No Hard Feelings: The Art of Theory & Practice

The squirrels gather late in the afternoon, chasing each other through the trees with astonishing energy and flexibility. They sometimes chatter and switch their tails menacingly as they fly from branch to branch but it's all just for show. Squirrels, I think, are competitive but pacifists at heart and their enthusiastic confrontations are vocal but non-violent. They each make their points then resume their activities with no hard feelings, no lingering resentment. Squirrels forgive and forget, they harbor no ill will.

I only speak for myself, but even the suggestion of a confrontation puts me into a tailspin of fear and anxiety. Nervous knots develop in my stomach and my ears ring, my throat closes, I feel a little sick, and my hands shake.

In my mind, a confrontation is a breeding ground - for anger, disappointment, yelling, hurt feelings and even violence. Nothing triggers my "fight or flight" instincts faster or more powerfully. My beloved friend Tricia, on the other hand,

sees an opportunity - for clearing the air, sharing ideas, finding resolutions and moving on. She's absolutely right, of course, but when experience teaches you the meaning of a word, it's difficult to accept a different definition, even if you do know better. We are all threatened by our own flaws and limitations, our own experiences, our past history and the lessons it has taught us. We need to remember that the lessons we learned are not carved in stone - they can be modified or even ignored. Like all good advice, this is easier given than followed, easier said than done. Theory and practice are very distant cousins twice removed.

In AA, they say simply - Take what you need and leave the rest.

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Anna

My great grandmother died in one of the two first floor bedrooms in the house where she had been born. She'd been sick all that summer, confined to bed, and had become querulous and demanding in her illness. She was ready to die and impatient to get on with it. She waved away food, medicine, all visitors, and refused to tolerate any effort at optimism. My grandmother sent me in to read to her and with surprising mobility, she snatched the copy of "The Water Babies" out of my hands and sent it flying against the windows before sinking back into the pillows and snapping at me, Leave me be! Her hair, free of it's coiled braids, spilled over her pillows and down onto her thin shoulders. It was entirely white now, nearly as white as her face with its deeply etched lines and creases. Beneath her skin, her veins showed at her temples and her wrists. She was like old parchment, cracked and frail and well worn, but mostly she was tired of being ill, tired of being helpless, tired of hanging on. Why doesn't He know that I'm ready? she would moan as my grandmother changed the linens and forced apple juice down her throat. Just a swallow or two, Mother, please, my grandmother would coax and the old woman would rage back at her and swat one arthritic, gnarled and swollen hand at the glass. Nana would sigh and her shoulders would sag in defeat as she left the room in tears.

My daddy, who only came for a week or two each summer, arrived in July. By then, the sickroom was kept dark and a hospital bed had been brought in. Nana had given up bringing in fresh flowers and opening the windows and there was a bad smell to the room, a combination of stale air, bedsores, infection and the old woman's waste. My daddy immediately opened the windows wide, sent me to pick wildflowers, and had my grandmother fill the old aluminum wash tub with water and gather towels and fresh sheets. He picked up the protesting old woman, slipped her nightgown over her head, laid her effortlessly in the warm water and began talking to her in a quiet, read-to-me tone of voice. He bathed her gently and washed her hair, then dried her off and wrapped her in Nana's thick, soft towels while he brushed out her hair then carried her to a regular bed by the window and laid her down.

Bright sunshine shone on the bed and the sweet smell of fresh air and just cut grass flooded in. Anna, he said softly, It's good to see you. My great grandmother opened her eyes and smiled at him.

He sat with her for several days, simply being there, sometimes stroking her withered hands or reading to her. He had brought a small tape recorder with him and he played her music every day, added blankets when she was cold, took them away when she was warm, brushed her hair every morning and watched over her while she slept. On the fourth evening, she closed her eyes and died quietly and at peace.

