Wrinkles and Wisdom

Wow, the cleancut and obviously new young clerk at Sears said, his eyes wide, You've had this card longer than I've been alive.

I winced at this unintended slap of reality and he immediately began to blush and backpedal. Not that you're .... I mean....that is .....you don't look a day over .....gee, I didn't mean .....

I wanted to show him some pity, should've shown him some pity, but something in me rebelled at this and I let him stammer and stutter his way deeper and deeper. Finally ashamed of myself, I waved him off, assured him I hadn't taken any offense, signed the little etch-a-sketch machine and left, reminding myself that we all sometimes speak without thinking. The difference is that once people of my generation unintentionally say something appallingly stupid, we know how to cut our losses - a brief but sincere apology is all that's required, then we move on. We may beat ourselves up later but we do in private, inherently understanding that to dwell on a mistake is to extend it's life.

Age brings gifts - wrinkles and wisdom, the ability to learn and move on, a ripening maturity that only works after having lived a half century or more and the good sense to think before we speak.....most of the time.

A Tale of the Trolls That Almost Won

This was the day I was determined not to feed the trolls.
It started innocently - I packed the dogs into the car and drove them 'cross town to the vets and still got to work 5 minutes early. Pleased with myself, it was then I realized that I had forgotten my keys. I swallowed the curse words that immediately leapt to mind and calmly drove back home again. Without warning, lights or even a sound, the car died at the first stoplight and at each subsequent intersection, forcing me to wait for each green light, restart it, slam it into drive and accelerate at full speed. Each stall stopped my heart as I wondered Suppose it doesn't restart, but it did and I retrieved my keys and then headed to the service station. It was by then nearly 8:30, a time when any self respecting mechanic would be on duty, but wasn't. I counted to ten and headed for the next nearest station, praying for green lights and not getting them. They had mechanics but couldn't even look at it til early afternoon. Refusing to panic, I accepted their offer of a drive to work, called the doctor to let him know what was happening, looked on the bright side ( the dogs were safely at the vet and I hadn't needed a tow ) and got to work 15 minutes later.
By late afternoon when I hadn't heard from the mechanic, I was beginning to stress about picking up the dogs and getting to my night job on time but I reminded myself this was to be a troll-free day and that it would all work out.
I pushed the anxiety back, took two aspirin and waited. Half an hour later, my car and student driver arrived and we nearly made it back to the station before it stalled again. It was getting harder.
I cooled my heels at the service station only to discover that the car couldn't be fixed this day, that there was not a rental car to be had in the entire city, that there was no way to pick up the dogs or even get home much less to work in the morning. The mechanic must have seen something of this in my face - or possibly the trolls peering gleefully over my shoulder - because he led me to a bright, metallic blue pick up truck and handed me a set of car keys. Go, he said with an encouraging smile, Get the dogs and go home. And I did just that.

It's easier to beat back trolls when you have a little help and a friend with a pick up truck.

Do Not Feed the Trolls

If our better natures are summoned by angels, then surely our dark sides are summoned by trolls.

The stress of working two jobs and still being unable to make ends meet - who could have foreseen the breakdown of the air conditioning system - has, of late, put me in a dark mood. I fight it but find myself giving in to quick temper with the animals and a total lack of patience with fellow workers. Mornings come too soon after nights of sleeping poorly and what rest I do get is troubled by wild dreams and night sweats. Everything annoys me - the weather, the astonishing re-growth of the crepe myrtle outside the door, inanimate objects that refuse to cooperate, the ongoing battle for order and neatness at work, the constant territorial spats among the cats. To paraphrase an old greeting card, the air is simply unacceptable.

This is the work of trolls, the dark side of my nature that concentrates on the dark side of life and sees only the obstacles and failures. This is the side that wants to take me down - it thrives on depression, worry, simmering anger, self doubt. It points out the fundamental unfairness of life and highlights negative emotions - anxiety,
weariness, fear and futility. Given free rein, it would pull me into a pit awash with self pity and resentments, it would drown me in my own guilt and lack of optimism. Vicious, long nailed little creatures, these trolls with bad teeth and evil in their eyes. They hunger to make mischief and inflict damage wherever they can.

When I feed them, they gain strength and become bolder and braver. When I don't, they retreat to whatever nasty little caves they live in and plot ways to return. They turn small, insignificant defeats into major uprisings and celebrate by dancing on graves. They cannot be killed, only kept at bay and out of sight by hope and peace of mind and acceptance.

Today I will not feed the trolls.

So You're Not Happy At Home

Marriage is a little like a Whitman's Sampler - sweetness and variety mixed in with hard carmels that will rip your bridgework out and bitter, liquor laced pieces that can leave a bad taste. The entire box can go stale if you're not paying attention.

