Summer Stock

Pity, my grandmother remarked, without dropping a stitch, that you can't shut up your relations in a closet, like preserves. Her knitting needles clacked steadily and she occasionally adjusted the afghan with a sharp flip of her elbow. Aunt Vi and Aunt Pearl nodded in agreement, Ayha, they both said at once with small, discreet smiles. Nana was in what my daddy used to call a "snit" and the sisters knew better than to contradict her. My mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, her face tight with anger. And what exactly is that supposed to mean, she demanded. It means, my grandmother said calmly, precisely what I said. My mother stalked back into the kitchen and with a clatter began washing the breakfast dishes. Nana glared at her knitting and sighed. Among other things, she said clearly, preserves don't eavesdrop. There was a curse from the kitchen, followed by the sound of the old cast iron skillet being flung against the wall, and then the slam of the back door. From the sunporch I could hear the dogs barking at the sound of an engine and the spray of gravel as my mother drove off and up the driveway. She surely does favor a dramatic exit, I heard Aunt Pearl say quietly and my grandmother and Aunt Vi agreed in unison, Ayha.

This little drama, or some re-mastered version of it, played itself out repeatedly among the women on my mother's side of the family. Casting continually changed - sometimes you were an extra or had a small cameo part, other times you were the lead but the dialogue was constant and reliable - recriminations, accusations, cheap shots and blame until finally one of the players left the stage. Relationships built on alcoholism and conflict are painfully predictable and as I got older I began to wonder if it was generational - had my grandmother and her mother been at each other's throats as she and my mother were, as my mother and I were? Was there some competitive and twisted strand of DNA that was present and actively at work? There was no one left to ask.

All storms, even those made up of hurricane force winds, blow over eventually, and that night my mother returned by the time supper was on the table. She was disheveled and tipsy, a little unsteady on her feet, and she climbed the stairs to her room using all her tricks to be quiet. Nana pointedly ignored her, telling me, There will be great weeping but it's just for effect, and then suggested a game of dominoes. The next morning, my mother was haggard and apologetic but my grandmother wasn't buying and by lunch the cold and fragile courtesy between them was gone, both were white faced and stiff with anger. Neither would concede, compromise or yield a single inch of ground and they each made a point of avoiding the other. It seemed silly to me at the time, and I couldn't help but think of two, old and battle scarred tomcats, circling each other, spitting and hissing until they launched at each other and became a whirling, howling centrifuge of teeth and claws, refusing to let go until someone doused them with a bucket of cold water.

We are all - at least in part - the best and worst of where we come from.

Ezra and Izzy and A Tale of Spanish Rice

Ezra and Izzy had never had time to marry. They lived together for over 50 years in a small house on the square and raised goats, rabbits and four daughters. Until Izzy took ill, they had never spent a night or much of a day apart - all four girls had been conceived and born in the tiny back bedroom except for the first, who Ezra always claimed had come into being on the kitchen table after a particularly spicy meal of fried shortribs and Spanish rice sent to them by an old friend of Izzy's on the mainland. Izzy had a reputation for living on the domestic edge and was always willing to try something new and different but the story of the Spanish rice and the kitchen table was told and re-told on countless front steps and around multiple old black stoves and each time she blushed and hid her eyes.

The girls were named for the months in which they were born - April, May, January and June - each was delicate and slender, petite with dark hair and eyes and tiny feet, except for the first, who grew taller than both parents and who had a mass of caramel colored curls in contrast to her sisters' dark brunette and perfectly straight locks. Probably the Spanish rice, Ezra liked to tell folks, and Izzy would blush and hide her eyes.

Jan was different from her sisters in more ways than her hair and her height. April, May and June were homebodies with no great curiosity about the world beyond the the small island. All four girls were home schooled but resisted Izzy's carefully planned out lessons and reading lists, except for Jan who sought out anyone with books she could borrow. She read poetry, history and two versions of the Bible, all the local, discarded paperbacks the summer people brought, every classic the one room school had to offer. She read cookbooks and novels and magazines and seed catalogues and carried a pocket dictionary in her back pocket. If it was in print, she read it, learned it, retained it, despite the teasing and affectionate name calling from her un-curious sisters. Spanish rice must be brain food, Ezra told everyone and Izzy blushed and looked away.

By the time the girls reached their teens, the small house on the square was under siege from an onslaught of young island boys come to call. They eagerly helped Ezra with the chores, were always on hand for Izzy's errands, and they brought gifts - a box of maple sugar candy wrapped in brown paper with a makeshift bow, handpicked wildflowers or a piece of carved and polished driftwood, a jam jar of fragile, earth colored shells, a second hand book of old Scottish hymns. In exchange for cold milk and strawberry pie in Izzy's kitchen, they chopped firewood and repaired fences, rehung windows and fed the rabbits, learned to shear goats. Ezra watched all this with a mix of amusement and pride. Somethin' sure does draw a crowd to this kitchen, he told Izzy and his daughters all laughed except for the first born who blushed and hid her eyes.

By the time Izzy got sick, all four girls had scattered to make their own homes and their own lives although they returned often with their children and the little house was rarely empty. April met a soldier and moved to Annapolis,
May married a fisherman and moved across the passage, June found a job in the big hotel on the mainland. Only Jan stayed on the island, settling into a small house around the cove and dropping in on Ezra and Izzy daily. Goats and rabbits were replaced by grandchildren and a visiting nurse who came weekly. All was according to plan until one fine summer day when the ferry brought a strangely familiar figure - a tall, dark eyed, dark haired, slender and handsome man with a camera, a photographer who had spent time on the island when Ezra and Izzy were just starting out, a man now dying of terminal lung cancer, so it was said, a man who had come to make amends and die with a clean conscience. He sought out the small house on the square, then each of the girls in turn, except for the first born. It was said he stayed to a dinner of short ribs and Spanish rice with Ezra and Izzy and that he left behind a book of photographs but all that known for sure was that he left the following day.

On the day of the Izzy's funeral, while searching for one of her mother's treasured lace edged, lavender scented handkerchiefs - her only real extravagance - Jan came across a book of photographs concealed among a drawer of cotton nightgowns and practical underthings. There were pictures of fishing boats and rock formations, sunsets and seagulls and groups of old men in leather aprons and work gloves. There were pictures of flowers and driftwood scattered along the rocky coasts, abandoned shacks and lily ponds and families on front porches. And there were pictures of Izzy - dozens of pictures of Izzy, gathering shells in the secluded cove, wading through the creek above the cemetery, swinging on the old tire behind the schoolhouse with her petticoats showing. Izzy, with sparkling eyes and pale, unlined skin, young and laughing, without a care in the world - almost in love, Jan thought. It was a side of her mother that she had never seen but knew well from her sisters and feeling as if she'd intruded upon a hidden cache of very private memories, she decided to replace the book as she'd found it and promised herself to make no mention of it to anyone. She didn't hear her father's steps coming down the hall, didn't hear the bedroom door swing open until it was too late and she turned, picture book in hand, to see her father standing in the doorway. Come, January, he said gently, It's time. He took the book of photographs from her and placed it back in the drawer. Your sisters are waiting.

