Under Construction

It seems to me that we are all under construction all our lives and that some of us need more regular maintenance than others. Maya has torn a tendon her her back leg and will be three legged for the remainder of her life - regrettably, there is no upside to this, as she is equally fast on three legs as she is on four. This will, my vet tells me, eventually develop into arthritus and shorten her life.

My friend Tricia, now confined to a single bed in her breakfast room and dependent on her children and friends for the smallest thing, weary to her bones and in constant pain, still manages a smile at the hamburger and onion rings I bring her for supper. She can't take her socks off by herself and every move brings on a fresh wave of agony, but she still manages that smile. Her children put aside their lives and needs to care for her.

My friend, Iris, still in a walking cast, stubbornly fighting her way through physical therapy and facing empty nest syndrome come fall, still works and stays in touch, telling me that the worst is behind her and being grateful for the ability to have her beloved daughter drive her to Cape Cod for a brief weekend. She managed the wheelchair, the walker, and the strangers who invaded her home to help get her well with dignity.

My friend, AJ, looking perhaps just the tiniest bit older after the unexplained seizure and still forbidden to drive, hating having his freedom and independence compromised, still takes the stage from nine to one and plays his heart out, the sweet sound of his harmonica blowing the blues well into the night. He counts the days til late summer when his doctor will allow him to have his keys back and swallows the indignity of dependence.

I live in a small town, and like those friends that I care for, everything seems to be under construction. There are road crews and pylons and ditchdigging everywhere and it's become impossible to travel in a straight line. Familiar exits are closed, traffic snarls abound, and I'm forced to take detours into new parts of town. Sometimes I find a welcome shortcut - sometimes I get hopelessly lost. It's a lot like life. "Meet trouble as a friend," Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote, "Because you'll see a lot of it and you had better be on speaking terms with it."

The Sullivan Boys & The Ladies Aid Society

Without their parents, who had been gone no one knew where for years, the Sullivan boys grew up on their own. There were six of them - Stephen, the oldest, Bryson, Albert, Daniel, Shadrach, and Hugh, the youngest. They were, the islanders predicted, bound for no good.

Stephen began setting fires when he was in his mid-teens and after the post office burned down, he was arrested, charged with arson, and jailed. Released several years later, angry and vindictive and still an arsonist, he set fire to a church and was shot by police as he was running away. Bryson and Daniel were killed in a bar fight in St. John after they'd been caught cheating at poker. In the midst of a heated argument, Bryson had drawn a knife and threatened the other players, Daniel came to his aid and both died in the violent melee that followed. At sixteen, Albert married a local girl, at seventeen, he became a father and at nineteen when his son began to show a marked resemblance to a local fisherman rather then himself, he beat his young wife senseless and left her and the child for parts unknown.

With only Shad and Hugh left, the local Ladies Aid Society ( consisting of the spinster Haynes sisters, Miss Violet and Miss Victoria and Miss Swift from Westport who sometimes sat in when a tie breaking vote was called for ) decided that it was high time to step in and take a stand lest the family's name disappear entirely. The ladies met in the front porch of Miss Violet's and Miss Victoria's old home every other Sunday afternoon where, being former nurses at the old folks home on the mainland, they had cared for their daddy when at 90 some odd years, he had finally taken to his bed with the pnemonia that eventually killed him. And none too soon, Miss Violet would remind Miss Victoria whenever his name came up. Ira Haynes had not been known for his kindness to animals or people or his family and Miss Victoria would nod agreeably and say Pity you can't choose your kinfolk.

The influence of the Ladies Aid Society was not lost on the island residents. Haynes money had built the new post office ( Only the best brick, Miss Violet had instructed, she didn't care to have another unfortunate incident of arson ), funded books for the school, provided hurricane relief for as long as anyone could remember, and in the summer when she could find a doctor from the teaching hospital willing to work on the island for a few leisurely months, paid his salary as well as his room and board and supplies ( on the condition that he also make his services available to the island's animal population ). So when Miss Violet and Miss Victoria decided that Shad and Hugh must be taken on for their own welfare, island families united in support.

In due course, it was mandated that Hugh should aprentice himself to Mr. McIntyre - rumor had it that he was looking for help - and that Shad should be taken on as a veterinary assistant at the clinic in Kentville. In return, Miss Violet and Miss Victoria would subsidize their living expenses for the next year, an arrangement that could be renewable should the boys prove worthy of expectations.
Shad and Hugh, taken by surprise by this generosity and speechless by the expression of the sisters' faith in them, immediately and enthusiastically agreed.

Money, Miss Violet remarked, is like manure. It's no good unless you spread it around encouraging young things to grow.

That's from a play by Mr. Thornton Wilder, Miss Victoria said reverently, Mr. Wilder understands youth.

The Man in the Santa Claus Suit

The man in the Santa Claus suit politely held the door for me at the convenience store. He carried a morning paper under one arm and a bottle of cheap wine clutched in the other and as I passed, he flashed me a grin and winked. I thanked him and he nodded. The store was crowded but no one seemed to be paying the slightest attention to him even though it was nearly 80 degrees on a bright April morning.

