White Skies

The small brown dog tentatively put one paw on the back deck and immediately withdrew it, gingerly licking off the unfamiliar white snow and looking bewildered at the flurries falling from the white skies. It was really no more than a dusting but she had never seen snow before and she seemed to be reluctantly curious - not curious enough to actually leave the warmth of the kitchen without some coaxing - but definitly intrigued.

Once outside, she walked delicately, sniffing at the ground and often looking upward to catch a snowflake on her nose then chuff it off. She left a trail of small footsteps across the white coated grass, looking wary as the frost crunched beneath her feet and avoiding the scrubs where some powder had actually almost accumulated. The black dog had dived head first into the bushes and emerged looking a little salt and peppery, shaking off the snow and looking more than usually happy to discover this rare thrill - she pranced and ran in small mad circles, barking and pawing at the ground, as if she might find treasure beneath the frozen tundra. While the brown dog is on the timid side, the black one is Act First, Think Later and nearly everything is an adventure.

I see similarities between my dogs and people, myself included. Where some of us see snow and imagine downhill skiing, others wonder of the car will start. Where some of see us something new and interesting, others worry if the bridge will have iced over. Where some of us throw caution to the wind and run headlong into a storm, others pack emergency supplies and painstakingly prepare for every contingency.

We all cope as best we can with whatever we're up against. Some run toward and some run away, some bunker in, some embrace. It's a random and eccentric world.

The Line at Register 19

With unerring accuracy, the black dog had located a pinprick snag in the comforter. She worked this patiently and from the look of the now 5" hole, had worked all night, with a tenacity of purpose that would've made any breeder proud. She sat at the end of the bed with bits of stuffing still at the corners of her mouth and looked at me with a pleased expression. Knowing the futility of scolding her and the impracticality of strangling her, I swept up what I could and then retrieved the vacuum cleaner for the remainder. I was a quarter way through when it stopped dead and no amount of cord manipulation or rest or clearing the container would revive it.

And so it was that I came to find myself at the dreaded Walmart on a chilly Sunday afternoon, bad tempered to begin with and and disgusted that the $34.99 Dirt Devil was not in stock. I fought my way through the pet section for cat and dog food, threw in 40 pounds of kitty litter for good measure, picked out a comforter and headed for the checkout. The line at register 19 seemed the most promising - only two carts ahead of me and neither obscenely overloaded - so I joined the line and tried to make the best of the situation. It was crowded and loud, suffocatingly hot. The couple behind me were arguing over the best way to corral their ragamuffin children without losing their place, the mother ahead of me was having second thoughts about her purchases and removing items from her cart, then taking them back, all the while muttering about coupons and screeching at her own child to behave. The line didn't appear to be moving in the slightest and I coud feel sweat between my shoulders and running down my face. The loud speaker whistled shrilly and then an inarticulate and bored voice began announcing specials, lost children, and store hours. I could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on and began to wonder what in heavens name had made me think this was a workable idea when a runaway shopping cart blindsided me, overturned my own cart and sent a dozen cans of Special Kitty and Mighty Dog clattering to the floor. A sullen and angry young man appeared out of nowhere, grabbed the child who had propelled the cart by his overall straps and delivered several good smacks to his denim covered bottom. The child immediately began flailing in mid air and screaming for his mother in a voice that could've shattered glass. The young man said something to my general direction that might've been "Sorry" and walked off, swinging the child at his side like a sack of potatoes and cursing. An older and weary looking man from the next checkout line righted my cart and helped me gather up the cans of petfood - we silently agreed to let the bag of litter (torn open and generously spilled) lie. And still the line seemed stagnant and unmoving.

