A Turnaround Year

Christmas Week dawns clear, bright, cold but snow-less. It doesn't seem quite right.

It's about this time each year that I'm struck with a mindless, manic need to clean house - closets, drawers, forgottten niches that I haven't looked at all year, shelves, cabinets, shoe trees all become targets. I stock up on bleach, trash bags, Pledge and floor polish and attack room by room, brutally tossing out anything I find that serves no purpose, dusting what can't be moved and re-arranging the rest. This is no holds barred, full fledged war against junk and sentimentality. Blinds are ripped from their holders and tossed into a Lysol bath, bookcases emptied and restocked, jewelry matched, pictures windex'd to an inch of their lives, silverware sorted and inventoried. This year even 10 years worth of cd's will be alphabetized and categorized - there's no stopping the energy or dedication that springs from this internal need to organize, weed out, clean up, clear away and start again. It's an exhausting process but at the end the sense of satisfaction is enormous.

The roots of this battle go all the way back to my childhood. When it was time to clean my room, I simply piled everything in the middle of the floor and started in - it was the only way I wouldn't be tempted to cut corners or take half measures. I set no store by old yearbooks or keepsakes, have no interest in keeping pressed flowers or prom dresses. I like each year to be a clean slate with as little history as possible and an uncluttered future. All this purging has side effects, as if by showing no mercy to the physical, my emotional housekeeping seems to get done as well and I feel clearer, stronger, more grounded and in touch, adequately armed and ready to face a new year. The past year is put in its place, fenced in and forgiven.

Optimism and reality always seems to be at odds within me but as the new year approaches, I like to think it will be a turnaround year.

This is the year, I tell myself, that my friend Henry will find work - respectable, living wage work that he will come to like and do well. He will regain his confidence and humor and purpose. This is the year that my friend Liv's baby will come into the world and her life will be forever changed, I hope for the better. This is the year that my friend Trisha will become pain free, my friend Sammy will find sobriety, my cousin Linda will be published and my musician friends will prosper. This is the year my photography will pay off.

Well, perhaps. But if not, other things may turn around - and even if they don't, we keep on keepin' on.

It may be the idea rather than the reality of a fresh start that inspires us to do better, to be better. At the very least, I will begin with uncluttered closets and organized silverware.

The Forgotten People

They came for turkey and all the trimmings - cornbread and cranberry sauce, hot coffee, music and warmth. Mostly men, mostly older, mostly black, many disabled - they came through the door and got in line for a meal, shuffling and hobbling, but all with a shaky smile. It was the day after Christmas and the kitchen was open.

There were the veterans, the homeless, the unemployed. Some walked on their own, some with canes, more than one or two in wheelchairs. Those that could help others did so respectfully, there was no pushing or shoving for a place in line. Just before the food was served, a woman's voice, strong and clear, spoke a prayer and every other voice joined her in the "amen". Sunshine streamed through the red curtained windows, a tiny Christmas tree sat on each table, and the men gathered in small groups with plates piled high, while local musicians played "Goodnight, Irene" and "Sweet Relief". There was talk of the old days when the likes of Chuck Berry and Hank Williams had stopped by, when Elvis had played just down the street, when there had been work and a prosperous red light district in walking distance, this last drawing a frown or two from the serving staff but nothing more. When they finished, the men left, some with foil covered paper plates carefully balanced in one hand, and each with a tiny, colored Christmas package in the other. As Christmas celebrations went, I suppose it wasn't much, but for those who have so little, it might have been everything.

I wondered about all the things I didn't know - did they have homes to go to and families waiting, where had they spent Christmas, how had they gotten to this place in their lives and at what cost. How did they fill their days and keep warm, who - if anyone - cared for or about them. What memories went with them and what lay ahead for these forgotten and unimportant people that are everywhere in this city and who we try so hard not to see or think about, or worse, dismiss as undeserving.

There was a lesson here, about charity and openheartedness, about hands reaching out to help with no strings attached, about dignity and fate and true Christmas spirit. In charge of it all was a diminuitive, elfin-looking, soft spoken and very old black woman wearing an apron and a hairnet. She passed out plates and hugs with equal efficiency, cleared tables and refilled coffee cups, knew everyone's name. First, she said to me, You have to feed their bellies, then you can worry about their souls.

Untended Souls

My grandmother - of whom it could be said, was neither a frequent church goer nor a noticeably devout Baptist - did usually succumb to an act of charity during the holidays, making large donations to Goodwill or the Salvation Army, sometimes both. Sitting beside her in the cavernous old Cambridge church one Sunday, I watched her listen to the new minister - young, fiery, eloquent - and passionate about the plight of orphans at Christmas. Nana's eyes sparkled when called upon to share her blessings with these poor, unwanted, homeless children and after services she sought out the new minister and volunteered her money, her time, and the members of her family to the cause of providing these unfortunate orphans with a proper Christmas.

The family's reactions were mixed to this. My daddy agreed without a second thought, offering up the old Mercury station to deliver food and gifts while my mother looked on in distaste at the suggestion that she participate but my Aunt Helen was appalled. Orphans? she asked, her delicately plucked eyebrows arched in surprise, Certainly not! I have no time to spare for illegitimate urchins! Not to mention that I have my position to consider! Lock jawed and grim faced, Nana glared at her. Helen, she snapped, It's an orphanage, for heaven's sake, not a brothel! Her sister-in-law flushed but gave not an inch, It's out of the question, Alice, she said firmly, Edgecomb and I have already made plans. Out of town, she added as an afterthought.

Noblesse oblige, my dear, my Uncle Eddie smoothly intervened while pouring martinis and Aunt Helen's mouth dropped open in shock, We'll be delighted to help, Alice, just tell us where and when. He handed his wife a glass, steadying her hand at the same time and saying none too quietly, Close your mouth, dear, you'll catch flies.
Stricken at this betrayal and the potential horror of having to deal with the lower classes, my Aunt Helen was momentarily speechless.

Turkeys were bought by the shopping basketful, canned vegetables amassed at an amazing rate. Plans were made for fresh bread to be baked and gallons of milk to be collected, fudge and brownies were to be made and toys, games and books were to be gathered. Nana's back porch overflowed with dolls and puzzles and toy dump trucks, all of which were wrapped - green foil for girls, red for boys - Nana's lodge friends donated stuffed animals and coloring books, cable sweater sets and denim overalls, wool socks and cartoon underwear. There was a music box, a half dozen snow globes, a lighted makeup mirror, a monopoly game. Each night we wrapped and ribboned gifts while Nana planned out the menu and made endless lists of who had given what and who was supposed to be where, when and doing what. That Christmas morning dawned bright, cold and snowing moderately. My grandmother briskly organized the caravan of cars from her upper class Belmont home and led the way to The New England Home for Little Wanderers. We were all present and accounted for, even my Aunt Helen came although once we reached the old building in not the most prestigious Boston neighborhood, she thought better of carrying her purse and insisted that Uncle Eddie lock it in the trunk of the Lincoln.

Hearts were mended that day and untended souls were nourished. Perhaps that of my Aunt Helen was among them if only for a brief time. It was, after all, Christmas.

The Doll Room

Ruthie's doll collection took up most of her room and she treasured each one, the damaged ones more so than the intact ones. After her father's death, she had quietly packed each and every one in boxes stuffed with straw and moved them to the basement where they remained until she married and moved to East Ferry. Then, one by one, they began to reappear.