He stashed his wine inside his red jacket, adjusted his shiny black belt, and headed out and down the sidewalk. His hat was slightly off center, the fur trim on one boot was missing and the fingertips had been cut off his white gloves but he walked straight and with purpose. By the time I left the store, he was seated on the bench at the bus stop, his paper open on his lap and the cap of the wine bottle showing through the buttons of his jacket. He was frowning at the pages and shaking his head, now and then tugging at his beard to scratch the real whiskers underneath. A passerby slowed, stopped, then smiled and said, Merry Christmas! Santa looked up from his paper, glanced from side to side and then to the pedestrian. It's April, he told her in a tone that suggested she was somehow impaired, Christmas is in December. Her smile turned to a glare and she huffed at him before she stalked away. He dismissed her with an impatient wave and an inelegant hand gesture and the two uniformed cops outside the store broke out laughing. Santa turned in their direction briefly then returned to his paper.

The bus arrrived in a cloud of exhaust fumes and passengers alighted, a few doing a quick doubletake at the sight of the man on the bench, but most exiting and hurrying on their way without giving him a second look. He paid them no mind and when the bus pulled away, he remained on the bench, still reading his paper. The cops began debating whether or not to move him along but as he seemed harmless enough and was bothering no one, they decided to let him be. Within a few minutes, he meticulously folder the paper back into thirds and put it in his pocket. Unscrewing the wine bottle, he took a surreptious swallow and then stuffed it back under his jacket. Both cops had witnessed his action but to my surprise, they let it go.

A second bus came and Santa rose and climbed aboard without incident. The bus pulled into traffic and made it's lumbering way down the road with a roar of diesel engine and Santa Claus madly waving from the back window. I climbed into my car and pulled away, having decided that it couldn't help but be a good day.

Listening to the Wind

Close your eyes, Uncle Willie said, and listen.

We had made a path through the tall, uncut grass and laid a quilt down where we could see the water and the road.He had brought the dominoes and a pitcher of iced tea but the day was too lazy to make the effort of playing so he decided to teach me about listening. Obediently I closed my eyes. What do you hear? he asked and I said, Nothing.

Try again, he told me. I shut my eyes tightly and hugged my knees to my chest. Several minutes passed before I realized I could hear the tide coming in, the waves against the rocks made a muted splash then retreated over the sand. I heard the woodchopper from my own yard across the road and the click of metal against wood as the ropes from the flags hit the pole. I heard ice clinking in the pitcher of tea and the sharp crack of sheets flapping in the wind, the steady chug of the ferry as it made its way against the current, grass rustling all around me. I heard an engine and knew immediately that it was the mail car, then footsteps, whistling and the dancing steps of a dog - Buttons and Gene, I knew at once. Another car coming around the Old Road, still unpaved, and making a spray of gravel against the ditch, Aunt Vi's old pick up, lobster traps bouncing in the truck bed. I heard the wind and all the sounds it carried - a discarded piece of metal washing up on the shore, the vibrating hum of the power wires, a fishing boat far in the distance and the small, quick sound of a match being struck.

Doors opened and closed, voices called, a sudden avalance of pebbles cascaded down the side of the cliff, I heard the ferry dock and moments later a caravan of vehicles drove past. The factory whistle blew three o'clock with a shrill, piercing sound and the men and women began their trek home. I heard conversations, lunch pails clanging,
heavy boots marching past, it was the sound of weariness and days end. I heard all this from an overgrown field overlooking the ocean and was amazed that it had always been there and I'd never noticed.

That, Uncle Willie told me, is the difference between hearing and listening. There were no notes, no stage, no instruments, but it was music all the same.

The Tactics of Kittens

There is some good, my daddy said wisely, in everyone and everything.

We were sitting on the veranda of Ruby's farmhouse, idling away a late summer afternoon and playing with the latest batch of kittens. They were trying to climb the old porch boards but kept tumbling off, landing in the soft grass in an untidy pile of heads and tails and whiskers. They fought fiercely for a second or two then were distracted by a blade of grass, a slow moving bug or a grasshopper. My daddy put aside his second hand copy of "Sailing Alone Around the World" and began to tell me about Captain Joshua Slocum and his travels but it was a trick I recognized - diversion was always his first line of defense for those times when he didn't want to answer a question. I listened patiently, waiting him out with Aunt Ivy's copy of "Anne of Green Gables" in my lap, a book I knew by heart and had loved since my first reading. And so, my daddy said with a smile, that's how Captain Slocum got his second ship. The kittens had now discovered his shoelaces and were fully engaged in stalking and preparing their attack. I could see that it was going to be a full fledged ambush on the unarmed and unsuspecting laces and wondered if I should raise an alarm.

I asked again, why my mother didn't like his family. He sighed and stretched his legs and the sudden movement caught the kittens by surprise. They scattered in all directions in a disorganized retreat then gathered together to regroup and plan a second strategy. Round one went to the laces. Your mother, my daddy finally said, is a force to be reckoned with. And, he added carefully, she's an unhappy woman. He took a pack of Lucky Strikes from his shirt pocket and scratched a kitchen match with his thumbnail. I smelled the sulphur and watched cigarette smoke spiral up into the air as he retrieved his book and began reading again. The kittens were on the move again. They were approaching from different angles, focused on the target with tails twitching and their tiny backs arched, each step a picture of stealth and concentration. My daddy read on, unaware of the iminent threat, believing that his diversonary tactic had worked. I thought about her jewelry boxes, her pink convertible car, her closet full of evening gowns that she would only wear once, the fact that she didn't have a job and didn't want one. But why, I finally ventured, why is she so unhappy? He shrugged his shoulders, a weary gesture, and looking at me over the pages of Joshua Slocum he got as far as I only wish I ........and the kittens pounced. His book went flying into the air and he leapt to his feet with a howl of pain and a curse. A kitten had sunk her claws into his ankle with a death grip and trickles of blood were already running toward his shoe. He detached her gingerly and instead of giving her the smack she deserved, he gave her a slight shake, saying mildly, Bad kitten! and held her to his chest, stroking her trembling tiny body.