In the World of Cats

The black and white cat sits quietly on the dressing table, silently observing, her green eyes fixated on the sunroom windows, her front paws primly together. There is motion outside, a squirrel perhaps, or a bird seeking shelter in the crepe myrtle. She is patient, alert to the rustling sounds and moving branches, curious but not impetuous. She is a watcher, content to be a safe distance away and on the sidelines. She will not call attention to herself or make a wild scene. She will not stalk or give in to her impulse to investigate but rather sit calmly. She has gained the high ground and will maintain it unless challenged. By nature, she is wary, shy, drawn inward and cautious. She treads lightly and with soft, quick steps so as not to be noticed. She keeps her guard up at all times, just in case. But for the occasional timid meow at the sound of the can opener, I would hardly know she was here. I think at one time, we were very much alike, locked up inside ourselves and locked away from others,
too frightened of a misstep to risk any step at all. In the world of cats, this is unremarkable but in the world of humans, it makes a difference.

Lately I have been struggling with an impulse to take a backward step and return to safer ground. I dislike conflict of any sort and recently I find myself in it almost daily. I deal with it badly, allowing my feelings to be hurt by a tone of voice or a thoughtless remark, resenting the criticism and reminders of my mistakes, wanting to smash something at the next unreasonable accusation. It feels all too familiar, all too much like going home, all too much like blame. I would rather not see my own part in this - much more comfortable to assign fault to someone else. My own need to be right, to be vindicated, adds fuel to an already hostile fire.

But I do not live in the world of cats and must fight my battles on a different plane. I say a small prayer that I will not be someone who must diminish others to feel good, that I will find the strength to resist those who do, and that I will concentrate on my own faults and not those of others.

The Blue and the Gray

With a brightly colored sweatshirt in each hand, the clothing rep looked at me with dismay. Just blue and gray? he asked again and I nodded.

He had laid out a rainbow assortment of college wear - pastels and stripes, checks and plaids. There were puffed sleeves and short sleeves, baseball shirts, pullovers, hooded, crew and v necks, all in lime green, heather blue, lemon yellow and fuscia , cheery pink. There were sweatpants and socks, headbands, shorts, polo shirts and jackets. All proudly displaying the initials of the college, all in dazzling colors. I felt overwhelmed and slightly blinded by the choices. Blue and gray, I repeated firmly.

I was a dreadful clothing buyer and after a semester or two I jumped at the chance to return to school supplies. There was comfort and confidence in #2 pencils and notebooks, legal pads, paper clips, binders. The secure safeness of highlighters and folders called to me - they could be easily arranged and displayed, easily counted and inventoried, they didn't shout or challenge my fashion sense, they were simply the necessities of college life and they made for simple decisions. Each morning and evening I could walk the shelves with assurance and ease, checking that everything was in it's proper place, neatly organized and accessible. Things stacked naturally and complemented each other - unlike the chaos in the ransacked clothing area, school supplies maintained their places, patiently waiting for the inevitable buyers, knowing they would be of use. School supplies have self respect and no need to prey on the emotions of vulnerable students. They don't come into fashion then go out of style - some part of the world is always going to need pencils and paper. Unlike college textbooks, they don't go out of print and become obsolete. School supplies are trustworthy.

The artistic part of me rebels at this confined and inflexible mindset, wanting to scatter pencils all over the floor just to see what geometric pattern might emerge, but the bookkeeping part celebrates in the order, the routine, and the sameness, in the very set in stone small outlook. The artistic part wants to photograph butterflies in motion, the bookkeeping part wants to count them and assign each a cubbyhole. Maybe we are, by design, all composed of differing attitudes and emotions, intentionally kept in opposition just to keep things interesting. Or maybe the world really is as random and unpredictable as it sometimes seems.

This much I know - the world needs all sorts of people to keep working and spinning.

A Man No One Missed

Ruthie's daddy didn't call her, he whistled.

She was the child of an alcoholic and abusive father and that whistle came to have ominous meaning for us as we grew up. At the sound, she had to run for all she was worth to avoid a whipping or worse. We were allowed to be friends only because my grandmother had confronted him once and threatened him about raising his hand to her again. He was a short, balding, evil natured man with coke bottle glasses, a quick temper, and a mean streak. He spoke in a low, muttering voice, avoided eye contact and never smiled. Ruthie and her mother were terrorized by him and most of the island folk steered clear of him, not willing to risk his anger or a run in with the shotgun he kept behind the counter. He was a bully, sullen and surly when drunk, disagreeable and unpredictable when not.

