Truce or Consequences

Without invitation or the slightest advance warning, twenty pounds of black, longhaired, and unhappy cat landed on my chest. He was immediately followed by twenty pounds of black, barking, and jealous dog and the competition was on.

Nicodemus is remarkably light on his feet and agile for his size. He speaks with delicate and gentlemanly meows that sound almost kittenish and though he doesn't like the black dog, he is not afraid of her and will give no ground no matter how hard she pushes. On this occasion, before I could separate them, she had grabbed a mouthful of his fan like tail and given a mighty tug. He turned calmly and with one oversized paw, swatted her soundly across the muzzle. She growled and unimpressed, he defiantly smacked her a second time, forcefully and with a glare of fierce, feline indignity common to all cats. Feeling like a referee at wrestling match and fearing an all out brawl, I got one arm around her chest and pulled her off while restraining him with my other hand and telling them both in no uncertain terms, Enough! The small brown dog, alarmed by the commotion, burrowed under the covers while the other cats watched - from a safe distance - with wide eyed interest. It's a draw, I told them all firmly, And it's all over so everybody back off. The black dog slunk a foot or so away and laid down on her belly, keeping a baleful eye on me and muttering low in her throat while Nick yawned and then stretched out bedside me, washing his paws with studied indifference. After a few moments of fragile quiet, the small brown dog eased her head out from beneath the blanket and then nestled up to my neck. A truce was in effect - tenuous at best, short lived to be certain, but holding for the moment and even possibly for as long as I didn't turn my back.

There are no bad dogs, I keep telling myself as well as my veterinarian ( who finds this theory charmingly amusing and completely wrong ) and will often use the black dog to demonstrate her point. We have known each other for a very long time and while she would never presume to tell me I'm unbalanced or impaired in keeping this animal, I can see it in her eyes. I like to think it's a kind of resigned admiration but it's far more likely relief that it's me and not her. We have reached an agreement that if anything serious should happen to this recalcitrant, impossible animal, that she will not be treated. She wearies me half out of my mind but it's as far as I can go. And then there's this - she jumps on the couch and nudges all others out of the way to lay with her head in my lap and her brown eyes filled with love until she falls asleep and I forget that ten minutes before I could've cheerfully strangled her. We all have our dark sides.

Come, Sweet Death

The cicada went wild the moment I flipped the switch for the back porch light, flinging itself violently against the glass window panes and crashing into the side of the house all the while making it's eerie buzzing sounds. The small brown dog cornered it but was frightened off by it's anxious and threatening noise - she yelped and retreated to my side to safely watch. Even the black dog was cautious, approaching one step at at time and then jumping back as the thing took it's jerky, convulsive flight. It slammed into the back door, fell with a thud, regained it's wings and flew straight into the railing, on a collision course with death, I was certain. But no, it staggered and then took wing again, it's chunky little body ramming directly into the light fixture, it's hoarse, scratchy little voice humming loudly in protest. The dogs watched in amazement and apprehension, not making a sound but following every movement intently. Inside, the cats had gathered as one. Muggs had climbed the screen and was hanging on by her front claws - below her, a small troup of spectating felines were fascinated by the noise and the commotion, drawn together out of curiosity and predatory instincts. The cicada continued it's mad dance around the light for several minutes and then flew raggedly toward the windows where it crash landed on the outside sill and lay motionless. This was a creature who had lost it's way and after a final, explosive struggle,had made a grand and memorable exit from life. The dogs satisfied themselves that the small thing was no longer a threat and the cats lost interest once the noise and the frenzied flight were over. It was another lesson in the fact that life goes on.

Cicadas are relatively benign insects with short life spans. They are harmless creatures, primarily known for their acoustic abilities and an unfortunate tendency to be eaten by birds. That something so small should cause such consternation and anxiety among my animals - noticeably higher up in the food chain and at least slightly more intelligent than a mad, buzzing insect, at least so I hope - was interesting. I doubt they recognize life as such, it's the movement and the sounds that draw them, but I would like to think that they understand that these other creatures are more than wind-up, mechanical noisemakers. The demise of one cicada is not likely to cause an ecological shift in nature - still, it might have been something's mother or father or sibling, a breadwinner perhaps or a stay-at-home mom out for one night of freedom. It's hard to know how it all works. I scooped up the corpse and disposed of it, uncertain if the dogs might be tempted to think it an hors'doerve and wanting to be safe rather than sorry.