That night, as friends came to cook and tend the grandchildren, Ezra and his daughters sat on the front porch and watched the tides. April, May and June talked quietly while Jan, having no idea where to begin, leaned against her father's knees and breathed the scent of lavender. After a time, the three sisters kissed their father goodnight and went inside. Papa, she began, I need to know. Ezra sighed and dug for his pipe, took his time about lighting it and then spoke to his firstborn. There are things in this world that are better left untold, January, he said softly.



Here, my grandmother fell silent and when I opened my eyes to look at her, she had returned to her rocking and her knitting. That's it? I demanded of her, That's the end? But what happened to them? What about the photographer? She waved off my questions with a shake of her head and an enigmatic smile. Sometimes, she told me softly, we make mistakes and someone else has to make them right. Some things are better left untold.

Garden Variety Weird

Now and then someone drifts into my professional life who's flat out spooky. For no good reason, he or she makes my skin crawl and I want to avoid them as much as possible. They don't have unsettling tattoos or gold teeth, don't dress in any way out of the ordinary, don't carry a machete in their back pocket, don't look evil or even dangerous. But close contact with them sets off all my primeval instincts. They're just garden variety weird - oranges in a sea of apples - not threatening or unbalanced, just somehow wrong and not to be confused with the true community eccentrics or those temporarily on the loose due to the generosity of day passes.

The eccentrics arrive with a touch of flamboyance and flair - a tall, too thin scarecrow of a man in a black cape and velvet fedora. He carries a silver handled cane and doesn't enter as much as he sweeps in like a strong wind, commanding attention and scattering those in his way like confetti. A stick figure of an old woman wearing clashing colors and stage makeup arrives in a wheelchair - her parchment skin hangs from her bones and she has the ghastly smile of a crackly old crone. She is like a fragile, breakable bird - decrepit and nearly transparent with age but still able to snap orders with a brittle and sharp expectation of being obeyed. A mother-daughter team, arm in arm and both reeking of whiskey and old money, storm the door as if prepared to meet resistance. They share a private joke and their laughter is high pitched, verging on hysteria and hormonal imbalance. The true eccentrics are colorful and move about in worlds of their own making, dismissing conformity and accepted behavior as nuisances.

The day pass people travel with only a hint of reality for company. They tend to be shy and often hesitant, fearing eye contact and always careful to be courteous and deferential. Conversations with them require constant focus as they tend to drift and are easily distracted. In a world where noise rules, they are quiet. In a world where there is much pushing and shoving, they are trampled and not noticed. They come and go with timid apologies and no real hope of finding their place in line. They are almost always harmless, traveling on unfamiliar ground with light, quick steps - a little wary, a little uncertain of their surroundings and usually medicated to some degree - journeying on their own yellow brick road, in constant search for the wizard.

Neither the day pass people or the eccentrics unnerve me but let one of the dark, weird people appear and I feel a sudden apprehension, a shiver of something close to but not quite fear. It's an anonymous, random anxiety that I want to dismiss as ridiculous but can't. Everything about them is run of the mill normal except for the fact that it isn't, there's a suggestion of wrong here, an invisible aura of disturbed. I inexplicably find myself thinking of serial killers and old Vincent Price horror movies, troubled childhoods and schizophrenic stalkers. I watch the most recent of them enter the shop - he wears khakis and a cardigan and a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows. His coke bottle glasses have slipped down on his nose and he pushes them up with a deliberate gesture. When I summon a smile and ask if I can help him, he looks at me for a very long time and then when I'm just about to decide that he might be a mute, he says ever so softly, No, and I realize that he's one of them. His eyes peer at me through his glasses, his arms hang loosely at his sides and I have the eerie thought that he might be evaluating me as his next meal. Eventually his stare shifts to the wine shelves and this is worse because now I think he may be considering what wine pairs best with a medium well redhead. I am saved by a ringing telephone and leave him motionless and silent in the bustling store, an island of weird in a sea of Christmas chaos. I'm too spooked to offer to help him again and pray that he will make a selection and leave. In time, he does just that - wandering out the back door, a bottle of blood red cabernet held casually against his chest. Customers instinctively clear a path for him, moving aside on reflex. He stops in the doorway and turns to give the shop a final, steady and predatory gaze before melting away into the mall. The atmosphere in the shop immediately clears and returns to normal and I give myself a sound scolding for giving way to my imagination and go back to business.

Even so, I look both ways when I leave and cross the dark parking lot. Imagination notwithstanding, anything can happen on a foggy, starless night before Christmas and it's best to be prepared and pay attention.

Class, Privacy and Bad Manners

Okay, here's the thing.

I can tolerate people who think it's perfectly all right to hang their 8' by 8' club banner over several sections of the wine shelves. They've rented the wine shop for a private party and consider it their property, never mind that retail business is still being conducted.

I can tolerate and even be pleasant to the overdressed, overly made up women in their Gucci shoes, flashing oversized diamonds and painted nails as they gossip and snipe about where they're going for the holidays and how much it cost.

I can tolerate their husbands complaining about the price of jet fuel and the rising costs of tuition for private, European boarding schools.

I can tolerate catering to the rich and being treated like a scullery maid.

I can even tolerate watching the fake embraces and air kisses - it's so terribly continental.

However, when I watched a mildly well known doctor and his wife inspecting the half dozen gift baskets awaiting final wrapping and delivery for other customers and then open and read each of the six hand addressed and private gift cards as casually as they might read their morning newspaper, something snapped in me. I excused myself from pouring champagne and manoevered my way to the gift baskets and with the best smile that I could manage, asked Can I help you with something, doctor? Putting his arm around his wife's shoulders, he shook his head and hurried her away.

Money doesn't buy class.

It Only Rains in the Backyard

A clap of thunder woke me from a sound sleep and the small brown dog dived beneath the covers in a panic. Lightning cracked and I could hear rain on the roof, a steady, hard pounding rain, likely to last all day. Cat calls were already coming from the kitchen and the black dog was awake and anxious.

Both dogs arrived at the back door in a mindless rush of pre-dawn barking, took one look outside and fled for the safety of the bedroom, but knowing a trick or two myself, I walked to the front door and at the sound of the latch, they were at my heels and then outside in a flash. It was too early for traffic and I knew they wouldn't go far. I felt bad about taking advantage of their theory that it only rains in the back yard but by the time the cats had been fed, they were back on the front steps, rain soaked and shivering but none the worse for their small adventure. I toweled them off and began my own day.

There is a stark quality to this day. The branches of the crepe myrtle are clearly defined against the sky which is gray but also strangely bright although not with sunlight. It's warm for December, and the air is still and filled with damp. It feels like snow somehow, despite the temperature. One street down from me, Christmas Lane is beginning to take shape - each house erects a decorated tree and sets it in a neat row on either side of the street and at night the entire block is glittering with bright, colored lights. To and from work I pass arrays of angels and reindeer, sleighs and candles, made from white lights that glow and shimmer when the sun goes down. Some houses simply hang a wreath on the front door, others revel in a wretched excess of the season. Poinsettias seem to be on every doorstep and porch and the church bells play an endless reverie of chimes and carols. No matter the geography, it's the holiday season everywhere. The dogs don't know this, of course, neither has ever seen a real snowfall or even a Christmas tree and I suspect they share my feeling that Christmas is just another day.

After a certain age, I wonder if there's not a little humbug in all of us - a result of shattered illusions and reality. If they want to think it only rains in the backyard, so be it.

