Rules of Engagement

"Don't make me come in there!" my mother used to yell when, in her eyes, we were misbehaving. It was no empty threat and we paid attention. Angry, which she was most of the time, she was not pleasant. Angry and drunk, she was a terror though most of the time we could outflank her just by virtue of being younger, faster, and unimpaired.

She began drinking in her teens and continued throughout her life. In the beginning, it was out in the open and I doubt anyone paid much mind. She married, had children, and at some point after that, had become a full fledged alcoholic. She maintained the cover of social drinking but had also begun drinking alone and in secret, hiding her bottles and denying it. Her entire life became a lie which she worked desperately to conceal from the world outside and with her family's help, she mostly succeeded. By the time I was in 5th grade, the war was on and like any good war, it had rules. Any reference to her drinking ( or being drunk, or having a problem, etc. ) was off limits. Out of the ordinary behavior was not to be acknowleged. Beer bottles discovered under the dirty clothes were to be discreetly disposed of and not mentioned. If her afternoon bridge parties got out of hand, we were to go to our rooms and shut the doors. We were never to confront, challenge, or in any way provoke her. And under no circumstances short of the end of the world, were we to talk of any of it to anyone outside the house. We understood that she could more or less keep it together as long as we kept to the rules. My daddy explained this to us with pain filled eyes and each time there was a new horror, there was a new rule.

Addiction, however, is a progressive disease and things got worse instead of better. She began drinking earlier in the day until she was having morning sherry instead of morning coffee. She stopped caring for the house, stopped getting dressed, neglected the dogs, gave up bathing and hygiene, began throwing meals together with whatever was on hand. My grandmother moved the afternoon card parties to her house and refused to come to our's. My daddy spent more and more time working and she was stopped a number of times for driving while intoxicated. Rules or no rules, the secret was becoming harder and harder to keep. She stopped going out in public after a well meaning teacher called, concerned about her slurred speech and aggressive attitude, and my daddy reluctantly began delegating the shopping, cleaning, cooking, and the answering of the telephone. She was, by that point, too concerned with her next drink to notice that it was all unraveling. And her children were beginning not to care. We learned how to live and work and go to school around her, ignoring her presence as if she had become a piece of bulky furniture, unwanted and in the way but not worth the trouble of moving. We kept to the rules, kept out of her way, stayed apart from her spiraling descent into alcoholic madness and life went on.

Once the children were grown, my mother and daddy reached some kind of understanding. They lived apart except for weekends and each went their own way, lives still connected but no longer touching. From Monday to Friday, she didn't interfere with his work and he left her to drink in peace. The war had cooled and the old rules still worked.

Silence

I hadn't precisely seen the mouse, just a quick, scampering blur of motion in my peripheral vision but it was enough to startle me and I fell off the piano stool onto the concrete floor with a screech. My daddy's face was not quite clear as he leaned over me but I heard his words, Lie still, you're bleeding.

Paramedics arrived and an ambulance, I was distantly aware of flashing lights and a stretcher and when I woke up next it was in the emergency room with my daddy holding my hand. It's ok, he said with a reassuring smile, You took a tumble but it's ok. I wanted to tell him about the mouse but he shushed me and it was easier to close my eyes and go back to sleep. I had broken my arm and wrist and had a mild concussion and it was the first night I was to spend in a hospital room alone. I was to go home the following day but instead I went to my grandmother's for several weeks and my daddy came to see me every night, stayed for supper, and saw me tucked in before he left. It was an oddly peaceful time with my grandmother carrying me to and from school each day, my daddy there each night, and no sign of my mother for the duration.

The broken bones mended, the cast came off, and I got to go home again. My mother never mentioned the accident or my absence and for a time was almost subdued. Although the words were never said outloud, I slowly came to realize that no one had trusted her to care for an injured child. It was a frightening and disturbing idea and one that I struggled with for a very long time. I had no illusions about her but somehow it was a shock to discover that my daddy and grandmother knew her the same way I did.

The things we don't talk about or bring to the surface can often do the most harm. Sometimes we have to pay attention to the silence to hear the words.

Single Life

So, my friend Michael asked me, Do you think you'll ever get married again?

The absence of a man in my life does not trouble me as it once did. Perhaps it's age and wisdom combined with resignation and two marriages that ended badly, perhaps it's my having gotten comfortable with living alone, maybe it's pure selfishness but no, I can't imagine getting married again. I enjoy my solititude, I treasure having my home to myself, I appreciate my independence and freedom to come and go on my own terms. The difference between alone and lonely is clearly defined in my mind. My life is filled with music and pictures, caring for my animals, work.

I was first married at twenty-three, slightly old for the times, and I've come to realize that although I loved him, I was equally attracted to the promises of security, of being half of a couple, of marrying into money, of adventure, and of escaping my family. After ten years, I found myself restless though not precisely unhappy - well cared for but not truly loved - resentful but not exactly angry. I met another man, one who was poor and drank too much and the chemistry between us was instantaneous. With an amiable divorce, I shed my marriage and embraced the impossible and familiar territory of living with an alcoholic.

