The Devil's Workshop

Idle hands, my grandmother remarked pointedly with a scowl at my mother, are the devil's workshop.

The ladies gathered in the sunroom with their assorted handicrafts on their laps were careful not to look up from their work but I could sense their hidden smiles. My mother gave a mighty, put upon sigh and set aside her newspaper and afternoon manhatten in favor of a mending basket Nana kept beside her chair. The ladies resumed their quirky chatter,
twittering like sparrows about the upcoming Sunday School Picnic, the fact that Aunt Vi was about to have a new grandchild, that Clifton Elliott had been seen, again, leaving a certain farm in the wee hours before dawn when everyone knew the farm's owner was away on the mainland and his wife alone, about the termite infestation in the barber shop and how it was to be managed. The Ladies Sewing Circle met weekly to knit, crochet or put together patchwork quilts while they gossiped and shared stories of local events and island life. Later, Nana would serve iced coffee or tea in frosted glasses and whatever homemade cookies or cakes the ladies had brought would be laid out on the dining room table for all to sample. Recipes would be exchanged, they would comment on each other's stitchery, inquire after each other's families, but mostly they would carry tales and set rumors in motion. My grandmother had decided that my mother had been the subject of these get togethers long enough and so had incorporated her into the Circle, as it was commonly referred to, in hopes that the ladies would shift their focus. It was, she had decided, a good plan, but my mother's obvious resentment and exasperation only served to make matters worse and to my grandmother's dismay, the gossip simply became more creative and less discreet. All you have to do, she would tell my mother, is make an effort to join in! Stop being so cussed high toned and selfish! And my mother would storm out in a temper, often stopping to rip out whatever stitching she had done and fling it in the kitchen stove. I need a drink! she would shout and my grandmother would respond You need a good whipping! and the fur would begin to fly.

Even as a child, sympathy for my mother was a foreign emotion to me and I almost always sided with my daddy or grandmother. I understood very little of what was actually happening but I sensed a great deal - unhappiness, fear,
bitterness, resentment, and rage - nothing I could articulate clearly but things I sensed and was acutely aware of were always in the air. I was beginning to realize we were not quite like other families although I didn't recognize the patterns of behavior we were caught up in. My own relationship with my mother was headed in the same direction as her's with her mother - an unending battle for approval mixed with a kind of vicious contempt, a trap of our own making with no starting or ending point. Contentment with life always seemed to be just beyond my mother's grasp, hidden and put securely out of reach by her own expectations. With each setback and disappointment, she sunk deeper into her own misery and alcoholism until she was carried away by both, an angry, unhappy woman lashing out at any target she could find, lonely and stricken by the failures of others but never seeing her own.

Among other things, it taught me that life is what you make of it, not what you expect it of it.

Snippets

A recent post from my cousin Linda started me thinking about memories and how we see them as we get older and how they can be unexpectedly triggered by nearly anything. I've noticed that my head is always filled with snippets of conversations, numbers, quotes and old song lyrics, wines and Medicare codes. They come and go, often catching me by surprise with their intensity and clarity but filtered through experience and time.

She ain't Rose, but she ain't bad,
She ain't easy but she can be had,
So can I when she whispers in my ear,
She ain't Rose but she ain't bad and Rose ain't here. Leon Redbone

God gave us memories so we could have roses in December. JM Barrie

Friends, either you are closing your eyes to a situation you do not wish to acknowledge, or you are not aware of the calibre of disaster indicated by the presence of a pool table in your community. The Music Man

I got a woman, over yonder 'cross town,
I go and see her when the sun goes down,
She's my baby, I'm her rambling man,
We get together every time we can.
There's just two problems that I can't ignore,
her no good husband and his forty four. Brian Martin

One fine evening at my leisure, I thought it quite a pleasure,
to write a local ditty on the subject of the day,
So I pinched a three cent taper and a sheet of foolscap paper,
and I sat down quite contentedly to pass the time away. Diane Oxner

I don't want a pickle, just want to ride on my motorcycle. Arlo Guthrie

Make love not war. The 60's

Live Main Lobsters. From a southern Chinese restaurant menu.