Come, sweet death, and we will fight with the foolish courage and conviction of a cicada.

When in Doubt, Wear Navy Blue

Make yourself useful, Nana used to tell us all the time, There's a lot to be accomplished in this life.

She set store by usefulness and industry and couldn't abide idleness until all the day's work was done. Even then, she was never without her knitting or crocheting to occupy her hands. She loved lacework - tablecloths, doilies, handkerchiefs with lace fringe. She tried to teach me this delicate art through the years but I hadn't the patience or the appreciation to focus on the work. Her fingers would fly and her copper knitting needles made an endless clatter as she stitched. She was able to talk or scold or praise all the while and never miss a beat. Her hands ached with arthitis and were often so swollen that she had to pause every few minutes to massage them but she never gave up and some project was always in progress in her various baskets. She kept everything carefully organized and neat and could always find exactly what she wanted at the proper time, another art I mostly failed to learn. There were scarves and mittens, lap robes, colorful vests with bright, oversized buttons, and afghans by the dozens. She chose her colors to fit each person - pastel blues and soft vanilla shades for one, bright yellows and chocolate browns for another, greens and ecrus and cranberries for yet another. Colors need to blend, she told me, They need to get along and not try to outshout each other else all you have is a riot.

During the school bussing riots, she expressed much the same opinion - that if people would learn their place and keep to it, the world would run far more smoothly. She was adamantly against anyone getting beyond the raising, especially if they happened to be black, Catholic, Italian, Jewish or Irish. It was a free country, my grandmother believed, but only for certain citizens. It never occurred to her that this was racist or discriminatory or if it did she dismissed it as frivolous - the world was what it was and she held fast to her roots, skewed as they might have been. She taught this to my mother who in turn taught it to us, a legacy I'm less than proud of and have worked hard to overcome. The 60's were hard on my family - change and revolution were beating at the door and they carried drugs, incomprehensible music, free love and terror. My grandmother's small, isolated world was under seige and she fought back as best she knew how.

I wonder what colors she'd be knitting with now.

Game, Set, and Match

Insomnia and I go way back - we are old friends and adversaries.

Nights pass slowly when I can't sleep and my mind churns with frustration and fragmented thoughts, little snippets of conversations or story lines, random colors and the flickering images on my screen savers all fight for my attention. I toss and turn, unable to find a comfortable position or keep my eyes shut. I hear the air conditioning come on and go off, every breath the small brown dog takes, the black dog's nails as she trots across the wood floors. I count sheep and recite song lyrics, get up and take a hot bath, get up and take a double dose of sleeping pills, run through a list of state capitols, Gary Cooper movies, animals that begin with A. I mentally name The Seven Dwarfs, The Twelve Disciples, The Ten Commandments, The Seven Deadly Sins ( and Cardinal Virtues ), The Eight Wonders of The World and The Nine Circles of Hell. I hear the digital clock tick off the minutes. I go through The Five Stages of Grief, The Twelve Steps of AA and The Twelve Days of Christmas, every dog breed I can remember, The Ten Canadian Provinces ( I always forget Newfoundland ), The 23rd Psalm and the Apostle's Creed. And still the clock ticks off the minutes and sleep slips further and further out of reach. At quarter til four I give up and try reading then an old movie and finally at quarter after five, I give my concession speech and it's game, set, and match to insomnia. The animals are restless and I suspect it's going to be a long day.

I see the sunrise more mornings than I would like or need and by late afternoon this all nighter will have taken it's toll. Life doesn't wait for me to catch up.

The Last Lincoln

Toward the end of her life, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts declined to renew my grandmother's driver license.She raged against them with all her might, fighting furiously for this last, lonely bit of independence but it was to no avail. She was barred from the road due to age and failing eyesight and she railed against their ruling until the day she died, bitterly complaining about how her tax dollars were being spent, condemning them for their decision and threatening legal action against every public official. It was a bitter pill and she never quite swallowed it.

