The Gentleman Toad

The small brown dog sat with her head cocked, listening and watching intently and wagging her tail furiously. There was no movement that I could see under the shrubs and I thought she might be imagining something. Then she abruptly jumped backwards and gave a single, sharp bark - and to my surprise, I saw a toad emerge from under the greenery and stop just a few inches from her.

He sat, still as stone, brownish colored and perfectly calm, watching her cooly and without a trace of fear or good sense. She barked again, a yelp that pierced the early morning air and startled me but did not appear to disturb him in the least. She took a hesitant step toward him, nose to the ground and almost in a low crawl, ears perked upright and eyes dancing with curiosity. He continued to watch her disinterestledy, filmy eyes yellow and green tinged and half lidded. She slowly took another step closer, caution and inquisitiveness at odds within her small little self and when she glanced at me almost as if for approval, I spoke her name softly, It's ok, I told her, Just go easy. She looked back at the foreign creature and slid another inch in his direction, deceptively resting her chin on the concrete drive but still alert and prepared to move quickly.

The toad stayed motionless, only his rapid breathing giving any indication that he was alive. I thought about my camera but it was inside and I knew that if I moved, the whole scene would fall apart so I sat still, watching and wondering how this contest would play out. The brown dog had now made her way to just a postage stamp's distance away and still the toad didn't move. They watched each other but neither seemed anxious to make the next move. They were stalemated and it lasted for several minutes until finally the dog barked in frustration and jumped to her feet in an unexpected flurry and the toad seized the moment, leaping for the safety and darkness beneath the deck. The dog tried to follow at once, white paws scrabbling on the concrete in a panic and entire body quivering, but the toad had made his escape good. She gave one final bark and then plunked her little body down in the wet grass, head on her paws and nose pressed against the wooden slats, whining softly and looking after him forlornly.

Would she have hurt him? Not in a hundred years - her nature is too tender hearted and too forgiving. It was a moment of potential friendship that passed her by and knowing her attention span to be brief, I knew she would forget and move on. Time heals all wounds and eases all sorrows, even for small brown dogs and toads.

The Game of the Audible Sigh

Consider the audible sigh and all that it conveys.

Quicker than you can say Jack Robinson, you get the message of impatience, weariness, disappointment. That unmistakable "How many times do I have to tell you...." is in the air, the message of "You ought to know this..." comes across clearly. If there is one thing I remember about my mother above all else, in the kingdom of martyrdom, she was undisputed queen of the audible sigh.

Of course, it's something of an art and improvisation is not only allowed but encouraged. Added touches include a a despairing head shake, a tightening of the mouth, a sideways look that suggests you may be seriously impaired,
but mostly a simple, shoulders up with a deep inhalation then down with an equally deep exhalation will do. The higher the shoulders go, the further they have to come down and this adds to the dramatic effect but any expert sigher will tell you that it's the letting out of breath that wins in the long run. It also helps to be doing something that appears important so that you demonstrate your willingness to sacrifice - my mother favored knitting because she could make such a production of folding it up, rewinding the yarn, and storing the needles. She would then push herself to her feet, repeat the sigh, and wearily say, Never mind....(pause for emphasis)....I'll do it myself.
The more trivial the "it" was, the greater the score - inflicting a small humiliation or causing a quick flash of anger were both opportunities for bonus points.

It's hard to confess that when this happens now, the sting is still powerful - I time travel back and hear my mother's voice all over again, the profound weariness and the resignation, the sense that all her life she has had to do the simplest things for me, the implication that I can't be trusted in the most basic of actions and worse, the certain if unspoken accusation that I could if I would only try. Being put upon suited her immensely and she demonstrated it with unfailing regularity. Her voice is a broken record, replaying the same old message - the same old wrong message, I remind myself - that she taught me as a child. She treated everyone as lesser people, perhaps because she had been treated that way herself, perhaps because it was the only way she knew to feel good about herself.
In the end, the venom caught up with her as it tends to do with us all.

We are all capable of ingesting our own poisons. Better to spit, rinse and move on.

Cambridge Days

We walked the ten blocks or so to catch the bus to Harvard Square and the subway system. It was a perfect fall day, cool enough to be comfortable and warm enough not to need a jacket. We emerged in the heart of the Square and all it's unique character, a mix of students, panhandlers, street musicians, academics and shoppers. It was noisy and cheerful and completely at ease with itself. We headed toward the river, past the small, shadowy shops and bright awnings, past the little German bistro my daddy used to take us to, past the record stores and art stores. The sidewalks were crowded with people and dogs and the streets were a perpetual snarl of traffic. Music of all kinds drifted out second and third floor windows and taxi drivers shouted at pedestrians in languages we didn't understand while the occasional junkie nodded off in a doorway. There were long haired hippies and crewcut professionals, women in starched shirts with ties and men in robes and long beards. There were beads everywhere and the scent of marijuana was in the air like cologne. There were shouts from various young men and women hawking the Boston Phoenix on the corners, people passed out flyers against the war, closer toward the river a young man stood on an overturned milk crate, preaching, protesting, pleading for someone to listen. His eyes were slightly glazed over and he was surrounded by pigeons and empty whiskey bottles. An old man passed us with a monkey in a shiny, miniature leather jacket perched on his shoulder. A young woman leaned against a lampost, a dog eared copy of the King James Bible pressed to her chest and a string of rosary beads wound around her hand. She blessed us as we made our way around her.

