Pretty People

In the world of pretty people, all is not always what it seems.

The restaurant staff is primarily a collection of very thin, very blonde and strikingly pretty young women - none with a care in the world other than to make pocket money, none with the first line on their face, none with the least idea of the real world. But they know how to smile and be pleasant, how to balance a tray, how to pour wine and make small talk and that's all that's required. They all carry lip gloss in their aprons and keep a cell phone in their back pocket so they can discreetly answer text messages - a ringing cell would be grounds for dismissal - and they all seem to be theatre or art majors, passing time between classes and driving shiny new SUV's. They don't look any further ahead than their next table and tip. From back in the retail shop - the adult section where no one is under 25 - we watch them twitter and hop about, hips swinging and pony tails bouncing, pouty lips and gleaming, too-white teeth in wide smiles. It's like watching a chincilla take a dust bath - all motion and disturbed air.

But this is youth, flat abs and tight butts, energy, flawless optimism. We dismiss, envy, and like them all at the same time. They have not experienced disillusion or heartache other than a failing grade, have yet to leave the protection of their families, don't understand the word "no" and don't care to. Their horizons are blue and cloudless, stretching endlessly toward a bright and happy future with perfect, pink edged sunsets and mornings that always begin with sleeping late and a fiber based hot breakfast. There are no unmade beds or dirty dishes, no ends to make meet, no timeclocks, no weight to watch. This is youth, with one foot in the adult world and one still at home - naive, unafraid,
cheerful and poised, all their dreams intact. They will inherit the world and care for it, burdens and all. What kind of caretakers will they turn out to be, I wonder, what kind of world will they create. May it be a green and peaceful one and may all their dreams come true for they are but children on the very edge of responsibility and adulthood. It's an uncertain world we will leave them and pretty will not be enough.

I suspect that there may be steel beneath their pretty faces.

Birds of a Feather

The birds took flight with a great whisper of wings and one or two screeches of protest. They soared high, circled a bit, then landed further down the bayou, silently and gracefully gliding onto the water. The power of flight is a joyful and amazing thing to watch.

In the water they formed small groups and walked about, their spiky legs moving jerkily. Funny how something so perfect in the air can appear so clumsy on land. I watched them feeding on water bugs and poking into debris and the younger ones chasing and pecking each other playfully while the adults looked on. The water was low that day and there were dry patches here and there - the birds seemed to prefer the shallows littered with sticks and clumps of dried grass and weeds. It was early afternoon and hot and I nearly envied them wandering about in the murky water. Almost in slow motion, they took one step after another, like carefully drawn stick figures or puppets moved by invisible strings. They were disjointed and awkward but delicate and gentle all at the same time. A small flock of ducks landed upstream in a wake of feathers and loud calling, disturbing the quiet water and causing alarm in the other birds. A turtle emerged to sun itself on a half submerged log and it was time to go.

Nature protects and sacrifices it's own. Walking up the bank toward the highway, I came across a carcass, a withered and long dead crow, now just a small pile of crushed feathers and splintery bones spread over a small patch of grass and weeds. It's gift of flight had been taken back and the remains returned to the earth to disintegrate and perhaps provide food for insects or small marauding creatures that lived on the bayou. It had lived, flown, and died all according to plan and purpose. It helped me to remember that there is a plan - in place and in motion all the time, being revised and edited as needed, but ongoing and thought out well in advance.

Perhaps to God, we are all birds of a feather, frail but flying and trying our best to be unafraid of the next landing.

Wake Me When It's Over

The morning after the Great Liquor Cabinet Heist, my mother woke with a blinding, hangover headache. Looking ruined and sick and enraged, she half staggered downstairs and into the dining room, clutching her dirty house coat with one hand and trailing cigarette smoke. She smelled of urine and vomit and her first words were vicious and spat at my daddy with disgust, Get those thieving little brats out of my sight. He sighed and nodded and we left the table and the half eaten breakfast without protest. He followed soon after, told us to get dressed, and drove us to my grandmother's then went to work. There was to be no defense of us that day but neither was there to be a battle - he was too tired to take her on. My grandmother took us in with no questions, only a bitter expression of understanding that there was no real refuge for any of us.

We stayed a week during which he came and went, looking more and more hopeless, more and more lost each day. He and Nana sat at her kitchen table night after night, drinking coffee and talking, trying to work things out. She tried reasoning, scolding, appealing to logic, explaining all the reasons it wasn't his fault and why he hadn't failed. At one point she even suggested a rehab hospital, Guy, you have nothing more to lose, I overheard her tell him, but he was past the point of listening and too deep in denial to accept help. In the end, he took us home and life resumed as if nothing at all had happened. Your mother is sick, he told us, not able to meet our eyes, Just try and stay out of her way. They were cold words, summoning a sense of abandonment and they extended the distance between us to a point that would never be overcome. It was one of the first times that we all realized that past a certain point, he would not be able to help or protect us. Worse, he knew it and was telling us so. It was time to grow up and time was running out.