There were ragdolls and baby dolls, dolls that cried and wet and blinked their eyes, costumed dolls and ones that said Mama if you pressed their bellies. Some were missing arms or legs or eyes, some wore torn clothing, one had been sliced open and jaggedly restitched with red thread - the scar went from throat to thigh - and each had a name and a history. Ruthie had swept and dusted and painted a room in the attic, put up curtains and built shelves, added a rocking chair and a small tea table with two mismatched chairs, a day bed with a gingham cover. Here she arranged and tended her dolls, repairing what she could, covering what she couldn't, and remembering. It was a room built on pain and intense, overwhelming sadness, buried memeories of incest and alcoholic rages and helplessness, of a child's inability to fight back and a mother's failure to protect. It had ended with a death and a secret burial but for Ruthie the abuse remained fresh, the damage had been done. She had salvaged what she could of her childhood and her dolls and tried to start again but as little as a raised voice - if only in exasperation -
could take her back and she would run to the attic in tears, run for the safety and sanctuary of her dolls and the illusion of being happy. Her husband and daughters were troubled by her behavior and mystified at her refusal to talk about it - they learned to let her be and work through it alone but they watched and worried, fearing that one day she might not want to return from the doll room.

If it had been twenty or thirty years later, Ruthie might have found a counselor or a therapy group or a friend who had similar experiences and who would understand. She might have confronted her demons and beaten them back but she was a rural and poorly educated woman from a tiny island community that kept its secrets well. Appalling as her childhood had been, no one would have welcomed her making it public. So she kept her doll room, even after her daughters were grown and raising families of their own, even after her husband had given up and turned into little more than a bewildered but companionable stranger.

Ruthie died in her doll room one late summer night. Alone and without ever having found the strength to speak of her abuse, she simply climbed the attic stairs, gathered her most loved dolls, and swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. The letter she left for her husband told it all - everything she had kept secret for all her life spilled out in graphic detail. I love you and I'm sorry, she wrote, but surviving has gotten too hard. Throw the dolls away, they don't work anymore.

Clusterphobia

After two hours of being lost in a sea of noise and festivity, I began to feel a familiar feeling of suffocation - over a hundred people had gathered in the small bottle shop and they were overflowing with wine and good cheer, trendy fashions and the latest gossip. I began to watch the clock, trying to will the minutes away.

I've never done well in crowds, the pushing and shoving and shrieking laughter, the invasion of space and lack of breathing room bear down on me like weights. Even among friends and friendly faces, the urge to flee comes on strong, overcoming what few social instincts I have with an overwhelming need for quiet and solitude. I watch the crowd closing in on me like a swarm of angry bees and their faces dim, their smiles twist into leers. The noise and the chatter escalate as more and more people arrive and soon everyone is shoulder to shoulder - I think you could walk across them and not fall through. At the counter, a short and chubby little man takes a roll, piles it with roast beef and spreads it liberally with horseradish, then after a cautious look around, slips it into his jacket pocket. The silliness of this small act eases some of my tension and I can't help but laugh - the laughing helps me realize that I'm overreacting and I relax, take a second look at the crowd, and regroup. The swarm of insects slowly turns into a roomful of innocent party goers, a little careless, a little loud, a little too packed together, but harmless.

Even so, at the stroke of eight, I find a path through the revelers and make for the door, the cold night air, and the emptiness of the parking lot. Here there is stillness and room to move about, here there is quiet and dark and open space where I can hear my own thoughts and smile at my own faults and prejudices. Away from the crowd, I find myself again and am glad to see me.

The Playroom

Nana's cellar made a perfect playroom.

Divided into three parts, one finished and two not, it was always cool and furnished with cots and chairs, a piano, several tables, and dim lighting. The finished space was enormous and ideal for any manner of childhood games. You could run the length of it in a game of tag, practice dancing on the smooth tiled floor, play shuffleboard. You could safely make noise and disturb no one. Between the spaces there was a bar reached by a crawlway - here there were glasses and crystal decanters, containers of swizzle sticks, jars of olives and onions, neatly stacked six packs of Canada Dry Ginger Ale and enough liquor to float a boat. My grandfather had partied here, well and often, entertaining who knew what crowd of aquaintances and associates with poker games and bourbon, stag films and even strippers. Nana never came down here except to do laundry, claiming the place had a bad feel to it. Unpleasant memories, my daddy said with a wrinkle of his nose and a queer look of distaste, Best forgotten.

I didn't know then about the nights my grandfather had come home falling down drunk, had no idea of the infidelities, the backroom deals and the gambling. He was well known and admired by many, feared by some, and respected by most. He had friends in influential places and was partial to keeping everyone under his thumb and controlled by his decisions. My grandmother had never been known to openly disagree with him, never as much as raised her voice to him, and my mother maintained a subservient nearly timid demeanor with him. He had put his family second to work and friends, had little use for children or animals, and was all in all, a brute of a man with a nasty temper and a need to be obeyed. Only my daddy in his role of heir apparent seemed able to meet any of his expectations or earn his trust - it was the price of not having a son to take over, my daddy had been heard to tell close friends, and a burden.

From time to time I considered my mother being raised by a man who had little use for her, a raging alcoholic who offered no kindness, no acceptance, no love - a man who taunted her with reminders of her illegitimate half sister and spared no criticism of her appearance, her choices, her friends, her abilities. He withheld praise and affection, barely acknowledging her existence and making no secret of his disappointment in her. It hadn't been easy being his wife or daughter, my daddy confided to me years later, he had been a hard man to his family, cold, cruel and thoughtless.
You might think about what that did to your mother, he once suggested to me gently, It could help.

It didn't then and doesn't now. Passed down or taught, learned or imitated, hate is hate. Understanding it may make it more clear but it brings no forgiveness and no forgetting.

Toy Tigers

His name was Willie and he was about three feet long with bright yellow stripes and plastic whiskers. Of all the stuffed animals in my small room, he was the one I loved the best.

You can tell a toy tiger all manner of secrets in safety, cry into his fur and be comforted by his warmth, knowing he will tell no one, knowing he will always be ready to listen, suspecting he might be the best friend you have in your small, ten year old world. I whispered to Willie all the things I couldn't say aloud about a mother gone mad, brothers that scared the daylights out of me, a father who's protection was tenuous and intermittent at best and a grandmother who could love and hate, give and deny, shelter and evict, all in the same breath. Willie kept my secrets, wisely never answering but never turning me away. Even in his old age - patchy, stained, losing his stuffing and missing half his tail - he remained a guardian and a confidante.

When I left home the first time, I expected he would still be there when and if I came back but my mother decided to clean up after me, throwing away my books, pictures, clothes, and my tiger, moving the sparse furniture to other parts of the house and turning the tiny room into a storage space. She took to telling people she didn't have a daughter although never in earshot of my daddy or grandmother and delighted in the belief that she had won, enjoying the concern and attention this brought, exploiting the sense of triumph. She was stricken and unaccountably surprised when the stories made their way back to my daddy, furious and out of control when he made several trips to the discount furniture store in Central Square to bring back a sleeping cot, a chest of drawers, a rickety night stand. Later there was a trip to Goodwill for a radio, a lamp and a wall mounted although cracked mirror. Nana took me on an all day shopping spree at Walmart and said yes to everything, even curtains for the window, and a tiny portable tv, rabbit ears and all. The following September I made the cautious decision to go home and try again.

It takes more than second hand furniture, toy tigers and good intentions to make a home and we didn't have what it took, not that time or the times that followed. I think that somewhere inside of us all, somewhere we didn't want to look, we knew it. Toy tigers are safer than real ones.

