A Labor for Love

She ain't much, Daniel admitted to my grandmother, but she's all mine.

Nana wiped her hands on her apron and walked a slow, careful circle around the old Chevy. It was rusted in several places, the upholstery was torn and ragged, none of the tires matched and the paint was flaking. There was a strong smell of exhaust around it, one headlight and both brake lights were shattered and the antenna hung by a thin thread of wire. Nana poked and prodded, cautiously opened one of the doors and peered in, ran her hands over the dash and steering wheel, adjusted the side mirrors. She'll do fine, she told Daniel with a smile, she'll do just fine. Daniel gave a loud victory whoop and without warning grabbed my grandmother around the waist and hugged her tightly. Go on with you, she said as she struggled out of his grip and playfully slapped at his hands, Best put her in the garage. Daniel nodded and managed to push the old wreck inside where it sat side by side her grand old Lincoln, a study in contrasts if ever there was one.

He worked on the car every day the remainder of the summer, coming in the early evening and staying well past dark. He sanded, primed and painted, replaced every worn out part, washed, waxed, rebuilt the engine, drained and replaced every fluid. He did it all by hand and lantern light, patiently and meticulously. Nana sometimes brought him sandwiches and cold bottles of Orange Crush as he worked and after a few weeks had passed, she took him an old battery powered radio along with a bucket of soap and water and an armful of clean towels. He thanked her regularly and kept working. What in the name of God is all this about? my mother demanded but Nana would say nothing save that Daniel had needed a place to work on the car and she had volunteered the garage space. If anyone else in the small village knew anything, much to my mother's frustration, they weren't talking either. Until one mid-August night when Daniel arrived at the back door in an ill fitting suit, shabby but clean shirt and tie, freshly shaved and smelling of Old Spice and ginger hair tonic. He produced a bouquet of flowers and wild asparagus for my grandmother and then shyly led us all out to the garage.

The old Chevy had been transformed and it shone in the late evening light. When Daniel turned the key, it sprung to life instantly, smoke free and vibration free, purring like the proverbial kitten and gliding smoothly out onto the backyard. The paint was fire engine red with matching velvet upholstery and every inch of chrome glistened and gleamed. Even the radio worked - we could hear Curt Gowdy's raspy voice doing the play by play of a baseball game all the way from Fenway Park. Daniel was beside himself as he showed my grandmother the rear vanity plate that read simply "4ALICE".

A Sunday or two later, Daniel's daddy, Davidson, and his mother, Alice, who had as the saying goes, lived for over 30 years without benefit of marriage, were wed in the small village church. Amid tears and and a hailstorm of rice, they drove off in a fire engine red '57 Chevy.

Turning Back the Clock

The small brown dog scurries for the warmth of her heating pad on this cold, rainy November day. She curls up in a tight, little ball, shivering from the cold rain and I dry her off while she whimpers and watches me with desperate eyes. She's a sunshine dog and hates this time of year when the air turns cold and the skies gray, the flowers dead and the trees barren to the bone. The holiday season is here and she wants to turn back the clock to July.

Christmas lights are in windows and the downtown streets are littered with wreaths on every lamp post and decorations in every doorway. The rescue mission is busy feeding and sheltering the homeless and the stores open at 4am to entice shoppers - they push and shove their way through, mindless of courtesy and rigidly focused on the concept of first come, first serve. It's a weary time, a materialistic, greedy, me-first time and the holiday spirit is lost in the crowds. The church bells ring out Christmas carols but no one listens and they become just so much noise. I'm often accused of being a grinch this time of year and to an extent it's true - holidays get in the way of my routines and disrupt my carefully constructed schedules. Except for the music, I find that I would more and more like to bypass them entirely and go straight from October to January. The prospect of a new year and a fresh start always appeals to the optimist in me while the holidays seem to bring out my worst side - impatience,
cynicism, bad temper, all the leftover emotions from a burdensome childhood. They're over and done with and it's past time to move on yet they still randomly ambush me, often when I least expect it and the joy of the season remains just out of reach.

So like the small brown dog, I scurry for my own heating pad and wait out the chill.

I'm an old backslider,
In a pit of sin,
I try to climb out,
and fall back in.

