My Animals and I

All is darkness when the alarm on the small bedside table begins to chirp. Animals scramble awake and scatter for the kitchen and the back door, much like a fire drill. Hungry and anxious to start their day, they don't wait for me but take their places at their food dishes and begin to sing in unharmonious impatience. They have a routine, as do I, and dislike it being altered, as do I. In this and other things, we are much alike, my animals and I.

I did not set out to become caretaker to such a collection of cast offs but I'm easily taken advantage of when it comes to animals and always seem to have a houseful that no one else wants or can care for. I imagine a house without them and see a nightmare of quiet, of order, of peace. They share my bed and my food, they comfort me when needed and love unconditionally when in the mood. I stand between them and life on the streets or in a cold shelter and though at times I could cheerfully sweep them all into a pile and bury them in an unmarked grave, they are my legacy and my children and the reason I keep going. They will never provide for me in old age or sickness, will never help with chores or errands, never learn to pick up after themselves, at times I think they'll never even learn to get along with each other. With each one I lose, a part of my heart breaks, never to be mended, but life without them would be unbearable, this I know as surely as I know anything.

I don't remember ever making a conscious choice not to have children, it was just something I knew I didn't want from the beginning - the two men I married felt the same and it was never an issue. I always knew in my heart that I did not want to do to a child what had been done to me and it didn't occur to me that history wouldn't repeat itself. While I don't regret the decision in the slightest, I do sometimes find myself wondering how life would've been different with children. Then, I walk in the door to the chaos of this circus of cast off animals and breathe a sigh of relief. We don't get to choose our families unless we choose not to have them and in my case, I have all I can handle.

Feet First

What happened to our new nurse? I asked.
People are like shoes, she told me with a frown, when they don't fit, everybody's unhappy.

I remembered someone telling me that you can always judge a person by their shoes and thinking what a silly idea it was at the time. Now, after a lifetime of considering the shoes people wore, I wasn't as sure. They are, after all, the foundation on which we stand, contributing to our posture, our stance, our comfort, our confidence. Perhaps they are like people and must fit to ensure everyone's comfort level. Even though it seems a clearly flawed theory, perhaps it is a basic truth. I wore heels for years, regardless of how long I had to stand on my feet or how far I had to walk. Fashion mattered more than fit, showing off my legs mattered more than I cared to admit, and not matching my shoes to my dress was unthinkable. Long after my feet began to show signs of wear and tear, I continued the practice of heels - through numbness in my toes, through aching arches and heel pain, through tingling and swollen ankles and any kind of weather. I opted for high heel boots in winter and strappy sandals in summer, refusing to give in to age or callouses or cushioning. At days end, a slight limp was natural and worth the price. I wanted to fit with everyone else and shoes were a part of that fit.

I don't care so much about fitting in as I did then. I've come to put a higher value on individuality and a lesser value on the opinions of others. Integrity matters more than it did, as does being free to dress for comfort and my own style, all the way down to my shoes. In a town where the majority of ladies still dress for the grocery shopping, I can be shockingly mismatched and un-put together. Perhaps it's partly my age, partly my sense of (finally!) refusing to conform, partly the long overdue realization that I need to be kinder to my feet. At any rate, I care more about the shoe fitting than fitting the shoe.

Perhaps the next new nurse will be a better fit, perhaps not. I'm trying to tend to my own feet first and making room for others to do the same. Fashion is for the young and fleet but fitting in is up to each of us on our own.

Neighborhood Watch

The azaleas along the parkway were well on their way to full bloom last week - I could see them clearly through the heavy mist of unexpected snow that was falling - big, wet flakes tumbling out of the sky as if shaken from a box of powered detergent by invisible hands. School was let out and the children - there are always hundreds who have never seen such a sight - were sent home in awe and delight. It melted before hitting the ground, of course, but still it fell all afternoon and was declared a miracle. The small brown dog was left unimpressed and unwilling to venture out into this strange weather but the black dog was joyous, running in circles in the yard, barking and trying her best to catch a snowflake, hardly knowing which way to jump. To her, everything is a small miracle to be welcomed and explored, chased, captured or cornered and she knows no fear or apprehension. She is curious, adventurous, filled with the wonder of the world and she revels in it all. Back inside, she resisted my efforts to towel her off, preferring a vigorous shake of her thick coat and a roll on the carpet before taking up her post at the window from which she keeps an eye on the street. She is my own personal neighborhood watch, alert to even the slightest street noise, any car door opening or closing, any sound from a child, every footstep and voice. She has only one speed, and regrettably, no off switch. She is the energizer bunny of continuous running, 18 pounds of pure, speed driven movement, relentlessly on guard and poised for attack, a mix of whirling dervish, cheetah, and perpetual motion machine. She never slows down, never paces herself, never takes a breather. She has terrorized untold pizza delivery drivers, postal employees, fed ex drivers, unsuspecting joggers, road crews, the trash men,
the water department, the meter reader, cable installers, and her fair share of Jehovah's Witnessess - this last with no rebuke, I admit.