About the time I was considering the possibility that if hell was the fire and brimstone that we were all taught, then register 19 was the waiting area, a woman waving her freshly painted nails in the air pushed by me in pursuit of another child run wild. Come back here! she yelled, Come back here, you ...you....you miserable little .....URCHIN!
The little boy easily out manuvered her and to a round of applause, ducked adeptly into the nail salon and took shelter behind a display of glitzy nail polish. While this small drama played out, the cart ahead of me suddenly surged forward and to my surprise, I found myself at the actual edge of the checkout counter. A tiny spark of hope flared but was almost immediately extinguished as I watched the cashier pick up each item, examine it carefully with both hands and a curious expression, then ever so deliberately and slowly scan it before placing it in a plastic bag, moving with the dazed speed of molasses flowing uphill. Good God, the husband behind me demanded of no one in particular, Where do they find these people? Hey, you! ( this directed at the slow motion cashier), While I'm still young! This had no effect on the cashier who I now suspected might be a mole for Target, put in place to sabotage helpless Walmart shoppers and drive them to the very brink of retail rage.

Finally, I escaped to the parking lot, cooler air, and relative quiet. A measure of sanity returned as I steered my cart toward my car and gave thanks for surviving intact, for aspirin, and for being childless.

Sleeping Dogs

"Let sleeping dogs lie," my daddy warned me as I headed for the stairs to wake my mother. "Or", my grandmother added curtly, "They'll bite you in the ass."
"She isn't feeling well," my daddy said with a sharp glare in my grandmother's direction, "Best not to wake her quite yet." Nana cleared her throat - only she could do it so meaningfully - but said nothing.
"She promised to take me to see Aunt Jenny's kittens!" I protested with all the indignity I could muster. My daddy and grandmother exchanged glances.
"Tomorrow," Nana said quietly, "I'll take you tomorrow."

There is always a tomorrow in a home where alcohol rules, always room for a new and improved promise of sobriety and change, even when the alcoholism is never named. My grandmother and her son in law disagreed almost violently on the subject of my mother - my daddy chose to ignore it, want to fix it, overlook it, deny it or take the blame for it. My grandmother saw it as a lack of moral fiber, enhanced by her only daughter's willful selfishness and expectation of always getting her own way. Neither saw it as a disease, as something that might respond to proper treatment. Neither could comprehend it or understand that it manifested itself in behavior. They argued incessantly about to handle her, how to lay down the law and force her to come to terms. If it had been what each defined as an actual drug addiction, I suspect my mother would've been packed off to some far off rehab hospital very early on - but alcohol was and remains, a legal drug. So all my daddy and grandmother really wanted was for my mother to learn how to drink responsibly, the way they did - and when she didn't or couldn't or wouldn't, they reacted like offended parents trying to discipline an unruly child.

Nothing worked, not Nana's rage and not my daddy's helpless pleas. I learned to keep my distance from my mother, especially when she was drinking. And soon I learned to be humiliated by her, ashamed to have come from her, frightened that I would become like her. By the time I was 12 or so, I had come to hate her with a resoluteness that lasted my entire life. I didn't understand the disease but I knew the effects and the pattern. Everyone she came into contact with was harmed, damaged in some way, and she took pleasure in it, spreading the blame like butter and bitterly enjoying it. She was happiest when she was most miserable - she liked the fact that she could inflict her misery on others without consequence.

"Let sleeping dogs lie." my daddy said. Pretend it isn't the whiskey, blame it on anything but the beer. Don't say the word alcoholic because once you do, you can't take it back and it would do more harm than good.

"Shine a light on a problem," my grandmother reckoned, "And it's not half as scary as the dark."

Aunt Jenny's kittens would wait for another day and my mother slept on while her mother and husband bickered the afternoon away over a game of gin rummy and a family in disarray.

The Underground

The plumber arrived just before eight in the morning, an overweight, barrel chested and bearded bear of a man in overalls with his name - Ty - stitched on the pocket. He didn't walk, he lumbered, tool belt jangling with each heavy step and an early morning scowl on his face. He went directly to the overflow valve, evaluated it briefly, then gave it a good kick with the toe of his workboot. Kneeling in the soggy ground he began uncoiling a length of wire and attaching it to a an electric feeder. At one point, he paused long enough to pull on heavy gloves and turn his cap around. Sumbitch, he spat at the valve and gave it another kick.