My grandmother, however, was not about to succumb. She began to drop by without warning or pick us up after school and take us shopping. She invented chores that she needed help with and insisted that we spend the night. My mother made no move to interfere even when Nana took to having us stay for supper on a nightly basis and then claim she was too old to drive at after dark so she had us sleep over. My daddy picked us up each morning and drove us to school and we made safe, useless small talk to cover the silence. No one asked about my mother.

This odd living arrangement lasted until summer when we packed and made the long drive to Nova Scotia, three kids, two women barely on speaking terms, and two dogs. Nana took charge and made it clear that there would be peace and calm or hell to pay. No one challenged her or asked questions but it was still like living on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the earth to tremble and knock you off your feet and into a free fall. It could happen at any time and a small, whitehaired, chubby little woman in support hose and sensible shoes didn't seem like much protection yet it was her presence and her will that extended our childhoods for that summer and many to follow.

Senior Moments and Other Trivia

The older I get, the more effort it takes to keep myself together. I tend to misplace things more often and have had to adapt to not finding them in logical places. When my traveling glasses went missing, I searched high and low, trying to retrace my steps and remember the last time I had them. The following morning I discovered them resting on a carton of eggs in the refrigerator but have absolutely no memory of putting them there. I've looked at this from every angle but simply can't find a way to make it the animals' fault.

It's distressing to realize that I can do things which make little or no sense and not realize it. It would be more distressing if I didn't know so many people who share this doubtful talent - at a time in my life when absent mindedness is of the least use to me, I seem to be cultivating it naturally, like crabgrass. I spend a precious few hours balancing my check book in order to pay the bills then after carefully addressing and stamping envelopes, throw the whole works out along with the junk mail. I step out of the shower only to discover I've forgotten the towels and just last week I took the wrong cat to the vet's. I can't remember my cell phone number and have to stop and think to remember how old I am. I've given up on remembering birthdays altogether and am often dismayed to find my keys on the wrong side of the front door. Names, even of people I saw every day for years, now elude me and forgetting where I parked during a trip to the grocery store has become an alarmingly frequent occurrence.

I want to think that I'm overburdened and have too much to do to keep it all in my head and while that's partly true, the more fundamental explanation is that after 60 years, my memory card is full and I'm out of storage space. I'm in serious need of a download.

But where to put the trivia, the useless data, the nonsense, while preserving the memories that matter and the day to day facts that I need. Perhaps in the future, memory can be genetically altered to include an on/off switch - we would be able to touch our nose and click our heels and instantly access the needed information. Nothing would be misfiled or deleted and everything would be just a gesture away. If someone were to ask me who taught Charlton Heston to drive a chariot, I would be able to access that useless bit of trivia without it taking up valuable memory space. I could recite the only 4 words in the English language that begin with the letters d and w, the first few lines of "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere", and I could tell you what JFK International AIrport used to be called - all without sacrificing a bit of RAM or forgetting what I'm supposed to say when the telephone rings.

Senior moments strike randomly and there is no early warning system. Once they have - as the fighter pilots like to say - "target aquired", go gracefully and maintain as much dignity as you can for the return trip. People who love you will understand and with a little luck, others won't notice.

Are We Done Yet?

In between patients, she stands behind me, staring into space or at her shoes and sighing, sometimes wringing her hands or humming to illustrate her boredom. She is filled with questions - I wonder if I can leave early, how many more patients do we have, do you know a good mechanic, what time does the bank close. Her slow, imperfect and heavily accented speech gets on my nerves but it's the vacancy in her eyes that is the most worrisome. I think there's nothing there to work with - she's a time killer, a non-listener, a non-learner. We start at 8:30 and by 10:00 she's nodding at the doctor's instructions and his words are harmlessly bouncing off her - she isn't hearing or putting it together - and soon she's back at my desk, Are we done yet? I want to smack her, shake her, somehow shoo her away and into the real world. Instead I gesture toward a waiting room full of patients and snap at her, Does it look like we're done yet? Feelings hurt, she hangs her head and drifts away, lower lip trembling like a child deprived of a toy.

She's lost. Overwhelmed by everyday living and responsibility, betrayed by a husband, struggling to make ends meet after a divorce, no family, no friends, no bank account. She catalogues her list of problems and recites them daily, often through tears, as if to point out how all of life is against her. Her grievances protect her, her hard times bring out the rescuer in other people and she'd become accustomed to being accommodated and forgiven. She has discovered the usefulness of being a victim and doesn't want to let it go.