Lydia & The Preacher Man

Miss Lydia had left the island at eighteen, determined to make her way in the world and make a difference. She took a small suitcase, a bible, and some forty dollars in factory wages. She wasn't sure what she was looking for and had no clear destination or plan but she was possessed of a brave and curious spirit, a willingness to work, and a rich streak of optimistic faith.

She met the man that would be her undoing in St. John, a handsome and smooth talking young preacher with a flair for embezzlement, con games and naive young women. In short order, Lydia's innocence, wages and the preacher man were in the wind - she woke in a shabby motel, alone, ashamed, and badly hungover. She might have given up and gone home that very day, had she had the fare, but instead she showered, dressed, and walked to the sleazy front office to ask for a job and start over again. She worked as a maid, a waitress, a shopgirl - hating every minute and saving every penny, bound and determined to make enough money to leave St. John and make a new start. The baby was born in the convent of The Sisters of Charity where she had found not only shelter but kindness among the sisters, and no recriminations for her mistakes, no reserve against her Baptist upbringing. She was welcomed and taken in, cared for and given work, self esteem, and child care. The story of the preacher man was not new to the sisters. Lydia began to listen to the nuns and their patient advice - pray, forgive, have charity and move on. She even thought briefly of converting but the sisters wisely shook their heads at this notion, counseling more prayer and self examination before such a step.

And so it was that at twenty-five, Lydia found herself - due to adversity, regret, the responsibility of a child and the kindness of the nuns - coming back to herself. It was then she met her second preacher man, a widowed pastor from Long Island, with two boys and a small congregation, a gentle and dedicated country minister who tended to see the good in everyone and cared little for her past. She became a preacher's wife that same year, in a small ceremony held at the convent with all the good sisters attending. There were tearful goodbyes as the preacher man looked on smiling, one arm comfortably around the shoulders of his newest son.

And that, Aunt Pearl finished, giving the fish chowder a vigorous, swirling stir, is how Lydia and James and the boys come to be here on the island and how we got us a minister way back in '46. Behind Pearl's back, Aunt Vi added a surreptitious tea spoon of salt and a finger pinch of pepper to the chowder. That's so, she said agreeably,
Takes sin and redemption to keep it all in balance, I reckon.

Dear Diary

Stammering and incoherent with rage, my mother confronted me with my diary, the decorative little lock pried open and several pages ripped from the binding. You'll pay for writing this! she screamed at me, You just wait and see! Hatred had made her wild-eyed and fueled by an afternoon's worth of drinking she had become a force to be reckoned with. In the interests of self preservation, I lunged for the little book, snatched her it from her and made for the front door. She stumbled after me but I was young, sober, and driven by fear. She reached for me but I was already gone, running through the yard and up the sidewalk as fast as a 12 year old can move. When I was sure she wouldn't follow, I eased up and caught my breath, tucked the diary inside my sweater, and headed for the sanctuary of the library, powerfully afraid but also incredibly angry, feeling the invasion of privacy almost like a physical violation. Nothing was safe from her, I realized, no thought or emotion, no act, no need. I refused to think about the consequences that were sure to follow, couldn't bear to think about the things I had written and she had read - wishing for her to suffer, to be inflicted with pain and isolation, to die, hateful things that welled up and had to have an outlet otherwise they would have suffocated me. The world became a blurry place that cold afternoon.

Parenthood had never been kind to my mother. She openly blamed her children for her unhappiness, her loss of freedom and spending money, her being tied down, her inability to sustain a happy marriage. We had, she complained, literally driven her to drink. No one was exactly sure what she had expected from marriage or having a family, but clearly we weren't it - she was, so she liked to say, undermined at every turn, betrayed and unloved, treated badly and deprived. She insisted she'd played no role in any of this but was rather a victim, martyred by the needs and wants of offspring she'd never wanted in the first place, condemned to a role she found thankless and demeaning. No closet crammed with evening wear, no pink convertible or 3 month summer vacations, no middle class comforts were enough to offset her resentments of motherhood. Through the years she grew old and fat and more malicious on little but her own bitterness and discontent, at the last not even able to find solace in alcohol. Her body would eventually turn inward on itself from cancer while her mind evaporated from dementia and whiskey soaked brain cells. And still remembering, among so many other things, my diary, I could not find the slightest hint of compassion or regret for her.

My daddy, knowing that I would seek the refuge of fiction, found me at the library. I watched him walk in slowly, hat in hand, gray faced and raccoon-eyed with weariness and resignation. He sat across from me, a daughter who was on the road to becoming a stranger, and gave me a slight, sad smile. How do we make this right? he asked me. I put aside my H. Allen Smith satire, always my first choice for such times, and told him the truth, We don't. It may have been the closest I'd ever come to actually speaking what I knew was true but my daddy - ever the peacemaker, ever the first to craft a compromise and calm troubled waters - just shook his head. We'll find a way, he told me, it's not as bad as it seems right now. But of course it was and continued to be. He was to keep looking until the cancer overtook her but he never found the elusive way.

We should have more respect for what children see - happy faces don't fool them for long and their vision is often far clearer than our own.

From the Sidelines

First, so the saying goes, the man takes a drink. Then the drink takes the man.

From the sidelines, I watched my mother and then my husband tumble into the depths of alcoholism, free falling into a haze of blackouts and abuse, constant denials and hidden bottles, secret drinking and erratic often self destructive behavior. There were tears and violent fights, threats and broken promises, silences so profound that nothing could have survived. For those who seek relief in addiction, there is no free will, no breaking away, no awareness of the damage they do to themselves and those around them. The disease takes all and leaves only tragic, broken people. Addiction is a dark place of deception, slow suicide, immeasurable pain and self delusion - it knows no limits, no boundaries, no hurt-free zones. It offers no choices. Caught in its vicious, secondary web, we struggle and the harder we struggle, the more securely we are ensnared. Addiction defies logic and reason, flaunts common sense, makes a mockery of rational thinking. From the sidelines, we can do little more than watch and try to keep out of the way. Nothing will make you crazier, faster than being caught up in a relationship between an addict and his drug and nothing is so seductive as the temptation to believe you can fix it. Contrary to popular opinion, insanity can be contagious.

I have since watched others sink into the depths - a kind and animal loving young lawyer, a talented musician, friends and lovers, ordinary people all, quietly overtaken and overwhelmed, some to their death and only a precious few to recovery.

From the sidelines of collateral damage, I've learned to celebrate success without interfering, encourage but not meddle, help but not enable. Higher powers are at work here and they will work in their own ways without my aid. My job is to care for my own sanity and my own needs, to detach and step back to a place where I can examine my own motives, to not get caught up in the struggle of others and still care. It is, so I've learned, just as for the addict, an everyday effort. Despite what we may want to believe and are willing to work so hard to achieve, we cannot cure, fix or change anyone but our own selves. Whether we're playing the game or just watching from the sidelines, the hardest battles are still fought within.

Cruel is fate
when it's power and its might
to the guilty and innocent are shown - Jed Marum

What Is It About Vivaldi?

Sitting on hold and feeling my life slip away minute by minute, I listened to the opening strains of the "Four Seasons" and wondered yet again, what is it about Vivaldi? Do voice mail systems come with a requirement that this and only this can be the recorded music? They never play much expect the beginning of "Spring" but they play it over and over and over and over. Would the world end if there was a little Mozart or a hint of Rossini? Possibly even Beethoven or a few notes of "Kill the Wabbit"? Too much of anything, even Vivaldi, will dull the senses, which is probably the objective of the insurance companies - soothe and sedate with music and hope for the best.