Greg Brown

Food for Thought

My Louisiana born and raised husband looked at the thanksgiving table with surprise and dismay - candied yams, mashed potatoes, onions in cream sauce, sweet peas, thick brown gravy in a silver gravy boat and the inevitable platter of olives and celery. No rice? he asked me in a low voice, no greens? And where are the biscuits and the oyster dressing and the grits? My grandmother overheard and laughed out loud as she directed him to a seat, This is New England, home of the first thanksgiving, so sit and eat, she told him firmly.

My memories of Thanksgiving range from my grandmother's elegant table to a noisy, crowded restaurant after she died, to rickety card tables and frozen vegetables at my mother's. We celebrated it because it was a traditional holiday but there was precious little giving thanks and I was always relieved when it was over. My first holiday dinner with my husband's family was like going back in time - a table set with snowy linens and gleaming silver, crystal wine and water glasses, candles. The food was different but the effect was the same - I couldn't wait to get away.

Family holidays annoy me.

Aunt Annie's Spells

Back in the forbidden woods, there was a tumble down shack in a small clearing where the sun rarely reached. Vines grew randomly up the walls, over the roof and chimney and down to the door. It was a dark place, smoky and green and damp with vegetation and rotted wood. It was home to Aunt Annie, the one eyed fortune teller.

She was an ancient, gypsy-ish woman, a crone some said, who favored long skirts and peasant blouses. She was usually barefoot and wore garlands of dried woven leaves, pelts, silver hoop earrings. Her hair reached to her waist in an untamed mane of silver and black and she walked with a cane, made so the folklore said, of human bones. She had one good eye and an empty socket for the other but she saw better than most as she read tea leaves and tarot cards and examined our palms with a cackle, predicting fame and fortune, long life, love and tragedy, sorrows and redemption. She sold charms and potions and for the right price would cast a spell to turn unrequited love around or improve the harvest. It was rumored that she could churn the ocean into a hurricane with a few words, cause or cure illness, improve the harvest, even wake the dead if she were of a mind to but when we brought her the little fox that had been caught in a trap, she shook her head and talked to us of all living creatures having a time and a season. She took the small animal from us almost reverently and said she would tend it to God - we watched in awe as she laid the body on her kitchen table, combed out it's fur and washed off the blood, then gently wrapped it in old linens and placed it in a scarred wooden box with sea shells and dried flowers. We buried the little creature in her yard at the edge of the trees and Annie knelt at it's grave and said magic words to help guide it to heaven. Then with a snarl, she took the evil trap and cast a spell on it so that it would never harm another of God's creatures and she hammered it to a misshapen mass of metal and hung it on a tree - a warning, she told us, and a protection against evil and she spit on the ground then looked upward and muttered, Make it so. She stood like a statue, her skirts blowing in the damp breeze and her arms raised to heaven, her hair swirling around her shoulders and in a clear, strong voice she ordered, Make it so! The wind seemed to die down instantly and she lowered her arms and leaned heavily on her cane as she turned toward her shack and began to limp her way toward it, an old one eyed woman who lived alone in the forbidden woods with her spells and magic charms and nature for company. And sometimes with a handful of wide eyed children to comfort and teach.

Same Old Song

He sat in a corner booth, feeding nickels to the juke box and blowing smoke rings into air already saturated with a blue haze. The sweet strains of Patsy Kline's "Crazy" played over and over again and he leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, one hand keeping steady time to the melancholy music. A bottle of whiskey sat within easy reach and other customers kept their distance. He kept his silence and no one tried to speak to him. It was just shy of three am on a cold Sunday morning in a small Texas town and we had found the all night diner by accident, it's neon lights a welcome change from the endless flatlands and empty roads between us and home. The waitress with the dark eyebrows and platinum hair brought lukewarm coffee and lackluster apple pie and made no attempt at conversation. The place smelled of fried eggs and grease, hard luck and heartbreak, desolation and despair. It was stale, defeated and defiantly mediocre.