He worked in silence for the better part of an hour, patiently feeding the wire into the drain, pulling it back, feeding it some more. It was a cold morning and although I could see his breath in the air, I could also see that he was sweating. He drank coffee from a cardboard mug and chained smoked while he worked, stopping every few feet to negotiate the wire when he hit a snag and repeat the curse like a litany, Sumbitch! His scowl never lessened but I had the feeling it was more habit than actual frustration, a dressed up and more colorful version of Take that!

When he was satisfied ( and nearly out of wire ), he stood and reversed the engine of the feeder and the miles of wire began rewinding with a raspy, coughing sound. He watched it carefully, rocking back and forth on his heels, hands shoved into his overalls pockets and glaring at it, nearly daring it to hang up on some underground obstacle.
Once everything had been replaced in the truck, I watched him take his empty coffee cup and meticulously gather each discarded cigarette butt then wash the leftover dirt and mud away until there was no sign that he had been there. He tucked his gloves into one pocket, re-adjusted his cap and took a final look around before nodding to himself and giving the valve a last, superficial kick and a farewell Sumbitch!

At the front door, he wordlessly handed me a bill and tipped his cap. When I asked what the trouble had been, he seemed to give his answer - and me - considerable thought, as if he was deciding how much information I was actually capable of ingesting and understanding. At long last, he adjusted his tool belt and zipped up his down vest and looked directly at me. Ruhts, he said shortly and turned to go. Ruhts? I repeated to his broad, retreating back. He paused and gave me a look that suggested he thought I'd reached the limit of my intellectual capacity.
Ruhts, he said again, from trees. Another pause, then Underground. Yet another pause, then Got it? Feeling like he might be right about my intellectual capacity, I nodded and watched him walk to the truck and drive off.

We got ruhts, I told the small brown dog, Sumbitch.

The Currency of Goodwill

The banker lived across the cove in a bright yellow house with a wide veranda and a gently rolling slope of a front lawn. We would often catch a glimpse of him on the glassed in front porch, smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper, still wearing a jacket and tie and looking out of place. A well maintained car sat in the neatly graveled driveway and the grass was unfailingly trimmed and green. Every couple of summers, a crew of island men came and repainted the entire house, always the same sunny yellow with white trim. This was the money man, the man who decided whether your farm loan was extended or your boat refitted or your new tractor financed. He lived slightly apart from the community, avoiding becoming overly friendly for fear it would compromise his judgement or make him enemies. The men tipped their caps when they passed him, the women smiled and the children were taught to be extra respectful around him.

He arrived at the bank each weekday morning precisely at 9 o'clock, parked his car in the square and unlocked the double doors with a ring of keys he carried in his vest pocket. He and the two Swift girls, Amy and Margaret, were the bank's only employees and they took their responsibilities seriously. Each of the girls went home for dinner at exactly noon and returned exactly at one just in time for his wife to arrive with a picnic basket - a hot dish and a thermos of black coffee, fresh bread and homemade pie. Routine and order mattered to the banker and each evening he left at 4 on the dot, double checking each window and securely locking the front doors before driving the short distance home. He and his wife were also apart in that they were childless and their evenings were spent with books and backgammon and a glass or two of red wine, served in delicate long stemmed glasses with cheese and fruit. They were an educated and upper class couple, liked and respected but not completely fitting in with the small village, a little too "city-fied" for most folks, a little too elite. Folks don't much like one person knowing all their business, Nana remarked, 'specially when it's about their money.