And so another marriage crashes - discontent, restlessness, simple but free floating unhappiness, a nameless need to move on and be free and leave the wreckage behind. There is anger and pain in the air, threats are made and harsh words spoken then a suitcase is packed and it falls quiet. Twenty years of partnership is dissolved with the slam of a door. She cries and rages while he refuses to look back. No one knows if it can be put back together or even if it should and the news makes me sad for both of them although having been through two marriages, I understand how couples can drift in different directions. Commonalities become conflicts, commitments become steel jawed traps and love lessens to be replaced by a sense of futility - as if through denial you can change feelings - and while you hope for the best and keep trying, the struggle takes it's toll until each day is too much to endure. Flight is the final option so you pack your guilt and unhappiness and move on, praying not to leave too much damage behind, hoping a change of scenery will bring a fresh outlook and another chance. The habit of marriage no longer fits and you discover you care more about your own well being and peace of mind than whatever it is that you can't fix. Self preservation has won out and you can't look back for fear of changing your mind.

It happens every day and we all survive one way or another and I have no doubt that some marriages were never meant to be in the first place. Still, to see a couple torn apart is painful and difficult - as a spectator, I am pulled in two directions with allegiances to both and no good way to be objective or neutral. These things happen, I tell myself and life goes on.

The mere process of living often leaves an unintentional wake of troubled water behind and you never know when you might need a life jacket.

Mrs. Miller's Kitchen

The last house around the cove belonged to Bill Miller and his extensive family. As children had arrived through the years, he had embarked on a building spree and the old farm featured a variety of added on rooms and levels, all slightly on the haphazard side, some with slight tilts, some going off at peculiar angles, a few detached and separate but connected through partially covered walkways. Here the family worked the land, growing vegetables, raising sheep, haying and hauling with a yoke of ancient oxen and selling berries during the warm summer months. Mrs. Miller made homemade jam and canned goods for McIntyre's Store while her sons worked a mildly prosperous lumber mill and her daughters learned to use the kitchen spinning wheel to turn wool into clothing. They were, as were most island families, largely self sufficent, good neighbors, and slightly isolated - unused to the fast pace of the mainland or the entitled attitude of the tourists who were more than willing to pay to pick berries in the hot sun. Bill and his family watched in amusement as these pale faced, fragile visitors filled their buckets with strawberries and blueberries, some even brave enough to venture into the thorny blackberry briars in their imitation leather sandals and bare legs and Mrs. Miller soon learned that a small bottle of fresh cream ready on their departure could fetch a good price. Picnic tables and rough hewn benches soon followed and after a few summers, the Millers were serving lunches - milky white filets of fish and lobster salad on homebread bread, fresh corn on the cob and thick, sweet chowder with chunks of real potatoes and onions, fresh caught haddock, cold summer salads with wedges of tomatoes and cucumbers and buttermilk dressing. The tourists sat on the splintery benches and ate off paper plates, washing everything down with lemonade or iced tea or ice cold beer quietly and stealthily brewed behind the lumber mill. Soon Bill had built a small roadside stand at the beginning of the dirt driveway and the Miller children manned it faithfully, gleefully collecting baskets of American dollars for their mother's figs and preserves and square cardboard containers of berries covered in plastic wrap and wrapped with ribbons. Bill crafted and painted a sign proclaiming "Mrs. Miller's Kitchen" and a bright red arrow pointing toward the house and nailed it atop the little stand. Children clamored to have their pictures taken with the oxen and yet another small business was born - small 3x4 pictures were mounted in paper picture frames and sold for $1.00 apiece. The Millers had discovered wealth and fame beyond their limited island dreams and were astonished at their success. Imagine, Bill told my grandmother, these damn fools are paying good money to make my livin' for me! Nana laughed and told him all he needed was overnight cabins and he'd be a regular innkeeper. The following summer, three tiny cabins had been erected and furnished and for $10 a night, you could sleep on a proper cot and have your breakfast served right in the family kitchen. The phrase "Bed and Breakfast" had yet to be invented but the Millers cashed in, ahead of their time and still amazed at the foolishness of people so willing to part with their money for what they called a "genuine island experience" but which amounted to no more than a little home cooking and an hour or two of chores.

Mrs. Miller's Kitchen overflowed with people "from away" summer after summer. Many returned over the years and became regular guests, often bringing friends who brought friends. The Millers welcomed them all with open arms,
fresh food, and a place to lay their heads at night and listen to the ocean. Peace, sweetness, renewal and homemade biscuits were served to everyone who visited.