He looked a little like a cowboy - faded jeans with a silver belt buckle, denim jacket frayed at the collar and cuffs, well worn muddy boots. His hair was wavy and dark with just the beginnings of silver in his sideburns, a leather banded watch adorned with turquoise was on one wrist and his hands and face were well tanned and deeply lined.
There were dark circles under his eyes and a phrase my grandmother had used came to mind - he looked as if he'd been rode hard and put up wet. The waitress glanced his way regularly but approached only to empty the ashtray or bring a clean glass. She didn't speak and he didn't seem to notice but I sensed she knew him well enough to not violate his space or interrupt his mood and I also somehow suspected that she would have protected him from anyone else doing so.

We ate the indifferent food, smoked, paid and left, heading for the next forty miles of bad road, hoping to be home before sunrise. Patsy Kline was still singing about the price of lost love and the highbeams cut cleanly through the Texas darkness like jackrabbits on the move through the cactus. I fell asleep to the rhythm of the road and by the time I woke the lights of Dallas were behind us and I wasn't sure whether I'd dreamed the diner and the cowboy or if it had actually happened.

The Medicine Show Man

My grandmother - a rock of respectablity, the east coast distributor of common sense and hard work, a woman grounded in reality like cement - succumbed to the wiles of Doctor Will, the medicine show man.

I was playing jacks on the side porch when the rattletrap old cart pulled up and turned into our long, descending driveway. The cart was brightly painted with all manner of pots and pans and utensils dangling from every corner and pulled by a grey horse with an enormous peacock feather attached to her bridle. She pranced down the gravel drive, head up proudly, the silver bells on her harness jingling with each step. There were even leather bands with bells attached to her hooves and she stepped delicately as if dancing. The man driving was wearing a top hat and a wide smile, red suspenders over a white shirt with ruffles and flowing sultan-like pants. I half expected to see a parade of munchkins following behind or at the very least, circus clowns. Horse and cart reached the end of the driveway and the dogs erupted from behind the screen door, followed closely by my grandmother, bowl of bread dough and wooden spoon in hand. She was scowling and clearly unhappy with the interruption of her morning baking and hushed the dogs impatiently. The little man tied the reins and jumped briskly to the ground, gave her a low bow and tipped his hat. Top of the mornin' to you, Missus! he exclaimed in a cheerful imitation Irish brogue, Dr. WIlliam Gentry McClean at your command!

My grandmother lowered her glasses at him suspiciously and then glanced at me. Close your mouth, child, she said sharply, You'll catch flies. She set the mixing bowl on the edge of the woodbox and approached the cart, wiping her hands on her apron and peering over her glasses at the silver-ish mare now grazing peacefully on the back lawn. She inspected the horse briefly, seemed to approve, then slowly made her way all around the cart, reading aloud as she went. HERBS AND POTIONS....ALL NATURAL TONICS ....THE LATEST IN MODERN MEDICINES AND PILLS.... KITCHENWARE......REMEDIES FOR WHATEVER AILS YOU .....LADIES PARASOLS ......MAGIC GROWTH OIL ....LINIMENTS ....DR. WILLIAM GENTRY MCCLEAN'S MAGIC MEDICINES CURE ALL!!!!

Then to my astonishment, my no-nonsense, stoutly republican, totally down to earth grandmother was captivated and in an accent equal to his own asked And what is it you'll be havin' in your coffee this fine mornin', doctor? and taking his arm, she led him toward the house. Speechless and slackjawed, I trailed after them. Nana made coffee and sliced fresh bread, offered her newly made apple butter and even packed a lunch, adding a small bottle of brandy as as afterthought. She bought pots and pans, new knives, several homemade remedies, and an assortment of liniments for an assortment of ailments from gout to indigestion. Dr. Will accepted her gifts graciously and took her money with a kiss to her hand then climbed aboard his cart and with a whistle to the grey mare, drove smartly away.

He never returned and Nana made no mention of him that night or any other but in my heart I knew that he had been a wizard from a far off magic land and that somehow he had put stars in her eyes and beguiled her.