Chase, Corner, Calm

Nose poked through the mini blinds and every nerve quivering, the black dog suddenly erupts like an overheated volcano and begins a prolonged bout of frenzied howling. The small brown dog immediately joins in and startled cats jump for cover while I curse the flood of coke and ice that I have spilled onto my lap. It could have been a cat or a dog or a neighbor, the slam of a door or a blade of glass moving ever so slightly - she is a small powder keg of fear and tension, prone to random explosions without cause or warning. Once again I chase, corner, and calm her, all the while listening to my own heart pound with leftover shock. She wearies me beyond words and again I find myself thinking of a life without this wild, unpredictable and made of fireworks animal. And again, I know I cannot do it - we are chained, she and I, bound by the fact that it's not her fault and that I can't bring myself to end her life on account of a behaviour problem, despite the peace and quiet it would bring to the household. I would miss her too much.

The experts tell me her aggression is off the charts and based on fear, dominance, and the illness she suffered as a puppy. She is damaged and untreatable, every regrettable instinct she has exaggerated and heightened by misfiring circuits in her brain. She simply doesn't understand discipline or correction, doesn't respond to repetition or training, can't comprehend the word "no". She doesn't make the connection between actions and consequences, good or bad, has no impulse control and sees each cat she lives with as just another moving target. She is like a two year old in a perpetual and self sustaining tantrum - indestructible, inexhaustible, incomprehensible. And yet,
there is about her an endearing need to be loved and kept safe. She is never far from me, and were someone, anyone, to make a threatening move toward me, there would be severe consequences - she fights fiercely and blindly for what she loves with no thought of her own well being.

This is not your average dog, not anxious to please, not content to sleep in front of a warm fire and let the world go by, not able to discern good behavior from bad. She is over anxious and menacingly jealous, fearful and hostile, certain to bite without provocation, suspicious to the point of paranoia, and demanding of attention. She lives in a friendless and alien world and never lets down her guard. It may be that it is all these qualities that make me love and protect her so.

Sometimes I wonder what that says about me.

Wolves At The Door

The ocean in November is white capped and choppy, churning with the winter wind and dark colored with threat. The boats rise and fall on waves, lifted and dropped as if weightless under the overcast skies. The coastline is shadowy and sadly deserted, grimly missing the sunshine and warm days of summer. Winter is a constant storm, cold and gray with something close to menace in the air. Snow is on the way - not the glossy picture postcard kind, but heavy and crippling and endless. The glory days of green grass and afternoon picnics seem impossibly far away. Summer homes are shuttered and closed up, lightless and vacant with only a parttime caretaker to look in on them now and again. It's a long, lonely season for a small ocean side fishing village and wolves are at the door.

I stood in the front yard of this now desolate place, hearing only the wind and the waves. The family home had been sold for back taxes and I was trespassing on a stranger's property. I had come to say a final goodbye, come in a month I hoped would be just as it was, with no summer voices to call my name, no bread baking in Nana's beloved kitchen, no music playing. The house itself was cold and lifeless, shades drawn, locked and empty. The windows were grimy and the grass grew high and wild around the doors. The playhouse door was scarred and hung off it's hinges and the swing set lay on it's side, overgrown with weeds. Even the flagpole seemed defeated, patchy and in need of paint and a new halyard. The ferry was making it's slow way across the passage, fighting the currents and stubbornly clinging to it's course, a single pickup truck it's only passenger. The ocean churned and sent sprays of salt water over the scow, battling back with a persistent fury but the ferry continued it's steady progress. It docked and the pick up truck rattled off, passing me. The driver, a face I didn't recognize, gave me a small, cheerless wave as he drove by because in small villages like this one, everyone is acknowledged whether you know them or not. I nodded back and he drove off, turning onto the Old Road and disappearing in a minor dust storm.

I drove the length and breadth of the island that day, paying my respects to the past and the places that were still there and lingering at the ones that were not. The tides came and went with a reassuring certainty, the only constant thing here was the ocean. People come and go, houses change hands, and life finds a way - through the cold and bitter times, the heartache and loss, the warmth and happiness and the forgotten things, the wounds and the recoveries, life finds a way.

One for the Road

If bootlegged whiskey was not to be had on a Saturday night, the young fishermen raided island kitchens for vanilla extract. The process of getting drunk took longer but the effect was still the same - oblivion. They were proud of achieving this state, as if it were something of a contest and a medal might be awarded at the end. Hangovers were a warped measure of status and the bragging rights to an all out drunken brawl were hotly debated in the days that followed. Any undesirable behavior was shrugged off under the guise of "kids will be kids", any consequences were taken as "learning a lesson". None of it was considered dangerous or even serious and it was rare that anyone even considered intervening in these rites of passage.

A few days ago as I watched, for the second time in as many weeks, a co-worker determinedly drink herself into a staggering daze, I thought how little has changed. She walked in sober and bright eyed and in a matter of less than an hour was slurring her words, unable to keep upright, propositioning anyone with a pulse and crashing into the furniture. No one paid her much mind, she was just one more sloppy, knee walking drunk. Waiters weaved their way around her, customers caught her when she fell, and the bartenders kept pouring. At the end of the night, even the musicians on the small stage were keeping an eye on her, fearing that she and her drink would stumble into an amplifier or a microphone.

As the musicians packed up their equipment, she tumbled and sprawled out in a chair next to mine, throwing her arms around my neck and apologizing through wails of laughter. Her drink spilled, sending olives and alcohol splashing over both of us and unexpectedly she began to cry, harsh sobs that shook her thin shoulders and hurt my heart. I held her until she stopped and then took her keys. She didn't protest as I led her outside and into my car and I hoped with all my heart that she wouldn't get sick on the drive home.

The mind of an alcoholic is a maze of paths leading nowhere except to the next drink. I doubted she would remember the end of the evening but I was quite sure she would repeat it.

Coup d' Ville

She is 20-ish and beautiful, living with an out of work electrical engineer turned tattoo artist, going to school and working nearly full time. She is bright and funny, self confident and assertive, quick to learn and unafraid of life. But behind her stunning smile there is a frightened child, estranged from her family and struggling for every hard earned dime, willing to accept far less than she deserves and uncertain of every step she takes. She is a mystery, getting straight A's in her college courses while not knowing the meaning of dozens of everyday words, so when she asked me to teach her how to do crossword puzzles, I readily agreed. A word looked up, my daddy told me time and time again when I would ask him the meaning of something I'd read, is a word remembered. The gold bound Webster's was always kept on the top shelf of the bookcase and it's pages were stained and worn with use.

So, I mused, how to teach someone to "think in crossword". How to explain how it is that you simply know a word is right when a half dozen other words fit the same space and work equally well. I reached back in my memory to my daddy's instructions - Start with something you absolutely, positively know can't be anything else, he told me, like here, three letters for "A Gerswhin". Neatly, I filled in "Ira". Build on it, he continued, remember a plural clue must have a plural answer and that words have different meaning according to their useage. Don't think just nouns when the answer might be a verb. He nodded as I filled in Gnat, four letters for "pest", beginning with "g". And there''re crossword rules - an abbreviated clue will mean an abbreviated answer, a clue in capital letters will mean an answer in capital letters. I filled in RSVP for "words on an invitation and he smiled. A clue in a foreign language will mean an answer in a foreign language, he added. And if you're stuck, think in context and use it in a sentence. Work around the obstacles. I filled in more and more blank squares with him providing occasional hints and re-direction, prompting me with praise and encouragement. Sometimes there's a theme, watch for it. And remember, every puzzle ever devised has a solution though it may not be what you first think or what you want it to be. You have to get into the mind of the maker. It was a very long time before I realized that he'd been teaching far more than just how to solve a crossword puzzle.