And the banker did know their business down to the last dime, every signed note, every loan schedule, every bit of collateral. He knew when someone was about to hit hard times and when things were looking up. He knew the cost of lumber and netting, a rebuilt boat engine and a single lobster trap, he knew when women were preparing to leave their men long before the men caught on. He knew the price of every schoolbook and hymnal, what gas and a cord of firewood were going for, how much was owed on every last house and piece of farm equipment. He knew rents and the cost of mainland whiskey, when passage crossing fares were about to be increased, the last penny of every tax and not only when it was due but the odds of it being paid. He watched over prosperity with a smile and hardship with kindness and during the aftermath of the hurricane, the lights in the bank burned well into the night as he sat with the families who had lost their livelihoods and worked out terms for new loans, improvising solutions and ideas and long term plans. It was then that the island folk realized how deeply he cared and the walls of distrust and suspicion began to come down piece by broken piece. The banker gave up his suit and tie for jeans and cardigan sweaters, swapped his wine glass for a cold can of beer on McIntyre's steps and his wife was invited to the covered dish suppers at the church. The banker still knew every last detail of every life but now he was trusted with the knowledge. Don't life work in funny ways, Nana said as she beat an old carpet on the back clothesline, It took a hurricane and the better part of his life to prove himself. Takes some folks three or four times that long.

The Skitters

Funny how a little darkness can bring on the skitters.

In daylight, the scratching noise from the back corner of the garage might've made me curious enough to investigate. A mouse perhaps, or one of the neighborhood cats, possibly even a raccoon. In the dark, however, I whirl around on a dime and jump back, expecting the worst although I have no clear idea what the worst might be. Nothing is out of place and there is no sign of movement but I know there is something there, unseen, in hiding, maybe watching and lying in wait. Don't be an idiot, I say outloud but I don't like the shaky sound of my voice or the way my breathing has suddenly turned ragged. I close the dryer door, set the timer, and hurry out.

In the warmth and light of the kitchen, the moment of panic seems like hysterical nonsense born of an overactive imagination and the Stephen King novel I'm reading. I shake it off, remind myself that I'm grown woman and more than a match for a mouse, a cat, or even a raccoon. Besides, and this is in my daddy's voice, whatever it was is way more scared of you than you are of it. A half hour later when I go back to the garage, I try to keep this in mind but at the last minute I decide it wouldn't hurt to take the old yellow broom. Just a precaution, I tell myself and am only slightly ashamed of my own foolishness. An image of sweeping a mouse senseless strikes me as the height of improbability but it's pitch dark outside and the garage is nothing but a jumble of trash and debris and there's no end of unseeable places to hide.

There's no sound except the whir of the dryer but just as a precaution, I scan the garage slowly - paint cans, old furniture, a stray lampshade, a dozen or so empty detergent bottles I'd never gotten around to throwing away, trash bags stuffed with clothing I'd always meant to take to Goodwill, cat carriers haphazardly stacked in a corner,
a leaf blower, an extension ladder - years of stuff I hadn't had time to deal with thrown carelessly into piles to mold and rot, all lit by a bare 25 watt bulb high on the ceiling. Each time I'd been determined to tackle it, I'd been too discouraged to start. I reached for the dryer door and as I pulled the clothes out, something stirred in a back corner, something small and skittery, making a grating noise, like nails (or maybe talons) might make if they clawed on cement. I spun around, brandishing the broom high and shrieking for fear that I would see a pair of malevolent yellow eyes glaring from the shadows.

There was, of course, nothing to be seen - no wild eyed, rabid raccoon ready to pounce, no feral cat with bloody claws, not even the whisker of a mouse. Grown women with brooms are not afraid of the dark, I remind myself sternly, but I don't return to the clothes immediately, choosing instead to try and get my breathing under control and curse defiantly. Get out of my garage! I yell into the darkness but nothing moves or makes a sound, no trapped, injured bird, no stalking serial killer, no small animal, no walking dead. There is just darkness and the whistle of nightwind. I am in my garage on a chilly January night and yes, the light is pitiful and yes, it's far too quiet, and yes, the shadows seem to have a life of their own but it's still just a garage, not a chamber of potential horrors. My daddy's voice speaks again, There is nothing here that can harm you except your own fear, I hear him say, This is just laundry. I become aware of an ache in my fingers and realize that I have a death grip on the broom. I force my hand to relax - just a little - and turn back to the clothes spilling out of the dryer. The smell of clean sheets is reassuring and the towels are still warm but I don't like having my back to the windowless garage wall, don't like the feeling that I'm being watched from behind a mountain of junk, even if it is no more than a scared mouse and not a fast moving, red eyed creature with a taste for blood and gore. Or, my common sense tells me, a tree branch scraping againt the roof. I jam the clothes into the laundry basket and still clutching the broom, back carefully out, not bothering to shut the double doors (and trap some unspeakable something?) against the cold.