In addition to jazz and blues, my daddy loved classical music - what my mother called that longhair crap - and he played it for me often from his collection of old, vintage albums. I didn't appreciate it much then, preferring his Pete Fountain records to Chopin, but beautiful music tends to grow on you and by the time I reached college, I'd discovered Debussey and Handel, and was coming to love all the classical composers. You couldn't sing along with Mitch but The Messiah stirred my soul and to this day I remember each note of the soprano part of The Hallelujah Chorus, perhaps my all time favorite work next to Mozart's "A Little Night Music", the second most preferred voice mail selection. I studied to "Ave Maria" and "Claire de lune" and Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata", sometimes losing my focus for stopping to listen.

If there was one love in my daddy's life, it was music. He listened to it, played it, appreciated it, and passed it on to me and I think of him often whenever I hear a hot New Orleans trumpet, a ragtime piano, a gospel quartet or a classical orchestra. Music was in his heart as it is in mine, as I hope it is in all of ours.

Rock on, Antonio.

Russell's Cat

Russell's cat, a mammoth beast well over 40 pounds but as agile and quick as a mouse, had the unfortunate name of Tommy, Russell's first born son. This was a constant irritation to Tommy's mother who had argued against it til she ran out of words but her husband was adamant - the cat, he pointed out, had been there first and was entitled to keep his name. It's a matter of first come, first serve, Norah, he told her calmly, And the cat came before the boy. Norah took to throwing things at him - a bowl of soup, a flower pot, an eggbeater - but Russell's instincts were much like the cat's and he dodged each flying object. Norah soon gave up the practice, it was costly and caused the arthritis in her shoulder and elbow to flare up with each pitch. Besides, she complained to Nana, I can't hit the broad side of a barn even in daylight.

No one knew the actual origin of the cat. Russell had discovered him while hunting in the woods behind the lighthouse and though not normally a man known for his compassion to animals - not that he was cruel, he simply considered them extraneous and on the whole unnecessary - he had taken pity on the scruffy little thing and tossed it into his shoulder pack, thinking that perhaps it might make a decent mouser for the barn, if it survived. And survive it did, reaching 20 pounds before it was a year old and becoming somewhat of a legend around the village.
One of the summer doctors even speculated that it might be some kind of a crossbreed, certainly no one had ever encountered a cat of that magnitude and who knew what might be lurking in the woods. The cat continued to grow and thrive, becoming largely self sufficient, earning its keep as an unparalleled mouser and sometimes as a tourist attraction. All muscle! Russell would declare proudly, Not an ounce of fat on him! And it was true, Tommy was enormous but trim and tight and as healthy as a thoroughbred. Russell made a small but steady income by renting him out to mouse for neighbors and by taking him to town to sleep in McIntyre's window on Saturdays when the summer people shopped. Tommy was amiable to all the attention and for a nickel Russell would allow the children to hold him, provided they could pick him up without adult help. The huge cat submitted without the first protest, frequently offering up a stunning, vibrating purr that could be heard clear to the front doors.

Norah, having been raised to be independent-minded and clear thinking, had been warned about all the things that might make claim on her new husband's attentions. She had not, however, foreseen having to compete with a cat, even one as well known as Tommy grew to be and it took several years of flying debris and many a harsh word before she came to accept the cat's place in her husband's life. If the cat harbored similar reservations, he kept them to himself - as cats are inclined to do - and in the fullness of time, woman and cat reached a mutual understanding, each allowing the other the illusion of being in control.

Russell was well pleased.

Jacket Weather & Gypsies

In the early dark with fall so clearly in the air, I find myself missing New England and can't, for the life of me, think why. I think of woodstoves, leaves turning into the colors of fire, the promise of snow and mornings so bright they hurt your eyes and so cold they freeze your breath. Jacket weather, Nana would say, Don't forget your mittens.

On the mountain, two cords of wood would've been delivered and neatly stacked in the front yard. The screen porch would be abandoned til spring while frantic squirrels darted about gathering their winter food. We'd have mounted bird feeders on the back deck and Indian corn on the front door. If I were home, it would be maple syrup season on the farm and the thought of the old sugar mill brought back a quicksilver rush of memories - a gallon can of of syrup arrived each winter from Uncle Byron and it nearly lasted us til spring - my daddy would make Sunday breakfasts of pancakes and sweet french toast, an apron carefully tied around his blue dress pants and his tie tucked into his shirt, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and the sound of New Orleans jazz in the background. Not the hugely popular and well known artists but the likes of Illinois Jacquet - Ssssh! he would say, pausing in mid pour of a pancake, Listen to that saxaphone!

Winter jackets and scarves and boots would appear and Nana would find her mink collared wool coat and galoshes (an odd combination if ever there was one) and we all waited for the inevitable first winter storm. I remember Villager sweaters and wool skirts - jeans to school was an unthinkable concept back then - and shiny new boots from Jordan Marsh or Filene's. My daddy even wore a hat in those days, a Homburg with a crisp brim if he was going to work, otherwise a crumpled old fedora he refused to throw away. Everything seemed to change with jacket weather and the dying of the light.

Some years there would be a reprieve, a few last golden days of Indian summer in late October or even November, a time to treasure and hold in your heart through the offensive and often brutal, unending winter. It was in just such a time that the Gypsy King died. Services were held in the small chapel at the funeral home and I clearly remember my daddy telling me that the old man had been a lesser sort of king that the title suggests. He laid in his coffin, stern faced and stripped of jewelry, wearing a startling red vest and surrounded by family - immediate, long lost, or out of favor, they all came to pay their respects, honor their tribe and make amends where necessary. There were no women in beads or peasant skirts, their hair flowing over their shoulders while they danced barefoot, no tambourines or Gilbert Roland look-a-likes swashbuckling around the casket. These were simple mourners, ill at ease in conventional black suits and long dresses and although there was an occasional flash of gold hoop earring, it was mostly a traditional affair and I was bitterly disappointed. Be patient, my daddy told me, It's not over yet.

On the fourth day, the funeral procession formed in the street - the old man's body in a hearse, mourners in limousines - and at the front, a magnificent, saddled but riderless white stallion, led by an old woman in a bejeweled peasant blouse and an ankle length, brilliantly colored skirt. Her white hair cascaded to her waist, her wrists and arms were a maze of bracelets, she wore tiny cymbals on her fingers, bells around her slim ankles and flowers behind her ears. She was everything I had imagined and hoped for.

Sometimes we're forced to make concessions to jacket weather and conventional behavior.
Other times we're angry enough, brave enough, or constrained enough to set the gypsy free.

Watching the White Tiger

Watching the white tiger pace restlessly - as noble and magnificent creature as any God has created - I was saddened by his captivity and elated by the opportunity to see him. His mate sat nearby, eyes closed and still as a statue while he traced the same path around the enclosure, over and over again. I sat outside the glass, hypnotized by his blue eyes and entranced by the graceful and delicate way he moved, like a dancer doing a routine he knows by heart. He didn't seem to notice the visitors on the other side of safety but did pause several times to focus on a duck swimming on the grassy side. Lunch! a little boy cried over his grandfather's shoulder, He's thinking about lunch!

I was thinking about extinction and freedom and the cost of each. Here was a glorious animal in a small space, able to see the outside world but not be in it. The enclosure - I found I couldn't really face the word "cage" - was as natural as it could be made. There were trees and a pond, a cave and sunlight but nevertheless it was still enclosed and there was no place to go. I wondered if the tiger had been born in captivity or had once known the wild. Had he ever been on his own or had he always depended on keepers and caregivers. Was the pacing restlessness, boredom, desperation or just something to do. The female yawned, changed her position slightly, glanced his way and then went back to sleep. She was, it seemed, content, or possibly just disinterested.