It was less crowded as we got closer to the river. The water was murky and still, tinged with a metallic gray and reflecting the high rise dorms of Harvard. Debris floated randomly along with the mild current and the city buildings stood sharply etched against the skyline. All along the river banks people were spread out - drinking wine from paper cups, playing frisbee, reading, sunbathing on old blankets spread on the new grass. Portable radios broadcast opera, the lone country western station and the baseball game in progress at Fenway Park. Couples strolled across the bridge holding hands, walking dogs and pushing baby carriages and we could see a denim clad, long haired woman in front of an easel, passionately sketching the horizon. This was Cambridge when I was fresh out of high school, artsy and intellectual, free spirited and casual, tolerant and color blind. The city opened its arms to everyone and invited them to stay and make themselves at home. It was a liberal hotbed of anti-establishment life styles and radical thinking, of flower children and protesters, of the fight for freedom and individuality. And the last time I was there, it still was - underground coffee houses still exist along with wine bars and very pricey hotels, handmade jewelery and leather goods are still for sale, there is still music from the doorways and windows and the dusty, dim, old bookstores have survived. Change comes to the Square but it's superficial, cosmetic, and overall unimportant.

Harvard Square was and continues to be - for me - the heat and heart of the city. It comforts me to know that it's still there, still as it was, still alive with a feeling of quiet revolution. The subways rumble beneath it coming and going in all directions, a maze of underground railways that extends far beyond the city's limits but always comes back to it's starting point, like coming home again after a journey and being glad to see all the familiar landmarks still as you left them.

Chess Men

The shortcut back to work took me through a less than prosperous section of town and it was on a run down block of brick fourplexes that I saw the chess game. On either side of a rickety card table on the broken sidewalk, two old black men sat on overturned vegetable crates. They were scarred and chipped like the board and the chess men and I immediately cursed myself for not having my camera with me but I stopped anyway.

Both smiled at me and asked if I knew the game - I said no, I'd been struck by the image of the sidewalk game and wondered if I might come back and take their picture another day. Without looking much away from the game, they both nodded and one asked if it would be in the paper. I said probably not but I'd be happy to give them each a print, and they laughed. Their names were Eustis and Johnny Mac, two old friends since childhood. They had both been in the war together where Eustis had lost his leg - that was when I noticed the crutches - and had come back together to work for the railroad, marry and raise families, and now with their children grown and both their wives "passed on", they were retired and passing the time with pensions and chess. We just be waitin', Miss, Johnny Mac told me, waitin' for our time to go. Eustis carefully moved a pawn and agreed, Ain't much else to be done at our age and place.

Johnny Mac had eleven grandkids, Eustis only nine, but the children had moved away to Tulsa, Birmingham, New Orleans, San Antonio. They rarely visited having their own lives and problems but they kept in touch, The oldest, she calls every Christmas, Johnny Mac said proudly, Works for some big lawyer firm outside the Quarter. Eustis looked thoughtfully at the board, hesitated, then made a move with a sideways glance at me, Least ain't not a one in jail, he said defiantly, and Johnny Mac laughed and slapped his thigh, Least not no more! And then with a gleeful shout,
Checkmate! Eustis narrowed his eyes and muttered Shut up, you ol' fool, you ain't won a game all day. Johnny Mac began gathering up and rearranging the pieces, Tide's turning now though, ain't it, he crowed.

I left them to their opening moves and though I often drive down that block with my camera in tow, I've yet to see them again. Two old men, old soldiers, old game players, passing the time with pensions and chess and waiting.

Night Lights

Aunt Essie was not the only one who saw the lights in the sky, she was just the only one who would talk about it.