First get down upon your knees,
fiddle with your rosaries,
bow your head in great respect,
and genuflect, genuflect, genuflect. Tom Leher

Up against the wall, motherf**kers. The 60's.

Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride. Matthew Wilder

Life is a journey, not a destination. AA

Peace,
Peace will come,
Let it begin with me. Tom Paxton

Didn't it hurt enough the first time? On resentment

It's harder to hit a moving target. Anonymous

Be alert. This country needs lerts. Hallmark

There's only two things that money can't buy,
and that's true love and homegrown tomatoes. Guy Clark

When Benjamin Disraeli was prime minister of England,
and good old Queen Victoria was the queen,
whenever she would need him for official palace business,
Disraeli he was nowhere to be seen,
She went down to 10 Downing Street,
the doorbell there she rang,
and when the door was answered, this is what the good queen sang,
Won't you come home, Disraeli.... Allan Sherman

Jesus is coming. Look busy. Anonymous

My friend here from outer space and I,
we like to go down to the Natural History Museum. Flanders and Swann

Some day when things are good, I'm gonna leave you,
I just can't seem to go when things are bad. Merle Haggard

When you have taken everything you can stand, stand your ground. Larry Gatlin

Don't look back, they'll catch you. Anonymous

In knitting, you can always correct the mistakes. Always. Ann Hood, "The Knitting Circle"

It's as if my mind is the drain of a bathtub filled with bubble bath and as the water slowly runs out, the bubbles and debris are caught and stored in secret corners where they hide until some random thing brings them back to the surface. As Linda writes, it might be a scent or a picture or an event, but it triggers some long forgotten memory and for a second or two I'm taken back in time, caught off guard, usually pleased, and always amazed that I could have forgotten. Memory serves a multitude of purposes - to keep alive those we loved, to help determine the people we become, to keep safe that which is precious to us, and to protect. It's a gift we should cherish and care for well.

Snow Days

In the predawn hours on weekday winter mornings with snowdrifts peeking through the first floor windows and icicles hanging perilously from the eaves, my daddy would get up to drive my brother on his paper route. The darkness was freezing, the driving treacherous, and my brother was always slow to rise and resentful of leaving his warm bed. My daddy waited patiently, drinking his morning coffee and smoking a Lucky Strike in the dimly lit kitchen - if he would have preferred a few extra hours of sleep himself, he never mentioned it.

It took the better part of two hours to complete the route and by the time they were back the house would have begun to stir. The sun would be up and the morning routines in motion. If we were lucky enough to get a snow day, we could all return to snug beds, except my daddy who would head to work in any weather. Later in the morning we'd begin the slow process of digging out, shoveling a pathway to the sidewalk and clearing the driveway, always alert for the plows. We were resigned to the fact that hours of shoveling could be undone in a moment by the snowplow's rasping blades and we prayed for a driver who might lift the plow blades as he passed, although this rarely happened. The salt trucks followed soon after, their dull roaring was deafening as they sent out sprays of salt crystals onto the icy streets. Snowbound kids and dogs were everywhere by afternoon and snowmen, snowforts, and snow castles were erected in yard after yard. Snowball fights erupted regularly and were fought with the singular intensity and enthusiasm of children granted an unexpectedly holiday. By nightfall, traffic died off and the streets took on a postcard quality - snowdrifts several feet high gleamed under the reflections of the street lamps and the air was so cold it burned your lungs and numbed your hands and feet. It became very still and quiet as if the day had gone to bed and the night had just woken to discover a new and stunning landscape.

Such days were glorious for children and nightmares for adults.

The Boy in the Red Jacket

The spotlights roamed over the stage in the auditorium, finally settling on the young trumpet player, a faired hair and good looking young man with a shining golden horn and a red jacket. He was playing an old Harry James tune and though I was only fifteen, I fell in love in an instant, along with half the other girls in my high school class. With no warning, the morning assembly had turned to magic.