Ruby appeared at the door with a towel in one hand and a bottle of iodine in the other, absently removed the kitten, and knelt to clean his wounds. Some good in everyone and everything, she muttered, hmpf!

Open Water

It was a small lake with crystal clear water and a beige sandy bottom, surrounded by clean shoreline and thick trees.
It was rarely crowded and we went often during the summer - to swim, fish, row slowly to the middle and then drift lazily in the sun. Ruby would have packed us a picnic lunch with fried chicken and fresh greens, homemade cookies, and bottles of icy cold water. The adults read or sunbathed, the children swam to exhaustion, and Uncle Ernie would sit in the shade on the far bank for hours, a slouch hat pulled over his eyes and a fishing pole propped between his knees. He had, it seemed to me, an endless reservoir of patience even on the days he caught nothing.

Our dog, Fritz, an aging and overweight dachshund, severly grey around his muzzle but still full of mischief and spirit, had his first swimming lesson there. My daddy carried him out and set him in the water and he swam furiously for shore, emerging indignant and humorlessly to his laughing owners. He found a sunny spot at the edge of the trees and curled up to nap, wanting nothing further to do with his tormentors. Uncle Dave would arrive with his truckful of children and containers of blueberries, fresh picked from his own fields and my cousins raced madly for the open water like city children who had found a gushing fire hydrant.

My mother sat slightly apart and away from us, wearing sunglasses and propped on a chaise lounge. She did not join in and except for a half hearted effort my daddy made, no one tried to persuade her. She was restless, she hated the sun, she had nothing to say to her family and she clearly would've preferred to be somewhere else. When Aunt Norma attempted to talk to her, she feigned sleep and the plate of food she brought was ignored. Fritz awoke from his nap long enough to make quick work of the untouched plate then waddled back to the shade. Later, someone organized a lively game of dominoes and my mother woke long enough to reach for her aspirin then lay back, one arm thrown over her eyes in great weariness. She spoke only to complain of one of her all purpose migraines and when my daddy offered to drive her back to the farm, she sighed deeply and allowed as how she'd suffer through. Her game of mock sacrifice and guilt worked and reluctantly he gathered up his protesting children and old dog and we left the peaceful lake with the sun just beginning its descent to the horizon.

My daddy favored the path of least resistance in most things. He detested confrontation in all its forms and would almost always submit to whatever course of action he felt was likeliest to keep the peace. Like swimming in open water, he kept to the surface, not wanting to know what might lurk in the water below.

Mr. Rosetti's Last Ride

All was quiet at the dinner table. My daddy had plans to go back to work and my mother was washing dishes. Did you remember to pick up the dry cleaning? she called from the kitchen. It's in the car, he called back absently and went back to his crossword puzzle. Annoyed, she told me to go and get it and I was nearly out the door when the newspaper went flying and he scrambled to his feet, knocking over the chair in the process. No! he shouted suddenly, I'll get it!

To hear him raise his voice was a shock and he nearly knocked me over getting out the door. My mother appeared in the doorway, frowning at the commotion as he pushed past me and went outside. He was back in seconds with the drycleaning over one arm and a caught in the cookie jar expression his face. She looked at him suspiciously, the frown turning into a scowl and demanded Something wrong with the car? He took a minute to catch his breath then looked at her with an innocent smile and said No, no. I just felt bad about forgetting the cleaning. Her eyes narrowed and I held my breath waiting to see which way she would go. Surprisingly, she decided to let it pass and muttering about having to live with people who would forget their heads if they weren't attached, headed back to the kitchen. Retrieving his crossword, my daddy settled in his recliner with his pen and coffee.

The screaming started several minutes later. He put aside his puzzle and pen, took a sip of coffee and said calmly,
It appears that you mother has discovered Mr. Rosetti. I had no idea what he was talking about but I followed as he
got up and went outside. At the front door he gave me a wink and said She never has learned to leave well enough alone.

Unsatisfied with his explanation about the cleaning, she had slipped out the back door and in the dark opened the door of his ancient Mercury station wagon. The back seats had been lowered and Mr. Rosetti, a young and handsome man with a striking resemblance to Sal Mineo, was peacefully laid out in an elegant silk Italian suit with diamond rings on his fingers and a diamond stick pin in his tie. My hysterical mother was clutching the sheet that had covered him and howling incoherently like a wounded wolf. There's a body ....he's dead....oh my God, you brought a body ....in the station wagon!

My daddy grasped her firmly by the shoulders, gave her a hard shake, spoke her name sharply. She dropped the sheet and gasping for breath pointed a trembling finger at the station wagon. This is Mr. Rosetti, dear, my daddy told her, He's very dead and he can't hurt you. She looked at him open mouthed and wild eyed and he spoke soothingly,
Go inside, dear, this is nothing for you to worry about. He gave her a gentle push toward the back door, re-covered Mr. Rosetti's body, and closed the station wagon's rear door. You too, he gestured at me and winked again.

Mr. Rosetti had been the unfortunate victim of a gangland shooting in Boston's North End and his wake was to be that evening. My daddy hadn't had time to pick him up and return him to the funeral home before coming home for supper so he did the practical thing. He hadn't counted on anyone discovering the body, at least so he claimed, but what was done was done so he laced a glass of warm milk with a sedative and saw my mother safely asleep before he chauffered Mr. Rosetti away.

Just bad judgement on my part, he assured me later and winked.