Outside there are stars and a quarter moon and peace of mind. The garage is just a garage again, barely visible from the kitchen window once the backporch light is off, a plain enough old structure with it's doors hanging loosely on the hinges and it's formidable contents just so much neglected trash that I can't find time to throw away. Even in the dark, the only monsters are the ones I conjure in my mind.

Lindsey's Camellia

Each Saturday he hobbles into the shop in tiny, shuffling and very rapid munchkin steps, stabilized by his cane but still terrifying me that he will fall forward due to his own momentum. He wears a glossy red baseball jacket and a visor cap, khakis and corduroy house slippers, and this day he carries a brilliant red flower in his free hand. He crosses the length of the restaurant all the way to the shop, hunched forward like an involuntarily bent over hundred year old downhill racer, concentrating hard on each movement and focused on his destination. His face is patchy with age, discolored in places with liver spots and scars, and his hands tremble but his eyes are bright and his smile shows every tooth in place. Like a ruined old knight bearing a gift for a lady, he approaches Lindsey and almost shyly offers her the flower. She accepts it gracefully and favors him with a dimpled smile and for a moment there is a hint of the young man he must have been. She pours him a glass of sauvignon blanc and they fall easily into conversation about his garden and love of flowers while she gently puts the flower into a wine glass and fills it halfway with water. It's a camellia, he tells her proudly and his eyes sparkle.

He doesn't stay long - I get the feeling that a driver is waiting outside - but before he leaves he engages each of us in conversation, telling me that he knew my husband's family well and mentioning other names I used to know. His body is breaking down but his mind is sharp and as he leaves several people waylay him to say hello. He stops and speaks to every one of them, calling them by name and asking after their families, then raises one hand in a farewell wave and shuffles through the front doors. I realize that I'm halfway expecting applause.

The red camellia may not last but it was no small gift.

Finding Your Voice

It began with a barely audible whine and grew into an anxious whimper. Then a full grown bark and suddenly a whole range of sounds accompanied by a mad dance. The small brown dog had found her voice. Gone her shyness and timidity, gone her sweet and affectionate chin nudges - she burst forth into impatient song, demanding to go outside without an umbrella, into the cold rain, brave and grown up. I felt a tug of nostalgia for a time when she would've burrowed back into my arms and buried her face in my neck, apprehensive about the dismal weather and frightened by the sounds of thunder. Now she trots outside, proudly keeping pace with the black dog and refusing to come when she's called.

I suppose it was inevitable, this growing up and away, this need to demonstrate her independence and break free. And perhaps I should feel proud that I've raised her to be so close to fearless of the outside world. I watch her scamper in and out of the shrubs, charge the fence at the sound of another dog, wade into the thick weeds and emerge dragging a fallen tree limb twice her size. A squirrel darts across the back fence and she explodes into motion and noise. She is drenched by the rain, shivering and miserable, but unwilling to concede and it is several more minutes before she finally comes to the back door, freezing and soaked to the skin. I gather her up in a towel and dry her off, turn on her heating pad and cover her with a blanket. She looks pitiful and happy all at the same time. The black dog, her fur so thick that the rain barely penetrated it, gives a vigorous shake then curls up beside us, laying her head on the edge of the dog bed and falling asleep almost at once. The outside world had been conquered and put in its place despite the pouring rain and both dogs are well pleased with themselves.

The rain continued all day and all through the night and the next morning the entire little scene was replayed. The cats watched in disbelief, mystified by the concept that any self respecting animal would willingly leave a warm bed and a full food bowl. Even Patch, who was converted to an inside cat upon her arrival several years ago, displayed no interest in the world outside the back door. All things change with time and experience and we each find our own voice at our own pace. Some harmonize, some solo, some sing off key but we're all in the choir.