Ruthie's mother, a tall and heavy set woman with a frail nature, seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was always weary, beaten down by years of overwork and abuse. She cooked and cleaned, tended the store, saw to the bills, kept the yard, took in other peoples ironing, made sure everything was exactly to her husband's liking. On Sundays, she sang in the choir and taught Sunday school and did her best to pretend that her life was normal. No one interfered. Ruthie helped out at home and at the store and her childhood slipped away slowly bit by bit. At seventeen, she married and fled to the mainland. She never spoke of her parents, never took her children to see them or invited them into her home. She had gotten out and out she was determined to stay.

Her mother died first, a cold turned into the flu and the flu turned into pneumonia which went untreated for several weeks. By the time her husband allowed a doctor in, it was too late and she spent another week or so in bed before not waking up morning. After the store had not opened for several days, curious neighbors went to the house to find a scene straight out of a crime drama show - a bedroom littered with trash and empty whiskey bottles, a dead woman, and a husband passed out cold, lying on the bed next to her. John Sullivan built a coffin out of pine and there was a small graveside service that Ruthie did not attend although a few days later, a wreath of flowers appeared on the grave. The ferrymen talked of a woman in a black dress with a black veil who came and went almost unnoticed that same day. Not long after, a lobsterman dredged Ruthie's father's body from the cove just past the store. He was quickly and quietly taken to Peter's Island, a spit of land that served as home for the lighthouse. There was no ceremony and no marker and soon the weeds and vines overtook the grave and it was forgotten. His shotgun was never found and the death was never reported.

My grandmother heard the news and was unmoved. Sometimes, she said, all you can do is bury the past and move on.

Violet's Summer Romance

Eventually, all the girls fell in love with Lonnie Haynes.

He arrived each summer from New York - tall, blond, tousled and good looking - a guitar case and a dozen cartons of American cigarettes in tow. He stayed with his mother's sisters and did odd jobs, everything from painting to carpentry and assorted small home repairs. He worked mostly outside and mostly shirtless and within a week had become tanned and trim. He was what my grandmother called a heartthrob, educated, articulate, charming, irresistible and utterly wicked, a womanizer with no morals, a snake oil salesman with no conscience. He had his pick of every girl on the island and the summer he was seventeen, he chose Violet, the banker's daughter.

She was an only child, a pretty, petite brunette with a passion for music and books. They became inseparable - each day she would pack him a basket lunch and deliver it to him when the noon whistle blew and they would picnic in the side yard. They went to the weekly movie and stayed for the dance, waltzing around the old sawdust covered floor and necking in the corner of the dance hall. Sundays they walked to church together hand in hand and afterward they went swimming in the cove. Violet collected all manner of shells and Lonnie picked through the driftwood, searching for pieces he could carve into small creations - pipes, bookends, picture frames. At sunset, they gathered their things and he walked her home along the Old Road.

Only a matter of time, the village said, before Lonnie returned to New York and Violet would be left to face a cold winter, alone and heartbroken. But no one had the heart to intervene and risk her romance, even her banker father kept his tightlipped silence about the inevitable pain everyone was predicting for his child. Only when Labor Day came, Lonnie didn't leave. He stayed all September and all October and it was mid-November before he packed his guitar and early one gray morning caught the ferry to the mainland. He had proposed, he told Mac, offered to stay on the island or take her back to New York, whatever she wanted, and she had said no. She had offered no explantion, no apology, just kissed him and said no.

Who had really picked who, the island wondered.

Saponification

All I needed was a simple bar of soap.

Thinking that the drugstore might be quicker than the local grocery for a single item, I ducked into the corner Walgreen's. In the skin care section there was a dazzling array of products - face wash, body wash, face and body wash, moisturizer, toner, astringent, pore decreasing cream, blackhead and acne remedies - but no soap. Soap was consigned to the grocery area, just below the paper goods, and as I reached for the first bar of Dove I saw, I stopped in utter amazement. I had stumbled into soap heaven.