At thirty- three, I remarried and took the first steps onto a road of despair, conflict, chaos and inevitable abuse. It felt like going home but in actuality, it was like being lost in dark woods with only an infrequent patch of sunlight to be guided by. Yet I followed the sunlight to the edge of the woods and after thirteen years, found the
path out. I was changed by the journey - bitter, angry, reclusive, and filled with a grim determination never to be vulnerable again.

All along the road, I have been coming to a place where I am alone and content, free from the vindictive upheaval and emotional wearing down of trying to be someone I am not, of trying to make things right. There are things that despite our best efforts, will never be right. For better or worse, richer or poorer, we can only be who we are.
Single life has its share of good and bad but at least its rewards and consequences are mine alone.

Rumble at 3am

The possum is back.

I woke to sounds of scavenging, the dogs barking, and then yelling. It was just after three on a bright, moonlit night. My next door neighbor was precariously tangled up in the tree that begins on his property and ends on mine, his feet searching for the safety of the fence and a pistol in one hand. The possum was on the roof of the shed, neutrally observing and munching on the remains of a chili cheese dog. As the dogs hit the ground running I wondered first if the batteries in my camera were charged, second, what the penalty might be for disturbing the peace and third, if logic would be effective against this treebound lunatic who lives next door. Travis, I said reasonably, You're gonna shoot your own damn foot off. He looked at me wild eyed and frantic, Gon' blow that sonovabitch to kingdom come! he yelled and promptly fell out of the tree.

I was reminded of Alice and the White Knight in "Through the Looking Glass".

He was dressed in tin armour, which seemed to fit him very badly, and he had a queer-shaped little deal box fastened across his shoulders, upside-down, and with the lid hanging open. Alice looked at it with great curiosity.

`I see you're admiring my little box,' the Knight said in a friendly tone. `It's my own invention -- to keep clothes and sandwiches in. You see I carry it upside-down, so that the rain ca'n't get in.'

`But the things can get out,' Alice gently remarked. `Do you know the lid's open?'

The possum, having finished his late night snack, turned tail and nonchalantly trekked out of sight. The dogs gave up the chase and Travis regained the fence but too late. He looked at me accusingly and spoke clearly. You're on his side. I shrugged and told him good night. I have no doubt that he and the possum will live to fight another day.

The Right Thing

The wreckage from the crash was spread on both sides of the hairpin turn and the explosion had blown chunks of the pickup truck into the bay. The flames were visible from The Point, twelve miles away. Oh, Lord, Nana said wearily, another one's gone.

The factory whistle was blowing at regular intervals and the bells from both churches were ringing. All over the island, fishermen and their wives were roused from sleep. The men headed for the site of the accident and the women began gathering to put together their baskets of food, blankets, coffee, medicines. Nana called Marlene at the switchboard. It's Rennie, Marlene told her, Reckon he never knew what hit him. My grandmother's shoulders sagged and she sank into a chair, still holding the receiver. She had known him and his family all their lives, had been raised with his mother and had been with her the night Rennie had been born. It comes full circle, she told me with tears in her eyes, and there's never enough time in between.

We packed the car and drove to the other end of the island. The fire was still burning on the mainland, smoke and fire reaching toward the sky while a bucket brigade fought it stubbornly. The boats were already out, the men in their yellow slickers grimly searching the dark water from one end of the passage to the other. They recovered most of the truck but it was morning before Rennie's body was found on a rocky ledge near the lighthouse. Dawn came and he was brought back to the breakwater, covered and borne gently on a fishing boat, just as the sun came up. My grandmother stood with her arms around his mother, someone had wrapped a blanket around both their shoulders, and both were dry eyed. Everyone there had been through this many times before and they knew that there was practical work to be done before they could grieve.

We had no doctor, no funeral parlor, no hospital, no firefighters. Islanders tended to their own for everything but death and Rennie would be taken to the mainland and the brought back for the funeral. The service would be held and he would be buried in the small cemetery by the churchyard. And the day after that, island life would resume normally except each day, a different crew would take Rennie's boat out for him and and leave their own behind. The day's catch would be divided between the crew and Rennie's family for as long as it needed to be.

We look out for our own, Nana said, because it's the right thing to do.

Carnival

The streets were littered with discarded beads - gold, green, purple, some with flashing lights, some with huge, fancy attachments.. It was the aftermath of a parade and somehow there was a sad nostalgia in the air, as if the floats had come and gone and left emptiness behind. Parade goers in all manner of Mardi Gras costumes strolled back to their homes and their parties, driveways were aglow with small bonfires and small groups gathered around them. It was bitterly cold and alcohol induced warmth was everywhere. Music shouted from houses and traffic began to gratefully unsnarl. By the bayou, the ducks kept to the water, wary of the festivities and resentful of the noise and the decorated but infringing gangs of humans. Weary police, patience tested to the breaking point, swung flashlights and ducked beads as they shouted orders to the crowds and the recalcitrant drivers trying to navigate through barricades and closed streets. The parade had come and gone and left it's debris behind.

Mardi Gras is the season of celebration prior to Lent - a prolonged and extravagant excuse for every kind of wretched excess before the holy season of Easter. Carnival colors - purple for justice, green for faith, and gold for power - appear everywhere in our part of Louisiana, on faces, on dogs, on cars, on houses, on costumes and floats, on balconies and trees and babies. Nothing is safe from being decorated or painted or draped. Mardi Gras mania overtakes the community and overwhelms the senses with its music and madness and there are endless parties, parades, and costume balls. Carnival is a fierce competition for overindulgence.

