On a chilly November day, the park was overflowing with people come to hear the music.
There were blankets and quilts laid out all across the grass, small circles of lawn chairs placed in the sunshine. Kids and dogs ran mindlessly through the crowd and there was a smell of barbeque and hot wings in the air. Artist tents were erected to sell jewelry and homemade jams, candles and woodcrafts. The stages were readied, sound checks echoed, and the gathering clapped and cheered, knitted, read, wandered. Entire families, from youngest to eldest, found their places and began games of scrabble and checkers. The park was alive with small town-ness, infants in strollers, kids on roller blades, old folks on walkers and all the in-betweens. The mayor was there, making a brief speech about the arts and the community, local press set up for pictures and interviews and video taping. The caste system in our small city had been put aside for this day - music's universal appeal had called in one voice to rich and poor, black and white, young and old, gay and straight, single and partnered.
The end of the afternoon brought a legend on stage, a Chicago bluesman born in a small Louisiana town in 1925. The crowd moved forward to see an 83 year old piano player, hands still agile and flying over the keyboard, voice raspy and bronchial with age. He grinned at the crowd and winked at the girls, shiny black patent leather shoes keeping time with the music, fingers never hesitating or missing. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees and made shadows on his creased face - there was no sign he felt the cold. He walked slowly and cautiously but played like a demon and the crowd cheered every chord. He never looked down at the keyboard, only out at the cluster of people gathered around him, clapping and yelling his name, dancing in the semi darkness and shivering. Henry Gray had come to town and brought a little Chicago blues with him - southern style - and the music had drawn out a city. The local musicians watched with a combination of respect and gratitude, shaking their heads and smiling with appreciation. An old woman in a wheelchair, strands of white hair curling around her face in the evening breeze and hands swollen and misshapen with arthritis, clapped with the best of them, her face alight with laughter. When her granddaughter tried to wheel her away, she pushed at the child with unexpected force and locked the chair with a sudden jerk. No! she yelled at the surprised little girl, Not when he's still playing! She threw off her lap robe and shawl and stubbornly struggled to her feet to applaud and the grandchild resignedly stood beside her, one arm around her waist for support. Henry! Henry! Henry! the old woman cheered in a shaky but loud voice, God bless the blues!
In it's heyday, The Farm prospered and the fields were green and rich with promise. The people in charge cared and worked hard, paid attention and invested of themselves. They planned and followed through, bought good seed and saw that it was planted and harvested properly. They paid their bills on time and maintained a strong reputation, produced the best possible product and sold it at a fair price. What they didn't know about crop rotation, they took the time to learn. They kept up with the times and the market by being involved, by showing up, by sacrificing and spending profits wisely. They kept their expectations reasonable and their standards high. They were always on call and ready to get their hands dirty when called for.
When the eldest son died and the father followed soon after, The Farm fell into the hands of the younger son who had never actually worked a day in his sorry life and wasn't about to start. He embraced the business for it's reputation and because it carried his name and he thrived on ownership and prestige, becoming more and more arrogant and proud, recklessly spending his inheritance without a single thought for the welfare of The Farm, it's employees, the people it served, or the future. He adopted new business strategies - coming in late and leaving early, making his drinking a matter of public knowledge, traveling to white water canoe trips and elegant vacations when The Farm was shortstaffed, bragging about his material possessions and buying more, always more, as if they could fill an empty and useless life and take the place of real friends or family. Alcoholism was soon enhanced with drug use and as his vanity expanded, The Farm began to suffer from neglect. Crops began to fail and profits fell off due to competition, equipment broke down and was replaced with second hand, rebuilt machines that came cheap and performed the same. Better and cheaper vegetables were available and farming entered a new age of grow your own and save. The younger son saw this and shrugged his designer covered shoulders, dismissing it as having no importance, as if The Farm could never be brought down. He continued his lifestyle unemcumbered by reality, letting the bills slide while staggering from one drug to to the next, from one anonymous, paid sexual encounter to the next. He became a joke and a caricature, strutting about like a proud, impotent peacock, refusing to see that the sky was about to fall. He made no concessions until he ran out of The Farm's money and discovered that loans were not as readily available as he had thought.
Against the advice of everyone, he bought a second farm and began to grown exotic and imported vegetables for which there was no market. It was new and flashy and completely modernized but no one came. He began losing employees and firing others, more bills went unpaid, inventory was not replaced. He turned a deaf ear to all who cared about The Farm's survival and dove deeper into a dark world of drugs and denial, planning a koi pond for his inherited house while his remaining employees looked on in disbelief, derision and disgust, leisurely traveling to this and that seminar or workshop, spending valuable resources and limited income for his own self gratification.