There was soap for dry skin, oily skin, sensitive skin. There was moisturizing soap, soap on a rope, exfoliating soap, pink soap, white soap, deordorant soap, cool mint soap, herbal soap, garden fresh soap, fragrance free soap and scented soap, too numerous to mention. I looked for so long that the very word soap stopped making sense and began to look like a misspelling. Shaking myself out of this soap shock, I reached for the closest bar of Dove (one quarter cleansing cream) and fled to the cash register.

Let's be clear. We're talking about soap, not trade agreements or rocket propulsion. There shouldn't be anything complicated about soap, just add water and rinse and you're done. Do soap manufacturers think that consumers are really that stupid? Or have we become so concerned with outer appearances that we think we need this kind of soap variety? For a second I considered buying one of each kind and comparing ingredients just to discover what subtle differences there might be but I dismissed this idea as suspiciously cynical. This was, after all, just soap and it didn't rate that much of an investment of my time or cash.

Still, this extravagant selection of soap got me to thinking about how simple - if not limited - most of my choices really are. Lie or tell the truth, wear blue or gray, sandals or closed toes, pepperoni or plain, cash or charge, be on time or be

late - watch Special Victims or Criminal Intent, regular or high test, crispy or original. Even the serious choices are easy
when you get right down to it. Fight or give up, accept or deny, move on or be stuck. None of these decisions involve the complexity of soap, of course, but then what does.

Buyer beware, there is no longer any such thing as a simple bar of soap.

Small Lies

When my mother was away, my daddy often made Sunday breakfast - warmed up steak from the night before and baked beans with butter. We ate from plastic plates and sat at the small wooden table by the back kitchen door. If there'd been baked potatoes the night before, he'd reheat them and we'd peel away the skins and spread them with butter and sugar. Some Sundays he even let us skip church in favor of a game of Scrabble, provided we all swore not to tell. He said it was a small lie and that what she didn't know couldn't hurt her.

There were a great many small lies told out of good intentions. If caught, he always took the blame, if not, we had secrets to bring us closer. The small lies soon became so routine that we thought nothing of telling them. Always keep it simple, he taught us, don't improvise or overdo it or she'll know. Nothing about this even seemed strange to us or wrong. It wasn't like stealing or doing any real harm, it was just small lies to keep the peace and keep us safe. Remember, he warned us, you're only allowed to lie to your mother and only about small things

My grandmother exploded at this, slamming her fist on the table with each word she said that a lie was a lie,no matter who tells it and no matter why. She and my daddy argued incessantly over it

but she never did speak of it to my mother and in the end, she saw the logic and bitterly gave up the fight, predicting dire consequences for all of us but understanding. She refused to condone the lies, but also refused to expose them. It was as much of a compromise as she could live with.

.

Might As Well Dance

When Mozart was my age, Tom Lehrer said, He'd been dead for three years.

In another year, I will turn sixty, an age I once considered tragic, ancient, and impossible to attain. An age of paper mache skin, blue rinses, sensible shoes and fractured hips, an age where there was nothing to discuss but health risks, offensive music, pharmaceuticals and medicare. Sixty was my grandmother with her face powder and aprons, sixty was wisdom, sixty was decrepit and just plain one foot in the grave old. How foolish we are when we are so young.

I look in the mirror and see an all of five foot tall, slightly overweight redhead in bluejeans, tee shirt,

running shoes and tri-focals. This is not sixty, not even close, and I can't quite make sense of it. I know how old I am, the evidence is in the circles under my eyes, the loss of strength in my hands, the absent mindedness, the fact that when I kneel to take a picture, I have to reach for something to get back up again. My memory, which still holds the entire score to "The Music Man", can't come up with what I had for breakfast and without a list I can't function or get much done. I can't see without my glasses, all but five of my natural teeth have gone the way of all flesh, and if I sit cross legged for more than a minute or two, I can't walk. But this is still not sixty. Sixty is permed hair and glasses on a chain, sixty is walking with a cane, sixty is stout and heavy sighs when you sit. Sixty is face lifts, clip earrings, indigestion, slowing down, support hose and fiber.