The last hurricane took the sign, the roadside stand, the cabins and several of the crooked additions. The Millers returned to working the land but the children had married and moved on and Bill never had the heart to rebuild so Mrs. Miller's Kitchen became a memory and the tourists took to day trips while sleeping on the mainland. A new team of oxen replaced the old one and the hay fields eventually overtook the vegetable garden and the picnic tables. Everything has it's time and place and season and Mrs. Miller's Kitchen was closed.

Silver Linings

Shortly after the episode with the bat in the woodbox, my grandmother announced her plans to disinfect the garage and woodshed. She made a trip to the mainland and hired an exterminator from Yarmouth who would arrive in a week or so and survey the situation. My mother protested the expense and ridiculed the idea but Nana would hear none of it. My grandchildren play in there, she told my mother sharply, And they will play safely. My mother shrugged and argued no more.

The exterminator arrived as promised - Nana knew the instant he drove onto the ferry 12 miles up island - and his truck and crew were soon descending the driveway. He was a skin and bones, tall drink of water, Nana would tell Aunt Vi later, a strong wind would've carried him off and he wore denim - cap, jeans, shirt - with his name boldly embroidered over his shirt pocket, "Darryl". Island folk, curiosity aroused by this outsider, had already gathered in and about the yard and Nana dispatched my mother to bring iced tea and a plate of cookies. No one had had seen such a sight before - islandfolk took vermin and rodents pretty much for granted and followed the rule of peaceful coexistenence for the most part. Unless some unwelcome things got into the corn crop or were bold enough to venture inside during supper, they were left alone as part of God's plan. With of course, the exception of things that crawled on their bellies which almost to a one, islanders despised and would not tolerate without the aid of a 12 gage. So it was something of a mystery as to why Nana would be willing to pay cold cash for someone to sanitize the woodshed and it brought out the onlookers in force.

Soon someone had turned on a small, battery operated radio and Darryl began his work to Ernest Tubbs' orginal "Hello, Walls". Cookies and tea gave way to sandwiches, salad and carbonated drinks and while the little ones began playing with the dogs, the teenagers began dancing on the grass and the old fishermen settled in with their pipes and hand rolled cigarettes. Uncle Willie came across the road with his accordion and the Sullivan Boys arrived with their dogs in tow and when John Sullivan arrived for water, he was persuaded to return with his harmonica.
A process of extermination had turned into a party.

Meanwhile, Darryl had donned his exterminator suit and done battle with the rats, mice, bats and assorted insects infesting the woodshed. He washed it all down with a lethal spray and pronounced it fit for human occupation once again. The sun set in a blaze of pink and white and blue over Westport and a party turned to a celebration that lasted til well after midnight. Having missed the last ferry crossing, Darryl spent the night on Uncle Willie's faded front room couch and had made a island full of new friends by the following morning. He later married on of the Elliot girls and moved to Central Grove. Nana said it was a lesson about clouds having silver linings and she hoped I'd been paying attention. I had been.

Warrior Woman

In my dream it was very early in the morning and the dogs were making a racket. Then I heard my grandmother shriek and I came fully awake. There was a metal and glass clatter coming from downstairs followed by heavy footsteps and clearly defined profanity.


I found Nana in the pantry doorway, a can of bugspray in one hand and the old broom in the other. She was in her nightgown and behind her the dogs were frantically barking - she was shooing them and guarding the doorway while waving the broom like a madwoman. Wood, broken glass and several pots and pans were scattered on the red and white linoleum floor and water from the open faucets was pouring over the edge of the sink. A tiny, terrorized bat clung to the sheer curtain in the pantry window and my grandmother was doing battle like a wild woman. Get out of my kitchen! she screamed at the intruder, oblivious to the fact that the creature was cornered and had no place to go. She let loose an explosive shot of ant killer and the bat, half dead with exhaustion and fear fell to the floor in a crackly heap - she immediately pounded it into extinction with the broom, continuing the assault long after the thing was dead, it's wings in several pieces. Regaining her composure, she swept the remains into the dustpan and dumped them into the stove with a gesture of contempt. Together we cleaned up the glass, gathered the sticks of wood and mopped the floor, the dogs trailing our movements and inspecting the pantry floor. Bleach! she snapped at me and we scrubbed the kitchen and pantry til both our hands bled. Nana half leaned, half fell against the wall, panting and still cursing. Vile, rabies carrying vermin, she muttered, In my kitchen! I'll be goddamned!