Meanwhile, Rome caught fire and burned to ashes as the economy crashed and the fields dried up. The second farm was summarily closed and it's debts went unpaid - the glitzy space gathered dust. People began talking, shaking their heads, and staying away. The Farm became obsolete, a step behind each advancement, holding on by it's fingernails while the younger son stayed home except for his party appearances and shopping binges. There were complaints of liquor on his breath during working hours, a DUI offense, and one clear afternoon he struck a child riding a bicycle on a neighborhood street. He had blackouts which he laughed off and took to bar sitting on Friday afternoons, drinking himself into a loud, obnoxious and preening daze before staggering home. The people who tried to help were put off by his vacant eyes and blank expression, his dulled senses and indifference and they began to drift away. When they bothered to speak of him at all, it was with pity, shame, even anger. He became a stumbling, sickly figure in search of self destruction, clinging to his self importance and consumed by vanity. He was avoided and finally written off, not even worthy of ridicule. No one believed his lies anymore and without their cover he was exposed for what he was. There was no more damage to be done except for the final foreclosure of The Farm.
What would become of him, a very few onlookers wondered. Who would hire him, assuming he could find or pass a test or job interview which seemed an exceptionally slim possibility. He was without skills, without experience, without integrity, without a work ethic. His manicured nails and pastel socks were unfit for real work and his only accomplishment was the ruination of a small business that had served it's community for over a half century.
When last I saw him, he was in blue jeans and scuffed loafers, an un-ironed and un-tucked in polo shirt hanging loosely on this sagging shoulders. His ever present briefcase was gone, his hair was badly gelled and there was, at last, defeat in his steps and an unhealthy pastiness to his un-made up face.
It has many names - comeuppance, reaping what you sow, consequences, accountability, justice. But it all comes down to what goes around, comes around. In business and in life, you get out only what you put in and there's no such thing as a free ride.
The small brown dog curls up on the pillow and is more or less instantly asleep, an ability I envy beyond measure. When the tabby arrives to join her, she opens her eyes and tenses but doesn't move. The cat circles once or twice then lays down, paws tucked neatly beneath her and looking as deceptively sweet and innocent as a kitten. The small dog slowly lets down her guard and goes back to sleep but I know this little Norman Rockwell picture will not last long. The tabby - greatly put upon, relentlessly suspicious and ill tempered - can strike at any moment and for no apparent reason. She's a loner at heart, a wary first strike weapon, always poised to defend herself from threats whether real or imagined and frequently on the offensive, a provocateur of sorts.
She is not my first terrorist cat and was not always so feisty and tempermental. As a kitten, she was affectionate and friendly, getting into all kinds of typical kitten mischief and content to play and sleep and play some more. She more or less accepted additions to the household until the advent of the black dog who she immediately recognized as The Great Satan and they have been mortal enemies ever since. So now my time with her is limited to sleeping - she curls up against me at night, keeping me between her and the dog, and sleeping cautiously and lightly, always listening, always ready to spring.
Cats - so innocently and endearingly packaged as kittens - grow, change and become. Like people, they are shaped by their surroundings and treatment, by nature and nurture, by love and care or neglect and abuse. They find their place and claim it, despite the odds. But their individuality always manages to break through and in the case of the tabby, it's a mixture of conflict and needing space, of protection of territory and anxiety. She loves but only with conditions, she accepts but only on her own terms. She is a complicated animal, full of contradictions and needs.
Her eyes meet mine over the blanket and one paw reaches out to touch my face - a gentle gesture from an old tabby cat who feels safe and loved despite the nearness of the enemy. Gain the trust of a dog and you have a friend for life.
Gain the trust of a suspicious, old tabby cat and all is right with the world.
Our mailman's name was Jim and true to his creed, he delivered the mail every day, rain or shine, sleet or snow. He was an average looking man with an easy smile and a full head of silver hair and he made friends along his route, taking the time to learn the names of all the children and even their pets. We would often walk with him or trail along behind and he would tell us stories about delivering the mail through hurricanes and navigating the neighborhood dogs. He always knew if we were waiting for an important letter or a package and during Christmas he drove a small red, white and blue truck and often had a helper. I wondered about his life - how someone could walk for miles and miles every day without fail and stay cheerful and optimistic. He cared about doing his job and doing it well.