The real issue, of course, was not her ability to drive safely, but what it represented - the loss of her independence. She was doomed to rely on alternate transportation from her family, from friends, from anonymous taxi drivers who often spoke little or no English and drove like hellfire was behind them only to get hopelessly lost and cause her to be late. She despised being housebound and dependent, hated having to ask someone to take her somewhere, couldn't tolerate not being able to do her own shopping and errands. The Lincoln Continental sat in the garage and gathered dust, a daily reminder of the DMV's dictatorial injustice. She refused to abandon it or sell it and only allowed my daddy to drive it on those infrequent occasions when they were making long trips. When a neighbor lady needed a place to park her own car, Nana rented her the empty space beside the Lincoln and I think it comforted her that the old car was not alone. I would often find her at the kitchen window, staring out at the garage with a grim expression, car keys in hand, as if she were willing them both back to productivity and usefulness. The loss of her license was an unbearable insult to her dignity and her sense of self - it had "senior citizen" written all over it, an expression she held in the most serious contempt. Imagine some damn fool pencil pusher telling me I can't drive! she muttered across the breakfast table, Who in the hell do they think they are.

A few days ago I was driving in the left hand lane of a four lane highway and from my right a dark blue Cadillac pulled out into traffic. When I realized she was not simply going to turn right into the near lane but keep coming into the lane I already occupied, I had to pull into an oncoming lane of traffic to avoid her and I missed her by a whisker - completely unfazed by the near miss, she didn't even slow down or appear to notice how close a call it had actually been. She was about my grandmother's age and I suspect she shared Nana's attitude about her right to drive and damn the consequences.

Sympathize as I did with my grandmother, there is a time to let go gracefully and let others carry the burdens.

Dragonfly Days

Of all the legends about dragonflies, the one I like best is from the Native American culture - they are a symbol of renewal after a time of hardship.

Sitting on the back deck this morning, I watched a single dragonfly land on a stalk of greenery. I was several feet away but could see it clearly, wings beating with a barely perceptible whir, a tiny bit of blue around it's head. It stayed put for several minutes, giving the impression of motion so rapid that it was like no motion at all, as if my vision was blurred and it was at a standstill. So light was it's burden that the slender stalk moved not at all, not even a whisper. In a few more moments, the dragonfly lifted off gracefully and vanished, leaving no trace or mark - but for the small brown dog prancing toward me and the black dog barking in the background, it might have been a dream, a trick of sunlight and reflection, or a wish.

For the moment, hard times are behind me. They could come again tomorrow or next week or next year but for this moment, they are a fading memory. There is the smell of cut grass and magnolias in the hot summer air, a six pack of Orange Crush in the 'fridge, my animals have made temporary peace with each other, my checking account is in the black. There is music in my life, work I have come to enjoy, sleep that comes and overtakes me without pills, and mornings that dawn bright with birds outside my windows. I am intact and in good health and my hair is a new and noticeable shade of red. Soon it will be the Fourth of July and a week later I will turn 60, a good age, I think, all things considered - a comfortable age of routines and work, solitude and balance - a time to be grateful for all the times hardship fought with hope and by a narrow margin, hope won.

My cousin sent me a poem by Mary Oliver the other day. One of the last lines read What will you do with your wild and precious life?

I will wait and watch for dragonflies.

Nana's Stash

Nana loved to shop at the better stores but she had a weak spot for Filene's Basement.

Before Sears discarded Roebuck - a name not very many even remember these days - Nana turned up her nose at the suggestion that we shop there. Certainly not, she would say, It's a place for hardware and peasants. She favored the likes of Jordan Marsh and Filene's, Lord and Taylor and Saks, and the newly built and very upscale Bloomingdale's in Chestnut Hill. But in weaker moments, her thriftiness triumphed and we would make the trek to downtown Boston, through the Combat Zone, a place of prostitutes and low collar crime, through the glitzy theatre district, and to Filene's Basement. Once inside, she became transformed - my meticulously put together grandmother joined in the fracas of shrieking women tearing through the boxes of scarves and discounted shoes, flinging rejects here and there and pushing and shoving through linens and hats and designer dresses. She would fight with the best of them for a purchase, claws outstretched and teeth bared in an effort to reach the racks first, to snatch greedily at a box of stationary she might never use or a towel set that would never match. From the sidelines I watched in awe as she shouldered and elbowed her way through the mob of frantic women shoppers, mad with bargain hunting fever and offensive as quarterbacks in the last minutes of a critical game. She would emerge with her purchases clutched to her chest, often a run in her stocking and her careful hairdo in shreds, and battle her way to the chaos of the checkout counter, dizzy with success and pride and victory. At her lowest, she was not a woman to be trifled with and on those Saturday mornings in Filene's Basement, she was a force of nature, a mixture of grim determination and iron will, an unstoppable power.