The leopards were much the same. The female slept on a sturdy tree trunk, her back to the glass and barely stirring except for an occasional flick of her tail. The male below, paced around the perimeter, following the same path repeatedly, his sleek body sliding against the glass as he passed, causing the children to screech with fear and delight. He too moved like a dancer, and it was remarkably easy to forget his size and weight and see only his light and sure steps. He completed his rounds and laid down not far from the glass, his eyes alert but with no sign of curiosity, gave a mighty yawn and stretched out on his side.

After a visit with the cougar and then a few of the smaller cats, I went on to the giraffes and monkeys and hundreds of birds but before left, I stopped again at the cat enclosures. There is something in them that draws me, their power, incredible beauty, their perfect faces and self assuredness, their agility and pride. There is a sense of royalty about them that even a cage cannot diminish. Watching the white tiger gave me hope and peace.

Dull Knives & Other Distractions

The knife cut cleanly across the tip of my finger from the first joint to the fingernail. Blood didn't just flow, it welled up and gushed, running down my hand and onto the wooden counter and immediately soaking through the handful of cocktail napkins I grabbed. Bright, splintery pain set in almost at once and I hollered one curse at the shocking, unexpected sharpness of the blade and another at my carelessness. Liv ran for the first aid kit with all the speed her 7 month pregnant form allowed. Some four hours later, the blood still soaking through the makeshift bandages, I called Doc who instantly agreed to meet me at the office where he cleaned, stitched and rebandaged the wound, then sent me home with dire threats of what would happen should I fail to follow his instructions about elevation and ice. I am nothing if not an obedient patient and I did as I was told.

A moment's inattention and a sharp knife combined to cost me a half day's wages and a weekend of awkward, one handed chores - reminding me that small distractions can have nasty repercussions. I thought of my old friend in New England, pausing just seconds from her driveway to light a cigarette, taking her eyes off the road for the barest instant, and slamming into a telephone pole. I thought of the morning, running late and half awake, I reached for toothpaste and ended up with Prell on my toothbrush, the time I happened to find my keys, before I knew they were missing, atop a carton of eggs in the refrigerator. Small distractions, no real harm done.

Life's larger distractions - making money, attaining permanent center stage, the search for power - take a harsher toll. They can rob us of the happy moments, the friendships, the fulfillment that these all too brief moments offer if we're paying attention. It's good to have a destination in mind and a plan on how to get there but the things that really matter happen on the journey.

Beware unsolicited advice, troubles that aren't your own, cell phones while driving and sharp knives. Trek on.

Old Bones & Work Still To Be Done

My dear friend, Tricia, a rock of good sense and straightforwardness, of going directly to the point and refusing to compromise on truth or clarity, of believing in her own worth and ability, of independence, free will and loyalty, is in pain all the time. Her body is in a revolt of fibromyalgia, the residue of cancer, fatigue, and her old bones are saying Not no, but hell no. A lesser woman might retreat, might decide that enough was enough, might say no more and choose to stay in bed. A lesser woman might decide she's fought past the point of winning but not Tricia, not when there's still work to be done.

My cousin Linda, forced into early retirement and having spent all her life in a raging battle against an enemy in her very blood, could well have thought the same. Instead she writes, volunteers, cares for an aging parent, cooks, knits, and despite the still regular blood tranfusions and hours spent in emergency rooms, goes to church and keeps working for the community and the cause of gender fairness. She could let others carry the burden, could easily devote more time to herself, but for Linda, the fight isn't over and there's still work to be done.

My old bones have been far more kind to me and I've accomplished a good deal less.

In the relatively few and far between moments that I have for quiet reflection - mostly in the early morning dark, mostly with the animals peacefully sleeping and mostly at this keyboard - I consider life and adversity and the various and sundry things that keep us sustained and keep us going when it would be so much easier to hit the pause button.
Music, partners, children, the need to keep bills current, a love of life, self esteem or the lack of it, ambition, hope or sometimes just plain stubborness all factor in but mainly I think it's habit. We get used to living and have trouble imagining an alternative, nothingness being something that we can't quite grasp. For the most part, we are curious creatures, filled with odd combinations of emotions, seeking answers to questions we're not even sure of, rarely content with the status quo. There is always another corner to be turned, another chore to be completed, another success or failure to be had. The habit of living is learned early and it stays with us. Old bones or not, there are still expectations to be met and there will always be work still to be done. We will get done as much as we can and it will either be enough or not - the reality is that it's not really in our hands to begin or end with.

So we keep on - tending our gardens, caring for our young, serving where we can and stepping back where we can't, passing on what we've learned and knowing that for all our wisdom and experience, no one will really listen because we all have to learn for ourselves. More's the pity.

We Are Not Sisters

Among the people I have difficulty with are the Chatty Cathies of the world, anyone who fails to respect boundaries or assumes a friendship that doesn't exist, people who don't like animals, and anyone who reminds me of my mother. And in one fell swoop, I have met someone who is all of that and more.

She shuffles through the door each morning, a hulking figure in un-ironed clothes, walking with her shoulders hunched over and her arms swinging at her sides. Cruel or not, an image from Planet of the Apes forces its way into my mind. She mutters something that might or might not be a good morning and then, with the first of many heavy sighs, eases her considerable bulk into a chair. It's not a promising start to the morning. Soon there will be a long litany of aches and pains - her shoulder, her gall bladder, the side effects of her new medicine. This will expand to her mother's new thoracic surgeon, the price of tires at Walmart, her husband's ineptitude at caring for her child, last night's dinner of hamburger with seared onions, her nephew's latest haircut ( including a picture from her cell phone ), a recipe for pineapple and mandarin orange cake, her brother's tragic suicide ( 23 years ago ), each and every detail of her child's sinus infection and all the flaws of contemporary day care. It's wearying, irrelevant, distracting and endless. All of which, I am surprisingly slow to realize, would be little more than a nuisance but for the striking resemblance she bears to my mother and worse, my reaction to it. She rolls her chair close to mine to peer over my shoulder or ask a question, and I instinctively pull away. I flinch when she casually pats my shoulder, avoiding eye contact is a reflex, and I find myself feeling faintly queasy at the sight of her fat fingers and chewed nails.

We are not sisters, soulmates or friends, just two very different people who - for better or worse - share a small workplace. As my good friend from New England has advised me, I need only to be fair and not treat her badly due to a quirk of fate and an unfortunate resemblance to a dead woman.

Perhaps irony is no more than God's sense of humor, a reminder that you can't outrun the past even when the past is six feet under.

Truancy

When my grandmother Ruby died, my daddy packed a small suitcase and boarded a plane. My mother howled in frustration about being left alone for even the few days he would be gone but he was adamant and ignored her protests and tears. She sulked for the first day or two and then retreated into an alcoholic haze, refusing to leave her bed except to refill her glass. We steered well clear of her, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for meals and somewhat joyously skipping the nightly rituals of baths and early bedtimes. We told no one and it didn't occur to us that three children can't suddenly not attend school without someone noticing.

My grandmother Alice arrived in a fury, raging through the house like a mine sweeper. Truancy! she snapped at us, The very idea! We were unceremoniously packed up and dispatched to her house while she confronted our bewildered and dazed mother with a voice that would've frozen hell. Get out of my house! my mother shrieked and there was the sound of breaking glass before the sound of a slap. With pleasure! Nana snarled back, You can explain it to the police! This unexpected threat caught my mother's attention as indeed there were two uniformed officers at the door and my grandmother was too outraged to worry about neighbors or appearances. She hustled us out without a backward glance.