Re-Connections

Before voice mail and all night television, before I knew what a fax tone was or took offense at the customer who said he was looking for a mouse, before ipods and dvd's and wiper blades that talk to brakes and remote controls for everything and anything, before all of that changed every aspect of our lives, there were books to read and letters to write. It was easy to lose touch. I always meant to stay a proper correspondent but eventually drifted away from writing except for the occasional birthday or Christmas card, hastily scribbled and thrown in the mail at the last minute. Time management took on new meaning in my everyday life and I began running just to keep in place. During that time, I lost touch with old friends and what little family I had left - lost touch and almost lost interest being swept up in my own troubles and struggles and survival. It pains me to admit it, but technology brought me back. Recently I saw an author talking about technology and the state of society, saying that those people who were anti-technology were bound to be depressed because we are a world being propelled into an ever more technological way of life. There is no longer any element of choice about it - adapt or perish.

Though she is well over 2,000 miles away, I was able to re-connect with a friend I have known literally my entire life. And though she is less than 5 minutes away, I have re-connected with a friend I rarely see. Both are precious to me. But mostly I have re-connected with my cousin, Linda, now living in Florida and up to her ears in caregiving and health problems. She is for all intents and purposes, the only family I have left and for years was the only one who stood by me and kept in touch, kept forgiving and understanding, kept caring and showing it, amid her own battles and her own burdens.

In some ways, we live almost in opposition. I am a straight, twice divorced woman living alone with only the responsibilities of a houseful of animals to contend with. She is a gay, 30 years with the same partner, woman whose same sex marriage is not even recognized, caring for an elderly and frail father-in-law and facing potential life threatening issues of health. She was a librarian her entire life, working in schools and prisons and on advisory boards while I have flitted from career to career as needed. She reads and studies serious books while I escape with Stephen King novels. She takes yoga and meditates to feed her soul while I eat chocolate and write nonsense stories. She has spent her life in and out of hospitals, overcoming one adversity after another while I have taken my life mostly for granted. She has known and loved her family and been loved in return while I retaliated. She has her faith and I have my doubt but we both trust in some sort of higher than ourselves power. We share a deep and abiding love of four footed creatures, of music, of independence. Thanks to technology, whatever distance there may be between us has become just geography.

I wonder if I've ever told her thank you.

Waiting for Angels

She is painfully thin and has taken to sleeping in odd and out of the way places. There is a sadness in her eyes that brings tears to mine and her coat has lost it's shine and sleekness. She is old, tired, and I think she understands that her time is nearly over. I stroke her rough fur, feeling her shoulder bones and ribs easily and she nuzzles against me but struggles against being held. She is tender, fragile, slightly unsteady on her feet. She no longer shares my pillow and I find I miss her warmth and purring. I give her the new prescription food and she looks at me and protests softly then eats a small amount before retreating back to a corner of the counter. She withdraws and sleeps but her breathing is slightly ragged and her rest is an effort. Hours later she is still in the exact same place and I reach for her with shaking hands, terrified that she will have given up while praying that God will have taken her while I was away. I find no conflict in this - I am mostly angry at myself that I cannot find the courage quite yet to end her suffering. I gather her up in an old blanket and carry her to the sunroom, speaking softly and reassuring her with every step and she burrows under the folds of the fabric and closes her eyes, her head resting against my arm, her frail body curled into itself. I lean back in the old leather chair and watch the shafts of afternoon sunlight play over her. The other cats keep a respectful distance and even the dogs are content to watch from the threshold - curious but sensing that this is a time for quiet, they lie together, watching and waiting. She stirs, opens her eyes for a second or two then lays her head back down. I'm overwhelmed with a longing to hug her and my heart hurts that I can't without causing her pain. So we sit in the leather chair, this old cat and I, warmed by the sunshine and waiting for night, waiting for peace, waiting for deliverance and angels. The angels do not come this night and by morning, she is still with me and hungry. She stretches, wanting down, and I set her on the carpet gently. Although shaky and unsure, she walks slowly and carefully toward the kitchen and the other animals follow, unnaturally subdued and quiet for this time of day, letting her lead without protest or interference. I've seen this before and I know it's the kind of small miracle that only happens when one of them is dying - otherwise I'd be grateful for the silence.

I lift her onto the breakfast table, pour fresh water in her bowl and food in her dish. She sits and eats a spoonful or so

and I try and coax a little more but she refuses. She cleans her face and paws and settles herself, precariously I think, on top of the breadbox. In seconds her eyes are closed and she's asleep. We have another day. We are waiting for angels but dreading them as well.