The doomed creature had roosted in the outside woodbox and woken in the armload of wood Nana had been carrying in. Fearing that it might not have been alone, my grandmother re-armed us - the broom, the can of ant killer and a small kitchen axe - and we crept up to the woodbox like thieves in the night. We found no more bats but did manage to annihilate a small colony of woodbugs, several harmless spiders and a nest of flying ants. When Nana was satisfied that nothing else lurked in the kindling, we re-stacked the wood and she gave me a hug and told me Good work.

In all the years with Nana, I had seen many sides of her - angry, compassionate, efficient, impatient, kind, practical, protective, tyrannical. Until that morning I had not seen her viking side and it was impressive to behold. In defense of home, family and hygiene, my chunky, white haired grandmother had become a warrior and she was not to be second best even in a battle with a bat.

Noodles in the Sink

Searching for a patient's chart in the B's, I was surprised to find an R. Later in the G's, I came across an L and still later a B turned up in the G's and an F in the L's. Houston, I thought to myself, We have a problem.

We all know about the dangers of assumptions but in the case of our latest new nurse assistant I had been guilty of making some, namely that alphabetical filing was not a skill but a matter of reading and that the concept of last name first and first name last was relatively universal. I was willing to concede that front and back copying required more cerebral alertness but taken aback when I heard her making reminder calls - May I please speak with Smith, John? I heard her say on her first call and thought to myself, Surely not.

Alas, the nameless, free floating anxiety I had been feeling and trying to deny had surfaced and given itself the name of incompetence. As my cousin wrote me, we seem to have a front row seat in this endless parade of useless, dishonest and inept help. Where do they come from, I find myself wondering. Amid all the available jobs in our small city, how do they so unerringly find us? In the space of a mere six months, this is number 8 and the prospects are diminishing with each termination. I can't help but think of my own work experience - summer camp counselor at 14, nurses aide at 16 ( while still in high school ), Ma Bell at 18 ( lasting 11 years ), administrative assistant to a theatre renovation project ( 2 years ), executive director for a humane society ( 2 years ), Barnes and Noble Bookstores ( 13 years ), a photo store ( 10 years ), a modeling agency ( 2 years ) and finally a medical receptionist during the day and a wine shop sales person at night. I have - as do the vast majority of people my age - what is called staying power, ethics and a sense of responsibility. We take the good with the bad and we stick to whatever committment we have made, we show up on time and stay put, we don't malinger or leave early,
tie up company telephones, drag our sick children to work with us, abuse company time, take four hour lunches or drink during working hours. We don't display cleavage or chew gum, fail to shower, or quit without notice. We are thirty year librarians or railroad engineers, social workers or ministers, journalists or retailers. We take our work, whatever it may be, seriously and we don't feel entitled or resentful. We learn English and how to use it, we smile even when it's an effort and we have initiative, loyalty, and the good sense to come in out of the rain. We can find our own ass without the aid of both hands, a flashlight, a compass or a Boy Scout troop. We may never get ahead of the curve but we do our level best to keep up and we believe that a job worth doing is worth doing well without a deep sigh of martrydom or a put upon scowl. We clean up our own messes and if we have soup for lunch, we don't leave noodles in the sink and then pretend we didn't.

We shall overcome or die trying.

Stopping Traffic for Jesus

They were all along the sidewalks of the intersection, several at each corner, effectively snarling traffic and hemming it in. Some carried signs, some chanted, the leader held a bullhorn and was roaring for repentance. Angry drivers held up on their way home shouted and gestured at them but they held their ground, approaching the cars with a religious fire and passion better served in church. They had no pamphlets to give, no buckets to beg with - they were young zealots with smiles, carrying the message bravely - God Loves You, Repent and Be Saved, Is Jesus in Your Soul and my favorite, It's The Evening of the Apocalypse, Do You Know Where Your Church Is? All this in the midst of small town rush hour traffic on a steamy July night.

There are no doubt souls in this world in need of serious saving, needing to be brought back to God and a peaceful afterlife but if stopping traffic is the way to do it, then the message may need a slight revision. Southern folk don't welcome this close up and personal invasion by the faithful, not while the cars overheat and the ice cream melts. We don't care to be force fed our spirituality no matter how sincere the messengers and revival meetings on busy city street corners are going to be met with resistance.

A pretty young thing with her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail rushed a pickup truck trying to manoever into a parking space at the local chicken shack. Her sign read Give It Up for Jesus and the driver slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting her while shouting a long and lusty stream of profanity about what she could do with her sign and her Savior. An eighteen wheeler unable to make a right turn and likely late with his delivery simply turned off his engine and stopped in mid course to threaten the protesters about what would happen if they didn't clear the streets. The young man with the bullhorn raged on about sin and salvation and someone threw a well aimed bag of chicken wings at him - he ducked and continued his shouting and gesturing with renewed enthusiasm.