And yet, here I am. Age, I tell myself, is between your ears, a state of mind not appearance, a matter of attitude not chronology. I often read Jenny Joseph's poem that begins "When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple ....." . I am coming to realize that sixty is not only me, sixty is being free.

Life may not be the party we expected, but as long as we're here, we might as well dance.

Anonymous

Always A Bride

The more you marry, my cousin Rachel said to me, the better you get at it.

She was about to make her fourth trip to the altar. The small country church was decorated with wildflowers and candles and the scent of potpourri was almost overwhelming. Rachel was glowing in her pale blue silk dress and a single strand of pearls, her auburn hair artfully arranged so that it framed her face carelessly and hid the scars behind her ears. She was humming softly as she drew on her gloves, checked her makeup, and pulled down her veil. Nervous is for newlyweds, she advised me with a smile.

She had married at sixteen, twenty-two and thirty and I had watched her progression from teenage bride to grown married woman with awe. She had, so she claimed, loved them all but she was easily bored, restless for the next adventure, always curious about the next man. Her divorces had been amicable as she had invested so little in each marriage, and her husbands seemed to understand and accept her butterfly ways. She had always been financially independent having worked since she was twelve at her daddy's lumber mill and inherited it when he died. She was intentionally childless, declaring that no one had the right to produce children then leave them behind like discarded candy wrappers. Life, she said seriously, is too short to be tethered. Her mother shook her head in despair at this remark by her child. They loved each other and had always gotten along well but in many ways they were strangers, as if Rachel were the product of some anonymous, unremembered fling. Her mother took the "til death do you part" of the wedding ceremony literally while Rachel visibly cringed each time the words were spoken.

The day after her 42nd birthday, Rachel slipped out of bed and onto a plane for Reno. The divorce was finalized before her husband realized she wasn't coming back and when served, he gracefully packed his things and cleared out. She had always made it a point to marry the kind of man who would return her freedom before she asked and without a trace of bitterness or acrimony. A year or so later, she came home again, announcing that she had met her next husband and would be married the following spring. Her mother wept and the minister was appalled but again the small church was readied, a dress was chosen, a wedding party planned, and Rachel took her vows in a standing room only service on a sunny Saturday morning in June. She had just turned fifty. After that, there were three additional weddings, when she was fifty-six, sixty-one and finally, 70. Eight husbands in all, a record by almost standard.

When Rachel died and her house was cleaned out and put up for sale, we found eight photo albums and eight diaries. She had meticulously kept a separate and detailed account of each of her marriages, complete with pictures. In her last diary, she had written of growing old, of her few regrets, her many adventures, her husbands, and her own feelings. I was meant to be a bride, never a wife.

The Honor System

There was no sign indicating that Frank Elliott operated a tiny store off his back porch. You either knew it was there or you didn't.

It was the size of a closet - a cooler filled with bottles of Orange Crush and ginger ice cream took up all of one wall and there was one counter above which Frank had hung a half dozen shelves and laid out Jersey Milk chocolate bars, Players Cigarettes and several jars of penny candy. His limited inventory appealed to the children and since he couldn't always be there, he kept a cigar box filled with coins within easy reach. You were expected to pay your way and make your change, all on the honor system. A small stepladder was kept behind the door for those that couldn't reach the shelves and woe to any child who didn't replace it - Frank's wife Thelma had once tripped over it and badly bruised her hip, an event she liked to replay for him on a daily basis. Keeping watch over it all was an overstuffed and ill tempered old tomcat who spent his time sleeping on the window sill and hissing at any child who dared approach him. It was said that he was there to enforce the honor system, that he could count out change himself and as he watched our every movement, his tail switched warningly, and a low growl, laced with hostility and menace filled the young customers with respect and honesty. He had never been given a name and we all thought of him as just THE CAT but always in capital letters.

There was hardly a better way to wind up a hot summer afternoon then a stop at Frank Elliott's store as we made our way home - we'd be fussed at for ruining our suppers, no two ways about it, but the sweet orange soda and the tart ice cream were worth it. We 'd cut across the Sullivan's fields, grass so high it was over our heads and so strong that it closed in after us, leaving no mark of our passing, and providing good cover for a quick game of tag.