Overall, it was pretty much a small crisis. My daddy returned and smoothed things over with the school, an easy task considering the effort it took to smooth things over between the two women, and for a time, things drifted back to what we thought of as normal. He didn't speak of his mother's death or his time away but there was a little more sadness to him, a trace more weariness in his eyes. A quiet man to begin with, he withdrew a little further into his own thoughts and was often distracted. It was a time of silent mourning, I thought later, since there was no one to share the burden with. My mother, impatient, jealous and angry about the lack of his attention became more sullen and sharp tongued, but it washed over him harmlessly - he wouldn't be provoked except once when he mildly responded that she was behaving like a frantic fishwife. In a rage, she pitched her martini glass at him before breaking down into tears and running through a long list of his sins. When he still refused to engage her, she thundered out, slamming the storm door so hard that the glass cracked.

Addictive households tend to be isolated and secretive and it was a very long time before I realized that our way of life was a little out of the ordinary - I assumed that all parents fought violently, that all siblings were strangers and didn't get along, that icy silences, cold words, and contempt were the basics of family interaction.

Like so much in life, normal is a mostly a matter of your point of view.

Rocket Science: In Retrospect

Holding a paycheck in my hand, I solemnly weigh the alternatives. I can have my nails done - they are in sad shape and this is very tempting - or I can pay the yard man who cut the grass. Last week. My responsible side wins and with a final, sorrowful glance at my neglected nails, I put three new $10 bills into an envelope and slip then under his door.

I find consolation in the fact that this is a minor struggle and a nuisance but not an impossible decision like, choosing between groceries and the light bill, say. Or between medicine and fuel to get to a job so you can choose between groceries and the light bill. These are no easy times and the changes I had hoped for are still in the category of hoped for. I spend an entire day battling with insurance companies on behalf of patients on fixed incomes - trying to coax some semblance of reason out of so called customer advocates who are taught to deny, delay, obstruct and under no circumstances to actually think. Well into the third journey through the automated system, I finally reach a human being to whom I patiently repeat everything I have already told the non-human system - the doctor's name and address, id number, tax id number, the patient's name, date of birth, social security number, insurance id number, date of service, amount billed. Once she has all this information, she thanks me for calling and transfers me to a second human being who asks me each question all over again. I give her all the identical information, a little less patiently this time, time is money, after all and I've become a little weary by the sound of my own voice. When she asks if I'm calling for benefits or claims, I have a brief moment of hope that she might be able to handle both, but no, when I confess to needing claim details, she transfers me yet again.

In retrospect, suggesting ESL courses to the insurance rep on the other end of the line probably wasn't the most diplomatic approach and if I had it to do over again I might try and find an alternative to snarling that I'd had more intelligent conversations with broccoli. However, after two hours of being shuffled around from department to department, of listening to the same, bored, useless voices reading from their scripts and repeating the same, bored, useless answers, none of which related to the actual questions I was asking, after realizing once again that to deal with a health insurance company is to deal with people who are intentionally trained not to think - well, the words were out and it was still a notch above screaming or letting loose a stream of most unladylike profanity. There had been a short lived glimmer of hope when one of these illiterates had suggested that the answers I sought could be found in THE CLAIMS REVIEW DEPARTMENT. This thin ray of optimism had been immediately extinguished when, after asking to be connected with the aforementioned department, I was informed that they had no telephones. I honestly didn't mean to laugh out loud at this priceless piece of fairy tale but the image of a pony express rider, saddle bags filled with insurance claims destined never to be paid, leapt unsummoned into my head.

The main problem with script readers is that anything outside the script throws them off balance and without the resource of reason, they have nowhere to go. I take a breath, determined to be calm but unwilling to let him off. Ok, I tell him, Let me get this straight. This plan covers xrays. This claim is for an xray. Therefore you should pay the claim. Where exactly is this wrong? There is a long silence before he finally offers to resubmit the claim for a second review, conceding the highly remote possibility that it might have been denied in error. The battle is won but the war continues and after eight hours of similar exchanges, I long for the simple financial decisions between my nails and the yard man - insignificant, trivial, and harmless to anyone's health.

The Creature on the Fence

The creature on the fence glares at me in the fading light of dusk. I imagine I see teeth and a tail, a wicked set of talons, and menacing eyes. This is no social call, no passerby with friendly intentions, no inadvertent trespasser. This is an intruder with mischief on his mind and a black heart. My eyes adjust and with a shock I realize that this is no ordinary small, wild animal and no apparition. This is, down to the last detail, a skunk.

I can hardly believe my straining eyes but there's no doubt about it. I can make out a fluffy tail and a white stripe, a small body perfectly balanced and almost silhouetted against the upcoming night sky. My instincts are to run but the dogs are in the yard and the possibility for disaster is limitless - I call to them softly and the creature seems to listen intently, his ears perking up, his head swiveling toward the back fence. As he lifts his tail, my heart sinks and I try to prepare myself for the worst. Home remedies are flying through my mind at the speed of light - tomato juice, vinegar mixed with something that I can't remember, club soda, lemon juice - none of which, as I remember, were terribly effective and although I vaguely recalled my grandmother having some success with hydrogen peroxide, I was reasonably sure I had none on hand. I'm also working furiously to remember what I actually know about skunks and their habits but all I'm pretty sure of is that they won't spray unless provoked or seriously threatened. That and a ridiculous image of Pepe Le Pew with a Maurice Chevalier accent are all my mind can conjure.

The creature scratches the fenceboards and takes a few careful steps forward. He is almost tentative and his chunky body sways slightly. The dogs are still a safe distance away and I decide to change tactics and keep them away rather than call them in. I flatten myself against the side of the house and very slowly inch my way toward the rear of the yard, hoping the skunk will sense no movement, hoping the dogs will stay occupied with whatever they're doing. The strategy very nearly works - I reach the back fence and snatch the small brown dog up under one arm then manage to corner the black dog and snag her collar. We are halfway back to the porch, mere yards from sanctuary, when the terrier next door bursts forth from his doggy door and launches into a stream of canine invective. The skunk tenses, hissing and lifting his tail high, then as the terrier throws himself against the fence, the creature loses his balance and pitches off, headfirst into the shrubs. On my side of the fence. My own dogs, mad with curiosity and excitement, begin to struggle violently, barking like the world is coming to an end and begging to be set free. There is a commotion in the shrubs, dry leaves crackle and twigs break, and the skunk emerges, gives itself a hearty shake and then comically waddles off, passes through the gate and down the driveway. The crisis has been averted and while all three dogs howl in frustration, I can only thank the gods of the wild things that no harm came to any of us, including the creature on the fence. Making a mental note to add hyrogen peroxide to my next grocery list, I head inside and the dogs follow.

Three Yards & A Cloud of Dust

The Morehouse twins, Jacob and James, had been inseparable practically since their birth on a cold November night in a buckboard on their way to the mainland hospital. When apart as infants, they screamed until put together. They shared homemade toys and slept in the same crib, learned to crawl and walk at the same time, their tiny hands clasped tightly. They liked the same foods, the same people, the same adventures and the same old hunting dog. They played games with one mind, thought alike and progressed at the same pace. This unnerved their mother but made their daddy proud - both boys learned to read, shoot, drive, even swim with equal agility when tossed off the wharf at high tide. They were ripe with curiosity and mischief and learned early that being identical was an easy out in times of trouble. They sounded alike, wore matching jeans and shirts, combed their hair the same. Name tags would make things a mite easier, Uncle Willie was heard to say the day one of his cows went missing, Ain't never real clear who done what. The stolen cow was returned after a day or two when Sparrow located her peacefully grazing on a hill above the cove, not fifty yards from the boys' farm but better than five miles from home. Regrettably, the twins had thoroughly doused her with green food coloring, borrowed from Mr. McIntyre's store, and Willie - disgusted and too humiliated to be seen with a green milk cow - had been forced to borrow a horse trailer and bring her home well after dark. Each twin brazenly claimed innocence and since no one could prove which had actually done the deed, the incident passed into history. Both boys were scolded with all the ferocity their daddy could summon, which wasn't, even he admitted, much - the image of a green cow kept interfering with his efforts and it took most of his energy just to keep a straight face.