When the electrician arrived to work on the ceiling fans, she raced for the front door and hit it at full speed before he'd even had a chance to knock. He took a step backward in surprise and dropped his tool kit, reached for the iron railing to break his fall just as she charged a second time and as the screen gave way and she broke through, he lost his balance and tumbled over the railing and into a heap in the crepe myrtle. By the time I got there, she had him backed up against the latticework, and she was rooted just a foot or two away, teeth bared and snarling in between triumphant barks. I snatched her up and away from him and held her mouth shut, trying to apologize and not laugh all at the same time at the sight of this unhappy workman, a big man, well over six foot and easily 200 pounds, lying in the dirt and picking blossoms out of his hair, searching for his tools, his cap, and his dignity. He refused to enter the house until she was kenneled and he went about his work nervously and surly, finishing and leaving with a scowl.

He wasn't the first and probably will not be the last stranger to tangle with the black dog. I have often suspected her size plays a role in her attitude - being a small dog, she is often not taken seriously and she compensates with frenzied fury, determined to have the upper hand in every situation. Not unlike myself in certain situations.

Proof of Life

Mr. McKay's house was the third one after our's. It sat well back from the street on a tastefully manicured expanse of green lawn and was shaded with mammoth weeping willows and oaks. The circular driveway - the only one we knew of in our section of town - curved gracefully and was lined with great earthenware pots overflowing with flowers and ivy. Matched rattan rocking chairs sat on one end of the wide front porch, a cedar picnic table and benches on the other and the front door was a massive work of wooden scrollwork with a gold lion's head door knocker and latch. The inside of the house was a mystery to us and we did not dare approach it. A shiny black Mercedes was often parked in the back but we hardly ever saw Mr. McKay, his comings and goings were unknown and much speculated upon. We knew only that he walked with a cane, wore a fedora and gray gloves, and was unimaginably old and a widower.

It was a two storied house with a cobblestone path leading from the winding drive to the front steps and heavy, dark curtains across all the windows. Smoke drifted from the double chimneys in the winter - we took it as proof of life - but the curtains were never open and no light ever shone through. Spotlights had been placed along the edges of the lawn and after dark they illuminated the house from every angle. as if to warn off intruders and curious children. No dog ever barked from within, no squirrel or bird approached the empty feeders, no mail was ever left unattended and no packages were left uncollected. Occasionally and always during daylight hours, one of us would find the courage to creep upon the sweet smelling grass and take a tentative step toward the house. This trespassing was met with a sharp, startling rapping at the window but no voice ever called out and no curtain ever moved. We began to think that perhaps Mr. McKay was possessed of a sixth sense that alerted him to unwelcome company and without planning it, we often crossed the street to avoid the house and it's temptations. It wasn't fear, exactly, we called it caution and common sense and deciding to play it safe.

Doctors still made house calls at the time and every now and then an elegantly dressed man carrying a black bag would be admitted for a brief time. Sometimes a nurse in a crisp white uniform, white hose, noiseless white shoes and a starched white cap pinned in her hair with a dark cape over her shoulders was let in. The mailman came and went regularly as did the milkman but otherwise Mr. McKay received no visitors. Once an ambulance arrived, lights flashing and sirens wailing, and we watched breathlessly as the white coated attendants jumped out of the back double doors and ran up the cobblestone walk. Moments later they emerged, carefully but efficiently carrying a stretcher covered with a white sheet, eased it into the back and raced off. Was he dead? we wondered and ran like the wind to spread the news. The ambulance returned several days later, without the lights or sirens, and the stretcher was carried back inside the house with the all-in-white nurse caped nurse accompanying it. This time she carried a suitcase as well as a medical bag.

We never saw Mr. McKay after that and one late autumn day there was a "For Sale" sign among the piles of newspapers and unraked leaves on the front lawn. He had lived a long and useful life, my daddy told us, and had died quietly in his own bed, on his own terms, at the age of 88. When his will was read, he had left all his wealth to The New England Home for Little Wanderers, an orphanage where we delivered Thanksgiving and Christmas baskets every year. Never judge a man's actions until you know his motives, my daddy said with a curious smile and gave me a hug.