In good time the police arrived, dispersed the young lions, cleared traffic and restored order with a minimum of effort and no fuss. Rush hour resumed with no further delay and neighborhood dogs made quick work of the chicken wings. The corner was reclaimed and it was back to business as usual. Most of us prefer to find our own salvation rather than be led or dragged to it.

Owls Don't Speak

On a high branch of a tall tree at the edge of the hay meadow, I saw an owl. He sat perfectly still, large yellow eyes scanning the horizon and waiting for darkness. He looked very old and very wise as I thought all owls should and I expected him to take wing as I got closer but he held his ground, measuring the threat and dismissing it. The soon to be night breeze ruffled his feathers slightly and he spoke in a voice that sounded like James Earl Jones. My name is Geoffrey, he announced, and I have a message for you. Worry is not preparation. He blinked and hooted softly at me then spread his wings against the darkening sky. Goodbye, he said calmly and lifted off gracefully. The last I saw of him was his silhouette high in the clouds over the hay meadow and diving toward earth and the nearby cornfield at dizzying speed. That was when I woke up.

I have very few lucid dreams and even fewer ones that make sense - they routinely fade to nothingness in the few sleepy seconds after I wake and are gone like echos - I can almost but not quite recall them, like a taste that you know you recognize but can't name. They play at the very edges of my memory but then disappear completely without my even being aware of it happening. Geoffrey the Owl was the exception, staying with me vividly and at length and finally becoming a memory. I began to be fairly sure that it had actually happened and had to remind myself that in the real world, owls don't speak much less give advice. But if they did, I would hope they would all be as wise as my dream owl.

Most things break, including hearts. The lessons of life amount not to wisdom but to scar tissue and callouses.
Wallace Stegner.

Watered Down

A woodpecker has taken up residence somewhere in the yard of my next door neighbors, possibly in the tree we share. I hear him in the mornings, a muffled but staccato sound that is very clear and distinctly woodpecker-ish. The small brown dog is untroubled by this but the black dog is curious and she stands stock still, head cocked and alert, scanning the fence and trying to narrow down the noise. Oddly enough, she does not bark, perhaps sensing that the noise is not a threat, just a thing of minor interest. After a time when she sees nothing but limbs and branches, she lets her guard down and trots off to explore other areas of the yard. Blue jays chatter at her from the power lines and squirrels high wire through the air from tree to tree while a pair of robins land on the back fence - only this last catches her attention and she makes a mad rush in their direction but they take wing quickly, unimpressed with her show of strength and bravado. She is, after all, bound to the ground while they have the gift of flight - I think birds know this and use it to tease and taunt their predators - and I watch her have a minor temper tantrum over the lost opportunity then turn her attention to another section of fence. There are several loose boards and she checks them all regularly, hoping for one to give way to a sudden 20 pound assault and provide instant access to one of the adjoining yards. I don't think she knows that I also check them regularly, hoping to prevent just such an incident.

The morning quiet is abruptly shattered by the sound of a door slamming and then a fierce eruption of barking from the terrier next door. I can see his feet in the space between the bottom of the fence and the ground and so can the dogs. Both race toward the fence and the noise level peaks out as all three try to outbark the other - they are nose to nose to nose and each is determined to be heard and committed to having the last word. They have never officially met except through the spaces in the fence but it seems to be enough to have established a pattern and the exchange gets more and more raucous until the terrier's owner and I are both involved. He shouts an assortment of reprimands and idle threats barely audible over the barking while I, in a moment of inspired creativity, fill a bucket of cold water and douse the dogs on my side the fence. There is suddenly just one protesting voice in the morning air and it is stilled the moment I empty the remainder of the bucket over the fence. I can't see the terrier but my own two dogs hightail it for the back porch and sit dripping and downcast, astonished that I would treat them so and looking at me with hurt, accusing eyes. I hear the sound of the back door from the other side of the fence, a quick intake of breath and then loud and long laughter and a young man somewhere in his mid 20's appears at my gate carrying a sodden and sullen black terrier in his arms.

The only real question here, he says to me, is why I didn't think of that first. Hi, I'm Miles. The terrier looks at me, ears down and betrayal written all over his face and Miles gives him a reassuring hug and me a grin. Nice to meet you, I say and we shake hands through the gate. The terrier glares and I begin to hear growls from the vicinity of the back door - the black dog has regained her composure and is coming to investigate and it's time to go. Think they learned anything? I ask Miles and he laughs again and says, Doubt it!

And so I met one of my new neighbors, a city firefighter as it happens. He really should have thought of it first.