I keep my eyes open and get out immediately. It is my fault.
Chapter Four
I walk down a street. There's a big hole. I walk around it.
Chapter Five
I walk down a different street.

From "There's a Hole in My Sidewalk" by Portia Nelson.

Underneath the Noise

Four little feet race across the hardwood floors, either in pursuit of or flight from another cat, it's hard to tell. Frequently, this is followed by a crash, a growl, or a high pitched scream. A cornered cat is not a pretty sight. One of the dogs sometimes joins in, escalating the threat level dangerously high and this is where I usually have to intervene. The little one is completely fearless and has no more sense than a melon. Her theory seems to be, if it moves, chase it, and if it doesn't, attack it. And if it's asleep and outweighs you by twenty pounds, pounce on it and run. She is in what I've come to think of as her terrorist stage, a trying time for all involved.

In human terms, she's a pot stirrer, an instigator, a catalyst. Only all she accomplishes is noise - it's loud, it's frightening, it's nerve wracking, but it's only noise and as a general rule it's pretty harmless.
For me, it's a daily reminder that the sounds of living can be so deafening that I give them power they don't inherently have. Noise is distraction. The static of people trying to get along, the emotional traffic jams we cause for ourselves, the stress of time rushing by with nothing in it's way, the roadblocks we erect between us and others and within our own minds - nothing but noise. It can break our stride or cloud our judgement. For me, it strengthens the dark side of my nature - too much noise and I find I can't think straight. I'm more susceptible to tension, more likely to lose my temper, less tolerant and more vulnerable to a black mood. I get sidetracked by the noise of stupidity, arguments, jealousy and depression. The chaos of raised voices all trying to be heard at once gives me a headache. I don't fall from grace, I jump.

Better to try and sort out the good sounds - the peaceful moments, a deserted downtown street on Sunday afternoon, the stillness of a lake at night, a harmonica solo at the end of a blues song, a country lane at sunrise, a good night kiss, a compliment from someone who matters to you, doing the right thing when it's hard.

The good stuff is underneath the noise and we all outgrow our terrorist years. When the little one tires out, she curls up and purrs herself to sleep. It's a sweet sound.

.

The Halloween House

The family that lived next door to us consisted of an elderly mother and her three daughters. The house itself was enormous and almost macabre looking with turrets, black iron fencing and gingerbread everywhere, three stories high, dark and forbidding.

Ruth was the oldest daughter. Like her sisters, she had never been married and had worked all her adult life. She was slightly stocky, with close cropped grey hair and no discernible figure. June was next, a small, slight woman who had also worked all her life. She wore an out of style pageboy and long skirts. Betty was the black sheep - chunky, bleached blonde, hard drinking, chain smoking and able to curse up a landslide. She'd been born crippled and rarely held a job for more than a month or so at a time. She and my mother became fast friends, spending spring afternoons in the backyard downing sixpacks, reading cheap paperbacks and trashing the neighbors. Betty wasn't allowed in the house if Dad was home. In the winter, she didn't come out at all but would sit in front of her window smoking and pitching empty beer cans onto the lawn. She would talk on the phone for hours with my mother, her raspy, overly loud laughter carried on the air like bad music.

Three spinster ladies and their mother living out their lives in a mammoth old house that needed work and frightened the neighborhood children. I imagined sorrow and secrets behind those old walls, rage and despair and bodies buried in the cellar. On Halloween, it was passed by.

But it was just a house like any other and if it kept secrets, it was no different than the white house with the black shutters next door.

Quick Fixes

Every now and again, I'm struck by the urge to quit smoking. I've tried the patch, hypnosis, accupuncture, cold turkey, support groups, subliminal messaging. When my doctor suggested the antidepressant pill, I agreed.

It worked effortlessly and amazingly well. Then a few weeks in, things started to go wrong. I unexpectedly began thinking about suicide. I spent an entire weekend searching for a copy of my will because I couldn't remember what provisions I had made for the animals. A customer asked me for a certain brand of film and I began to cry and a half hour later was still crying and had not the first idea why. I began to seriously consider the possibility that I was having some kind of breakdown but never once made any connection to the medication. In the shrink's office, trying to explain what was happening, I learned about the side effects of the antidepressant - depression, suicidal thoughts, mood swings. I stopped the drug, started smoking again, and in a few days was back to normal.

I like quick fixes. I want to quit smoking but don't want to go through withdrawal. I want to lose 10 pounds but don't want to diet. I want to be whole again but I don't want to do the work. And I think I have lots of company in this. We would rather reach for a bandaid than a solution, treat a symptom rather than a cause. It's not laziness, it's impatience. We're in such a rush to get somewhere, we lose sight of where we're going and forget that it's the journey not the destination that really matters.

Take your time. Enjoy the view. Look inward and travel light. Expect miracles and they'll find you.