Afterwards she was often bewildered by what she had bought, wondering aloud what possible use "this" would be or why in heavens name had she fought for "that". She would wrap her purchases and usually consign them to a closet with a resigned and weary sigh and she kept a small notebook on the inside of the closet door with a detailed list of the contents. One Sunbeam Mixmaster, I read, One Hat With Veil And Artificial Flowers, Two Pair Silver Slippers
(Size 6), One Pair Mittens, Three Boxes Blue and White Stationery, One Bathroom Scale, One Set Silk Sheets, One Set of Six Mini Pool Cues, and so on. She valued accuracy and organization in all things. Now and again, certain items would reappear as last minute birthday gifts or stocking stuffers but for the most part, the gift closet simply seemed to mutate and reproduce on it's own, bringing forth toys or lace handkerchiefs or A Tiny Tears doll at her command. Think ahead, she told me, ( One Lionel Electric Train Set, marked Guy's 40th and a question mark), Be prepared for anything, ( One "Virtue is it's own Reward" Satin Pillow With Fringe , One Pair Pewter Candlesticks,
One Deck of Fortune Telling Cards, One Uncle Wiggley Game, One Complete Set of Nancy Drew, Six Thanksgiving Door Wreaths With Indian Corn), a cardboard glider in it's original cellophane flew by my head as she continued searching for some particular item - it was followed by several packages of assorted buttons and a Glenn Miller record album - Here! she exclaimed, triumphantly holding up a fisherman's cable knit sweater, I knew it was in here somewhere! She carefully backed out of the closet, sweater in hand, and crossed it off the notebook list with a sharp nod of satisfaction before we proceeded to the gift wrap closet. The next morning, the sweater was on it's way to it's destination, usually with a card reading some variation of "Thinking of you" and signed "Love, Alice".

People like to be remembered, she told me, even the ones we'd like to forget.

Fake It Til You Make It

I decided it was time to have my hair cut for the summer - one of those very short, almost boyish styles I favor in the southern heat and humidity - and by sheer luck, I drew a new hairdresser. He began talking immediately and non stop about his recovery in AA, the group home where he lives and it's rules, the gift and cost of sobriety, each and every step of the program, making amends to his five wives, changing his life and getting right with God. He was talking at me, working the program by sharing and carrying the message, reinforcing his own beliefs with every sentence. I heard all the slogans, all the right things, and although it was more information than I needed or wanted, I listened to it all and wished him success and peace of mind. Only my instincts told me he was trying to convince himself and maybe trying a little too hard, but recovery is very much an individual process, a day to day effort of finding whatever works and using it. Fake it 'til you make it is a popular slogan in AA.

I'm blessed to have a number of friends in recovery, all doing well and staying clean and straight despite the odds. Each has come to terms with their addiction and found a way to change their lives. They carry the message by the way they live, by example, and by actions. They have found new ways to deal with adversity and temptations and setbacks and new ways to celebrate and enjoy life. Many are music makers, continually exposed to alcohol and drugs and an old way of life that will always be willing to take them back. But they don't go - choosing the harder road and the longer life over the quick fix and the momentary high. I keep them all in my prayers as they keep me in their's.

These people are the exceptions - most addicts don't make it. A prominent young attorney favored arriving at his destinations with a glass of wine balanced on the dashboard. He walked with a precarious, stumbling stride and was dead before he was 45. I watched his self destruction with sadness and anger at the waste of life but could do nothing - all his second chances were lost in an alcoholic haze. A well known society woman reeking of liquor and unable to put together a coherent sentence at ten in the morning, a drug dealing doctor who carried syringes in his pocket, a salesman who lived for the end of each day when he could drink himself to sleep, broken people all, living on borrowed time and emaciated emotions. So I listened to the man cutting my hair and said a small prayer that he would find his way.