I never knew his name, never got to speak to him, never saw him again, but for a few brief moments in the darkness, I was lost. I can still see him with the gleaming trumpet pouring out the solo of high, pure, clear notes in "You Made Me Love You" and I imagined that he might even look like Harry James, elegant and well dressed with a come hither smile and a trim mustache. He was only a boy in a red jacket but to my high school eyes and heart, he was stardom and style, seduction and fantasy, a dream come to life. For weeks if not months, I would close my eyes at night and picture him standing in the spotlight on the auditorium stage, a romantic lead in the play in my mind.

I fall in love at the drop of a hat.

Heads or Tails

One of the black and white photographs on my wall is a heart stopper. It was taken by a friend of mine and shows a small blonde headed little girl in pigtails and on her tiptoes reaching for the doorknob of a dilapidated old cabin door. Above the doorframe, there is one word and it reads sharply and starkly, Colored. Of all the photographs she has taken, this one is my favorite. It doesn't just speak, it screams.

Recently I saw "Letters from Iwo Jima", a movie that doesn't just speak but screams. Pearl Harbor was several years before I was born but being a lover of movies from the 30's and 40's and fascinated with history, I never expected to feel sympathy for the Japanese, never expected to be moved by them. It's not so much a war movie as a story of sacrifice and loyalty, of duty and honor. It's the other side of the coin.

I watch movies to escape and be taken to a time when life was simpler, when heroes and villains were clearly defined and good triumphed over evil. Also for the magic and romance, the mystery and drama. The rough edges of John Garfield, the elegance of Cary Grant, the sheer perfectionism of Gregory Peck. There were characters you could always count on to be on the side of right - Jimmy Stewart or Gary Cooper, for example, and characters you always count on to be on the side of wrong - John Carradine or Vincent Price. There were some that changed with the tide and still be believable - Jimmy Cagney, Edward G. Robinson, Bogart. And there were grand old song and dance men like Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire, comedians like Donald O'Connor and the Marx Brothers. All the women were carved and beautiful, frighteningly thin, idealized and at the height of their power. Katherine Hepburn, Judy Holiday, Jean Arthur, all so perfect, so troubled, so alive. I know every note of music from "The Music Man", every song from "Yankee Doodle", every word of dialogue from "An Affair to Remember" and am still brought to tears at the end of "Citizen Cane". There are movies I will not miss - "Wuthering Heights", "Rebecca", "Gone with the Wind", "The Postman Always Rings Twice", "Madame X" - I am set in cement in front of the television. There is no other side of the coin to these epics, they are simple morality tales or love stories, designed to entertain and tell a simple story.

The story of Iwo Jima is not simple, not escapism, not easily watched, but a powerful reminder that there are two sides to every coin.

Bridges to Cross

By late afternoon, the slim, pretty, mild mannered January day had turned into an ugly tempered, old curmudgeon with a frostbitten and evil nature - a reminder to me that change can happen in the blink of an eye, often when we're the least prepared for it. Sunshine and warmth had turned to dark skies and freezing rain and through the darkness I made a frantic run for the car, hoping to dodge puddles and not skid on the icy parking lot, fall and break a hip. Safely in the car, I said a small prayer for it to start and made my way home through the sleet and icy roadways, thankful there were no bridges to cross between me and home. The dogs met me at the door, as if I'd been away for years, jumping, barking, filled with welcome and joy. All was right with their world despite the thunder and winter lightning outside - the storm at the door was not their concern.

We live in two cities divided by a river and connected by several different bridges. When the weather takes a turn for the wintry and you're on the wrong side of the river, an iced over bridge is the only way home. Businesses close, the city's tiny fleet of sand trucks begin their rounds, and traffic crawls with anxious travelers determined not to be stranded by a river's width's of cold water. We make our own decisions and some of us cross and some turn back. Whatever we decide will bring consequences.

I often look back at the decisions I've made - the bridges I've crossed - and wonder about them, considering the consequences and the possibilities of different choices. Each bridge offers a different view, a different risk, a different reward. But they all lead somewhere for a reason. In fantasy, I dream about being able to see the future and what it may or may not bring. I wonder if it's really all laid out in advance and predestined or happenstance,
dependent on what I decide today or next week or next year. The part of me that has never seen uncertainty as a friend is desperate to know - the other part, risky as it is, wants to stay in the dark and be surprised.

I think that maybe in our choices and dreams, goals and ambitions, in our everyday lives, we are all contradiction, living in a shades of gray world.