Trinket

She was a tiny powderpuff of a puppy - colored like caramel and vanilla ice cream with an intelligent, inquisitive face and a sweet nature. She was deservedly pampered and spoiled her entire life and she grew to be a beloved animal. She lived with my friend, Rochelle, for eleven years and she had an active, healthy and wonderful life.

Such animals are gifts from God, given into our care for their lifetime whether it be short or long. They make a place in our hearts because we take them into our homes and our lives with love and we let them go with the same love. When they die, that place stays empty and sad, sometimes forever. The truly special ones cannot be replaced and that's how it should be. The pain of losing them can be overwhelming but we trade the heartache for the years of joy they bring, for the affection they offer so freely, for the trust and love in their eyes. And we do it knowing how it will end, because the years in between have a sweetness like no other.

Trinket died prematurely, one of the many to perish from poisoned dog food. This makes her death all the more tragic and difficult, and for Rochelle, her anger has no real target so it swirls inside her like a vicious storm with no place to make landfall. The world is often incomprehensible - people do us great harm without penalty or justice, those we love have their lives cut short, that which is given is taken back. There is starvation, poverty,
suffering and war all around us, indifference and self interest rule. Should we be surprised that a lethal posion is put into petfood or that there is no one to hold responsible?

Trinket's death is not fair, not forgivable, not right. For those who loved her so dearly, it is no small passing thing and she will be missed beyond words.

Loose Boards & Lost Dogs

In the face of adversity, dignity is useful but underwear is more practical.

The loose fence board was in the far corner of the yard, hidden by weeds and shrubs. Unbeknownst to me, the small brown dog had been digging at it for days and finally managed to pry it loose. Being a dog with a dismal understanding of consequences and faced with a gaping hole between the slats, she immediately jumped right though and into the land of next door, eight pounds of curiosity bound for adventure.

I discovered her missing several minutes later and when I found the hole in the fence, I panicked and ran for the front yard barefoot, un-showered, barely dressed. There was no sign of her on the street and I ran up and down the block, shouting her name and imagining the worst. Fear and adrenaline had taken charge and beaten back good sense and rational thinking. Meanwhile, the black dog was repeatedly slamming her body against the gate and barking like a wild thing trying to break through a cage. I couldn't catch my breath and there was a sudden sharp pain in my side which brought me to my knees where I was forced to reevaluate the situation. Bleeding from both feet, sick at heart and desperate, I got to my feet. Maya's barking persisted, now highpitched and verging on hysterical and I wasn't sure how many more assaults the gate would withstand. I wiped away tears and began to whisper a prayer, Please, God, help me find her, she's so small, please God, and as I limped up the street, I suddenly heard the sound of a tinny bell. I looked up and the small brown dog was strutting toward me, ears up, tail held high, proudly carrying a long, thin tree branch in her mouth. She leaped into my arms, branch and all, her adventure over and ready to come home.

Is she ok? Are you? a voice suddenly asked and I turned to see the young man who lives across the street at my side, holding a blanket which he threw over my shoulders. His voice was concerned and kind. Next time, he said and I heard a smile in his voice, You might want to rethink the outfit.

With lightning speed, my mind raced back to getting dressed that morning. A paint stained pair of sweatpants with a medium sized tear up one leg ( that now extended from hip to ankle ) and an oversized men's basketball jersey cut to the waist on both sides and designed to be worn over something else. I had chosen it for comfort
and not modesty and had bypassed underwear altogether, a decision which had seemed reasonable at the time but now as I was beginning to realize with horrifying clarity, had been an unwise choice. I tightened my grip on the borrowed blanket while I pondered my next move. A mad dash for the front door was an atttractive choice but it seemed short term unless I was assured of never seeing my neighbor again and that didn't seem likely. The alternative was to gather Butterbean and what dignity I had left and make a strategic retreat. I took a deep breath and retreated.

When facing adversity, hold onto your dignity but don't forget your underwear.

Letters Home

Jimmie Prentice had been so small when he was born that he fit into a shoebox. It was a story his parents loved to tell, especially after he reached his teens and had become a tall, thin, good looking boy who laughed a lot and loved life.

He wanted off the island in the worst way. Being bright and hard working, he breezed through his schooling at the one room schoolhouse and went on to complete grade twelve on the mainland. He had no precise idea what he was going to do except that he was determined it would not involve a fishing boat. When he finished school, he took to the road, supporting himself with parttime jobs here and there, living in rented rooms, and seeking his place in life. His letters home were filled with adventure, people he met and places he passed through. His sister read them to his parents weekly and the entire village kept up with his travels - Yarmouth, Halifax, St. Andrew's - then on to visit the other provinces. He tried his hand at logging, hotel keeping, caddying, a steel factory, even itinerant fruit picking but nothing seemed quite right. He built bridges, worked on the railroad, delivered mail, signed onto a steamer and discovered Singapore, spent time on an oil rig in the States. By the time he was 30, he had seen the world and still wasn't satisfied but he was tired of roaming. One bright summer morning, he simply stepped off the ferry at Tiverton, tanned and muscled and smiling, with everything he owned in a sleeping bag and a battered old suitcase.

There was celebration and story telling for days and when it was over, Jimmie became the school teacher in the old one room schoolhouse. He taught with the stories of his travels, using pictures of faraway lands and foreign people. He taught with road songs and memories and his letters home that his sister had saved. He taught adventure, overcoming adversity, how to be fearless and pursue a dream. He taught with a worn out copy of
"The Wizard of Oz" in one hand and "There's No Place Like Home" written on the blackboard and the children listened in awe. He taught the multiplication tables and the alphabet, reading, writing, and how to make the most of their imaginations and abilities. He taught them not to be limited, not to be afraid to try, not to be ashamed of failure. He taught them a world of possibilities was waiting and he gave them the courage to believe.