Jim delivered my college acceptance letter, wedding invitations, birthday cards, thank you notes, draft notices, circulars and catalogues and mountains of bills. Life and Look and Readers Digest all arrived faithfully along with the church newsletters, the tiny Nova Scotia newspaper, postcards, tax notices and bank statements. The outside world - before computers and email and cell phones - communicated and kept in touch through Jim, a serious responsibility rested on his broad shoulders and he wore it well, never complained or faltered, was rarely late, never seemed weary. He was a simple letter carrier with a sense of pride and confidence.
At his retirement party we learned a little more about him - he had been a high school dropout, a decorated soldier, had survived a bout of polio as a child, had a wife, four daughters and two labrador retrieivers. He drank bourbon and played bridge, loved modern jazz, and was a lapsed Catholic who questioned the existence of heaven and hell. He leaned left politically and right on the death penalty, supported leash laws, was a Red Sox fanatic and planned to visit Ireland at least once before he died. The neighborhood families embraced him, this generous, outgoing civil servant, raised their glasses to him and wished him the best of retirement. He was accepted and cheered and would, they assured him, be sorely missed. It was an evening of friendship and fun and might have lasted into the early morning hours except for the late arrival of his family. His wife, a tall, slim, stunning and elegantly dressed black woman walked into the crowd and made her way to him with a brilliant smile. Four young girls with coffee and cream colored skin and arms linked together followed closely behind. The party froze and quieted instantly, glasses were put down abruptly, silverware clattered in the dead silence and several sharp intakes of breath were heard. My mother turned and made for the door without a word, just as her beloved letter carrier was introducing his family. Several couples, faces ashen with shock and disbelief, followed, their hurrying footsteps echoing sharply on the wooden dance floor, their muted conversations hushed but appallingly clear.
A moment I will always remember followed - my Sunday School teacher and her husband approached Jim and his family with smiles and outstretched hands and my daddy nodded to the small pickup band in the corner. The music started again and while some additional couples left, others stayed, following the example of my teacher and her husband, following what they had been taught and what, I hope, they believed in their hearts.
He has three homes - one, a prestigious Dallas condo with a star studded history of celebrity residents - and four cars - one an old and unreliable but still impressive Mercedes. He has closets overflowing with designer clothes and shoes and drawers full of priceless rings and watches. Antiques are perfectly positioned throughout the homes, side by side with the pictures of famous people he once knew - John Saxon, Angela Lansbury, Ann Miller - and he keeps plastic surgeons on call for the slightest sign of uneasy aging. He lives on vanity, memories of being at the top of his game, anonymous sex and a reputation for temper tantrums and self-centeredness. He does not like to dirty his hands among the lower classes, preferring to make his living off them while gossiping only about their betters. He allows the word "no" in his vocabulary but not in that of others and when traveling he stays in only the best hotels. He likes being catered to and expects to be accommodated regardless of how unreasonable or unrealistic his demands. His humor is malicious, edgy and targeted, unsparing and merciless. Worse, he has fallen on economic hard times he never reckoned were even possible and is lashing out at anyone close. This is a man who is finally encountering the consequences of a high flying lifestyle and coping badly. For the first time, no scapegoat is in sight and no rescue is at hand. This, after months of denial and wholesale firings, after all the creative financing and endless borrowing, after watching his world slowly crumble, this he will have to confront on his own. He talks of giving up.
His is a non essential service, a luxury that people are hard pressed to afford in a time of choosing between health care and groceries. He sells dreams and one in a million possibilities of magazine covers and stardom. He teaches how to walk and dress and apply makeup in a world of people who can't pay their light bills. He offers the vague promise of magic to children and parents who can't pay the rent and a glossy portfolio in place of a meal. His life is about appearances and possessions, about runways and cameras and being in the spotlight. He has not changed with the times, has not kept up or adapted and the dreams he promotes do not fight off foreclosures or bankruptcy or simple job loss. What he does has taken a distant fourth or fifth place to keeping a family intact and fed, in school and employed, out of crushing debt. The first class, designer days are fading fast and the future is cloudy with dread and uncertainty.
Despite the warning signs, reality often arrives when we are least prepared for it, when it's too late for compromise or cut backs. Reality doesn't negotiate.
Into the kingdom came a dark knight on a shiny, saddled horse.
He was welcomed and cheered for his bravery and outspokeness and in just days had won the hearts of most of the people. He questioned authority and made suggestions on how to improve the running of the kingdom and no one except the young prince seemed to mind that he was routinely late for the jousts or that he made jokes about the king and queen behind their backs. On one especially important day, he failed to arrive at all, claiming his steed to be ill and having no one to care for him, the stable boy he employed being busy with other chores. The young prince observed all this and came not to overly like or trust the new knight - his was the business of day to day running the kingdom and he welcomed no interference or undermining.