Free Fall

DAY ONE: You can be laid off until further notice, he wrote, or take a 30% paycut. Effective today.
Working what hours? I wrote back.
The same, he answered and without the least hesitation or doubt, I calmly typed in No.

And in a less time than it takes to draw a single breath, I was out of work.
I had known it was coming in some form or other for months but still I was caught off guard by the email message.
I glanced around at what had been my workplace for just over two years, signed off the computer, and walked out. I felt as if I'd been sucker punched, hard, and it was suddenly difficult to breathe, impossible to think. Panic and fear began a desperate battle in my belly, each clanging and battering at the other, each determined to come in first and tear me apart. I felt sick, almost paralyzed with dread and uncertainty, and in the car I held my keys without recognizing what they were. I drove home on auto pilot, numb and on the verge of hysteria, half blinded by angry tears and choking fury. I felt like I had suddenly lost my balance and fallen head over heels into a pit with no safety net, tumbling into an endless and terrifying darkness of mortgage payments, utility bills, the care and feeding of my animals - an income-less nightmare of poverty and hunger with no way out. I was cold even though the house was warm and just the effort of absorbing this new reality was exhausting. I crawled into bed with the dogs and cats and held them tightly, closing my eyes and trying to shut out the nausea and stop the trembling. I had no idea what to do next. The immobilizing symptoms of depression were already on the prowl - insomnia, free floating stress, constant fear, the inability to move in any direction, anger that verged on rage. I wanted a target, someone or something to lash out at, someone or something to harm. I could feel it all combining to suffocate and crush me and the result was a weariness too great to fight. Panic is a predatory emotion, feeding off fear and anxiety, self-sustaining and devastating and all I could think about was giving up. There was no way to organize my thoughts and figure out the next step and even if there had been, I realized I didn't have the will or the energy to follow through.

DAY TWO: I'm up at the regular time and I do the regular things - shower, dress, make the bed, tend the animals.
The panic has subsided slightly - my friend Tricia was in need of help and has given me some work for the time being - and I'm calm enough to begin thinking clearly - almost. I plan my day - make job applications, return keys, call unemployment, work for Tricia, tend the animals and then go to work at my evening part time job, refuse to dwell on the fact that Friday is three days away.

DAYS THREE THROUGH SIX: Though I smile and claim optimism, my insides tremble and the black cloud over my head grows closer and more threatening each day. The immediate future becomes a high speed freight train and I am directly in it's path. I open my mail to discover that my last paycheck has been returned for insufficient funds and the depression temporarily turns to rage - I am now owed three weeks salary and I know that the bank is not going to care who is at fault. A feeling of vindictiveness is being born within me.

DAY 7: He calls to apologize and promise to make all monies good. He explains that checks he received himself were returned and that the avalanche effect took hold. I am unimpressed having heard this explanation given to others in the past and knowing it to be a tap dance around the truth. Still, he is sorry and unhappy to have caused me this pain, he urges me to be optimistic and assures me that things will work out then stuns me into an open jawed silence by telling me that he's working on a plan to bring me back. We are not in the same reality, he and I and I tell him when hell freezes over.

DAYS 8 THROUGH 11: I keep busy and try not to worry or borrow trouble. It takes several days and several visits to the bank to straighten out the disaster that was my checking account and I resent every second of it but I get it done. Overdraft charges are made good and the bank is good enough to reconcile my account. The immediate crisis passes in time for me to move on to the next one. The weather turns bitterly cold and we even have snow flurries and sleet, a bad omen, I think, and then chastise myself for thinking so. The weekend arrives and for a day or two I have other things to think about and I push the dull depression and ever present panic to the back of my mind. Still the clock is ticking and I can't silence it.