He had found his place in life, closer than he'd ever imagined. He had, the village believed, been born to it.

Rusty

The leaves are so dense on the trees in the backyard that you can barely see the sun and the squirrels running and leaping from one limb to another are almost invisible. They are given away by their excited chattering and they chase each other playfully through the trees, over the fence, to the roof and back again. The temperature will climb to the high 80's today and the birds will be out in force, singing sweet spring songs and bathing in the mud puddle behind the house.

Spring was my favorite season in New England. Warm days and cool nights were perfect for climbing out my bedroom window and sitting on the roof. I counted stars and listened to the neighborhood noises in the darkness, far away from whatever was going on inside. I imagined myself to have run away to another world where God would actually listen, where there was no war, where all children and animals were loved and safe. Our old orange tomcat, Rusty, often sat with me and I would whisper secrets in his battered ears and stroke his scars. He was a veteran and won most of his battles with the other neighborhood cats and I envied him - he was tough, streetwise, and independent. He had scrapped with other toms, and a dog or two, twice his size at that but Rusty
prevailed in those battles and returned a little bloody but not beaten. My daddy would patch him up and offer him the sanctuary of inside, but the old cat preferred the front steps or the roof. He was a prowler, a stalker, a fierce
fighter and except for really cold, snowy nights when he would sleep in front of the fire, he liked the wide, open spaces of his outside territory. He valued his freedom and while my daddy often fretted and worried about him, he also respected the old cat's determination and will. Rusty remained an outside cat all his life. He had traded
security, safety, and an easy life to live on his own terms, in his own way, and he never gave in. So we would sit on the roof together and watch for shooting stars, this old ruffian and I, both fighting our own battles on different fronts, both resolved not to give up.

Rusty was a wanderer, a free spirit, a survivor. You can learn a lot from a cat.

Miss Hilda & the General Store

Miss Hilda lived in a grey, castle-ish looking house high on a rise overlooking the cove. She was an English lady who prided herself on posture, appearance and propriety and she spoke with a cutting accent, her speech clipped and to the point. She was slightly horse faced, favored masculine attire, and carried a walking stick with a shiny brass duck head on the handle. She believed in cleanliness, exercise, proper diet and the monarchy and was said to have been a nurse, a nanny, a head housekeeper and a governess for a wealthy English manor family. From her practical walking boots to the slight mustache above her stiff upper lip, she was the very essence of no frills, no nonsense, properly bred and well brought up British womanhood. She scared the living daylights out of us.

Each evening - rain or shine - Miss Hilda briskly made her way to the post office and back again. She acknowleged those she passed with a wave of her stick and a curt nod but she rarely spoke unless it was to a gang of children and then she limited herself to Clear the way, you bedraggled street urchins! and the children would scatter like marbles. She collected her mail and deposited it in the black handbag she carried in her free hand, and then returned the way she had come, head high, back ramrod straight, eyes front.

Her first visit to McIntyre's Store became an island legend. She strode in like a military commander, surveyed the scene and found it wanting. The old men on the benches looked up from their newspapers and pipes, nodded to her and looked down again. Miss Hilda cleared her throat vehemently and then rapped her stick on the old wooden floor.
It is customary, she said clearly, eyes narrowed at the nearest bench, for gentlemen to rise when a lady enters a room. The dusty old men in their overalls and flannel shirts shuffled and got to their feet, eyes wide in surprise. Miss
Hilda gave them an approving nod and then made for the counter where she presented Mr. McIntyre with a neatly printed shopping list. I don't expect that you will have all these items in stock, she said, her tone clearly indicating that she considered this to be a serious business failure, so you can order them from your suppliers. Time is of the essence.

Mr. McIntyre reached for his reading glasses and looked at the list. Miss Hilda waited like a soldier at attention.
How will you be getting these things home, ma'am? he finally asked, frowning and Miss Hilda arched her eyebrows in surprise, took a breath for patience and said distinctly, Certainly, sir, your establishment avails itself of some manner of delivery service? Mr. McIntyre sighed, wiped his hands on his apron and conceded defeat. Of course, he told her, Will this afternoon be ok? Miss Hilda drew on her gloves and nodded, That will do, she said tartly, Good morning. She turned to leave and the old men on the bench got smartly to their feet. She swept past them like royalty, out the door and down the steps and thus the island's first delivery service was born. Mr. McIntyre hired the youngest Sullivan boy to sweep, clean up, and deliver groceries all over the island. He made a killing and very nearly put his competiton out of business while Miss Hilda became his best and most loyal customer.

Everyone benefits, she told Nana over tea one afternoon, from order and proper manners.

Among the Flowers

It takes all kinds of flowers to make a garden, even the weeds have their place.

Some overflow and nearly begin a riot with color, others bloom quietly and apart. Some mix and some are at their best in solitude. Some petals are silky soft, some are prickly, some are kept safe by their thorns. They intertwine or climb or attach to trees or trail on the ground. They grow wild or up trellises or in window boxes. They come in all colors and all shapes. Some have meaning, roses for love, shyness for daisies, elegance for orchids, daffodils for spring. Each has its own season and scent and yet put all together, they blend and complement and thrive.