Warning, Will Robinson!

It's no secret that I hate technology.

Computers, cell phones, fax machines, answering machines, palm pilots, ipods - it's a high tech, digital house of cards. Just let one malfunction and it all comes crashing down. I'm a low tech, little picture kind of person and I miss carbon paper, number 2 pencils, turntables, rotary phones, erasers, and letters. Shrink wrap plastic is a product of the devil's workshop, voice mail had to have been invented by low ranking, bored demons with too much time on their hands, and I'm pretty sure all is not well with the world when greeting cards sing. Nevertheless, this is the world in which I live and work and making room for technology was not a choice but a requirement.

I am a product of the 60's and am struck by the fact that so many others of my age embrace technology. They did not kick and scream or protest at it's advance but rather welcomed it with open arms and curiosity. I see an insinuating virus that will mutate to gain ground - they see a tool to bring people closer. I see an electronic age where no one will need to learn to read or write - they see an age of time saving. I see high tech taking over like the kudzu in Stephen King's short story - they see progress.

In photography, I sometimes use filters - to make a warmer tone or a cooler one, to accentuate the blue of the sky,
to cut glare or even turn points of light into stars. In life, we see, hear and act through the filters of our own individual experiences. We interpret much the same way and because we all see through different filters, there's a great deal of room for error. I can hear critisism when it isn't intended, mistake frustration for temper, hear contempt that isn't there in a tone of voice because I was brought up with critisism, temper and contempt.

I'm slowly learning to coexist with technology just as I'm learning that sometimes the best filter is a clear one.

Brick by Brick

When I was growing up, I hardly knew of anyone that was divorced. Now I hardly know anyone that isn't.

Linda and Robin have been together for thirty two years. Consider what that takes - over three decades of committment, loyalty, understanding, respect, making space, working out priorities and differences. Deciding all the small details of living together as well as the major decisions, planning time and meals and vacations, remembering
to be considerate, courteous, learning to honor each other. Making time for each other separately and together, keeping love alive and vital. Working through the disagreements and hurt feelings, discovering what works and what doesn't. Learning to live with another person is no small thing and love is only the threshold - you can't get there without it, but once inside, it's nowhere near enough.

Brick by patient brick, they have built a life - despite the odds. It's sustained with love.

Happy Anniversary.

Day Surgery

It was a routine doctor visit.

I laid on the cold metal table, shivering, feet in the stirrups and covered only by a paper sheet. The handdrawn smiley face on the ceiling looked down at me in amusement. My doctor stood over me, eyes carefully studying the wall, hands on my breasts, humming slightly under his breath. He seemed to be taking a long time, pressing and massaging the same areas over and over again. At some point, I registered that he'd stopped humming.

I watched him pull his stool closer to the table, clipboard in in one hand, pen in the other. He gave me a reassuring smile and began to talk. I heard the words, the name of another doctor, the fact that it was Monday and that he was making an appointment for me the next day, that the doctor was a fine surgeon. I heard the words but didn't comprehend. I didn't understand the rush. He kissed the top of my head as he always did,
smiled again and told me not to worry.

I dressed and left. In the car, I tried to remember what he had said but found I was having trouble breathing.
The words were in the back of my mind but still didn't make sense and I decided I'd misunderstood him.

The surgeon was a short, dark haired teddy bear of a man with serious eyes. He methodically explained the different kinds of biopsies there were and which one he thought I should have. Out patient surgery, he said,
results the same day. We'll schedule it for this week, what did I think about Friday. The mention of a day of the week brought me out of the fog and I said but why so soon and he paused before he said the sooner we know, the better. The sooner we know what, I said blankly and immediately regretted asking because without the fog I could suddenly understand the words malignant, benign, tumor, biopsy. Out of nowhere, I realized they were talking about cancer. And me.

It was benign. A nurse was leaning over me in recovery, smiling and saying it was benign. I thanked her and closed my eyes again, holding her hand. When I woke up the second time, Tricia was standing over me, asking if I was up to getting dressed and going home.

As near misses go, it really wasn't much - just one more reminder to pay attention and be glad for each day because nobody is promised tomorrow.

Just a Cat

One winter night a friend of mine came across a tiny black and white long haired kitten being stoned by neighborhood children. She rescued him and brought him to me. Hearing how she had found him, I couldn't find it in my heart to say no. We named him Pooka.

He was small, starved for food and affection and the existing cats seemed to know that he'd been abused and were uncommonly gentle with him. He grew into a loving and affectionate animal and at six months, we took him to be neutered. Once he had been home a few days, he stopped eating and would sit with his head over the water bowl but not drink. He began losing weight, became lethargic. I took time off from work and stayed home with him, kept him warm and bottle fed him in between visits back to the vet's. They diagnosed a respiratory infection, prescribed antibiotics and isolation and told me not to worry.