DAYS 12 THROUGH 18: I listen to his sorry tales of woe - can't meet payroll, tension in the office, a mountain of debt threatening to drown him, no prospects, apologies for what's happened - and am not moved. My own problems are all I can deal with and they seem to be drowning me. I spend hours online editing a resume and making applications and it comes to nothing. The days run together, without the structure of being employed I have no clear idea of the calendar and I can feel the darkness just at the edge of my vision. When I can sleep, my dreams are wild and vivid, almost frightening in their clarity, but they tell me nothing except that the stress is even present when I sleep, working its way into my unconscious as well as my waking time. It becomes more and more difficult to find the motivation to get through the day and the temptation to withdraw and wait it out under the covers is stronger every hour. I find myself looking back and wondering how is it possible that I've come to be so unprepared and so lost so quickly. How, I demand of myself, could I have let this happen? These are dark days and it's hard to find the energy to get out of bed, much less hope.

DAYS 19 THROUGH 23: The weather matches my mood - dark, cold, pouring rain. I think it may never end and find I don't much care. I print and mail resumes with a dispirited sense of futility and then with self discipline I didn't even know I had, force myself to shower and dress, make a light lunch, clean up after myself and the animals and resume my internet searching. I remember to take my meds, knowing that every effort must be made to fight the depression that is threatening to overcome me. Everything has become too much trouble.

A MONTH IN: It's nearly February, a gray time of year with many rainy days and falling temperatures. I ignore the weather and think that each day is the day that will bring me work and purpose. I remind myself that I still have a roof over my head, that the animals are still eating, that there is warmth and comfort in this small house and that there are hundreds if not thousands in far worse shape. I remember that there are much more severe obstacles than temporary unemployment and what matters is that we keep on trying no matter how often or hard we fall. I will myself into morning chores, will myself into a more positive mood, will myself into a better state of mind.

6 WEEKS IN: I step outside on an unusually warm evening - taking a break from rearranging bottles of wine - and someone calls my name. It's someone I've known for years, picking up her daughter from dance class. We chat and during the course of the conversation she asks me to send in my resume. The following day there is an initial interview and the day after that I'm offered a job in her husband's medical practice. Just like that, the free fall is over - salvation arrives through a chance meeting, through a moment of serendipity as unexpected as the muggy February night air.

Primary Colors

The smallish office was a blaze of color - batik covered walls, bright watercolor prints, oversized cushions in bright stripes on the floor and a thick, geometric pattered carpet on the floor. The woman with black hair and gold rimmed glasses sat comfortably in a corner of a loveseat. She wore ballet shoes, a fringed shawl over her shoulders and a kind look. I had come to her in search of understanding, validation, perhaps even forgiveness - this was to be one of our final sessions as she had pronounced me emotionally intact, strong, ready to be returned to the fray. Suppose, she said in her soft but intent voice, that she had never taken a drink? Would you see her as different?

I hesitated, thinking the question through, wanting to give the right answer and knowing that there was none. In this room of color run riot, there was no place for quiet reflection or serene self contemplation. There were no overflowing bookshelves, no notebooks, no overhead lights to dim or drawn blinds, no filing cabinets, just two women who met on a weekly basis and talked of alcoholism and evil, family and estrangement, forgiveness and the path to healing. She saw the world as a place of blinding brightness encompassing all manner of secrets and she believed that color would force the secrets into the light and take away their power. Color was hard core honesty, a weapon she used against the inner torment of her patients - it seduced the secrets out and drained them - they could not survive in this room of wild, chaotic color, they were overcome and they died a public and painful death. Do you believe, she continued, that she was born evil?

Over the years some of the colors had faded. These she replaced quickly and efficiently, allowing no pastels to gain a foothold. There would be no rainbows in this room, no blurry chalk colors on a blackboard, no soft cashmeres to sink into. This was a garden in full bloom and in full sunshine, waves of bright red and royal blue, the greens of an Irish parade, shocking yellows and deep purple with metallic gold trim. Color could not be ignored or mistaken for something else here, it commanded attention and respect and though it was often hard on the eyes, it never dimmed or let you look away. In this room, color gave you no choice, only challenge.

Yes, I answered, looking directly into her intense blue eyes, She was evil and it wasn't my fault. The woman with the black hair and gold rimmed glasses smiled.

Tilly's Voice

On a warm summery day in August, the ferry delivered Tilly's motorcycle and most of the village turned out to see.

