Full Dark

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

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

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

A Gathering

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

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

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

The Music In Us

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

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

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

Glamor Girl

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

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

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

The Thanksgiving Table

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

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

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

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

Point & Shoot

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

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

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

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

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

Child Proof

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

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

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

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

Chained Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

Out of the Closet

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

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

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

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

Arrive Alive

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

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

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

Children of the Corn

It began with a rustling in the plants behind me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ferryman

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

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

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

Teach and Be Taught

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

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

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

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

All my teachers cared deeply. All good teachers do.

Caller ID

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

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

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

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