The sanity of Lent is welcomed with open arms.

The Last Twelve Miles to The Point

I miss the peace of the ocean.

My happiest days from childhood into my teens were spent near or around it. Nova Scotia's rocky coastlines were my playground, her tides as inevitable and natural as breathing. Whether exploring or pretending or hiding, the ocean brought comfort and serenity. To watch the tide coming in or going out was to watch God at work. Each time we rounded the final curve at East Ferry and the small village of Tiverton came into view, my heart seemed to stop. The anticipation of the ferry crossing was almost unbearable, and them we pulled up and onto the breakwater and began the last twelve miles to The Point.

Aunt Pearl would have homemade fish chowder and fresh bread waiting and it made no difference if the day was pure and sunny or dismally wet with fog. I was home, back to the ocean and the open fields and the dazzling blue water streaked with sunlight. Toward evening the boats would be at rest, the sun would begin it's slow descent over Westport, and I would sit and watch, at home and at peace.

Linda's photograph, though of Maine and not Nova Scotia, brought those feelings back in a rush of nostalgia and I ache to make that trip just one more time. To stand on the breakwater and look over into the sea, to watch the boats riding the water, to walk around The Old Road and come upon the cove, shadowy and lonely in the early evening. To have ginger ice cream from Frank Thurber's little store or toffee from Uncle Bernie's, to play hide and seek with the fishermen laying out the salt fish on the slatted tables in our front yard, to wake to the factory whistle and dance once more with Johnny to "My Special Angel".

I will always miss that childhood as well as the peace of the ocean.

The Umbrella Man

When the weather turns warm, I see The Umbrella Man all over town.

He wears black work out pants with elastic at the ankles, a pair of Keds that have seen far better days, a torn tweedy sports coat with patches on the elbows, and he always carries an umbrella. He's a step and turn man - almost like a dancer, he walks a few steps and then quickly does a full circle, adjusts his umbrella, and continues. He has a serious face, thinning hair, and if approached will cast his eyes downward until passed by. Sometimes he speaks to the unseen people and once I watched him pet a dog that wasn't there. He is, I suppose, one of the many harmless and homeless who spend their days walking the city sidewalks, searching, sightseeing, wandering at random.

He travels great distances on foot and in all kinds of weather. His route takes him far past uptown and all the way downtown but I rarely see him off the main streets. I wonder about his family, his background, where he sleeps or eats, does he have children, how he came to be in his present circumstances, all the routine things that the rest of us take for granted. If he were to speak, would it make any sense? If he were to die, would anyone care? Has his life been worth it? Has his life been noticed?

I like to think that we all matter to someone, that we all live for a purpose even though it's kept from us. The Umbrella Man makes me grateful for all I have and maybe that's his purpose. I have a sense that God watches over him as he wanders.

7 Nights of Salvation

Brother Ben Bailey and his Pentecostals - or snake charmers, as my grandmother referred to them - arrived on the island in July. They set up shop on the ball field, erecting a huge white tent and filling it with unpainted wooden benches. Homemade signs advertising their revival services and the importance of repentance were posted on buildings and trees and stuffed under doors. Sin was about to meet salvation - devils would be cast out, sinners would embrace Jesus and miracles were expected. The village, roots deeply and firmly planted in the Baptist faith, was skeptical. Sin was about the only entertainment available.

Since you couldn't see the ball field from the main road, a banner was soon put up across the dirt turnoff. In black letters over a foot high, it proclaimed "7 NIGHTS OF SALVATION - ALL WELCOME". Other banners appeared around the village, smaller but still attention getting - "GET RIGHT WITH GOD AND BRO. BEN", "HEALING HANDS WILL HEAL YOUR WOUNDS", and "JESUS SAVES THROUGH BRO. BEN". Rumors began to fly about Brother Ben Bailey - he handled snakes, he spoke in tongues, he could make the crippled walk, he had visions, his preaching took on the Devil Himself. It was said he'd been touched by God and brought out of a life of total sin and degredation to preach The Word. He had firsthand knowledge of the perils of whiskey and loose women. Brother Ben knew about evil and while he despised the sin, he loved the sinners because Brother Ben was SAVED and with the help of the Holy Spirit, he would SAVE us as well, PRAISE GOD.

Tommyrot! my grandmother snatched the flyer I had brought home and threw it in the stove. Malarkey! Selling snakeoil to folks who ought to knew better! Damn fool ought to be strung up. Nana's opinion was that there were a lot of damn fools in the world and that most of them deserved to be strung up but Brother Ben seemed to have made it to the top of her list. Old fraud's seen Elmer Gantry one too many times she declared more to herself than to me.

In actual fact, Brother Ben was a middle aged, silver haired, traveling man who had gravitated to God when his luck at cards had run out. He wore a well fitting white suit, carried a well worn Bible, and preached The Word to anyone who would listen. After a night of drinking and carousing, he had indeed woken up in a cold Chicago gutter, sick, badly beaten and stone cold broke and having decided that it was one gutter too many, he put away the cards and the whiskey and went straight. No miracles, no snake handling, no visions - just a man who had changed his life out of desperation and despair.