It came on a platform truck, fitted between sheets of sturdy wood and chained in place. The sun glistened on the windshield and shiny metal, the leather smelled new and sharp, everything about it said danger! and rebel! and watching from the breakwater, Tilly was in heaven. Unable to wait, she ran down the slip, knee deep in salt water, and jumped to the scow, causing Cap to clutch his chest and yell fierce curses at her. She barely heard him as she scaled the sides of the container and scrambled inside, running her hands over the monster of a machine from one end to the other. She was in love and no amount of threats from Cap would keep her from this magnificent mass of steel and leather. She climbed through the chains and mounted it in a quick motion, throwing her hands to the sky and smiling hugely. Cap docked the ferry and emerged shaking his fists and muttering but Tilly refused to budge and with a schedule to meet and a crowd watching, he finally gave in and the motorcycle was uncrated where it stood. It started with a deafening roar and Tilly nearly flew off before she drove it up the slip, onto the breakwater, and then in a cloud of dust and smoke, down the road toward The Point. The sound of the engine in full throttle overwhelmed all other noise and could be heard long after Tilly was out of sight and racing toward the opposite end of the island in a blur of exhaust, wind, and flashing lights. Mark my words, Cap said darkly, that girl's bitten off more'n she can chew.

Tilly has just turned thirty that summer and the motorcycle was her dream come true. She had saved for it since her tenth birthday, putting away her factory wages and her tips from the Canteen, her baby sitting earnings and the spare change she collected from redeeming deposit bottles and every other cent she could scare up. She kept this precious money in old cigar boxes that she buried in her stepdaddy's pasture and had never once dipped into it for anything else. After having seen a picture of a dressed out Harley in a magazine she had found in a trash can, she'd become steadfast and obsessive about it and despite warnings and admonitions had never wavered. She would have her motorcycle and all the trimmings and she was prepared to save and wait her whole life. She rode it everywhere, causing terrified livestock to flee at the sound and disturbing the sleep of the old folks and newborns.
Each night she put it to bed in an empty stall, covering it lovingly and often bedding down beside it. She kept it polished and conditioned and it shone like a shiny new dime. By summer's end she had tamed it and would give the children rides around the cove and back again - it was freedom and independence and it was glorious - especially sweet because Tilly had been born a mute and had never spoken a single word in all her thirty years - until the arrival of the motorcycle when she found her voice.

An Abundance of Riches

Sitting on the floor in the house of a recently dead woman, surrounded by spools of thread and linens, silk nightgowns, cd's, greeting cards, cleaning supplies, knickknacks and personal papers, I begin to think about the journey of living and what we leave behind.

It is an endless house with mostly windows for walls and most of them look out onto a woodsy landscape of trees and flowers, ivy and plants overflowing in their pots, landscaped garden areas and walkways. It is very peaceful, very lovely, very quiet and despite the possessions and furniture and clutter, very empty. There is bedroom after bedroom, each with a bath and dressing area. There is a sauna downstairs, a hot tub outside, wallpaper with the appearance of blue-black stone encrusted with glitter, mosaic walls. An abandoned greenhouse, it's windows decaying and filthy, sits on a slight rise behind the house. There are wild roses growing here and there, low bricked walls around a patio collecting dead leaves and debris from the land. There are birds and squirrels and the sounds of nature everywhere outside and on the inside there is the scent of old money, power, privilege and exceptionally gracious living. There was art and music in this house with its expensive furnishings and window walls, there were children and dogs, fine wine served in elegant crystal glassware to a collection of family and friends, there were holidays and parties, celebrations and sadness. There is character and substance here still.

The house was built in the 50's during a time when workmanship and craft truly mattered, when the building trades didn't take shortcuts for clients, wealthy or otherwise. And while it is undeniably a grand house, it is comfortable, designed to be friendly, practical, and well lived in, not a house where you'd be afraid to put your feet up, not a house where you'd be afraid to touch things or hang a towel crookedly. There is a feeling here, a sense of the gypsy in the woman who lived here for so long, a sense of a comfortable, productive if idle life. Among the paintings and porcelain vases, the classic books with spines unbroken, the John Gary records and the lacy hand towels and silk sheets with their delicate monograms, there lived a woman who loved music, children, dogs, flowers and life. She wore her wealth well.