In no time at all, the new knight had made friends and allies among the people and was looked upon with great favor by the king and queen. They secretly critisized the prince for his attitude which they deemed overbearing and jealous and began to heed the complaints of the people. One bright autumn day, the king delivered a public reprimand to the prince and the shame was made known to the kingdom. The prince renounced his throne the following day and defiantly fled the castle. The royal couple made a joint announcement that the prince had always been a troubled young man who ruled with an iron fist and no compassion and the coup was complete. The knight was hailed as a hero and the king and queen began their search for a new heir to the throne. The prince's fall from grace was viewed as best for all concerned.
Following the prince's departure, his name ceased to be mentioned save for the king making repeated apologies about his methods of managing and assuring the people that under the new rules there would be flexibility and explanations of policy, easy access to him and the queen, proper training, and a less dictatorial system. All would be treated with respect regardless of their place in the small society and the mending of fences with castle staff and their subjects was to begin at once. No trace of the prince or his rule was to remain - there were to be no footsteps for anyone to follow.
And therein lies a tale of how kingdoms really run. Beware betrayal and dark knights on shiny, saddled horses. Anyone - deservedly or not - can fall from grace with a well placed shove.
On the day we were to visit my daddy's family, we would leave early in the morning, making one of the first ferry runs and being on the mainland by nine. The road to Graywood was long and winding and I knew every house and turn by heart. My mother drove in silence, unhappy at the prospect of a day at the farm and moved only by obligation to make the journey. It's one day out of the entire summer, my grandmother had snapped at her the night before, Just go and make the best of it.
We stopped for lunch at one Digby's two restaurants, a small waterfront place owned and operated by a longtime friend of my mother's, a place with a seafood just off the boats and a liquor license. Sitting at a back table watching the boats come and go, we ate lobster and haddock and curly french fries with cold slaw while my mother smoked and drank iced coffee laced liberally with whiskey - no liquor would be forthcoming at the farm and it would be a long, dry afternoon for her. We were anxious, ready to be there, and she stalled us with shopping and visiting and more iced coffee, snapping at our impatience and restlessness and complaining of a migraine. Leaving the kids for a few days? her friend the owner asked as he placed homemade chocolate cake and ice cream on the table and gave her a wink. Thank God, yes, she said with a flirtatious smile, A whole week without them. She slid over to make room for him to sit down and he lowered his voice to ask if she was coming back that day - she smiled again and nodded and he gave her another wink. Don't be late and miss the last ferry, he told her, You might end up with no place to sleep. She laughed a little too loudly at that and I winced to hear her tell him, Well, maybe you have an extra room.
Her mood improved and her headache miraculously cured, we left the restaurant and began driving again, reaching the farm in the early afternoon. As always, it was just as I remembered - a tumbledown-ish gray house at the end of a long, gravel drive, with my grandmother in her rocking chair on the front veranda, surrounded by aunts and uncles and cousins. Cows were grazing on the hill near the barn, chickens wandered aimlessly around the well, and the newest litter of kittens was sleeping in a basket by the back door. It looked, sounded, and smelled like home and we piled out in a rush to blueberry pie cooling on the stove, cold milk from the icebox and a tumultous welcome. My mother hurriedly popped a breath mint and joined - although hesitantly and with reservations - in the fray of reunion. For a few moments, the woman at the restaurant departed to be replaced by a distant but at least there daughter-in-law with an almost genuine smile. No one commented on her bright red lipstick, cropped hair, bare legs, or the faint smell of whiskey on her breath. For a few moments she was just a member of the family, fitting in - albeit a little crookedly - with these homespun and plain folks that she looked down on the rest of the year.
Whether sensing that they judged her and found her wanting or felt that she had been a poor choice, maybe realizing that they didn't approve of her - unvoiced as this sentiment always was - or simply overwhelmed by this mass of family, my mother never made the effort to get along. She stayed on the fringes of the family, making a pretense of affection for them while sneering behind their backs. She jealously held onto what she had and laughed at what they didn't, making jokes about her "poor relations" and their "down on the farm ways". She would've preferred to keep her life separate from them and while resenting their influence, she had no real choice except to tolerate the infrequent visiting days. That evening though, she was glad enough to leave us in their care and as she waved goodbye she called out to us, Be Good!
I wondered if she would do the same.