Of course, he had never met this pretty, young thing tapping a pencil on the counter and frowning with concentration.
I doubt he ever imagined someone who would see the clue "coup d'____" and fill in "vile" for "coup d'vile".

Then again, he'd have been laugh out loud delighted with seeing her mind at work. They put erasers on pencils because people make mistakes, he'd have reminded me. And he'd have been absolutely, positively right.







.

Southern Style

On a chilly November day, the park was overflowing with people come to hear the music.

There were blankets and quilts laid out all across the grass, small circles of lawn chairs placed in the sunshine. Kids and dogs ran mindlessly through the crowd and there was a smell of barbeque and hot wings in the air. Artist tents were erected to sell jewelry and homemade jams, candles and woodcrafts. The stages were readied, sound checks echoed, and the gathering clapped and cheered, knitted, read, wandered. Entire families, from youngest to eldest, found their places and began games of scrabble and checkers. The park was alive with small town-ness, infants in strollers, kids on roller blades, old folks on walkers and all the in-betweens. The mayor was there, making a brief speech about the arts and the community, local press set up for pictures and interviews and video taping. The caste system in our small city had been put aside for this day - music's universal appeal had called in one voice to rich and poor, black and white, young and old, gay and straight, single and partnered.

The end of the afternoon brought a legend on stage, a Chicago bluesman born in a small Louisiana town in 1925. The crowd moved forward to see an 83 year old piano player, hands still agile and flying over the keyboard, voice raspy and bronchial with age. He grinned at the crowd and winked at the girls, shiny black patent leather shoes keeping time with the music, fingers never hesitating or missing. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees and made shadows on his creased face - there was no sign he felt the cold. He walked slowly and cautiously but played like a demon and the crowd cheered every chord. He never looked down at the keyboard, only out at the cluster of people gathered around him, clapping and yelling his name, dancing in the semi darkness and shivering. Henry Gray had come to town and brought a little Chicago blues with him - southern style - and the music had drawn out a city. The local musicians watched with a combination of respect and gratitude, shaking their heads and smiling with appreciation. An old woman in a wheelchair, strands of white hair curling around her face in the evening breeze and hands swollen and misshapen with arthritis, clapped with the best of them, her face alight with laughter. When her granddaughter tried to wheel her away, she pushed at the child with unexpected force and locked the chair with a sudden jerk. No! she yelled at the surprised little girl, Not when he's still playing! She threw off her lap robe and shawl and stubbornly struggled to her feet to applaud and the grandchild resignedly stood beside her, one arm around her waist for support. Henry! Henry! Henry! the old woman cheered in a shaky but loud voice, God bless the blues!

Rome, Fire, and Violins

In it's heyday, The Farm prospered and the fields were green and rich with promise. The people in charge cared and worked hard, paid attention and invested of themselves. They planned and followed through, bought good seed and saw that it was planted and harvested properly. They paid their bills on time and maintained a strong reputation, produced the best possible product and sold it at a fair price. What they didn't know about crop rotation, they took the time to learn. They kept up with the times and the market by being involved, by showing up, by sacrificing and spending profits wisely. They kept their expectations reasonable and their standards high. They were always on call and ready to get their hands dirty when called for.

When the eldest son died and the father followed soon after, The Farm fell into the hands of the younger son who had never actually worked a day in his sorry life and wasn't about to start. He embraced the business for it's reputation and because it carried his name and he thrived on ownership and prestige, becoming more and more arrogant and proud, recklessly spending his inheritance without a single thought for the welfare of The Farm, it's employees, the people it served, or the future. He adopted new business strategies - coming in late and leaving early, making his drinking a matter of public knowledge, traveling to white water canoe trips and elegant vacations when The Farm was shortstaffed, bragging about his material possessions and buying more, always more, as if they could fill an empty and useless life and take the place of real friends or family. Alcoholism was soon enhanced with drug use and as his vanity expanded, The Farm began to suffer from neglect. Crops began to fail and profits fell off due to competition, equipment broke down and was replaced with second hand, rebuilt machines that came cheap and performed the same. Better and cheaper vegetables were available and farming entered a new age of grow your own and save. The younger son saw this and shrugged his designer covered shoulders, dismissing it as having no importance, as if The Farm could never be brought down. He continued his lifestyle unemcumbered by reality, letting the bills slide while staggering from one drug to to the next, from one anonymous, paid sexual encounter to the next. He became a joke and a caricature, strutting about like a proud, impotent peacock, refusing to see that the sky was about to fall. He made no concessions until he ran out of The Farm's money and discovered that loans were not as readily available as he had thought.

Against the advice of everyone, he bought a second farm and began to grown exotic and imported vegetables for which there was no market. It was new and flashy and completely modernized but no one came. He began losing employees and firing others, more bills went unpaid, inventory was not replaced. He turned a deaf ear to all who cared about The Farm's survival and dove deeper into a dark world of drugs and denial, planning a koi pond for his inherited house while his remaining employees looked on in disbelief, derision and disgust, leisurely traveling to this and that seminar or workshop, spending valuable resources and limited income for his own self gratification.
Meanwhile, Rome caught fire and burned to ashes as the economy crashed and the fields dried up. The second farm was summarily closed and it's debts went unpaid - the glitzy space gathered dust. People began talking, shaking their heads, and staying away. The Farm became obsolete, a step behind each advancement, holding on by it's fingernails while the younger son stayed home except for his party appearances and shopping binges. There were complaints of liquor on his breath during working hours, a DUI offense, and one clear afternoon he struck a child riding a bicycle on a neighborhood street. He had blackouts which he laughed off and took to bar sitting on Friday afternoons, drinking himself into a loud, obnoxious and preening daze before staggering home. The people who tried to help were put off by his vacant eyes and blank expression, his dulled senses and indifference and they began to drift away. When they bothered to speak of him at all, it was with pity, shame, even anger. He became a stumbling, sickly figure in search of self destruction, clinging to his self importance and consumed by vanity. He was avoided and finally written off, not even worthy of ridicule. No one believed his lies anymore and without their cover he was exposed for what he was. There was no more damage to be done except for the final foreclosure of The Farm.

What would become of him, a very few onlookers wondered. Who would hire him, assuming he could find or pass a test or job interview which seemed an exceptionally slim possibility. He was without skills, without experience, without integrity, without a work ethic. His manicured nails and pastel socks were unfit for real work and his only accomplishment was the ruination of a small business that had served it's community for over a half century.
When last I saw him, he was in blue jeans and scuffed loafers, an un-ironed and un-tucked in polo shirt hanging loosely on this sagging shoulders. His ever present briefcase was gone, his hair was badly gelled and there was, at last, defeat in his steps and an unhealthy pastiness to his un-made up face.

It has many names - comeuppance, reaping what you sow, consequences, accountability, justice. But it all comes down to what goes around, comes around. In business and in life, you get out only what you put in and there's no such thing as a free ride.