Chicken Soup & Solitude

After a bout of illness - in this case a severe cold that lasted for several days and caused me numerous times to wish for oblivion - it's necessary to rejoin the world.

All my instincts told me to give it a pass. The sun was shining brightly outside and I wanted nothing more than to open the windows and let it bring fresh air and warmth to a stuffy and stale sickroom, cluttered with dirty dishes, forlorn kleenex and empty aspirin bottles. I didn't want to move from the couch, didn't want to change kitty litter boxes or do laundry. I was used up and worn out with fuzzy teeth and a leftover headache from coughing and body aches that might return with enough effort. I needed air freshener and a nap although I'd been horizontal for the better part of four days. My hopes for the future seemed to rest with chicken soup and solitude and it was with despair and bitterness that I realized I was out of the former and had no chance for the latter, not with a houseful of restless and confined animals. This is the downside of living alone.

I carefully swallowed a handful of aspirin and drank some leftover juice, testing the waters by sitting upright and waiting to see if the room would begin to spin. The small brown dog gave me a look filled with compassion and hope while the cats circled like unfed vultures and the black dog began to bark and nose her water dish across the kitchen floor. None of it seemed worthy of the effort it was going to take to put things back in order. I was sure a trip to the grocery store would be fatal - indeed, a trip to the kitchen sink seemed beyond my reach - and the pressure in my chest was a reminder that the vicious cough could return at any moment. Still, the darkened house was unbearable, the sick room feel to it was too oppressing to tolerate and I needed fresh clothes, fresh water, fresh thoughts. It was time to get well.

I would begin with a hot shower, I thought, wash my hair until it hurt, and scrub my teeth, find clean bluejeans and a tshirt and slowly begin to pick up the pieces. One litter box at a time, one small area at a time, I would make my way back to the land of the living, stopping to rest as needed, not pushing too hard, not tempting fate or the cold gods who had so unfeelingly laid waste to my organized and usually healthy life. Enough, I thought and then said aloud for emphasis and to convince myself, was enough. The small brown dog cocked her head at me, quivering all over with the possibility of a trip outside and a cookie, and I got to my feet.

No matter how trivial the illness or how insignificant the journey, no matter how much you would rather not go or how little or large the reward, the first step is always the hardest to take.

The Spirit of Patsy Kline

The lights went down in the small recording studio and the singer/songwriting couple from Virginia took the stage. He strapped his guitar around his neck and began tuning - she reached for the stand up bass, taller than she was herself,
and they began making music together.

Her voice was clear and pure and remarkable. Her fingers plucked at the bass with skill and affection and she smiled often with a Virginia genuineness that immediately won over every member of the audience. He watched her with love shining in his eyes and a quiet, low key pride. They played and sang easily together as two people in love will often do, giving and taking at all the right moments, harmonizing perfectly and sounding as one - original songs of family and small town life, of the adventures of traveling and living on the road, of people they'd met along the way, of performances gone good and bad. He told stories of his grandfather and how certain songs came to be, sad stories and funny ones, all from the heart and related with a gentle smile. They sang bluegrass with a country quickness and authenticity, love songs with heartbreaking lyrics, and old time country and western, peppery with lost love and death on a lonely back road. And at the end they did a cover song or two and when I closed my eyes, I heard Patsy Kline - not so much her voice, but her essence, her spirit, her being. The lyrics to "Crazy" floated throughout the studio and I watched the audience being carried away by the sheer beauty of the sound. At the end there was tremendous applause and the first of three standing ovations.

These two gentle people from a small town in Virginia rang the rafters with a joyous noise.

Picking Up the Pace

There's a certain pace to people and places. A dear friend of mine is like edgy, improvised jazz - always in a hurry, driving fast, walking quickly, and always against the wind. Another ambles, taking his time and taking in the sights. I know people who remind me of classical quintets, stately and slightly understated with suit and tie manners. Others are like ragtime, quirky and upbeat, sometimes lacking harmony but always full of spirit. Still others are seductive and down home, like slow blues. Many are ragged around the edges and seem to be just a little twangy.