The late afternoon breeze carried our laughter all the way to the ocean and beyond and we emerged from the waving fields just below Uncle Shad's back garden and just above our driveway. We'd run the rest of the way, downhill and at a fierce pace as the dogs woke and began racing toward us in welcome. My grandmother stands at the backdoor, one hand shading her eyes and smiling. Can Ruthie stay to supper? I yell and she nods and waves to us.

When I remember those days, I ache for one more summer, one more season of childhood and wild grass, freedom and ginger ice cream.

Mama Cat

I wish I had the street smarts of Mama Cat.

She has been with us for over seven years, a thin, black and white short haired cat who lives on the streets, prowling the alleys for food and drinking out of mudpuddles. She had her latest litter of four about six weeks ago and they follow her everywhere, tumbling unsteadily on their feet, paying attention to all that she teaches, preparing to take their places in the unnoticed and unwanted world of strays. I hope they will be survivors. Out of pity for the kittens and much against our better judgment, we have begun putting out food and water for her - she is feral and depends on her instincts but the little ones are too young to survive on their own.

A cat's instincts are to be respected. Mama knows where there is shelter and high ground, she knows not to cross the street, to steer clear of dogs, to be wary of humans. She hunts alone, a picture of stealth and determination as she slinks through the high grass undetected by her prey. She sleeps in the patches of sun but always alert for danger. You can't sneak up on her no matter how softly you walk and if attacked or confronted, she will fight only in self defense or to protect her young. She birthed her babies alone and cares for them alone and when they are old enough, she will inevitably turn them out to begin their own lives, tentative and as uncertain as they may be. Just as her life is a day to day struggle, so will their's be.

The difference between her and us is that she will move on, to the next meal, the next tomcat, the next litter. She has likely never known a gentle touch and likely never will but she has her priorities in order and her kittens will no longer be on her list. Mama Cat will tend to her own needs, mind her own business, and move on down the line.

When I Fail, I Feel Guilty

Among my character flaws - and there are more than a handful - is a leftover need to please other people. When I fail, I feel guilty.

If I'm not to blame, I also feel put upon, unfairly judged and diminished. It's classic co-dependence. The world seems to consist of just two types of people, those who are always trying to please and those who can never be pleased and by some grand design, these two types are naturally drawn together in families and relationships and in the workplace. They cannot help but be at constant odds. While one hands out fault, the other naturally accepts it - one could not work without the other. It makes for a well fitting partnership but it also breeds resentment and inevitable confrontations.

Growing up and later marrying into alcoholism taught me that when things went wrong, I was to blame. If I hadn't done something outright wrong, then I hadn't done something right enough and either way, it was my fault. We all need and seek approval - if it's withheld, we just try harder and the more it's withheld, the more we fail. Like a washing machine stuck on the rinse cycle, we go round and round without resolution.

Today I will try to remember this.

Steps

From the moment they come into this world, children are on the road to being set free and mothers travel with them, guiding, protecting, teaching, preparing and losing sight of the inevitable separation in the very process of being a mother. As plans go, it could use a little work - all those years invested only to have to let go. My oldest friend currently stands on the brink of this separation. As her beloved daughter readies herself for high school graduation, one last summer, and then college, she writes of her conflicted emotions - deepening sadness, elation, awesome pride, joy at how this beautiful child has turned out, melancholy over the about-to-be changes, resignation, acceptance. Each step she has taken with her daughter has brought her closer to this point of happiness and sadness and while part of her wants to stand back and watch her child fly, another part aches at the thought of letting her go. Her life is about to undergo a radical change and she is easily brought to tears.

She will face this with a brave smile and a hug, knowing she has no real choice in the matter. This is what parenting is about, bringing forth a child and then doing the best you can to ready them for an independent life. She will step back as her daughter takes the stage, step back and let go, but she will never be far away. She will miss her terribly and her house may seem empty but she will not give in. She loves her child with all her heart, she has raised her well, and she's ready, if not willing, to see her go.