Chloe's World

The small brown dog curls up on the pillow and is more or less instantly asleep, an ability I envy beyond measure. When the tabby arrives to join her, she opens her eyes and tenses but doesn't move. The cat circles once or twice then lays down, paws tucked neatly beneath her and looking as deceptively sweet and innocent as a kitten. The small dog slowly lets down her guard and goes back to sleep but I know this little Norman Rockwell picture will not last long. The tabby - greatly put upon, relentlessly suspicious and ill tempered - can strike at any moment and for no apparent reason. She's a loner at heart, a wary first strike weapon, always poised to defend herself from threats whether real or imagined and frequently on the offensive, a provocateur of sorts.

She is not my first terrorist cat and was not always so feisty and tempermental. As a kitten, she was affectionate and friendly, getting into all kinds of typical kitten mischief and content to play and sleep and play some more. She more or less accepted additions to the household until the advent of the black dog who she immediately recognized as The Great Satan and they have been mortal enemies ever since. So now my time with her is limited to sleeping - she curls up against me at night, keeping me between her and the dog, and sleeping cautiously and lightly, always listening, always ready to spring.

Cats - so innocently and endearingly packaged as kittens - grow, change and become. Like people, they are shaped by their surroundings and treatment, by nature and nurture, by love and care or neglect and abuse. They find their place and claim it, despite the odds. But their individuality always manages to break through and in the case of the tabby, it's a mixture of conflict and needing space, of protection of territory and anxiety. She loves but only with conditions, she accepts but only on her own terms. She is a complicated animal, full of contradictions and needs.
Her eyes meet mine over the blanket and one paw reaches out to touch my face - a gentle gesture from an old tabby cat who feels safe and loved despite the nearness of the enemy. Gain the trust of a dog and you have a friend for life.
Gain the trust of a suspicious, old tabby cat and all is right with the world.

The Life of a Letter Carrier

Our mailman's name was Jim and true to his creed, he delivered the mail every day, rain or shine, sleet or snow. He was an average looking man with an easy smile and a full head of silver hair and he made friends along his route, taking the time to learn the names of all the children and even their pets. We would often walk with him or trail along behind and he would tell us stories about delivering the mail through hurricanes and navigating the neighborhood dogs. He always knew if we were waiting for an important letter or a package and during Christmas he drove a small red, white and blue truck and often had a helper. I wondered about his life - how someone could walk for miles and miles every day without fail and stay cheerful and optimistic. He cared about doing his job and doing it well.

Jim delivered my college acceptance letter, wedding invitations, birthday cards, thank you notes, draft notices, circulars and catalogues and mountains of bills. Life and Look and Readers Digest all arrived faithfully along with the church newsletters, the tiny Nova Scotia newspaper, postcards, tax notices and bank statements. The outside world - before computers and email and cell phones - communicated and kept in touch through Jim, a serious responsibility rested on his broad shoulders and he wore it well, never complained or faltered, was rarely late, never seemed weary. He was a simple letter carrier with a sense of pride and confidence.

At his retirement party we learned a little more about him - he had been a high school dropout, a decorated soldier, had survived a bout of polio as a child, had a wife, four daughters and two labrador retrieivers. He drank bourbon and played bridge, loved modern jazz, and was a lapsed Catholic who questioned the existence of heaven and hell. He leaned left politically and right on the death penalty, supported leash laws, was a Red Sox fanatic and planned to visit Ireland at least once before he died. The neighborhood families embraced him, this generous, outgoing civil servant, raised their glasses to him and wished him the best of retirement. He was accepted and cheered and would, they assured him, be sorely missed. It was an evening of friendship and fun and might have lasted into the early morning hours except for the late arrival of his family. His wife, a tall, slim, stunning and elegantly dressed black woman walked into the crowd and made her way to him with a brilliant smile. Four young girls with coffee and cream colored skin and arms linked together followed closely behind. The party froze and quieted instantly, glasses were put down abruptly, silverware clattered in the dead silence and several sharp intakes of breath were heard. My mother turned and made for the door without a word, just as her beloved letter carrier was introducing his family. Several couples, faces ashen with shock and disbelief, followed, their hurrying footsteps echoing sharply on the wooden dance floor, their muted conversations hushed but appallingly clear.

A moment I will always remember followed - my Sunday School teacher and her husband approached Jim and his family with smiles and outstretched hands and my daddy nodded to the small pickup band in the corner. The music started again and while some additional couples left, others stayed, following the example of my teacher and her husband, following what they had been taught and what, I hope, they believed in their hearts.

To Have and Hold Onto

He has three homes - one, a prestigious Dallas condo with a star studded history of celebrity residents - and four cars - one an old and unreliable but still impressive Mercedes. He has closets overflowing with designer clothes and shoes and drawers full of priceless rings and watches. Antiques are perfectly positioned throughout the homes, side by side with the pictures of famous people he once knew - John Saxon, Angela Lansbury, Ann Miller - and he keeps plastic surgeons on call for the slightest sign of uneasy aging. He lives on vanity, memories of being at the top of his game, anonymous sex and a reputation for temper tantrums and self-centeredness. He does not like to dirty his hands among the lower classes, preferring to make his living off them while gossiping only about their betters. He allows the word "no" in his vocabulary but not in that of others and when traveling he stays in only the best hotels. He likes being catered to and expects to be accommodated regardless of how unreasonable or unrealistic his demands. His humor is malicious, edgy and targeted, unsparing and merciless. Worse, he has fallen on economic hard times he never reckoned were even possible and is lashing out at anyone close. This is a man who is finally encountering the consequences of a high flying lifestyle and coping badly. For the first time, no scapegoat is in sight and no rescue is at hand. This, after months of denial and wholesale firings, after all the creative financing and endless borrowing, after watching his world slowly crumble, this he will have to confront on his own. He talks of giving up.

His is a non essential service, a luxury that people are hard pressed to afford in a time of choosing between health care and groceries. He sells dreams and one in a million possibilities of magazine covers and stardom. He teaches how to walk and dress and apply makeup in a world of people who can't pay their light bills. He offers the vague promise of magic to children and parents who can't pay the rent and a glossy portfolio in place of a meal. His life is about appearances and possessions, about runways and cameras and being in the spotlight. He has not changed with the times, has not kept up or adapted and the dreams he promotes do not fight off foreclosures or bankruptcy or simple job loss. What he does has taken a distant fourth or fifth place to keeping a family intact and fed, in school and employed, out of crushing debt. The first class, designer days are fading fast and the future is cloudy with dread and uncertainty.

Despite the warning signs, reality often arrives when we are least prepared for it, when it's too late for compromise or cut backs. Reality doesn't negotiate.

Falling from Grace

Into the kingdom came a dark knight on a shiny, saddled horse.

He was welcomed and cheered for his bravery and outspokeness and in just days had won the hearts of most of the people. He questioned authority and made suggestions on how to improve the running of the kingdom and no one except the young prince seemed to mind that he was routinely late for the jousts or that he made jokes about the king and queen behind their backs. On one especially important day, he failed to arrive at all, claiming his steed to be ill and having no one to care for him, the stable boy he employed being busy with other chores. The young prince observed all this and came not to overly like or trust the new knight - his was the business of day to day running the kingdom and he welcomed no interference or undermining.