Partial as I am to all of them, the slow blues is my first choice and I miss it. Keeping body and soul together with two jobs has forced me to pick up my pace and lately I seem to be running late most of the time and more frantic than I'd like to be. The telephone rings and I have to take a second or two to remember where I am and how I'm supposed to answer.I find myself trying to manage several things at once and feeling like my life has turned into a juggling act. I'm forced to create time for myself, for the music I dearly love, for a few quiet moments and I sometimes feel like a squirrel on a high wire. A new novel by a favorite author sits unread, a sweater in need of drycleaning hangs and gathers dust, the mail piles up unopened. In between runs for kitty litter and cigarettes I try to remember to watch the gas gauge, charge my cell phone, defrost the refrigerator, not run out of coke. There are to-do lists crammed into my pockets and little notes to myself scrawled on backs of envelopes and sticky notes. I'm too scattered to be organized and I imagine that this is how confetti must feel. I despair at the state of the house and am relieved that no one visits.
The windows cry out for washing, the carpeting wants a good steam cleaning, the mini blinds need replacing most desperately and the bathtub needs re-caulking. Outside, the crepe myrtle is completely out of control, growing at an alarming speed and threatening to take over the entire front of the house while the latticework is overrun with weeds and vines. I fear the wild things that I think may be taking root behind it - I know for a certainty that the neighborhood cats have taken up residence in and around the ductwork and underneath the back deck.

So I give up the slow blues in favor of a mad dance with time. I pick up my pace and get on with it, hurrying to get to the next thing and the next place and doing my best not to lose myself in the process. You have to dance to the music that's playing even if it's someone else's selection on the jukebox.

The Night Before

I didn't know what had woken me up and after a minute or two of listening, I decided I had likely dreamed something. Then I heard my brother's laughing, a nasty sound with an evil edge to it, and cautiously I got out of bed and opened my door. There was an unfamiliar scent in the air, acrid like smoke but somehow powdery. Then there was a sound like an enormous firecracker, deafening and echo-y and the smoky smell got stronger and sharper. My brother's laughter turned to howls and holding my breath I pushed his bedroom door open a crack.

He was in his underwear, kneeling on his bed in front of the open window, both hands gripping a hand gun aimed at the trees in our neighbor's yard. He was cackling and his hands shook from the weight of the gun as he aimed and fired again. The noise was shockingly loud and the recoil substantial - with each shot, it slammed him backwards and his hands flew up and hit the bottom edge of the window. A trickle of blood was running down from his wrist and a few drops had hit the sill but he seemed not to notice. He must've sensed me standing there because he suddenly turned and looked over his shoulder, making cold and wild eye contact with me, and I slammed the door shut and backed into my own room, trembling and with a hard knot of fear making it's way from my gut to my throat. Barefoot and in just my pajamas, I climbed out the back window onto the roof and jumped for the yard then ran for the fence. Terrified he would follow me, I hauled myself over and ran for the safety of the nearest porch light then decided that I'd be too easy a target and changed course for the darkness of a row of thick shrubs.

The shooting stopped but I stayed put, too scared to move or think clearly. I heard the sounds of doors opening and closing, of neighbors talking and shouting, the dogs barking and after several minutes, a police siren. Feeling marginally safer, I crept out of the shrubs and approached the fence - I could see the flashing lights of the police cruiser in the driveway and shapes with flashlights moving about but the house had become still, silent and dark. I had an irrational moment of hoping that he had shot himself, that the police would break in and find his bloody body, and that I could return to sleeping with an unlocked door but it was not to be. When the police left and the neighbors returned to their homes, I made my way back across the yard and up the old oak tree to the roof - there were no sounds coming from the house and as quietly as I could I slid back into my room and my bed. My brother's room was dark and totally still except for the flickers of light and muted volume of the television - it stayed on all night.

Except for the fact that my brother got up uncharacteristically early and made a point of taking the trash barrels to the curb before pleading to a sore throat and having to miss school, the next morning was ordinary. No police arrived, no curious neighbors came knocking on the door. I left in a rush, more than slightly desperate for the predictability and sanctuary of the classroom - my daddy frowned when I turned down a later ride and I left him at the window, staring at the trash barrels on the sidewalk, a puzzled expression on his face.

By days end, it all seemed like a bad dream and after a few more days passed, I was able to sleep again although in addition to the lock on my door, I jammed a chair under the doorknob each night. I never turned my back to my brother again.