Meanwhile in the chart room, I search for a patient record. It's not filed by last name or first, it's not under "S" for Sister and when with no real expectation I look in "N" for nun and lo and behold, there it is. The doctor finds me doubled over laughing at the sheer ineptness and creativity of it. Filing by occupation could revolutionize the world of medical records.

There are people who embrace helplessness as a lifestyle and whether intentional or not, raise the level of ineptitude to new heights. They will always manage to find someone to save them, do their work for them, lend them money, or take them in. They can't find their ass with two hands, a flashlight, a Boy Scout troop and a compass. They wander the workplace with idle hands and faraway looks, unwilling to participate unless led by the hand from one task to the other and even then falling short of the simplest of chores. They are sad, incompetent people with downcast eyes and timid little voices, always in search of people who will demand less of them.

On the other hand, they make truly excellent obstacles and often provide comic relief.

Crash and Burn

It was the telephone that pushed me over the edge.

I was listening to insurance voice mail and trying not to miss the prompts, checking in one patient while checking out a second and scrolling through the schedule to make an appointment for a third, running a credit card payment through the machine, talking with a drug rep who had appeared at the window and a patient yelling about his bill. The doctor came around the corner with a question just as the second line began ringing and behind me, our nurse assistant sat pecking half heartedly at her keyboard and sighing loudly. When the third line lit up and began to ring steadily she made no move to answer it, instead asking for the third time that day how to get into the software. Out of hands and patience, I practically heard my last nerve snap like a dry twig and a murderous red haze began to cloud my vision. This, I said clearly and distinctly, is why people climb towers with long range rifles. Will you PLEASE that answer that telephone? The office manager rounded the corner, arms filled with charts and an expression of resigned dismay on her face as she took in the scene and then took a deep breath before dispatching the drug rep and the complaining patient, answering the telephone and the doctor's question and finally unceremoniously escorting the useless assistant away. I gathered my scattered wits and counted to twenty, longing for a mental health minute and making do with a failsafe scheme that would eliminate the assistant and all her progeny while not landing me in jail. My mind had turned into a frantic game of pinball complete with flashing neon lights and siren noises and I thought I might name it "Justifiable Homicide".

The moment passed, as such moments do, and I regrouped. The waiting room slowly cleared out as it got closer to noon and there were rumblings from the back office and the sounds of sobs. I collected my things and headed out the door for the refuge of lunch and a few quiet minutes to myself, feeling drama'd out and emotionally overdrawn. She was gone when I got back - sent home with instructions to clear her head, resolve her "issues" and come back on Monday, rested and ready to work. Perhaps this strategy will work, perhaps not. It feels as if the workplace has become the stage on which unstable employees play out their emotional lives and troubles, hoping for sympathy and salvation through others, feeling entitled by their very victim-ness. All will be forgiven and fixed if you have "issues" at home. At one college bookstore in New England I recall the manager had erected a small trash basket to the wall outside the door and labeled it "TRASH - PLEASE DEPOSIT YOUR DOMESTIC TROUBLES, SAD TALES, AND ALL THE REASONS YOU CANNOT DO YOUR JOB BEFORE ENTERING. EMPLOYEES ARE EXPECTED TO CRASH AND BURN ON THEIR OWN TIME".

Accidents Will Happen

Let your cat have kittens, my grandmother had warned Aunt Vi, and you'll find out who your real friends are.

It was a gentle enough reprimand considering that Aunt Vi's old tiger cat had been on the prowl and delivered her third litter of kitttens - inconvieniently enough, in a pantry cabinet where the homemade preserves were kept. Aunt Vi had been reaching for a jar of black raspberry jam when old Tessie gave a yowl of protest and sunk her teeth into the intruding palm. Startled and in considerable pain, Aunt Vi had jerked backwards and up and hit her head on the underside of the opposite shelves, knocking herself unconscious and causing a minor avalanche of canned goods, brown sugar, and a tin of butterscotch brownies bound for the upcoming quilting session. The brownie tin landed squarely on Aunt Vi's wrist and broke it in two places, a fact she realized instantly when she woke up in a dusting of flour, sugar, chocolate chips and blood. Nana was applying ice to the broken wrist and antiseptic to the bite while delivering her routine lecture on the perils of cat reproduction. Aunt Vi, holding a cold washcloth to her aching head
and praying that her eyes wouldn't bruise and blacken, alternately winced and cursed. I was sent to fetch aspirin, brandy and Miss Rowena to set the bones, there being no doctor on the island that summer. Aunt Vi spent the night and by the time Nana took her home the following day, Tessie and the kittens had been relocated to an unused closet, the pantry had been cleaned and restored, and the kitchen stocked with cold salads, breads, and a variety of heat and eat covered dishes. Aunt Pearl had delegated a week's worth of housecleaning and errands and Aunt Vi's recovery would be under the watchful eyes of the island women. The easy unity of a small island community had taken over without a second thought - to take care of one of it's own, it needed no prodding.