Hot Tamales

She showed up once a month or so, arriving in a battle scarred, rattletrap pickup truck almost as old as she was. She was a crone in faded overalls and laceless, toeless Keds, a bent and brittle straw hat perched on her head and an ancient, hot-spotted chihuahua tucked under her arm. She limped her way to the counter and gave us a wicked, almost lascivious grin that displayed her missing and niccotine stained teeth and when she spoke it was in a whispery, suggestive cackle. Tamales? she asked, cocking her head and narrowing her mucous filled, opaque eyes at us, Fresh tamales today? One of us usually nodded and she would limp her way back to the truck and return with an armload of hot tamales, wrapped in aged newspaper. Five for five dollars, she croaked and laid them on the counter while the chihuahua growled and bared his neglected, diseased teeth at us. She snatched the bills and crumpled them in one crooked, crippled hand then jammed them into a torn denim pocket and shuffled toward the door. The chihuahua gave a nasty, farewell bark as she climbed back into the pickup and then she was gone in a roar of exhausted muffler and a cloud of blue-black smoke. We never knew her name or where she came from and we never, ever allowed ourselves to think of what might be involved in the actual tamale making process.

Sister Mary Evelyn also stopped in once a month, a stocky, little nun in full habit, selling homemade baked goods for the benefit of an abused women's shelter. Brownies, pecan pies, breads and cakes and every flavor of cookie, meticulously prepared by the sisters and carefully wrapped for sale were transported in boxes in the back of an old station wagon. Sister knew an easy mark when she met one and accepted our money with a hushed thank you and a quiet blessing before gliding out to the old car to make her next stop. She was clearly a gentle soul but her eyes were sharp when engaged on her rounds and she discreetly counted every bill before giving us her thanks. That someone might actually try to shortchange a nun was an unsettling thought and we often gave her more than what she asked. Being in the good graces of a bride of Christ could certainly do no harm, we thought, and her's was a just, christian and very underfunded cause.

Peddlers, with their games and coloring books and stuffed animals, were thrown out with contempt and threats of the police. They were greedy and sleazy and their products were cheap and trashy. They smiled like carnival carnies and looked like shabby out of work car salesmen, they were brazen, loud and overly good natured, like Bible salesmen from the 30's. We showed them the door and were not kind about it. Sister Mary Evelyn probably would have disapproved of our treatment of them but the old tamales crone might have just as quickly put a curse on them. What would happen, we sometimes wondered, if all of them should arrive at the same time.

Nuns, crones and peddlers - sometimes life is like the lyrics of a bad country song.

Taking Care of Your Toys

Take care of your toys, my mother told me, or I'll take them away.

Be it love or friendship or a small business, things that you neglect, abuse, or take for granted tend to dry up and disappear. And so it is with the small business I once worked for - left in the hands of a fool who bled it dry, he profited without effort while others worked their hearts out, took credit for their ideas and accomplishments, was willfully blind to the warning signs of trouble and cavalierly ignored the needs of anyone but himself. Even now, he seeks out the center stage of failure for no other reason than it is center stage, one more opportunity to strut and preen in the spotlight. He isn't even aware of passing over those who contributed to the business - it doesn't occur to him to mention anyone else's name since they are not the people he sees in the mirror and therefore of no consequence. It's not intentional - it's just that he's not very bright. His are sins of vanity, arrogance, laziness, a blind, grasping self centeredness and a stunning, hopeless stupidity. Unlike most business people who would be distressed by personal failure, he sees this as a photo op.

Soon it will be all gone, the Chamber of Commerce breakfasts, the Business After Hours get togethers, the Downtown Development meetings, all the places where his position afforded him admittance. There'll be no more newspaper interviews or tv spots, no more press coverage. The things that matter will be taken away like uncared for toys and only bartenders will still know his name and his drink. He will become publicly what he has been privately all along - common, inept, laughable, artificial and of no use - because beneath the surface there is only empty space and dead air, carefully contained by walls of narcissism.

At one time or another, we all fall short of a challenge or an opportunity. We have moments, even phases, where we retreat and don't give our best. We learn and grow from such experiences.