She was walking through the gardens, in full habit with her head down in thought and her hands clasped behind her. Her skirts brushed over the grass and dirt in light, steady whispers. She walked aimlessly, sunlight sometimes glinting off her cross. She stopped at the footbridge, I think to pray for a moment, then continued on across the cobblestone path to the wishing well. She sat on a stone bench, gazing at the rusty bucket and the old rock foundation, surrounded by roses and greenery, hands resting in her lap. She sat for some time, still and meditative, a slightly frail looking and elderly nun on a chilly morning, sitting with her black and white habit in stark contrast to the flowers around her. As I passed her, she nodded to me with a small smile and said Good morning, my child. I smiled back and said Good morning, Sister.

How like flowers we are.

Whale Watching

Malcom Elliott stood well over six feet and was a sheer mountain of a man with dark shaggy hair and a full beard, an ever present bashful smile, and a natural good naturedness. If you needed the strength of six strong men, you found Mac and got it done with one.

He had worked in British Columbia as a logger until he lost an arm and returned home, still able to swing an axe with massive force but no longer able to work at felling trees within safety guidelines of the logging company. Another man might've been bitter, but Mac took it in stride, adjusted, and went to work at the factory. He missed the outdoor work though and eventually left the factory for the ferry where he made a towering and impressive figure as he directed the cars off and on the slip. During the crossing, he would lean on the railing and into the spray, eyes closed and breathing deep. He was a man made for all weather, Nana said, working inside would've killed him.

Whether from overwhelming curiosity or as Nana put it, "poor raisin' ", the tourist children were fascinated by the one armed ferryman and soon Mac began telling stories of how he had lost his arm, stories that involved prolonged and fierce battles with great whales or man eating sharks, sometimes even pirates. His tales were reinforced by the whales we would frequently see swimming through the narrow passage, huge and docile sea creatures on their way to warmer waters. Mac would point them out with solomn warnings of how a whale could swallow a man whole and the children would gasp, Like Jonah? And he would nod, his face serious, Ayuh, just like Jonah, he assured them, and their eyes would open wide and round with absolute belief.

One fine summer afternoon as Mac stood by the railing, several whales appeared on the horizon and began swimming in the direction of the ferry. Ignoring the "ALL PASSENGERS MUST REMAIN IN THEIR VEHICLES" sign, the children tumbled out and gathered excitedly around Mac. As the whales got closer, they didn't swerve away from the ferry as usual and from the wheelhouse, Cap appeared with a pair of binoculars 'round his neck and a mildly concerned expression which quickly changed as he held the glasses to his eyes. By the time he began yelling for the kids to get back inside their cars, Mac had already started the process but they were both a fraction of a second too late and with a mighty jolt, one of the whales sideswiped the scow, knocking it off course and tearing the chains that connected it to the boat. Holy Standin' Jaysus! Cap yelled from the wheelhouse as the small boat suddenly reared up in the water on the back of a whale, then just as suddenly dropped back. The ocean was choppy from the wake of the creatures and the scow had started to drift badly - boats were already headed out from both sides of the passage by the time Cap regained control and it was then they noticed that both Mac and one of the children weren't on board. Holy Standin' Jaysus! Cap yelled again, this time at the top of his lungs, Man overboard!

Captain and crew leaped into action, calming frantic parents, scanning the waves, untying life preservers. Mac was spotted almost immediately, hanging onto the side of the scow with his one good arm, a laughing, splashing little boy wound around his neck yelling A whale, a whale! and Just like Jonah! They were pulled, almost reluctantly, back on board and Cap produced a pile of towels and blankets, mugs of hot chocolate and a flask. The rescue boats took the passengers to shore and then towed in the scow. Repairs were made and Cap was back in business the same day. Mac changed into dry clothes, missed one crossing, and was back on board that afternoon.

The little boy's adventure, much like Mac's missing arm stories, grew, changed and became more remarkable with each re-telling. The ferry continued it's crossings and the whales resumed their graceful and playful journey to open water. All was right with the world again.

Bread & Buttermilk

There's something comforting about a rocking chair.

Mine was a wedding gift and I treasure it - it's survived countless moves, countless dogs, countless abuse. It's a bit chewed and scratched, a little banged up, but it was given with love and it's graceful curves and clean lines are still intact.

Ruby's rocking chair sat by the kitchen window where she had a clear view of the front yard and the driveway. She read in it, napped in it, told stories from it, shelled peas in it, comforted children in it, and watched the world pass by from it. It was the only piece of furniture in the kitchen and being close to the stove, was always warm. The kitchen itself seemed to smell of buttermilk and bread. We would come in from a hot summer day and take the blue and white dipper from it's hook on the wall to drink the clear well water and the kitchen and the rocking chair welcomed us. We cleaned up at the kitchen sink and Ruby served us freshly made cookies and sweet milk from the icebox, so cold it made my teeth ache. Later, when supper would be almost ready, Uncle Byron would stoke the small pot bellied stove in the dining room, take his pipe to the veranda and sit smoking and looking out toward the road. The table would be set, someone would slice a loaf of just baked bread, pitchers of milk, bowls of home grown vegetables and a dish of newly churned butter were set out. A simple grace was said before every meal expressing gratitude for the table, the day, everyone present and all the blessings God had seen fit to provide. It was a small but important tradition, one that made me feel an integral part of the family, one that made my mother feel even more like an unwelcome outsider and she often came to the table late in order to avoid it. If she was judged for this, it was never spoken of in front of the children.