Leftovers

Colored lights were strung through the trees overhanging the patio of the small Mexican restaurant and the sound of the blues cut sharply through the crisp, clear night. The tables were littered with the remains of spicy dinners and unfinished pitchers of bloody marys - it was a night for sweaters and light jackets and on the sidewalk watching was an old, black man in a faded baseball cap, clutching a pile of blankets to his chest. The harmonica began a solo of an old Jimmy Reed tune and the old man grinned widely. Someone called to him to come on in and he came immediately, settling himself and his blankets at a table a foot or so from the band, his face alive with delight at the music, his hands and feet keeping the beat. During the break he asked to sit in and was welcomed.

His scratchy voice was behind the vocals and he only knew bits and pieces of the lyrics but he was transformed to be a part of the music and everyone tolerated the fact that he clearly hadn't bathed in days or weeks.

Music speaks to us all, moves us all, cares not for our station in life or our circumstances. Music reaches us all equally and differently. It revives memories, it heals, it brings us together and often keeps us together. Music can build bridges and through it we can find common ground.

While the band broke down and packed up, their audience said their goodnights and began drifting toward the parking lot. We were all going in different directions, it seemed, but all had shared the music. The old black man gathered his blankets and produced a plastic bag from one of his pockets into which he scraped off the remains of the dinners and then emptied all the leftover nacho chips into another pocket. Waving and shouting goodbye, he made his way down the sidewalk toward a poor section of town, leaving a trail of chips like breadcrumbs behind him. I watched him walk away and though I smiled, I felt a sadness for him.

Flowers for a Lady

The fog began to lift just before noon and as Westport slowly began to come into view, the sun began to shine on the water and a rainbow appeared high in the sky. The ferry slip and the church spire were visible and soon all the brightly painted little houses could be seen. The fog seemed to melt away and the fishing boats appeared, rocking and bobbing on the tide. Gulls were flying over head again and in a matter of minutes the entire island could be seen across the mile wide passage.

Earlier that morning the fog had been so thick that we couldn't see the road from the sunporch and Nana had been grumbling about not being able to hang the wash. Now, I could hear her humming as she hauled the old wringer washer to the kitchen sink and began to fill it with water. My brothers were playing cards in the corner, a vicious sounding game of spades, and I was in Nana's window chair with an illustrated copy of "The Waterbabies" in my lap. My mother was changing beds in the upstairs and I could hear her randomly cursing the bed corners and the linens and chasing the dogs off the bedclothes with impatient stamps of her feet. Willie Foote arrived at the sideporch door unseen and began pounding on the door with one untied, muddy boot - my book fell to the floor, the cards went flying into the air in all directions, and the dogs descended the stairs in a rush of tumbling and hysterical barking. Willie began hopping up and down on one foot, delighted with all the commotion he had unwittingly caused, wildly waving his arm and tearing at his splotchy brown and green hair. He wore overalls with straps held in place by oversized safety pins and no shirt beneath - several buttons were missing down the sides and we could see the side of one bare leg, painted in yellow and green stripes. What appeared to be several stalks of broccoli protruded from the top of his overalls and a headless hammer dangled from a loop at his waist. When my grandmother appeared, he gave her an expansive but toothless grin and continued his mad dance until she had opened the door. Hello, Willie, she told him, What is it you want? He carefully withdrew a stalk of broccoli, wiped it off on the overalls, blew on it gently and gestured for her hand. When she extended it, he delicately laid the broccoli across her palm and closed her fingers around it. She hesitated for a second or two, then smiled and said Thank you, Willie. He gave her a sweeping bow, blew her a kiss, and danced off down the front path, still waving the one boot over his head and not turning back until he reached the road where he stopped, spun around and let loose the boot which went flying over the guardrail in a high arc, darkly silouhetted against the brilliant sky and then falling into the sea. Willie gave a delighted shout and followed with his other boot. Barefoot, in tattered clothes and with his odd hair reflecting the sun, he made his way down the ditch, high stepping, splashing in the muddy water, collecting weeds for his next bouquet.

Willie's song and dance world was a patchwork of colors, madness, and flowers for the ladies.