Like a rainbow in motion! she exclaimed to my grandmother the morning after, Flickering like lightning bugs but all different colors! Nana frowned and poured Essie another cup of tea. And flying so fast, like a rocket ship, then it was just gone - poof! Nana wiped her hands on her apron and cut a generous slice of blueberry cobbler which she set in front of Essie along with a small pitcher of cream. Eat, she said sternly. And Essie ate but kept talking. Aunt Vi cleared her throat delicately and added sugar to her tea while Aunt Pearl stared in disbelief. What were they, Essie? she asked and my grandmother rapped the table sharply in disapproval. What were they? Essie repeated, Why, they were aliens, of course, what else? Aunt Pearl gasped and spilled her tea while Aunt Vi hid a smile and Nana sighed. Goodness, Pearl, Essie added with a matter of fact look, Don't you think I know a spaceship when I see one? This was too much for Aunt Vi and she fled, holding her napkin to her face and trying desperately to conceal her laughter. Aunt Essie seemed not to notice, concentrating on her tea and cobbler all the while explaining to Nana about how she had been awakened by the sounds of wings and the feel of the great light that was flooding her small bedroom. She had grabbed her shotgun and run to the front door in her nightclothes, prepared to shoot to kill if need be, and then she saw the lights and heard the ship hovering yards from her roof. Colored lights flashing like Christmas! she said with her arms spread wide, And bigger than any boat you've ever seen!

My grandmother took off her glasses and massaged her temples, a familiar gesture when she was trying to collect her thoughts. She withdrew a Kent 100 from the pack but didn't light it, just tapped it on the table. Essie, she finally said kindly, You had a dream. Essie pushed her tea away with an angry shove and crossed her arms over her chest. Did not, she fired back defiantly, It was a spaceship.

Now ,Essie, Aunt Pearl had regained her senses and composure, You know there's no such thing. Essie stamped her feet and repeated, I saw a spaceship, she repeated stubbornly, and that's all there is to it.

Aunt Vi returned to the table with fresh tea and a plate of oatmeal cookies. Have a cookie, dear, she said with a smile, You'll feel better.

Essie stood, tears welling in her eyes and her voice trembling. Don't make fun of me, she wailed, I saw it! And snatching a cookie, she ran out, the backdoor swinging shut behind her with a mighty slam that made Nana wince and woke the dogs from their morning nap. Aunt Vi shrugged and Aunt Pearl started clearing the table but my grandmother sat smoking with a thoughtful expression on her face. When I asked her what she was thinking, she
laughed and told me Nothing at all. But I think she was wondering if there might not be magic in the night skies. Essie's spaceship was never mentioned again that I heard but lots of people became sky watchers that summer and my grandmother was one of them.

The Waiting Room

Imagine being born almost a hundred years ago! the little girl in our waiting room stage whispered to her mother, That's reaaally old! The mother blushed and grabbed the child's arm, apologizing at length to the old woman the little girl had been pointing to and embarrassed almost to the point of tears. Other patients began to laugh quietly and the old woman smiled. It is reaaally old, she assured the mother with a passable imitation of the little girl's tone, and it's quite all right for her to say so.


To the very young and the very old, we give an extra measure of freedom of speech. The one has lived long enough to earn the right to say exactly what they think and the other hasn't yet learned to think before they speak. Both are naturally honest and we give them a great deal of latitude. To those of us still in the middle, still counting to ten before we lose our tempers, still choosing our words in order not to hurt someone's feelings, still keeping a lot of what we really think to ourselves, it's enviable to watch the old and young being free with their thoughts and words.


Can you take your teeth out? the little girl asked curiously and the old woman threw back her head and laughed outloud. I can, indeed, she admitted with pride, but I try not to in public. The child cocked her head and frowned, Why not? she demanded and the old woman shook her head, still laughing, Honestly, I don't know why not. The mother, now in a paralysis of shame, hid her face in her hands while the other patients joined in the laughter. The waiting room door opened and a nurse called the old woman's name - the mother took her child's hand and fled to the safety of the outside hall while the old lady struggled to feet, took a firm grip on her walker and headed toward the exam rooms. She was indeed, ancient - face powder exaggerated her wrinkles and there were traces of it on her collar. Bright spots of rouge lit up each cheek and her red lipstick was crookedly smeared on. She looked like a crone but as she passed me I smelled lavender water and had an instant image of my grandmother. She looked me directly in the eyes and told me good morning in a clear, strong voice then gave me a smile. Her eyes were a watery blue and slightly cloudy but her voice was bright and unhesitating, Children, she remarked, have certainly changed since I was a girl. I nodded and she paused then said, For the better, don't you think. I nodded again and she turned away, step by shuffling step, trailing the nurse and humming to herself.

Wisdom may come with age, but kindness is a choice.

Patterns

I confess to being a hopeless romantic, unwilling to give up on dreams or not make a wish on a falling star. It's a part of me that is rarely satisfied but I keep on hoping. I want the Cary Grant/Deborah Kerr moment from "An Affair to To Remember" when he sees the painting and realizes that she's paralyzed - he closes his eyes in self recrimination as he thinks of how he's treated her and then they each wipe away each other's tears and the New York skyline appears over her shoulder while the familiar theme reaches it's finale. Unrealistic and staged as it may be, it's still a heart wrenching moment in movie magic, a moment filled with hope and possibility and it brings me to tears every time I watch it.