It's ironic how in every ending, sometimes clearly displayed but more often well hidden, there's a beginning. We have to search for it, mostly in ourselves and even finding it can be only a temporary distraction but we embrace it because any distraction can take our minds off the sadness, even if only for a few brief moments. This mother and daughter will be separated but only by geography - they are each about to set sail on new and unchartered waters - the ties that bind them may pull and stretch but they'll hold. There is great love and understanding between them and the sadness will ease, no match for the joy of a new journey. All time with those we love is bittersweet.

The Power of a Two by Four

When a real friend hits you with a two by four to get your attention, it's for your own good. I have such a friend, willing to risk telling me the truth, point out when I'm wrong, show me the other side of my complaints. I do my best to listen and absorb because I love her, I trust her insights, and because she sees the things that I don't or refuse to. We talk often about human behavior and motivation, dynamics of relationships, power and control, the day to day issues of communication, all the things that go into surviving day to day living without suffering an emotional meltdown. We come from diametrically opposed places and upbringings and we see things quite differently - it is, perhaps, one of the cornerstones of our friendship. We are both fascinated by the inner workings of people, how they act and interact, why they behave as they do, and how they so often go wrong with or without the best of intentions. Such exchanges could easily turn into arguments with hurt feelings or anger, but they never do. We discuss and explore and use personal examples or shared experiences to demonstrate a point and if enough time passes and we are both listening, we are better and stronger for it. We recognize that not every fault can be fixed and our very disagreements make us closer friends. By design or nature, we stay away from the labels of right and wrong or good and bad, concentrating instead on cause and effect, reasonable and unreasonable expectations, and how awareness is the first step to understanding. We do this is very real terms and straightforward language, mostly but not always tempered by tact and carefulness of the the other's feelings.
There are times when a two by four is needed to break through my natural stubbornness or her natural southern ladyness. I think real friends are designed to make each other a little crazy at times.

To The Manor Born

My ex-husband has become hearty - almost an exact replica of his father. My jaw dropped at the sight of him holding forth in the kitchen of a friend, wine glass in hand, one arm draped over his latest wife, looking all the world like the wildly successful businessman his father had become. His voice drowned out other conversation, his laughter positively thundered though I sensed a false undertone in his expansive smile, he seemed to be in a spotlight of his own design. Gone was the rail-thin, long haired, defiant boy from the 60's, gone the determined, slightly unsure of himself young man from the 70's, gone the independent, older but wiser ad exec of the 80's. This was a stranger - extravagantly well fed, expensively dressed, perfectly groomed. His slim and tailored wife stood by his side, bejeweled and smiling, a poster girl for the junior league with perfect posture, proper shoes and understated makeup. Together, they gave off an aura of wealth, arrogance, dismissiveness, and self appointed royalty. I didn't recognize either of the people they had become and I wasn't comfortable around them.

Some marriages will swallow you whole without the slightest warning. I had married a family and a lifestyle as well as a man and we were a poor fit. I knew this early on, somehow sensing almost from the beginning that I would never quite measure up to the expectations of wealth but believing that geography would keep me safe, trusting that a family kept apart by distance would not be that great a threat. We were young and in love and committed to a path in natural opposition to his family - we rejected their status, their values, their social standing, and their money. We wanted to be ordinary and make a difference in a quiet way. After several years of marriage, we came south, believing that we could maintain our independence and identities within the family. But integrity is no match for power and once back in the south, the seduction took hardly any effort.

It was hard to reconcile the man standing before me - the essence of success and power and condescension - with the boy I had once known and loved for his gentleness and rebel ways and determination never to sell out. The boy who had loved me and kittens, the boy who protested the war and hawked an underground paper on Cambridge street corners, the boy who had loved wearing torn bluejeans and beads and fighting for lost, liberal causes. The boy who had fought his raising for so long had lost the battle. And so I watched him, orating in an overly loud voice, smiling too broadly, reveling in his sense of self and being the center of attention and I grieved for the boy he had been and the man he had become. And I wondered which, if either, was real.