Supper was a long and drawn out affair with much lively conversation. Ruby was up and down from the table every few minutes to fetch this or that or keep an eye on dessert or refill plates. When we were done, the children were exused to clear the table and begin the washing up while the adults remained seated to linger over coffee served directly off the kitchen stove, smoke, and plan the following day. Bedtime came early because on a farm the next morning always comes early. My mother, always restless, would often wander outside to be silent and alone and, we suspected, find something to drink to get her through the rustic evening. Ruby would take to her rocking chair with a basket of mending and Uncle Byron and my daddy would sit in the dining room and take turns on the well worn accordion.

It seemed to me then, as it does to me now, that everything done on the farm was a labor of love.

To Serve & Protect

It took great effort but the old man pushed his cart off the sidewalk and into the street, looked both ways before he crossed, then hauled it up and over the opposite curb. It was a warm and windy day and the American flag prominently attached to the cart's handle waved proudly amid a jumble of his other belongings. When a motorcyle cop pulled up beside him, the old man hurriedly retreated into an alley and the officer, who until then had given him no more than a passing glance, turned to follow.

They met under a dilapidated fire escape and the old man cowered but kept his grip on his cart. The officer dismounted and approached him and the old man backed up until he was against the grafitti covered wall of a building. He held his tattered overcoat closed with one hand and his other tightly on the handle of the cart and he was careful to look down and not make eye contact with the officer.

The officer knelt down in front of the overflowing cart and from a small leather bag withdrew a screwdriver. He adjusted the wheels, gave the cart a shake and replaced the tool. From his pocket, he took out his wallet and counted out several bills that he folded and tucked under the flag then backed away deliberately and re-mounted his motorcycle. The old man watched him leave then cautiously retrieved the bills, looked at them one by one, and stuffed them into his shoe, then slowly made his way - pulling the cart and walking backwards - out of the alley and back into the sunshine. The last I saw of him, he and his flag were headed for the riverfront at a sure and steady pace. As he disappeared around the corner, I heard the sound of a motorcycle - it idled for a moment or two then roared past me, the anonymous cop just a blue, black and silver flash in the bright morning sun.

Telephone Sales

Good morning, and she said my name in a cheerful and sunny tone of voice, My name is Deborah and I'm a lay minister with the Christian Brotherhood of Friars.

How nice for you, Deborah, I said brightly, I worship Satan, myself, so please don't call me again. And I hung up the telephone.

Telephone solicitation is one of those by products of technology that annoy the blazes out of me and depending on my mood which is not usually all that receptive at 7:30 on a Monday morning, I simply hang up, ask to be removed from their call list, or on rare occasions such as this morning, fire back wiith lightning speed and nasty wit which I almost always come to regret. Those unfit for anything else, even the call in windows at the local MacDonald's seem to gravitate to telephone solicitation and I should probably be more charitable but somehow these invasions of my privacy bring out the worst in me.

Hi, my name is Stephen and I want to tell you about our latest offer in funeral insurance.
I feel an evil grin coming on and say pleasantly, Well, Steve, give me your home number and I'll call you tonight.
There's a pause before old Steve finally says I don't take calls at home, ma'am.
And just before I slam the receiver down in old Steve's ear, I get to say Well, Steve, neither do I.

There are calls about siding, every imaginable kind of insurance, software, telephone directory listings, starving children, cable, house painting, telephone service, magazines, dating services, car dealers, plastic surgery, pet sitting services, credit cards, lawn care, time shares, debt relief and now even religion. I much preferred the days when they doorbell rang and I could threaten them with a maniacal dog - Maya would slam into the door, saliva dripping and teeth bared, snarling and barking out of control. She doesn't like strangers, I would say sweetly and my doorstep would clear immediately.

May I speak to the person in charge of your health insurance? The voice is foreign, bored, agressive. No, I answer with a deep sigh, He's dead.

Crossing The Rainbow Bridge

To people who don't know me very well, I'm considered childless - and nothing could be further from the truth. My children just happen to all be four footed and adopted and I love them no less than any mother loves her human child.

While losing one is too heartbreaking to contemplate, letting one go intentionally is equivalent to turning off life support. No matter how correct it is, no matter how much suffering you're alleviating, no matter how justified it is, no matter how much pain you're easing, you never feel that it's right. Their eyes look at you with love and trust until they close for the final time. You do it because you must but something inside you gives way as they take their final breath. Then you gather them to you for the last time, feeling their warmth, holding their body as if you could bring them back, knowing that healing will be a long time coming, knowing that the guilt you feel is irrational and wishing that knowing could bring some solace.

I may sometimes question the concept of an afterlife for myself but I believe in Rainbow Bridge or I could never let them go.

This week a 13 year old beagle named Penny will close her eyes and wake up in Rainbow Bridge. She will be young and healthy again and in a wonderful place, free of pain, free of fences, able to run for miles and play as she did when she was a puppy. She'll be watched over, cared for, loved and kept safe. The women who have loved her for all her life will be holding her as she leaves and although she may not understand their tears, she will understand what they're feeling and want to comfort them. She knows what they may not - that she will see them again.

The Rainbow Bridge
There is a bridge connecting Heaven & Earth.
It is called the Rainbow Bridge because of its colors.
Just this side of the Rainbow Bridge there is a land of
meadows, hills and valleys with lush green grass.
When a beloved pet dies, the pet goes to this place.
There is always food and water and warm spring weather.
The old and frail animals are young again. Those who
are maimed are made whole. They play together all day.
There is only one thing missing: They are not with
their special person who loved them on Earth.
Each day they run and play until the day comes
when one suddenly stops playing and looks up!
The nose twitches! The ears are up! The eyes are staring!
And this one suddenly runs from the group.
You have been seen, and when you and your special friend meet,
you take him or her in your arms and embrace.
Your face is kissed again and again, and you look once
more into the eyes of your trusting friend.
Then you cross the Rainbow Bridge together,
never again to be separated.