In real life, the skyline is more gray than blue and life is more ordinary than magical. I am one of millions of working people struggling to work and survive and find time to smell the roses before life runs out. Days often run into one another in this parade of time, often they are so alike that it becomes hard to tell the difference without a calendar. There is no fortune to be found, no celebrity, no 15 minutes of fame - there is just the ordinary repetition of working, sleeping, eating, caring for animals or children or elderly parents or each other. We climb the everyday mountains one step at a time and no one notices. The movie magic eludes us, remaining so close but always just out of reach. Seasons slip away then return, love comes and then goes, leaves turn then die then grow back green again, reminding us that in patterns there is always the chance to break free, to take a different road or make a different choice. There will always be another crossroad, another bargain to be made, another intersection to stand at and consider which direction to take.

If there is a grand design of living, it is not for us to know. So I choose my patterns, one third movie magic and two thirds reality, and I live somewhere between them.

Summer Storm

The wind picked up and the rains came. Thunder shook in the air and lightning streaked across the night sky in long, jagged flashes - the weather station advised yet another tornado watch - and I watched from the window as the trees twisted and turned like saplings. The air was heavy and hot, filled with the storm and the expectation of a long and dark night with no moon or stars visible. Even the clouds seemed to dissolve and dissipate into blackness.

Not surprisingly, the lights flickered and then went out completely and the entire block turned dark. I watched as little patches of illumination began to appear in neighboring windows, candles were being lit up and down the street to fight off the lack of light. People appeared on their front porches, calling to each other and making jokes about the outage, a generator started up across the street, the dogs began barking at the unfamiliar voices carrying so clearly on the night air. Rain splashed violently on the pavement and the gutters filled in no time creating twin rivers that rushed rapidly down the sides of the street - the sound was loud and almost rocky, like a waterfall and I suspected we would be flooded by midnight if not before. The sounds of limbs cracking and breaking continued through the night as did the rain and the animals all gathered in the bed with me, their differences forgotten for the duration of the storm.

Morning dawned with bird songs and a clear sky but the ground was saturated and the aftermath of the storm was everywhere with fallen tree limbs and sagging hedges. The rose bushes next door were decimated, their petals flung every which way and down the street, a neighbor's vegetable garden had taken a beating - his young tomato plants lay on the ground in puddles of water alongside peppers and a row of cornstalks. The trees hung low and were misty with humidity and leftover rain while fog hovered over the park. The storm had come, wreaked its small share of havoc and then gone in the night, in a day or two it would be all but forgotten. Flooded streets would dry up under the blazing southern sun, gardens would be repaired, limbs cut and hauled away for firewood. It was, after all, just a small summer storm, passing quickly and hardly enough to register on anyone's daily radar, although while it was happening it was hard not to imagine the worst. We can't give up over a patch of bad weather.

The Featherstorm

My first thought upon waking this morning was, How odd, it's snowed inside. Still mostly asleep, I had some trouble putting it together but soon realized that the snow was the stuffing from the comforter and that it was everywhere. I raised up and looked around and saw the black dog at the end of the bed, covered with bits of white and I'm positive she was grinning from ear to ear. I threw back the covers and a fluffy hailstorm of white flew into the air - it was on the pillows and the rug and the floor, in my hair and on the cats and the small brown dog. In a matter of seconds I discovered the edge of the comforter chewed open and spilling it's contents like a dandelion in a strong breeze. The black dog, destructive but not stupid, eased herself off the bed and trotted to the den and the safety of underneath the coffee table. I thought, I could kill her and no one would ever know, an impractical but recurring idea that appealed to me at that moment.

I walked to the kitchen with the small brown dog, sneezing and shaking off stuffing, at my heels. From beneath the shelter of the coffee table, the black dog gave me a wary look but came when called albeit slowly and crawling on her belly apologetically. I did not buy this act and scolded her severely before setting them both outside and they flew to the door in haze of white, leaving a trail of stuffing like breadcrumbs across the carpet and floor. The cats began their morning demands for breakfast and with a sigh I collected their dishes, rinsed out the stuffing, and fed them. Every movement seemed to set off another minor snowstorm of fluff and it had penetrated to each room, everywhere I looked was misted with it. I spent hours cleaning it up - it seemed to have reserves and no sooner did I vacuum it all up then another layer would appear in the very same place. I was awash in feathers and the harder I worked the angrier I became.

I had hoped she was over this stage in her development and that her 8th year might bring some mellowness but clearly I have been premature. I'm reminded that it took my first Schipperke 16 years and a stroke before he calmed down. People ask why I tolerate it and I have no easy or reasonable answer aside from the fact that I still love her. She will lay beside me at night, head on the pillow, and look at me with her brown eyes and I forgive her anything. Love makes us all idiots.