At one time or another, we all put ourselves first and mistreat the people we care for. We make amends.

At one time or another, we are all flighty and distracted, not seeing the forest for the trees and rejecting the advice and wisdom we're offered. This teaches us to listen and pay attention.

At one time or another, we all think we know better, are better, are entitled to better. Humility usually follows.

At one time or another, we are all caught in the net of materialism. We usually outgrow it.

At one time or another, we all shirk responsibility in favor of blame. This teaches us honesty and accountability and the value of doing our best.

Not everyone learns these lessons, preferring to be stick figures, taking up space and driven only by self serving ambition and ego. They are eventually exposed and left behind and when they fall, no one helps them up after the first time. They bring about their own downfall and are too pretentious and plastic to understand why. There are a great many things about ourselves that we can change - we can learn to be more forgiving, more thoughtful, less selfish. We can learn to consider others and do better at the things that matter. Perhaps we can even cultivate and grow emotions and conscience. But you can't fix stupid.

Arrogance rides triumphantly through the gates, barely glancing at the old woman about to cut the rope and spring the trap. Mario Cooley

A Hard Road Back to Southie

My friend Anne and I had worked together for the better part of ten years. She was tall and thin with dark curly hair, wore delicate looking glasses and had a quick, sharp tongue. She came from Southie and wore her Irish roots with pride. In her early 20's, she still lived at home, dated occasionally, and was always up for a drink after work on a Friday night. She was a believer, a practicing and serious Catholic with a light side and an often razor edged sense of humor, capable, smart, professional and highly likable. She rarely missed a day of work and was always well dressed with straight seams and a stylish but quiet Lord and Taylor look. She took things in stride and adapted gracefully to new people, new technologies, new problems. She liked her life and had a bright future and was the last candidate we could imagine for a nervous breakdown.

She was gone for nearly three months, tucked away in a pricey hospital upstate and we heard not a word. Managers and supervisors weren't talking but rumors flew - a suicide attempt, depression, paranoia, schizophrenia, even a random shooting spree - impossible things that were suddenly being taken quite seriously. The truth was that one clear and cold New Year's Day, Anne had unexpectedly melted down and gone away - no triggering event, no trauma, no shock - she simply stopped being in the world and retreated to a place of madness, verging on the catatonic, and her family sent her away to a place of green fields and support groups, therapy and drugs and doctors specializing in mental illness. She was treated, catered to, medicated, and forced into a recovery she didn't want and when she was deemed cured, she was released and sent back, as if nothing at all had happened.

She came back to Southie, back to her family and back to work, picking up where she had left off almost as if it had been a long holiday weekend, but the old Anne was gone and the new one was nearly a stranger - thin to the point of emaciation, brittle and fragile looking, old. There was no spark, no smile, no humor, just a shell of the woman we had once known, a shadow of what she had once been. Treat her normally, the bosses instructed, She's fine. But she wasn't fine, she was turned inward and shaky, hesitant and unsure, self conscious and reclusive. She didn't join in conversations, didn't shop on her lunch hour. She was forgetful and blank, frequently stopping in mid task to find her place, avoiding eye contact and keeping to herself. There were no more cheerful good mornings or weary good nights, no under her breath jokes or mild curses. She was easily overwhelmed by a workload she had been able to manage blindfolded. Her shoes were scuffed and her purse rattled with pill bottles and she wept when she misplaced her glasses. Her once familiar world had become foreign and troubled territory and she navigated it in a fog, alone, confused and unsure of her next step.

Things became easier over time. Her memory improved and her anonymous fears were mostly overcome. She took notice of a stained blouse or a run in her stockings, she began to focus and walk a little straighter, paid more attention to her hair and makeup, tried to re-inject a smile into her telephone conversations, but she was never the same old Anne and we all missed her.

I haven't thought of her in years and have no idea what became of her although I hope for the best. She taught me a simple lesson - that whether in mind or body, we are all breakable creatures on an uncertain path and that if we lose our way, it's a hard road back to Southie.