In no time at all, the new knight had made friends and allies among the people and was looked upon with great favor by the king and queen. They secretly critisized the prince for his attitude which they deemed overbearing and jealous and began to heed the complaints of the people. One bright autumn day, the king delivered a public reprimand to the prince and the shame was made known to the kingdom. The prince renounced his throne the following day and defiantly fled the castle. The royal couple made a joint announcement that the prince had always been a troubled young man who ruled with an iron fist and no compassion and the coup was complete. The knight was hailed as a hero and the king and queen began their search for a new heir to the throne. The prince's fall from grace was viewed as best for all concerned.

Following the prince's departure, his name ceased to be mentioned save for the king making repeated apologies about his methods of managing and assuring the people that under the new rules there would be flexibility and explanations of policy, easy access to him and the queen, proper training, and a less dictatorial system. All would be treated with respect regardless of their place in the small society and the mending of fences with castle staff and their subjects was to begin at once. No trace of the prince or his rule was to remain - there were to be no footsteps for anyone to follow.

And therein lies a tale of how kingdoms really run. Beware betrayal and dark knights on shiny, saddled horses. Anyone - deservedly or not - can fall from grace with a well placed shove.

Be Good

On the day we were to visit my daddy's family, we would leave early in the morning, making one of the first ferry runs and being on the mainland by nine. The road to Graywood was long and winding and I knew every house and turn by heart. My mother drove in silence, unhappy at the prospect of a day at the farm and moved only by obligation to make the journey. It's one day out of the entire summer, my grandmother had snapped at her the night before, Just go and make the best of it.

We stopped for lunch at one Digby's two restaurants, a small waterfront place owned and operated by a longtime friend of my mother's, a place with a seafood just off the boats and a liquor license. Sitting at a back table watching the boats come and go, we ate lobster and haddock and curly french fries with cold slaw while my mother smoked and drank iced coffee laced liberally with whiskey - no liquor would be forthcoming at the farm and it would be a long, dry afternoon for her. We were anxious, ready to be there, and she stalled us with shopping and visiting and more iced coffee, snapping at our impatience and restlessness and complaining of a migraine. Leaving the kids for a few days? her friend the owner asked as he placed homemade chocolate cake and ice cream on the table and gave her a wink. Thank God, yes, she said with a flirtatious smile, A whole week without them. She slid over to make room for him to sit down and he lowered his voice to ask if she was coming back that day - she smiled again and nodded and he gave her another wink. Don't be late and miss the last ferry, he told her, You might end up with no place to sleep. She laughed a little too loudly at that and I winced to hear her tell him, Well, maybe you have an extra room.

Her mood improved and her headache miraculously cured, we left the restaurant and began driving again, reaching the farm in the early afternoon. As always, it was just as I remembered - a tumbledown-ish gray house at the end of a long, gravel drive, with my grandmother in her rocking chair on the front veranda, surrounded by aunts and uncles and cousins. Cows were grazing on the hill near the barn, chickens wandered aimlessly around the well, and the newest litter of kittens was sleeping in a basket by the back door. It looked, sounded, and smelled like home and we piled out in a rush to blueberry pie cooling on the stove, cold milk from the icebox and a tumultous welcome. My mother hurriedly popped a breath mint and joined - although hesitantly and with reservations - in the fray of reunion. For a few moments, the woman at the restaurant departed to be replaced by a distant but at least there daughter-in-law with an almost genuine smile. No one commented on her bright red lipstick, cropped hair, bare legs, or the faint smell of whiskey on her breath. For a few moments she was just a member of the family, fitting in - albeit a little crookedly - with these homespun and plain folks that she looked down on the rest of the year.

Whether sensing that they judged her and found her wanting or felt that she had been a poor choice, maybe realizing that they didn't approve of her - unvoiced as this sentiment always was - or simply overwhelmed by this mass of family, my mother never made the effort to get along. She stayed on the fringes of the family, making a pretense of affection for them while sneering behind their backs. She jealously held onto what she had and laughed at what they didn't, making jokes about her "poor relations" and their "down on the farm ways". She would've preferred to keep her life separate from them and while resenting their influence, she had no real choice except to tolerate the infrequent visiting days. That evening though, she was glad enough to leave us in their care and as she waved goodbye she called out to us, Be Good!

I wondered if she would do the same.

The Private World of the Idle Rich

The rich, it's said, are different. Perhaps, but the reality of the idle rich is flat out useless. For one thing, they don't understand the word "no". For another, they demand and expect to receive instant attention and will create a scene if denied it. The woman on the telephone believed that she had been overcharged and was demanding to speak to the "girl who had waited on her". She refused to accept the fact that "the girl" was gone, that I didn't have a copy of her itemized receipt to go over with her (line by line), or that anything could be more important than her complaint. She was being whiny, petulant and obstinate. I apologized, I assured her that we would correct any mistake, I offered to have a manager return her call - all to no avail. Is there no one there who can talk to me about this? she asked repeatedly as if enough repetition would alter the facts. After ten minutes of this useless conversation, she finally agreed to let me call her back but rather than waiting, she returned to the store with a screaming infant in arms and shouldered her way through a line of customers to confront me. I was charged for these Vintage Montrachet glasses, she announced grimly, and I got Chardonnay. Are they the same price? The infant's howling was hurting my ears and other customers were glaring. And, she added with unmistakable contempt, you didn't return the glass I brought from home so you'd better start looking for it.

Having not the faintest idea what she was talking about, I stalled and explained that the manager was on her way back. She shifted the squirming, sobbing child to one hip and gave out a loud and arrogant sigh before asking again, Is there NO ONE here who can help me? I raised my voice to be heard over the infant and the grumblings of the waiting customers and told her clearly, The manager is on her way back. She'll be here any minute and I need you to wait. She actually stamped her foot at that and stubbornly insisted I start looking for her wine glass. The longer you wait, she informed me, the harder it will be to find. I left it right here on the counter. Beginning to feel like I was lost in a wilderness with dogs on my trail, my patience finally gave way. I spoke slowly, meeting her eyes and returning her tone. This is a wine shop and a restaurant that specializes in wines. We are in the middle of a sale on wine glasses and I don't have the first idea of where to begin looking for a single wine glass. I didn't wait on you and the person who did will be here any minute. I. NEED. YOU. TO. WAIT.

The manager returned and remembered that she had found a single wine glass on the counter and thinking it was part of a set that was on sale had re-boxed it. The glass was located, the customer pacified, the issue of price was resolved - no overcharge - and I got to leave, only mildly the worse for wear and gratified by the fact that there was no way I could've known any of that. In the private world of the idle rich, they don't teach manners, courtesy, respect for others or how to wait. Give me the unemployed impoverished anytime - if only because they have no one to look down upon.

Corn and Grain

Tis the season for pumpkins and pinestraw.

On this cool and almost crisp October morning, the sky is a brilliant blue and the leaves are falling and drifting onto the grass like oversized colored paper snowflakes. The air has changed and smells of autumn somehow - morning light filters through the trees in hazy streaks and there is the promise of early dark in the breeze. The change of seasons is almost upon us, coming gently and in small steps, as if testing the waters before diving in, as if not wanting to get caught. Tis the season of sweaters and hot cider, state fairs and Halloween, apple picking, hay bales in neat rows and baskets of Indian corn set on doorsteps. Tis the season of jack'o'lanterns and gremlins, trick or treaters, witches and broomsticks, evenings of 5 o'clock darkness and glowing streetlights at dusk.