As advertised, he preached seven charismatic sermons in seven nights. There was singing and prayer and calls to God for forgiveness, sinners repented and the collection baskets were filled nightly. On the eighth day, Brother Ben and his Pentecostals vanished as suddenly as they'd arrived. If anyone had been saved or healed, they kept it to themselves and even if they hadn't, it had been, Nana admitted grudgingly, one hell of a show.

Come to the Edge

The signs were all there. A foolish grin on his face, a slight unsteadiness in his walk, a hint of a slur to his words. He would adamantly deny it, of course, he always did unless I caught him in the act. And I wouldn't pursue it because it would take too much effort. I was coming to realize that I didn't much care anymore.
Sober, he was angry, bitter, resentful and sullen. Drunk, he became sloppy, childish, petulant and silly. He reached for me and I sidestepped. He reached again and I slapped his hands away, already impatient to escape another nightmare evening. I reached the stairs and he lurched and grabbed my ankle. I kicked and caught him just under the chin, sending him sprawling against the wall. Before he could get up again, I was up the stairs and had locked the bedroom door against him. He was shouting, a mixture of curses and threats, and as he fumbled his way to the second floor, I reluctantly picked up the telephone and called 911.

The wood splintered the first time he hit the door and the lock gave way on the second. The man I had loved so dearly stood facing me, breathing heavily, his face twisted in rage but still unsteady on his feet. When he came at me I ducked and ran past him, heading for the stairs and the front door. He followed but he was clumsy and slow from the alcohol and when he began throwing things, his aim was off. Once downstairs, I checked quickly that the cats were out of harm's way, then opened the front door and ran. The police cruiser was pulling up as the door slammed behind me.

Do you want us to take him? the officer asked. The words were wickedly direct and simple but surprisingly less painful than I had imagined. I thought of the shattered door, the shouted threats, and all the past nights that had started just this way. I thought of him holding one of the cats in one hand and a knife in another and that memory more than any other was the deciding factor. Yes, I said standing straight, I do. And just like that, the man I had married was arrested, handcuffed, and taken away. That which I had feared and dreaded for so long had finally come to pass and like so many other things in life, the fear and dread had been much more awful than the actual happening.

I think there is, in each of us, a core of strength, a reserve made up of equal parts will, courage and resolve. We access it in the direst of moments - to protect those we truly love, to try and save a life, to keep out the insanity. It's almost primal in nature, an emotional and spiritual survival instinct that we don't even know is there until we need it. Against all odds, it lets us do the impossible.

"Come to the edge." "We can't. We're afraid." "Come to the edge." "We can't. We'll fall." "Come to the edge."
And they came. And he pushed them. And they flew. - Guilluame Apollinaire

Going in Circles

On a clear day, if the wind was right, you could hear the music from the ice skating rink down on Route 2. We would hang our skates around our necks, bundle up with gloves, scarves, and hats and trek down the street and across the four lane highway for a morning of skating and watered down hot chocolate.

It wasn't a fancy skating rink, just something thrown together for the kids - a circular metal fence around a layer of manufactured ice - with a machine for coffee and hot chocolate, an attendant who rented skates, and taped music. By noon, it was generally packed. Parents watched from outside the fence as the little kids took their first steps and teenagers sailed around backwards trying to impress each other, but most of us kept to the fence and went in endless circles, never having learned how to pirouette or stop without falling.

Sometimes though, we would see a real skater, someone who stayed in the uncrowded center, someone who could jump and turn in mid air, then land gracefully and spin, someone who could make a dead stop on a dime with a small shower of ice from their blades. Those skaters wore tights and short skirts or flowing trousers and silk shirts open at the throats and they never seemed to feel the cold. Instinctively we gave them room on the ice and watched them in awe. It was what we all wanted to be.

One of those skaters was a thin, pretty girl with long, red, curly hair. She flew on the ice, light on her feet and always smiling, red hair flying out behind her. Her name was Tina Noyes and by 1967 her practice had paid off and she had become a world championship figure skater. She performed with the likes of Dick Button and Peggy Fleming and my daddy took me to see her at the Boston Garden once - I watched in amazement and wonder as she took to the ice, solo, with a spotlight following her and her red hair flowing around her like an aura. She had become her dream. Being a hometown girl, the crowd went wild as she finished - roses were thrown on the ice, everyone stood and the applause was deafening. She stood on center ice, a slim girl in silver and white with a blaze of red hair and she smiled and took a bow. She sparkled with sequins and success.

See there, my daddy told me, and you thought going in circles could never get you anywhere.

Cat Calls

I woke up to the sound of a cat crying.

Half asleep, I raised up and looked over the end of the bed where sitting in the light from the streetlamp was a large, orange cat looking back at me and calmly meowing. The bedside clock read 2:28. It's too early, I told him, go back to sleep. I laid back down only to become fully awake a few seconds later when I realized that we didn't have an orange cat, large or otherwise. Wake up, I nudged my husband, There's a cat in here. He mumbled something that sounded like "so what" and I nudged him again, It's not one of our's.

He rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows, looking at me warily. What? I pointed to the intruder who, now having an audience, had become more vocal. Hello, my husband told him, Go away. And he laid back down and pulled the covers over his head. The cat meowed and took a tentative step toward the bed. I sighed and pushed the bedclothes aside and the cat appeared at my ankles with a hopeful meow. This, I told him firmly, will not do.

Not only did he make no objection to being picked up, he immediately wound himself around my neck and began to purr ferociously and lick my ear. Where had he come from, I wondered, and where were all the cats that did live here? The sliding glass doors that led to the balcony were closed securely and there were no open windows that I could find. Mystified, I carried him downstairs as quietly as I could, not wanting to think about the consequences of being discovered by one of the legitimate cats. Nothing seemed amiss in the kitchen or den but in the living room I discovered the front door wide open - the room was filled with the warm night air and in the small entryway, sat all five of our cats, still as the night and intent on the world beyond the open door but none making a move toward freedom.

I froze and instinctively covered the orange cat's mouth with one hand. I knew an indiscreet meow at this critical point might send all my little ones into the night, so I slowly began to back up. When I reached the back door, I slipped out, deposited the orange cat on the patio and crept around the houses. Barefoot, wearing only a tee shirt and feeling like a thief in the night, I eased through the shrubs and wet grass and approached the front door. Then, with a blood curdling scream, I sprung and five startled cats scattered backwards like leaves in a hurricane wind.

It was at that precise moment that our insomniac next door neighbor, hidden in the shadows of his own balcony, chose to shine his flashlight on what he supposed to be first a prowler, second a banshee, and lastly the mad cat woman next door. Luckily, he had not had time to call the police.

The intruding orange cat was never seen again.

Handle With Care

One of my dearest friends recently had a seizure and spent three days in the hospital. He emerged a little shaken, and for the first time that I can remember, looking a little older. He has no memory of it. When he picked up his harmonica to play at the party two days after he got out, there were cheers - for his recovery, his talent, his ability and determination to continue, for his life.

Those of us that love him now must learn some new skills. How not to treat him as if he's fragile or somehow different. How not to be watching for any sign of weakness or forgetfullness. How not to be careful with him as if he's less than he was or do for him as if he can't for himself. How not to hover or suffocate or spy or jump to his rescue if he drops something or become wary if he forgets a lyric. These are things are born of love, caring, and more than a little fear and I think they will be difficult to overcome. He is precious to us.

After a certain age, none of us really need to be reminded that our lives have limits. This we know and we live in spite of it or around it or because of it. Each life touches a multitude of others, some in ways we may not even be aware of. Life is about falling and getting back up, time and time again and if we're paying attention, each bruise will teach us something and each broken bone will be a lesson.

We all need to learn to handle each other with care 'cause in the end, we're all we've got and time is flying. In the meantime, my much loved musician friend will play on. Neither his time or his music is finished just yet.

Grammatically Speaking

The former English major in me cringes at some of the things I hear others ( and myself ) say but recently my dear cousin, Linda, sent me something about keeping your tenses straight and having no compunctions at all about using what people tell me here, I pass it on. She wrote that "worry is future tense" and that "guilt is past tense". A simple but profound concept and a good thing to keep in mind.

If only life were as clear and as uncomplicated as the rules of grammar. We would all have a plan based on never ending a sentence with a preposition, knowing that an adjective modifies a noun and an adverb modifies an adjective,and that it's "i before e exept after c". There would be no gray areas, no emotional quagmires, no moral dilemmas, no tricky intersections, just a straighforward two lane highway.

How clear. How simple. How reassuring. How dull.

I like the fact that I have to stop and think before I can remember what the difference is between a metaphor and a similie but I can generally keep my tenses straight by staying in the present.

Common Ground

The house sat on a slight rise surrounded by graceful old trees, immaculate landscaping and a well kept lawn. As we turned into the long, curving driveway, I heard my daddy catch his breath and say in a surprised and despairing whisper, Oh, my God. Beside him, my mother had turned ashen at the sight of the house and was mutely staring.
If there had been any doubt in my mind that this meeting of families was going to be a mistake, it dissolved in seconds. Relax, I said brightly, they're just plain folks. I was surprised at how effortless the lie had been, how easily it had been to say. Seeing the fear and worry so plainly on my daddy's face, my husband did his best. It's just drinks and dinner, he said reassuringly, no big deal. Honestly.

He had been raised in this grand house and he took his wealth for granted. His mother opened the front door, arms thrown wide in welcome and smiling. Come in this house! She hugged me and then each of my parents and finally her only son. She was a beautifully maintained and genuine southern lady and she had standards about hospitality and entertaining guests. Intuitively, she bypassed the formal living room and gently led my parents into the less intimidating family room. Still chattering cheerfully, she casually drew the curtains across the glass doors that led to the terrace and the swimming pool and the enormous expanse of back yard and gestured for us to sit.
Quick thinking as she was, my mother in law was not quick enough to stop Rosie who appeared in her black and white uniform carrying a tray of glasses. This was followed by a bucket of champagne and a platter of appetizers. Unaccustomed to servants and swimming pools, my parents sat in a dazed sort of silence trying to take in the lifestyle I'd married into. My inlaws, good and kind people, kept the conversation going despite the odds, trying hard to put my mother and daddy at ease but there were miles between them - miles made up of far more than geography.