There followed the matter of the release of an unsuspecting field mouse into a church supper, the greasing of a prize pig on auction day, the sugar and salt substitution at McIntyre's just a day before the bake off for the Sunday School picnic, and the raising of a pair of lace edged knickers in place of the flag at the new post office building which resulted in the simultaneous and very public faint of the Swift sisters, three yards and a cloud of dust from their veranda. Neither Miss Violet or Miss Victoria was ever to utter a single word to the twins again which caused considerable interest in the ownership of the knickers despite the fact that under the most direst of threats from their mother, neither twin would ever divulge their origin. Bloomers on a flagpole! Miss Hilda exclaimed over tea with Nana, How extraordinary!

The twins were redeemed and mostly forgiven when both left to join the Royal Canadian Navy and returned as officers and presumably gentlemen. Several days later, a brown wrapped parcel was left discreetly on the Swift sisters' doorstep - it contained a single pair of white ladies knickers with lace edging and a cursive, monogrammed "V". It was, Miss Violet and Miss Victoria said, the best apology they'd ever had.

High Water

The morning was clear and a little on the muggy side, especially for November. The riverfront was mostly deserted, a handful of flannel shirted men in line for the gun show, a young woman walking a half grown yellow lab, an old man watching the fountains, his clasped hands resting on his cane. And the homeless man - tall, thin, shockingly young and slowly shaking out his sleeping bag in the shadows of the trees. He folded his meager belongings and stuffed them into a backpack then walked to the water's edge and knelt, splashed water onto his face. His face and hands were streaked with grime and dirt, his hair hung to his shoulders, lank and lifeless. He walked with a slight limp and a pronounced world weariness.

The river had changed. The current was rough and moving fast, washing away pretty much anything in its path. Most of the grass was underwater and cordoned off, a new lake had formed where there had been solid ground and there were new boundaries of yellow tape and plastic fencing made of bright orange mesh. I walked the perimeter, listening to the rushing river and feeling the early morning sunshine, thinking about a young man forced to sleep on the wet grass in a city park, wondering how a person gets to such a place and how he stays there. Not all November mornings would be as warm or as kind to him as this one. Winter, when it comes, will make him more visible to the rest of us still secure enough to have a bed to sleep in and choices for breakfast.

Perhaps he's just passing through, I think, on his way to a Florida beach like a migrating bird. Perhaps he will find work and shelter along the way, like a migrant fruit picker from the 20's. Or perhaps he's a drifter by choice, shunning attachments and in love with the open road. None of these romantic notions seem likely - I like them because they camouflage the reality and make me feel less guilty. Trash! my mother would have said, Too lazy to do anything except collect his welfare checks! My grandmother would have given the young man a wide berth, dismissing him in much the same way. Even my daddy would have frowned and steered clear, It's no sin to be dirty, I could hear him tell me, But it's a crime to stay that way. Crossing Boston Common one early winter afternoon after a day of shopping, I remember asking my grandmother, Do they like living that way? She snatched my hand and gave me a jerk, Bums! she snapped, Of course they do!

Meanwhile, the river rushed on, carrying helpless branches and clumps of grass along with it, things that never had a choice about being washed away.

Imperfect Produce

Like bananas going bad and ultimately fated to be bread, we are all imperfect produce.

We begin young and green, progress to bright yellow and taut skinned. Then we age, developing brown spots and soft sections. Finally we overripen and turn to mush, ready to be made into something entirely new. It's not a completely dark analogy and of course the time frame for a banana is much more brief - it has only a few days while we have lifetimes - and being just this side of overripened has its advantages as unlike a banana, we are granted the grace to reflect, evaluate, change and prepare. We can, if we choose, reverse the process of going bad.

We are all flawed and that's what makes us interesting, my daddy would say, Who would care if we were perfect? He believed in the innate goodness of people, saw us as imperfect people in an imperfect world, mostly trying to do the right things. It was not, sad to say, a view I shared while growing up, and one I do not always share even now. I have my mother's dark side, being inclined to see the worst in myself and others, and seeing little hope for redemption. I am a natural cynic and have no faith in the popular belief that People Change - circumstances change, relationships change, and people adapt superficially but their core beings remain intact, they continue to be whatever they are. We may grow and change faces as needed, learn to alter our tone or modify our behavior, we may even conform and cave in, but we still are what we are, perhaps what we have learned or are destined to be. Unlike the poor banana, we choose the roads we travel and the company we keep. Most of us choose to stay what we become despite all the alternatives. In some, this is positive, good, and strong - stubborness can be a virtue seen in the light of temptation. In others, it can be dark and dangerous - obstinacy in the face of common sense can be foolish.

Green to yellow to brown to bread. In the cosmic sense, I wonder if fruit didn't get the better deal.

Surrendering with Grace

Long before the alarm is set to go off, a small paw brushes insistently across my cheek. When I open my eyes, I see a black cat sitting alarmingly close, his green eyes focused intently on me, one paw poised in mid air. Go 'way, I tell him, It's too early. The paw reaches out and rests on my forehead, firmly and with purpose. I dig deeper beneath the covers and try to hide but this only serves to initiate a full scale attack - with a loud meow of protest, he throws all his weight against me, waking the other animals and escalating the situation to defcon 3. He's made up his mind to be hungry and the fact that it's barely 4am is irrelevant. Resistance is futile and I recall my daddy saying, You're never so badly beaten that you can't surrender with grace. So I do.

In the dark yard, the dogs immediately raise an unholy ruckus and race for the back fence, probably in pursuit of one of the neighborhood cats, but possibly on the scent of a maurauding raccoon or my old friend, the possom. I doubt it makes much difference, the chase and the amount of commotion they can create seem to be the main objectives. Just as I finish doling out catfood, they return and crash against the back door, jarring my senses fully awake. There will be no peace until the cats are done and I give the dogs the remnants, a process that cannot be hurried despite my best efforts. They badger me with pitiful barking, twining around my ankles like small wind up toys. You don't have to yell, I tell them in my best discipline voice, It won't help. Some twenty minutes later I crawl back into bed, hoping against hope for just one more hour, but sleep - a transient and disloyal friend at best - has wandered off to be with someone else and returns just seconds before the tiny clock begins its noisy wake-up chirping. Real morning has arrived and at the sound of the alarm, dogs and cats alike go into a frenzy, the 4am incident already forgotten. I'm left to wonder just how much grace or surrender I have left.

After a shower and half a chocolate bar, I discover that I do still have a reserve of both, at least, I think, enough to get me through the day. Tomorrow is too far off to fret about.

Clothespins

Before her frail days, Aunt Belle had been a powerhouse - raising a family of six boys and two girls, managing a working tree farm, seeing to all the details of everyday life with efficiency and skill. She rose early to feed chickens and milk cows, labored long into the night to balance books, and in between found time to feed, clothe, and shelter her husband and family. She laughed often and never complained.