For me, October has traditionally been a month of free floating melancholy and sweet sadness. There's no good reason for it, but it's my least favorite month and it brings associations of goodbyes and endings. It's an orphan month, too old to be August and too young to be November - a stepchild no one really wants, caught in the middle of a custody war between summer and winter, resentful and sullen and determined not to care. Even it's colors are angry - fiery reds and disagreeable oranges, yellows for cowardice and a whole range of dull, neutered browns, simmering with hostility and envy. It's an unwanted month, tempermental and indecisive, with all the passion of the dead leaves it produces. It's a month having an identity crisis and not handling it well.

The late afternoon light is gone now and the mornings arrive with a shattering brightness that hurts my eyes and offends my senses. By afternoon the clouds gather and it begins to rain - it's suddenly muggy and unpleasantly warm although the rain is cold and gray. October turns this way and that, unsure of which direction it's supposed to go and whining about it's confusion, lost in the turmoil of months that clearly have their place in time. Spring and summer are bright, winter brings a cold and clear definition of the season, but October is muddy and uncertain, not a month to make choices or changes and impossible to dress for. On my route to work each morning, I pass a homeless man carrying a duffel bag and a broom and wearing a maroon parka, hooded and fur lined. He shuffles down the sidewalks of one of the better sections of the city, slightly bent over and face hidden from the traffic. I think he knows what October is all about.

The day ends as it began with a brilliant sky and blinding, early autumn sunshine and against my will, I'm forced to wonder if I've misjudged this changeling month with it's dead leaves and unpredictable mood swings.

Corn and grain,
corn and grain,
all that falls will rise again.

Dry Toast

To be considered legitimately sick enough to miss school required a verifiable symptom.

Mumps, measles, chicken pox all passed muster. Vomiting - which in my mother's eyes could be easily enough self induced - did not. Fevers were highly suspect and had better be 101 or better. Headaches were seen as the worst form of malingering, stomach ailments were in second place, and short of a broken or fractured bone or free flowing arterial bleeding, all pain was instantly dismissed as "in your head". A cold - no matter it's severity - was a nuisance to be treated with two aspirin and a box of kleenex and she wrote off each and every so called flu as a medical hoax designed to put money in the pockets of over eager doctors selling useless flu shots. A child at home sick was an inconvenience to her - it meant she would have to make dry toast and overdone eggs served with lukewarm apple juice and trudge a tray upstairs to the sick room morning, night and noon, a form of pampering that was clearly undeserved and might set a dangerous precedent. I thought of this yesterday morning as the doctor administered a shot to my hip and gave me instructions for lots of water and a couple of days rest. The cold was in it's very early stages - congestion, coughing, and a scratchy throat - and we were jump starting treatment in hopes of avoiding the worst. Not surprisingly, it worked.

My mother's regimen left some lasting effects though. I still believe that there are miles between "sick" and "too sick to work". I suspect no one will believe me if I say I have a headache or am nauseous. I still want to present verifiable symptoms - a wound, a raging fever, a cast. More distressing, I find myself looking for it in others, more or less expecting that a claim of illness is probably a cover story and that if you can't see it, it's not really there.
It's an unreasonable outlook, I know, cynical, suspicious, and uncharitable, just as my mother intended.

Faith, Fear, and Repair Bills

Sometime during the night, the air conditioning began to make whistling noises. It came on with a loud whoosh I'd never noticed before and seemed to be running with a mild roar instead of the usual quiet hum. By morning, it was still cooling but was was also vibrating half the house and rattling the other half. I didn't even want to think about what might be wrong and fearing the worst, I shut it down.

In a series of unforeseen events, it's often difficult not to imagine that the entire world has targeted in on you personally. The air conditioning breaks down, followed by the car breaking down, followed by an intestinal virus, followed by the air conditioning breaking down a second time, all in the course of two weeks. I want to scream at the heavens to cut me some slack but instead I reach for the credit card and sigh, thinking there's no end. God has bigger issues and likely doesn't care much about my credit problems and as the entire world seems to be jumping from one crisis to another, cosmically speaking, my debt is hardly a priority. I'm reconciled to the fact that it will outlive me and am comforted by the thought that it will not follow me to my grave. So I take a breath, remember that it could always be worse, pick myself up and keep going.

You can't run away from trouble, ain't no place that far, as Uncle Remus said. Living is a matter of overcoming adversity one day at a time and finding peaceful moments in between. Faith is faith - without substance or proof, without even evidence, yet it's sometimes all we have to go on. If you could hold it in your hand, then everyone would believe.

The Up and Down Side of Change

You may not like him sober, my aftercare counselor warned me, without the alcohol he's not going to be the same person. I naively laughed this off - as if things could be any worse.

The man who went into his third alcohol rehab was a happy, sloppy, juvenile drunk who lied about everything and passed out by nine at night. He saw no reason not to drink while working or driving and didn't mind the regular hangovers or black outs. After a couple of six packs, his needs were minimal and he had adjusted to sleeping alone. The man who came out, although sober, was angry, bitter, resentful and bad tempered. He went to his meetings but refused to get involved, just sat on the sidelines and barely listened. He became impatient and demanding, more silent and secretive than ever, emotionally locked down and physically abusive. The counselor had been right, I didn't like him and I wasn't sure I even loved him. Day after day I watched him sink further into rage, depression and isolation, walling himself off from anyone that might've helped and denying that there was anything wrong. It was a sad and painful process of self destruction and demolition. He made no friends, joined in no activities, and talked to no one, dismissing those who attended meetings as "do gooders" and "nosy". He refused to get a sponsor, turned his back at all offers of help, and began to condemn the world for "not minding their own business". Slowly but surely, he became an island unto himself, shut off from everything and everyone.
Inevitably, he began to drink again - hiding the evidence and lying about it.

I saw it first in his eyes, a tiny spark that had been gone was back by the time he arrived home at night. His mood improved, his humor returned, he began being more patient with the animals. He began to cook again and after supper would disappear into his workshop for hours. His walk was a little unsteady, his smile a little too crooked, his speech off just a bit. All the signs were there - he whistled or hummed to himself and once he tripped on the stairs and laughed it off. Bit by bit, the man who had gone into rehab came back - one or two beers led to six and six led to a couple or three sixpacks a day. He hid the beer cans in a paper bag in his truck, in the washing machine downstairs, in the trash in the workshop, in paint cans on the back deck, in the bag of dogfood on the front porch, hid them and waited for me to find them.

It took me some time to admit to myself what was happening and we slipped back into old routines with precious little effort. I spent more and more time at work, putting off the inevitable as long as possible and trying to fit my own denial to my life. When it finally came, the explosion was loud, frightening and violent. He called me a cold, controlling bitch and I called him a broken down, useless, impotent, drunken parasite. As if words, no matter how ugly, would make any difference.

In the end, words were all we had.

A Word from Hallmark

A woman is like a tea bag, the card read, you never know how strong she is until she's up to her ass in hot water. It was a nice gesture from a friend who knew the kind of week I was having but I had my doubts. With all due respect to Hallmark, a woman pushed to and then past her wits end is not a pretty sight. My inner strength was ebbing fast and the thought of one more day of coping with a world of trouble was nearly unbearable. I could feel Ol' Man River closing in over my head and realized that such times demand drastic measures. I decided to go to the zoo.