I remember two summers with actual doctors, both young and studious, starched and very serious and ever so slightly resentful of spending 12 precious weeks of their rotations in an isolated, close knit and mostly suspicious fishing village well accustomed to providing it's own medical treatment. The doctor's home - a solid, two story brick structure across from the church - stood mostly empty but was always kept in good repair, just in case. There were extra bedrooms should the doctor have a family, a small yard, and a wide veranda. There were two separate exam rooms and a waiting area - nothing fancy but certainly utilitarian and as modern as was possible. The residence was maintained year 'round, just in case.

Don't need no doctor, don't want no doctor, the men inside McIntyre's would all agree, but ain't gonna be shamed if we was to git one.

Missteps

After a wild chase through the rest of the house, Patch skids around the corner of the bedroom and arrives at the doorway to the sunroom where she sits and yowls. I'm sure there's a purpose to this but it eludes me. After a minute or two, she loses interest and jumps to the old leather chair where she curls up in the sunlight for her morning nap.

A great deal of feline behavior is mysterious to me. I often wonder what goes on in their empty little heads as they prowl the house, ferociously attacking a random ivy then pretending they didn't and looking at me with total innocence, hurt and insulted by my accusation. An assault upon a venetian blind cord leads to a tangle then a crash and when I arrive at the scene, Murray has distanced himself from the destruction and is looking on in complete surprise as if the picture frames on the floor leapt there on their own accord. He gives me an indifferent glance before casually strolling out in search of something more interesting. Muggs discovers a moth and the chase is on - she vaults over furniture, leaps at the curtains and lands on an unsuspecting lampshade where she rocks precariously until moth, Muggs, and lampshade all tumble to the floor in an untidy heap. The moth flies on while Muggs watches and decides whether or not to pursue it and I snatch her up before she makes up her mind and causes more damage. Mischief investigates a plastic bag and gets entangled in it - panic stricken, she tries to break free while shrieking and crashing into furniture. When I finally catch her and remove the bag, her heart is racing and she is terrified but not so much that she will learn a lesson.

I've heard it said that we learn best by our mistakes but with the distance between adventure and pitfall only a matter of a misstep or two, it's best we should all tread lightly and watch where we're walking. An inquisitive nature can too often take us off the path and into a hazard. Consequences follow curiosity no matter who or what you are. Learn if you can.

A Fondness for Chivas

My daddy taught me how to make a ginger ale last all night.

Having his own experience with alcoholism had made him gun shy and he drank sparingly when at all although he had a fondness for Chivas and often got several bottles at Christmas and for his birthday. He stored them in the corner china cabinet in the dining room, under my mother's collection of cups and saucers, until space ran out then began a second stash in a kitchen cabinet, always professing delight at the giver's thoughtfulness and generosity then wearily making room for yet another bottle or two. What am I to do with two lifetimes worth of Scotch? I heard him often grumble but it was good natured complaining.

The china cabinet doubled as the liquor cabinet and a catch all for things that had no other home - red and green Christmas napkins, never used crystal decanters, candlesticks, bourbon, vodka, gin and the rare bottle of wine. My brothers discovered it early on, and the fact that it was almost never checked was too much temptation - they set about exploring it with a foolish and greedy passion and their after hours activities went unnoticed for several months until my mother decided to give a party and discovered the perilously low levels of whiskey. An all out search followed and in a matter of hours the entire house had been ravaged but she found no cached liquor, no empty bottles, no evidence of theft. She howled and threatened and raged, threw whatever she could put her hands on, cried and screamed and wailed, but it was useless. When she got to the kitchen Chivas stash, she smashed each and every bottle and a river of broken glass and scotch covered the kitchen floor. This was how my daddy found her, sobbing and half out of her mind with anger.

Being a first things first kind of person, he cleaned her cuts, calmed her down and got her to bed before beginning the process of putting the house back to rights and questioning his children. Being almost religiously loyal to each other, neither of the boys would own up and knowing that my mother's accusations would be taken over my word I kept silent - to this day it breaks my heart to tell the truth and not be believed. Guilt could not be established and so we were all grounded, I suppose in hopes that one would turn on the other, but it was a poor plan and as he supervised our clean up, he seemed worn down, exhausted and bitterly angry.

He lost some of the fondness for Chivas after that. Alcoholism has a way of destroying the smallest of pleasures and the largest of hearts.