The Many Sources of Madness

"You can't live in this world," I heard my grandmother tell my Aunt Vi, "and not be touched by the madness."

They were sitting on the sunporch drinking manhattens and watching Willie's progress as he rearranged the rocks in the ditch at the edge of the road. "Thelma Weeks went mad just last week," Aunt Vi said, "Said that a chicken was spying on her from the henhouse so she set it on fire."

"The henhouse?" my grandmother asked, one eyebrow raised slightly.

"No," Aunt Vi said sadly, "The chicken."

My grandmother believed you had to dance around madness or it would latch onto you with an unbreakable grip. I was too young to grasp the concept of the causes - genetics, illness, alcoholism - but I did understand that it was everywhere and that there were a number of folks in the village that she referred to as "not right". Most were harmless and loosely classified as colorful or eccentric, like Willie with his rocks and multi colored hair. Inbreeding was too common to be noticed much in the isolated and sometimes desolate community. Winters were rugged and cold and villagers took their comfort when and where they found it. "Nothing that a little new blood couldn't cure." Nana would say shaking her head as Willie began the slow process of emptying the ditch with a small shovel and a shiny new aluminum bucket. "Well, " Aunt Vi said as she poured a third batch of manhattens, "You do have to admire his ability to focus."

Nana fought off madness with order and routine, neatness and self-discipline. She kept to the rules, didn't take chances and maintained her standards. She stood up to dirt, dust and disorder and railed against the evils of self indulgence,
selfishness and self pity. She trusted in will power and doing the right thing, old time values and keeping up appearances. Her only child was a profound and private disappointment to her - a bitter reversal of everything she treasured. So she concentrated on her grandchildren, on saving them and setting them on the right course. It was, at times, a task beyond her abilities, but she held the fort regardless. Nana didn't give in lightly.

"There goes Kenton again." Aunt Vi looked over her shoulder at the sight of poor Kenton, waist high in grass with a set of bagpipes around his neck. For reasons that passed understanding, Kenton would suddenly appear and begin playing every few days, the melancholy music carried all the way to Westport and even Willie stopped his ditch digging and saluted smartly. Nana gathered the makings of the manhattens and with a sigh carried them to the kitchen. The madness had been getting a little too close for comfort. "You can't let it in," she told Aunt Vi, "it'll strangle you." In my grandmother's world, the battle against madness was an everyday fight. She believed that you couldn't escape it but that you could be sure it only brushed you in passing.