Life overtook her without warning one fine Monday morning as she hung the wash and suddenly couldn't remember the word for clothespins. She laughed it off as forgetfulness, Something a woman of my age is certainly entitled to! she told my grandmother, and went about her business. A few evenings later, she forgot to make dinner and a week or so later she got lost in the woods she had grown up in, not recognizing her own daughter who found her curled up next to a pine tree and crying. She began wandering into the village, asking directions to places no one had heard of, smiling and singing snatches of nursery rhymes to herself, sometimes barefoot, sometimes carrying a basket of apples that she would offer to sell for a nickel. Kind hearted friends and neighbors would come to her aid, locating one of her children or leading her gently home - sometimes they just stayed nearby, keeping an eye on her until her husband Peter arrived, at a loss as to how to talk to her to through this growing mist of confusion and lost memory. She had moments, sometimes whole days, of clarity and clear thinking and became the woman she had been but as the months passed, such times became more and more rare, until Peter reluctantly called the childen home to be with her. Even though the responsibility was shared, the stress, worrry and guilt took their toll and the family began to fragment and lose structure, the dementia was unpredictable, not well understood and fearfully strong, requiring more patience and tolerance than Peter or the children could sustain.

Belle herself - still lucid enough, often enough - knew only that things were going dreadfully wrong and that she couldn't stop or correct it. She felt compromised and a burden, murkily trying to struggle through her days and remember the basics but more often lost and frustrated, not sure of something as simple as where her next few footsteps might lead. She seemed to better at night when she and Peter would sit quietly in the orderly little kitchen but sometimes she wept and could not say why. On those nights, he put her to bed early and lay next to her until she fell asleep, hoping for rest, peaceful dreams and a better tomorrow, praying for strength to face it.

Five years to the day that she had forgotten what clothespins were called, Belle went into Dalhousie, into the hands of mental health professionals. It's just for a little while, Peter assured her as the children said their goodbyes, I promise it's just for a little while. Of course it wasn't and he could only desperately hope that she didn't know it or would forgive and maybe in time forget. For the first time, he prayed that the dementia would not let her go and that she would find some kind of contentment and peace. He visited every week, spending every spare minute with her and bringing the children and grandchildren whenever he could but seeing only a stranger with a false smile and sad eyes.

Strange how often in the battle between strength and frailty, frailty so often wins.

The Coffin Maker

I had heard stories that deep in the Maine woods, in a small and isolated cabin at the very end of a dirt road, there lived a coffin maker, a man who had fled civilization and modernization for a solitary life, an artist and woodworker who had tired of time clocks and fast food and small talk.

I came across him by accident, trailing after the dogs on an early autumn morning, through the woods and across the pasture, crossing the tiny brook where the deer often gathered, past the abandoned fence lines of Squirrel Point and finally into a small clearing. The cabin stood in the shadows of the trees, looking like a dusty old painting with the sun at its back and a carefully stacked woodpile by the door. A battered pick up truck was parked nearby, its bed covered with a tarp and its windows rolled down and behind it I could see what looked to be a well, roofed with old shingles, a wooden bucket hanging from a frayed rope in the center. The dogs, curious but strangely silent, approached the cabin door where a scarred and clearly ancient tiger cat slept on the window sill. It woke and looked at the them briefly, remarkably impassive and unconcerned, then yawned and buried its head in its paws. Just as remarkably, the dogs gave him no more than a passing glance. There was poetry and a strong feeling of peace in this place, and, I realized with a start, whistling in the air.

The front door of the cabin swung open with a creaking groan and a man appeared. He held a tin cup of coffee in one hand, a pair of worn safety glasses hung 'round his neck. He looked first at the dogs, approvingly, I thought, and then at me, a little less so. Taking a step onto the porch and paying no mind to the dogs, who immediately ran past him to inspect the interior of the cabin, he nodded in my direction. Mornin', he said evenly, Lost yer way, have you? He could have been twenty or forty, tall and thin with dark hair streaked with gray and tied back in a loose pony tail. He wore ragged jeans and a denim shirt streaked with what I thought at first might be blood but then realized was a combination of dirt, paint, varnish and sweat. He stepped aside - he was barefoot, I saw and unaccountably I was surprised - and held the tin cup toward me, Coffee?

The inside of the cabin was lit by lanterns and sunlight. It was spartan - a wood stove against the wall, a single cot, neatly made and covered with a quilt, a wooden table with two ladder backed chairs, a lone cabinet in a corner and a set of shelves mounted on the wall, holding a few plates, a few plastic glasses, a blue and white cup of silverware. A frying pan and a couple of dented pots were hung on nails by the stove and on the back of the single open closet door, a yellow slicker hung on a hook. Inside I could see a pair of muddy work boots beneath a wall of hooks and nails on which rested several flannel shirts, several pairs of blue jeans, a set of longjohns and a navy jacket. A well worn and small chest of drawers sat to the side and I suspected I was seeing the whole of his wardrobe. This was not a man who made concessions - a washstand stood next to the stove, on it a ceramic wash basin and within the basin, a matching but chipped pitcher with a delicately curved handle. I was struck by a memory of Nana's Nova Scotia house, where each bedroom featured just such a set of basin and pitcher although only for show. Mr. McCauley's washstand was obviously not just decoration - a lone and well used bar of a soap, a razor strap, and a folded, shabby handtowel lay neatly beside the basin.

He poured coffee into a mug, handed it to me, and gestured toward the table in the center of the room. Name's McCauley, he told me as he took a chair opposite me, And who are these fine boys? Both dogs had taken up positions at his side and as he scratched their ears, they contentedly laid their muzzles on his thigh, tails wagging
fiercely. Good dogs, Golden Retrievers, he told me across the table, Smart, brave, loyal as all get out. Almost as worthy as a cat. He laughed at this and glanced over his shoulder toward the window where the old tiger cat was now sitting and looking in through the glass with a somewhat bored expression.

Before we left, Mr. McCauley showed me the only other room of the cabin, a workshop that overlooked the woods and far mountains and smelled of wood and hard work, private and solitary work, done by commission only, I later learned. Each coffin was crafted, lined, hinged and polished, one meticulous step at a time - they shone in the morning light, each resting on a pair of sturdy sawhorses that stood a foot or so apart on the planked, unfinished wooden floor of the second room. There were five in all, four completed and one still in progress. They ranged from the simplest - clean lines, sharp corners and plain handles - to the most elaborate - smoothly curved edges with intricate carving and gleaming gold hardware. On the other side of the room, there were two work benches, a wooden stool, and shelf upon shelf of supplies, hammers and screwdrivers, box after box of wooden pegs in different sizes, cans of paint and varnish and lacquer, stacks of polishing cloths, cans of turpentine and an assortment or cleaning rags, sandpaper, paint brushes and hand saws. Everything was neatly arranged and easily accessible. Here Mr. McCauley spent his days, creating coffins against the backdrop of the Maine woods, with only nature and old tiger cat for company.

After a time, the dogs and I left, returning the way we had come in the late afternoon dusk. I spoke of the coffin maker to no one, keeping the visit private and never making the trip a second time. I wasn't entirely sure why, but I instinctively knew that Mr. McCauley would've preferred it. I was to see him again, though. On a frosty cold November morning in Kittery, I passed Pelkey's, the town's only funeral home, and noticed a familiar pick up truck with a tarp covered bed. Workers were sliding a padding covered coffin down a ramp under the watchful eyes of a tall, thin, long haired man in jeans and a navy jacket. As I drove slowly by, he glanced my way, nodded and raised a tin cup of coffee toward me. I smiled back.

Mr. McCauley's choice of coffin making and seclusion, his decision to live apart from the rest of us, remained his own. In some ways, privacy is a gift we can only give ourselves and should be honored, respected, and left alone.