Rosie served dinner with her ususal courtesy and quiet efficiency and the atmosphere seemed to become a shade more comfortable by dessert and coffee. My daddy relaxed enough to become talkative and my mother, having passed on the champagne, was on her best behavior and in the words of Jimmy Stewart, "The evening wore on." Someone suggested a game of bridge and I almost heard ice breaking as the two sets of parents gathered round the game table and began a spirited and evenly matched card game. My husband gave me a good natured "told you so" look and I began to breathe normally again.

Sometimes I think we may not be as far apart as we would like to believe. And while the search for common ground may be littered with obstacles and sandtraps - even treacherously so - it's as good a place to begin as any.

Robert Johnson Lyrics

The words of an old Robert Johnson song filled the bar, You better come on in my kitchen, and the sweet sounds of an acoustic guitar accompanied them, ' cause it's gonna be rainin' outdoors.

In the dim light and smoke, the crowd had gotten quiet and all eyes turned to the stage. Seated on a plain hardbacked chair, the singer and his guitar were barely visible but the music came though clearly. He was wearing a worn out denim shirt, faded jeans and cowboy boots and his eyes were cast downward as he picked the old guitar. The other musicians on stage stood respectfully still. I reached for my camera and then thought better of it, preferring to close my eyes and lean my head back.

Such moments are rare in the dark, smoky bars where I spend so much of my time. The music is usually in a long competition with conversations and laughter and the sounds of drinks being served. Disputes can get loud and lengthy and eveyone shouts to be heard over everyone else. This night had been no different until Robert Johnson's lyrics had begun to drift out over the crowd. When a woman in trouble, everybody put her down. She look for a good man, but he can't be found. You better come on in my kitchen, cause it's gonna be rainin' outdoors.

The first time I ever heard a Robert Johnson had been over thirty years ago, sitting on a plastic tarp in the woods in Lincoln, Massachusetts in a raging thunderstorm. Taj Mahal was on stage, singing to over a thousand cold, wet and dedicated blues lovers who might, at any moment, be washed away by the torrential rain but who would never leave voluntarily. He sang one song - the one I was hearing in the bar - for over forty minutes while all around him people swept water off the stage, scurried to cover equipment with plastic and prayed that the tent top would hold. And it did. Despite the storm, it had been one of the best days of my life - Doc Watson, Bill Monroe, Bela Fleck, Michelle Shock - no one had cancelled and no one had left. We sat in water up to our ankles and ate fried chicken and potato salad and drank cheap wine out of paper cups and were transported by the music and Robert Johnson's lyrics. The sky never cleared that day and the rain never let up but nothing stopped the music.

I remembered that day and couldn't help but smile. Meanwhile, the song ended and there was a fraction of a second of dead silence before the bar erupted in applause. Robert Johnson Rules! someone shouted over the noise. Yeah, buddy.

Just a Joke

By the time she was the age I am now, my mother had pretty much given up. Too many years of alcohol and inactivity had allowed her weight to soar out of control, her knees had given out, she'd developed diabetes and chronic bronchitus and the cancer was waiting in the wings. She took to wearing oversized floppy dresses or cheap polyester pants and they emphasized her weight rather than hide it. She took a fancy to the color red and decorated her nails, mouth and cheeks with it and her gray hair took on a yellowish tint. She had become a caricature.

We left for Nova Scotia on a clear May morning, my grandmother's Lincoln crammed to the breaking point. We'd make Maine by lunch and be in New Brunswick by evening. My mother insisted on driving and Nana napped in the front seat most of the way while the kids occupied themselves in the back. We made several stops for gas and restrooms and each time a smiling attendant would come to the drivers side window then draw back as my mother attempted to flirt with him. At the border, my grandmother decided to drive and as she walked around the rear of the car, she suddenly stopped and I saw her face go white with anger. Once across, we pulled into the first service station. Nana got out and had a brief conversation with the attendant who nodded, went into the station and then reappeared with a scraper tool. She directed him to the rear of the car and stood over him as he knelt at the bumper. In a minute or two, he stood and placed something in her hand and she told him thank you and tipped him five dollars and got back into the car without a word. My mother sat in silence, refusing to meet my grandmother's furious eyes and after a few deep breaths, Nana started the car and pulled back onto the highway. The rest of that day's driving was done in deadly quiet. When my mother reached for the radio, Nana slapped her hand away with a sharp reprimand.

It was after eleven when we reached St. John and the hotel. My mother had become anxious and edgy and Nana's patience finally snapped. For Christ's sake, my mother whined, It was a joke. I jumped at the sound when Nana slapped her and my mother began to cry. It was trashy and I won't have it! my grandmother responded in a tone that scared me more than the slap.

The next morning, wedged under the seat, I found the ragged edged bumper sticker. It was white with bold, black lettering and read simply Ask me, I might.

The Secret to a Long Life

The secret to a long life, Michelle Shock wrote, is knowing when it's time to go.