For Linda, for Robin, for Penny.

Too Many Mysteries

On an overcast Florida morning, my grandfather stood alone on a deserted stretch of beach, hands clasped behind him and staring out at the horizon. Thunderclouds were gathering over the ocean and it was a lonely image, the sky and the water, even the sand were colored in shades of gray and a soft mist of rain was falling.

I don't know if I actually remember that morning or just the picture of it that my grandmother took and kept in one of her many photo albums. My memories of Florida are hazy and fragmented - a camel ride, the glass bottom boat in the Everglades, the dozens of chameleons that lived all over the grounds, and the Spanish looking red brick of the bungalow that we stayed in are all sketchy. I don't remember my grandfather's presence at all except for maybe that one morning.

Everyone, including my mother and grandmother, called him Charlie or more commonly "CB". People outside the family adored him and he seemed to have hundreds of friends and could call everyone he encountered by name. He was a large, gruff, bald man with an ever present cigar or cigarette. He was loud, rough spoken, could and did cuss like a sailor and was violently impatient and demanding. He displayed no soft side and he frightened me because he always seemed to be yelling at someone. His laughter was raucus and he was famous for hard drinking, off color jokes, marital infidelity and generosity. He bought people off, including his grandchildren. And he controlled his world with a tight rein on my grandmother and a tighter, more dismissive one on his daughter. He believed in ruling absolutely and when needed, with a fist. The family was wary around him, always careful not to displease or let down their guard. Except for my daddy, we all asked permission for the smallest things and he took pleasure in granting them as long as we understood that we had to ask first.

I was in my first year of high school when he died and the effect of his death was minimal on me. The funeral was held at Cambridge's largest Baptist church and not only was every seat taken, people stood in the aisles, the balcony, even the choir loft. My mother and grandmother sobbed from opening to closing while my daddy comforted both as best he could. I watched with a detached but un-invested interest, I was hard pressed to feel much loss at the death of someone who had been, at best, a sometimes not unkindly stranger. His death was as much a mystery to me as his life had been and it seemed that the massive churchful of mourning strangers had known him better. I came to realize that he'd had a profound effect on my life because he'd had a profound effect on my mother's life.

Later at Nana's kitchen table, she drank coffee and I listened to a story of a loveless marriage which had produced an unloved child. She spoke with resignation and bitterness, I needed a husband and he needed respectability, she told me, it was a fair trade. When I asked her why my grandfather and mother had never gotten along, she gave me a sad smile and touseled my hair. People often don't get along with their mirror images, she said softly, It's a mystery.

Jack Daniels and The Bear

James Jackson Michael Daniels had been born on Cape Breton and came to be called Jack Daniels early in life which caused his mother, a proud Scottish woman, no end of grief. His father, Chicago born and proud of his Irish heritage, couldn't have been more pleased.

Jack was a wanderer and left the island in his teens to join the Canandian Merchant Marines. After several years of sailing, he returned home to marry the girl he'd left behind and together they settled down to raise a family. Jack had saved his pay packets carefully and planned to build Mary a home overlooking the ocean but wonderlust caught up with him after the second child and he took to the seas again, leaving her with two children, a sea chest full of cash and an ocean view. He signed onto a trawler out of Newfoundland for a couple of years, spent another couple with the scallop fleet out of Digby, and finally ended up on Long Island where he bought a boat and began fishing with the local lobstermen. Barely in his 40's, Cap'n Jack Daniels was a handsome man - tall and well built, dark hair just beginning to gray, he was likeable and good natured and he fit well into the small community. An able seaman and a hard working fisherman, he made friends easily and though taciturn by nature, he did delight the children with his stories. Hearts were broken when he sent for Mary and the boys and took up residence as the lighthouse keeper but the island women took to Mary almost immediately and included her in their lives without reservation.

Cap'n Jack and the bear met one late fall day on a hunting trip. Jack had a buck in his sights, 12 points he was to claim later, and was just about to shoot when there was a crashing through the woods. The deer vanished instantly
and in it's place there appeared a black bear in, according to Jack, a bad mood. The bear saw Jack and both froze for a long moment then each fled in opposite directions, flailing through the woods at full speed. It had been a narrow escape and Jack was still keeping watch over his shoulder when he stepped into the steel jawed trap. He went down and the evil device closed over his leg like a vice, nearly severing his ankle through his clothing. And there he stayed until the Sullivan boys found him, unconscious and half dead from blood loss. Jack's days at sea were over at last.

Mary moved to the mainland so she could visit him every day through the long hospital stay and in the end, he lost his leg at the knee but Jack came home in the spring. The village had built a makeshift elevator sysytem in the lighthouse and he was able to come and go with relative ease. He kept his job as lighthouse keeper until technology
installed an automated system and Mary stayed at his side. We often saw them walking along the coast road at sunset, our landlocked lighthouse keeper on crutches and his wife, both looking out to sea with a mixture of longing and relief, watching the boats coming home at the end of the day. When Jack died, Mary had him cremated and his crutches burned and took both boxes of ashes out to sea and scattered them together. The crew of every fishing boat on Long Island made the trip with her and the rest of us watched from shore as the wind carried the ashes high over the water.

We are tied to the ocean and when we go back to the sea, whether to sail or watch, we are going back from whence we came. John F. Kennedy