When in doubt, the zoo is a good place to be. It was a sunny, warm day and becoming one with the animals was as natural as taking a breath. I walked the paths slowly, uphill and down, around the corners, enjoying the children enjoying the animals. There were the big cats - lazing in the October sunshine without a care, looking mildly curious about their visitors but unconcerned. One white tiger paced steadily while his mate slept, oblivious to the stream of onlookers and cameras. The elephants took dust baths and the giraffes fed peacefully and watched them. The alligators slept in the stream, unmoving and unblinking, their deadly jaws locked as if dead. Monkeys swung from treetops, chattering up a storm in answer to the hundreds of birds just down the way. The rhino lumbered to the fence and glared at the crowd. There were owls and eagles, cheetahs and foxes, okapi and bison, flamingos, turtles, parrots, all minding their business and coexisting without human strife. In the petting zoo, delighted children fed lambs and goats and shrieked at the touch of the friendly barnyard animals. The donkeys brayed for treats, nosing into the hands and pockets of the little ones so bravely holding out a handful of hay. Ducks and swans and geese swam together in harmony. In this small, protected community, life is good and without struggle. Ol' Man River receded as I walked among the animals.

When in doubt, go to the zoo and talk to the animals. They've heard it all before but will listen anyway and will help you find your way back.

Sisters and Daughters

Funny how mismatched people can seem.

Aunt Zelma, Nana's younger sister, was a tiny slip of a thing, barely 4'6 while her husband stood well over 6' and could've easily slung her over one shoulder and carried her off if he'd had a mind to. They were married over 60 years and produced only one child, my cousin Elaine, who in many ways resembled my own mother physically. They were close in age and got along well most of the time - both came from domineering mothers and both were driven half crazy by their children and husbands. Both smoked and loved card playing, were married to men their complete opposites, had never worked and were hopeless gossips and only children. By the time they were in their late 50's, they were both white haired, considerably heavier, and often mistaken for sisters.

Elaine lived in upstate New York in an immaculately kept almost sterile, newly built house on a dead end street.The home was clean lines and no clutter - hardwood floors which she kept to a brilliant shine, contemporary furnishings and huge, flowing plants in ceramic vases for accents. A piano sat squarely in the center of the living room, a shiny new upright that she dusted and polished daily. She recycled religiously, newspapers and magazines, rinsed out aluminum cans, plastic ware and glass bottles. Once a month she took down all the cream colored mini blinds and washed them in bleach, dried them with a hair dryer and rehung them. Long before it was fashionable or even easily available, she had solar panels installed in the roof to offset the cost of winter heating oil. Her two adopted children were well behaved, respectful and neat and her only concession to chaos was a small chihuahua with the unfortunate name of Tinkle.

Still, each summer, she and her family joined us on the island where life flowed gently and at a different pace. There were many hands to make light the chores and Elaine spent her time reading and walking along the rocky coast, collecting shells and watching tidepools. In the evenings she and my mother played cards or dominos or scrabble, sitting on the sunporch and laughing to themselves while their mothers sat inside with knitting or books. She was a good influence on my mother, my grandmother used to say, a grown up influence with common sense and good judgement, raised well. My Aunt Zelma would smile and nod and say nothing - she recognized dangerous ground and avoided it whenever possible.

These four women, for all their differences, were remarkable alike and could form an unbreakable alliance when necessary. My mother was calmer and more relaxed with them than at any other time, more comfortable than at home, more predictable and good natured. When their month on the island was up, she said a teary goodbye and I thought it might've been genuine regret to see them go. Nana was saddened but practical - she would miss them but was glad to have her house back as she had never been able to abide the saucy little chihuahua. She and my mother went to their separate corners and life resumed.

As I grew up, I watched this foursome come together and then drift apart summer after summer. We would be at war in June, followed by a July at peace, then back to war in August. In one form or another, the strange and often volatile dynamics of mothers and daughters played out all summer long.

Pretty People

In the world of pretty people, all is not always what it seems.

The restaurant staff is primarily a collection of very thin, very blonde and strikingly pretty young women - none with a care in the world other than to make pocket money, none with the first line on their face, none with the least idea of the real world. But they know how to smile and be pleasant, how to balance a tray, how to pour wine and make small talk and that's all that's required. They all carry lip gloss in their aprons and keep a cell phone in their back pocket so they can discreetly answer text messages - a ringing cell would be grounds for dismissal - and they all seem to be theatre or art majors, passing time between classes and driving shiny new SUV's. They don't look any further ahead than their next table and tip. From back in the retail shop - the adult section where no one is under 25 - we watch them twitter and hop about, hips swinging and pony tails bouncing, pouty lips and gleaming, too-white teeth in wide smiles. It's like watching a chincilla take a dust bath - all motion and disturbed air.

But this is youth, flat abs and tight butts, energy, flawless optimism. We dismiss, envy, and like them all at the same time. They have not experienced disillusion or heartache other than a failing grade, have yet to leave the protection of their families, don't understand the word "no" and don't care to. Their horizons are blue and cloudless, stretching endlessly toward a bright and happy future with perfect, pink edged sunsets and mornings that always begin with sleeping late and a fiber based hot breakfast. There are no unmade beds or dirty dishes, no ends to make meet, no timeclocks, no weight to watch. This is youth, with one foot in the adult world and one still at home - naive, unafraid,
cheerful and poised, all their dreams intact. They will inherit the world and care for it, burdens and all. What kind of caretakers will they turn out to be, I wonder, what kind of world will they create. May it be a green and peaceful one and may all their dreams come true for they are but children on the very edge of responsibility and adulthood. It's an uncertain world we will leave them and pretty will not be enough.

I suspect that there may be steel beneath their pretty faces.

Birds of a Feather

The birds took flight with a great whisper of wings and one or two screeches of protest. They soared high, circled a bit, then landed further down the bayou, silently and gracefully gliding onto the water. The power of flight is a joyful and amazing thing to watch.

In the water they formed small groups and walked about, their spiky legs moving jerkily. Funny how something so perfect in the air can appear so clumsy on land. I watched them feeding on water bugs and poking into debris and the younger ones chasing and pecking each other playfully while the adults looked on. The water was low that day and there were dry patches here and there - the birds seemed to prefer the shallows littered with sticks and clumps of dried grass and weeds. It was early afternoon and hot and I nearly envied them wandering about in the murky water. Almost in slow motion, they took one step after another, like carefully drawn stick figures or puppets moved by invisible strings. They were disjointed and awkward but delicate and gentle all at the same time. A small flock of ducks landed upstream in a wake of feathers and loud calling, disturbing the quiet water and causing alarm in the other birds. A turtle emerged to sun itself on a half submerged log and it was time to go.

Nature protects and sacrifices it's own. Walking up the bank toward the highway, I came across a carcass, a withered and long dead crow, now just a small pile of crushed feathers and splintery bones spread over a small patch of grass and weeds. It's gift of flight had been taken back and the remains returned to the earth to disintegrate and perhaps provide food for insects or small marauding creatures that lived on the bayou. It had lived, flown, and died all according to plan and purpose. It helped me to remember that there is a plan - in place and in motion all the time, being revised and edited as needed, but ongoing and thought out well in advance.

Perhaps to God, we are all birds of a feather, frail but flying and trying our best to be unafraid of the next landing.