I was in high school when a well known and popular classmate took a shotgun and used it to take his own life. He had his entire life ahead of him and for reasons none of us ever understood, all he saw was darkness. His friends and family were devastated, classes were cancelled for the funeral, and a memorial service was held to try and help us make some sense of it and grieve. The principal quoted Elizabeth Kubler Ross, someone most of us had never heard of. We had the immortality of youth and couldn't even begin to imagine any harm coming to us never mind old age, sickness, the consequences of carelessness or as the saying went, the wages of sin. We just knew someone we had cared for was gone and we didn't know why.

Even now, my high school years feeling a hundred years ago, it's unimaginable to see only darkness. The light may be obscured or even only a dim flicker, but it's there, so maybe it's more than just being able to see it - maybe we have to want to see it and want it badly enough that we can overcome the seductive side of suicide. I wonder what went though his mind, what thoughts could possibly have brought him to see only one option. What could have been so intolerable, so powerful, that it blinded him to the facts that even the worst situations change, that no state of mind is forever.

Death, my daddy used to tell me, is always harder on the ones left behind. I try to see it as part of the process,
an inevitable transition from one plane of existence to another. As with all things, we do the best we can and move on. I am incredibly grateful for my life so far - it has been a wild combination of highs and lows, happiness and sadness, accomplishments and failures, love and loss. Life is a good plan.

Beware of Dog

This morning, I slipped her red "Beware of Dog" tee shirt over her head and tucked Butterbean underneath my jacket. We were going to make a comfort call.

My friend Scotty had lost his beloved cat, Cleopatra, over the weekend. I knew there was nothing I could do to help but I suspected that a day with Butterbean might be a comfort. He would bring her bed out onto the counter, share his cheeseburger with her at lunch and bring her a coffee drink on his break. She would jump into his arms at every opportunity and plaster him with kisses in between seeing old friends and making new ones. I hoped she would be a comfort to him as she is to me.

Her brown eyes lit up the minute she set eyes on him and when he called her name, she turned into a small bundle of quivering, wriggling, and squirming anticipation. In a matter of seconds, she had covered his neck, ears, and face with enthusiastic kisses and I became an afterthought. There's nothing quite like unconditional love to help a broken heart. I slipped out quietly, knowing that she might miss me for a few minutes but would quickly adapt. She was in a familiar and friendly place and I was leaving her in good hands.

It worked.

Bird Watching

After the rain, the birds clustered around the mudpatch turned mini lake in the yard behind us. Sparrows and wrens dove and splashed and shook their feathers while two robins fought a fierce territorial battle at the fence line and the squirrels looked on indifferently. It was a grayish kind of day and more than a little chilly but none of them seemed to mind. As a general rule, all birds look alike to me with a few exceptions - robins, doves, cardinals, bluejays, an occasional woodpecker - and while I'm glad to have them and do try to keep them fed in winter, I can't tell them apart. Dr. Bill, however, is an avid birdwatcher and devoted to hummingbirds. From his dentist's chair, I have a full view of his garden and all the visiting birds and it calms me to watch them. It doesn't calm me anywhere near the way his nitrous oxide does but it helps.

Years ago, living in Back Bay in Boston, pigeons would sit on the outside window sills of the apartments and our cat would sit inside. The birds would coo and she learned to coo right back. We were a single cat household at the time and JB swore that for year the cat thought she was a pigeon. Now, being a multi cat household, all the little ones are fascinated by the birds as well as the squirrels but there's no cooing. They sit like statues with only a tail switch to give them away, hypnotized by the wild things that run free in the outside world and, I hope, grateful not to be among them.

Nature is filled with great wonders and small miracles, cruelty and wisdom. The strong survive and the weak are lost and somehow the planet is kept in balance in the process. God and Mother Earth are watching us all, down to the last sparrow.

The Current Crop of Cats

Patch sits in the shadows of the window blinds, warmed by the sun and half asleep. She is a pastel tortoiseshell, colored in soft shades of gray, brown, and white. She was an outside cat until she appeared on my doorstep and I often wonder if she misses the freedom of her old life. She is a gentle natured cat, quiet and friendly and there are times you'd never know she was around. She sleeps on my pillow at night and sometimes will softly paw at my face or hair.

Muggs sleeps in a basket under the other window. At eight months, she is still very much a kitten - a long, lean, brown toned tabby with a feisty, playful nature. She overflows with energy, ambition, fearlessness and curiosity. She is the first and the loudest on the counter for meals and the only one to reguarly stalk and pounce on the other cats. She will, I hope, eventually outgrow her regrettable kamikaze streak.

The oldest, Chloe, is by coloring and termperment, a dark cat. A tabby with black and brown tints and a sweet heart shaped face, she hates across the board. She will fly into a rage at the sight of the dogs and refuses to have anything to do with the other cats. She sleeps lightly, a part of her always on the alert for the first sign of danger, quick to give a warning growl if her space is compromised. Even in my arms and purring there is a tenseness in her small body, a readiness to flee that never completely relaxes. She's a tiger when cornered and has a number of hiding places that I've never found. No one but me has seen her for years.