The Halfway Mark

Having reached and passed the halfway mark of my life, I'm fascinated by the young people I know. They don't know about old movies, old music, don't remember the day JFK was shot or where they were when Elvis died. They don't know about Woodstock or Timothy Leary, flower children or The Boston Strangler. They haven't seen Citizen Kane and don't recognize the name of Margaret Mitchell or Charles Manson. The everyday things I take completely for granted are foreign to them and some ask questions that amaze me - the concept that television was not always color always takes them by surprise, letter writing is unheard of, they can't imagine a telephone with a rotary dial or a home without a computer. They have an eerie propensity toward technology and aren't familiar with terms like "record player" or "pedalpushers" or even "dungarees".

I'm mystified by their music and taste in movies, charmed by their sophistication, impressed with their good manners and appalled at their spelling. On the whole, they are bright, quick to learn and they embrace change and challenge. They make good, responsible and unselfish parents and frequently choose careers that help their communities and offer less financial gain. They are well brought up and gifted, curious and daring to take risks, polite and optimistic. They feel an obligation to make things better and they figure things out on their own. They are artists and dancers and doctors and lovers of animals and fast cars, health conscious and quick witted. They get involved and they vote. They care about global warming and think green, they are brave and confident and eager. They expect to make a difference, they're committed, and they're the future.

To be honest, I can't quite remember being their age or if I was as dedicated or determined but I hope I was. There is so much promise in youth, so many expectations to be realized, how can it not come to pass?

Cammie's Diary

One of ten children of an doubtful marriage, Cammie had started hearing the voices when she was about thirteen, the same summer the Lora Lee and her crew of four was lost. A pretty little girl who trailed after her nine brothers constantly, she drifted away from from them as the voices began speaking to her and was often seen walking alone, head down in deep study as she listened and tried to understand, twisting one blonde pigtail around her fingers and mindless of anyone or anything that passed. She no longer went fishing for eels or collected bottles with her brothers, no longer pestered them to join in their games or hung about as they skipped stones over the incoming tides. She was slowly drifting away on the waves in her mind. Returning from the day's fishing one late afternoon, John Sullivan came across her sitting alone in a dry docked old rowboat, pale and listless and mute. He carried her to my grandmother who brought her around with smelling salts and force fed her hot tea with lavender, but Cammie remained silent, her eyes staring off into the distance, far away and unaware of those around her. Fetch her brothers, John, my grandmother said, there's nought that I can do for her but get her home.

It was uncommonly, almost eerily warm that summer, and Cammie continued to drift, sitting on the steps of her shack and staring out to sea. She often spoke, but only in answer to the voices no one else heard, and the one sided conversations became progressively more distracting and disturbing. She took long walks along the rocky coast, stopping often to listen, nod and then answer with what seemed to be nonsense. Sometimes she would appear to argue violently, shaking off unseen hands and making her small hands into fists to ward off her invisible attackers. She would collect stones and with all the force she possessed, pitch them at her illusions and then stamp her feet in frustration or satisfaction. Leave me be! she was heard to shout, Leave me be! At times she seemed to win these battles, at times she lost and her behavior deteriorated - she would return from her walks bruised and bloody and refuse her mother's attempts to help her, saying only that the blood was clean and needed to dry. She fought fiercely. Her brothers took to taking turns watching her although always from a distance, unwilling to risk getting too close and be seen. People began to be afraid of her and for her - she was found again and again in the dry docked rowboat, still and silent and in a private, unknown world.

At some point that summer, Cammie decided to drown her demons. She wandered away one early evening carrying a small canvas sack of stones, several pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and what looked like a hymnal. At the foot of the hill by Uncle Willie's, she stopped to pick wildflowers then walked around the curve of the Old Road and vanished. Aunt Pearl saw her headed toward the cove, coming home from his shift on the ferry, Cap saw her climbing down the embankment toward the breakwater, and she passed the Ryan house sometime later, setting off the dogs to bark and waking the household. After that, where she went and what she did is a mystery and it wasn't until the next morning that the outgoing boats came across the old rowboat adrift off Peter's Island. The pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were laid out on the seat along with the hymnal, which turned out to be a diary, and there were wildflowers floating toward shore. There was no sign of Cammie. They talk to me all the time, she had written, and they won't go way. They want me to go to the water, to the bottom, to see the ones that never came home. I think they're God. I'm afraid they'll leave me if I don't bring the flowers. They're going to teach me to swim and be a mermaid and bring the other ones home with the magic rocks.

On the sunken Lora Lee found several days later, Cammie's bag of stones was tied to the anchor along with a bouquet of flowers. Although it was presumed that she drowned, her body was never found and the villagers found it easier to believe that she had been transformed into a mermaid, endlessly swimming and searching the ocean for lost fishermen. Perhaps she was.