He collapsed a few days later and we wrapped him in blankets and rushed him him to Angell Memorial but it was too late. Halfway there, he shuddered and died in my arms. It's a memory I've tried to forget for years.

My daddy was at my door the very next morning. I couldn't talk for tears and he didn't try, he just sat with me and let me cry. Later he talked to me about a place where there was no pain, no sickness, no suffering. A place where animals are loved and cared for until they're reunited with their people. Few people would've truly understood my grief - I'm more than familiar with the it was just a cat look - but he did. And he treated me as if I'd lost a child, which in my eyes, I had.

My daddy understood what it was to lose the things you love, even just a cat.

Keeping Secrets

My grandmother woke up one morning and fell. She got up, got dressed, and went about her business and it was only much later in the day, that the stroke caught up with her. She died very shortly after.

I flew to Boston for the funeral which was held in the small chapel at the funeral home. I listened as her favorite hymns were played and as the minister spoke about her life and her family and how she would be remembered. A few days later, I went to her house. It was exactly as I remembered. I stayed several hours, going through closets and drawers room by room. Shelf after shelf of glassware, linens, quilts and lace tablecloths, knicknacks, flannel nightgowns, decks of playing cards, neatly discarded mail, books and pictures. Not the smallest item was dusty or out of place or even slightly out of alignment. My grandmother had believed in routine and order and everything in its place.

It must've been a shock to learn that my grandfather had produced an out of wedlock child with a woman no one knew. Dad told me about it during my visit, hoping that it would help explain some of the hardship my mother had gone through and exuse her behavior. He said that the illigitimate half sister had been continually thrown at her when she was growing up, thrown at her and my grandmother in the viciousness of every drunken rage. Imagine, he said, just try to imagine what he put them through. And I did, with no effort at all.

Alcoholism is a disease of the mind, the body, the spirit and the emotions. It takes all with heartless
and suffocating greed and leaves the remains of its victims in pieces and their families shattered, often beyond repair. It flourishes and gets passed from generation to generation, partly because we provide a safety net for its victims, protecting them from the consequences of their behavior, and keeping their secrets. We do whatever it takes to keep it in the family. He would come home drunk, my daddy told me, and pass out on the stairs. We dragged him upstairs, your grandmother and I and put him to bed. And then it would start all over the next day. I listened to this with a sense of resignation but no surprise and no pity. This assault on my grandmother's well ordered and neatly arranged world had taught my daddy how to deal with my mother. He taught me so that I could deal with my husband and if we'd had children, I would've taught them. No, I told him, it stops with me. And my daddy walked away.

In a way, we never got past those few moments. We stayed close, he and I, but something had shifted between us and would not be put right. We never spoke about it again until my mother was dying and by that time, I had years of counseling and meetings behind me and I was able to stand my ground against the accusations of selfishness, the name calling, the threats, the blame and the manipulation. This is killing Dad! my brother screamed at me, You're killing him! And I hung up the telephone.

Pain kept private, denied or hidden never heals.

Penny Candy

After church we used to stop at a small candy store. It had been converted from a railroad depot and sat by the train tracks in what was otherwise an open field. It was dark and musty and wall to wall penny candy. And it had no name, it was just "The Station". Dad would let us buy gumdrops, licorice whips, peppermints, root beer barrels, up to a quarter's worth and the old man behind the counter would carefully put everything into individual small paper bags, give the tops a firm twist and hand them to us. It was our reward for going to church.

After we got home and changed out of chuch clothes, we would go driving in the old black Mercury station wagon. Dad would lower the seats and spread a couple of old blankets out, we took toys and books and games, and sometimes would pick up one of each of our friends. We went to Walden Pond, or Cedar Hill, or just drove aimlessly. Late in the day he'd stop and buy us all ice cream - it was all on the condition that we not tell our mother what we had done or where we had gone and especially not who we had taken.

Conspiracy is a hard burden for children to carry but somehow we knew and understood all the things that were never said aloud or explained. We treasured those Sunday afternoon drives and silence was a small price for them. But conspiracies have a way of growing and when Dad found himself a girlfriend, it was the most natural thing in the world to keep his secret. I was married by that time and he would bring her by to play bridge - she was a widow - or we would have dinner or drive to her summer house in Maine for the weekend. By careful design, my brothers were both excluded from knowing about this relationship. She was a lovely lady - slim and pretty, soft spoken and well dressed. She shared his love of music and books and was always very kind. It seemed to me that he finally found someone he could talk to and be with, without conflict or humilation, and he was always relaxed and smiling when he was with her. I thought his happiness was worth the sin and even dared to hope that it might be enough to motivate him to finally leave my mother. It was not to be and after the lovely lady died, he stayed the course to the bitter end.

There'a a fine line between loyalty and enabling and he was never able to see the difference.