Mischief is black and white and longhaired, very shy with people and very timid with the other animals. She moves cautiously around the house as if doing reconnaissance and prefers high places, out of reach of the dogs.
She defers to the other cats in all areas except food - in this, she stands her ground and can become quite vocal -
and she is content to stretch out on the counter and watch the world go by. She is undemanding, quiet, happy to be part of the overlooked chorus.

The youngest of the trio of black cats, Murray is small, fit and trim and something of a troublemaker. He has a Jimmy Cagney look about him, slightly swaggering with a challenge in his yellow eyes. He walks confidently, head up, tail stretched out behind him, each step sure and definitive. He is an expert in covert approaches and will often land in my lap with an unexpected thud, seemingly from out of nowhere and indifferent to the fact that there may already be a cat in place. If, however, his bravado is met and matched, he will quickly retreat with a kind of dismissive dignity.

Widget, solid black and half Persian with a silver undercoat, slinks. She keeps low to the ground and moves slowly and deliberately, reminding me of an industrial push broom. She shuns the other animals, avoids strangers, and spends most of her time under the bed sleeping. She will growl if approached and often swats at the other cats when feeding but never with claws out and she will run rather than fight. Rarely, she will seek me out and want to be held and those moments are precious to me. She is a suspicious animal, independent, self sufficient, and quite beautiful.

Nicodemus is twenty pounds of mellow - at peace with himself and the world around him. He lazes in the sunshine and when he walks, he strolls, unbothered by the dogs or whatever other chaos surrounds him. He's laid back and
equally content to be stroked or left to himself. He will curl up with Butterbean or crawl into my lap, whichever is closest and he's amazingly light on his feet. He tolerates everything with good humor and a relaxed sort of resignation mixed with a healthy purring. He is comfortable, casual, and unfailingly tolerant.

The current crop of cats is as different and distinct as all those who have gone before - all have been special and
precious and irreplacable in their own ways. Each is a unique gift from God, given over to me for temporary care. However long or short their lives may be, they will be loved and kept safe while they are here.

For Cleopatra and Scotty.

No Sign of Snow

Yesterday's forecast predicted snow - it seems cold enough and the skies are overcast, but there's no sign of snow. I can remember my daddy leaving for work on winter mornings and warning us to dress warmly - he had seen what he called a snow sky.

It's really more something you sense than see, like the feel of the air before a tornado watch. You go outside and can feel the threat of weather bearing down. Batten down the hatches, my grandmother would say, storm's a comin'. When I was growing up, I heard that often. I would walk into the house on an ordinary after school day and suddenly find myself in the eye of a storm. My mother, knitting and watching soap operas from her old green chair, smoking and well into her after lunch manhattens, would say nothing. She was waiting, just waiting. It was a bad sign but I knew that nothing would break until supper so I escaped to my room.

Supper began with noise from the kitchen. Things began to be slammed around, dishes flung onto the table, cabinet doors shut with force enough to make the glasses rattle. Unsuspecting, whether from intentional blindness or his eternal optimism, my daddy would walk straight into this commotion of rage. Readjusting at first glance, he would loosen his tie, put down the evening paper and ask What's happend? and she would turn on him with a vengeance.

From my room, I could hear the arguement escalate. The milder and quieter he became, the more it infuriated her. It might be about anything - a poor report card, being late from school, a call from a neighbor, being out of bread. She would shout, sulk, threaten or cry until she got her way. Sooner or later I would hear his footsteps on the stairs and there would be a tap at my door. Your mother..... he would begin and then his voice trailed off and with an apologetic attempt at a smile he would say Never mind. It's not important.

When he finally refused to fight anymore, things died down and he was able to placate her. Supper began and ended in tense silence and I left them at either end of the table, locked in wordless, useless combat. In my room, I opened a window to the cold night air and sat looking out at the stars.. After a while I heard the sound of the downstairs television, volume turned up to try and drown out the raised voices. There was a sound of breaking glass, a door slamming, and a car ignition starting. I heard my mother climb the stairs and held my breath, waiting to see which direction she would take, toward her room or mine. She paused at the top of the stairs and then her bedroom door crashed shut.

With a sigh of relief, I watched as my daddy drove away in the old Mercury station wagon. It had begun to snow as he'd predicted and although it was bitterly cold, this night's storm was over. It had indeed been a snow sky.

Rinse and Repeat

You have only to speak her name and her tail begins to wag joyfully. Her brown eyes radiate love and trust and she is relentlessly happy whether dancing around on her back legs or burrowing into the small spaces between you and the blankets. She loves life outright and with a passion and is an immeasurable comfort, asking nothing but affection and a warm place to sleep. Of all the dogs I have known, she is the sweetest and most faithful and she wins hearts wherever she goes.

It is with great reluctance that I carry her to the kitchen sink. The towel and shampoo are laid out on the counter and the water is running and she knows what lies ahead. She looks at me with broken hearted, betrayed eyes but she doesn't struggle, instead she begins to tremble. I talk to her softly as I pour warm water over her shivering little body and lather her with suds, rinse and repeat the process. She shakes as if she might actually break as I wrap her in a towel and begin to dry her off and those eyes look at me with huge sorrow and disappointment. A minute or two with the hair dryer, some gentle combing, and she's done.

She races for her corner of the couch and her heating pad and the bath is instantly forgotten just as I am instantly forgiven.