I've been thinking about houses and how they speak.
My friend Tricia's house calls to you. It's rich tones and warmth invite you in, offering comfort and elegance all in one. It speaks of good taste and quality, crystal and fine art - a mixture of modern and traditional blended and laid out by her own hand. It's filled with color and texture and love and the voices of children grown and moved away but always welcomed home. It's a good place to be.
My friend Iris's house spoke in the happy jumble of a work in progress. Things out of place, intimate and spacious at the same time. It was a house well lived in and well used where neatness and order took a back seat to family gatherings, where all were welcome all the time. It was a refuge.
My mother's house spoke of conflict and contradiction, reined in and tightly controlled, filled with stained furniture and discounted gadgets. The rooms were small and carefully cluttered and everyone had their place in them. You did not sit in my mother's chair, did not make yourself at home, did not move things without permission. It was oppressive and uncomfortable, cheap and tasteless.
My grandmother's house resembled a museum, muted shades of beige and gray and dusky green, quiet tones and understated furnishings, costly but soft spoken and very proper. It was a staid house where great rooms were filled with Victorian era sofas and armoires, where the television was always on low volume, where damask curtains kept out the light and the hall mirror always sparkled. It was a place of dark, polished, lemon scented wood, glassed in bookcases and low light, lace doilies and subtle conversations. It was a place of safety and sanity, of dignity and old world order. When it spoke, it said "Ssssshh..... don't forget to wipe your feet."
The house she kept in Nova Scotia couldn't have been more different, it was filled with sunshine from every window, painted in bright reds and whites and always wide open to whoever happened by. The furniture was haphazard at best, collected over the years from who knew where - leather rockers, old cots decorated with patchwork quilts and multicolored pillows, assorted lamps with fringe, a ship's clock that chimed each quarter hour when someone thought to wind it. It smelled of sea spray and fresh linens, home cooking and lavender. It was home.
Ruby's house was a maze of small rooms, nooks and crannies, cluttered and sometimes hard to navigate. It spoke of country living and farm work, of gingerbread and front porch sitting, vegetable gardens and old time religion. The television was out of place here, a nod to progress in a house from the past and a novelty to my tiny grandmother who had raised ten children almost single handedly. Her house whispered, "The work is never done here.....".
My own house - small and overrun with cats and dogs - is a sanctuary to me. Here I write and remember, retreat and regroup. Here I can sleep all day and shut out the world. There is no elegance or silence here, no antiques or fine things, nothing precious or of any value except to me. There is no history here and when the house speaks, it speaks only of now and it says "Be content, life is more than a house."
What the sea wants, Robert had written in his diary, the sea will have. What is not given freely, she will take by seduction or force. Her name is Sacrifice.
Robert had fished alone since the loss of his father and two brothers. He had wanted to attend grade twelve on the mainland, had been one of the schoolteacher's most promising students with a natural love for language and a gift for learning. He was curious, inventive, hungry for words and determined to absorb all he could and pass it on. He studied hard and was focused on a future of teaching and writing. He often kept the schoolteacher late to examine his papers in detail and criticize his work. He treated his books like treasures and mystified his family with his passion for schooling and accomplishment. The sea will never be enough for him, his daddy confessed to my grandmother sadly only to have Nana snap back at him, And why should it be, Cyrus? Give the boy his chance.
Robert's chance almost came but for the day his father and brothers headed out under bright, blue skies and didn't return. A freak storm hit and the boats turned back but at the last minute, Cyrus hesitated to clear a fouled net. Still could've made it, John Sullivan told Nana angrily, Would've made it 'cept for that second storm and the sea closin' in the way she did. Wasn't nothin' we could do. Nana went with Long John to break the news and didn't come back until the next day. There was a widow and two small daughters to be tended to and Robert was on the mainland, taking his grade twelve test.
He returned to step into his father's shoes, putting his grade twelve dreams and scores behind him. He had become the only surviving male in his family and there was work to be done, women to be provided for, a house to be put in order. His choices, he came to realize, had gone to the sea and been lost in a freak summer storm. His dreams had been drowned and for just one day, he allowed himself the luxury of rage and bitterness, cursing the ocean and those who earned their living from it, cursing the village and the poverty in which he lived, cursing God for His cruelty and nature for her power. Then, tearless and resigned, barely sixteen and still a child, he took his place as breadwinner and fisherman and vowed never to look back.
He spent the remainder of his life on the sea, seeing both his sisters married and moved away, caring for his mother until her death, eventually marrying and beginning his own family and taking over the house he'd known all his life. He became a good and faithful husband, a loving father and good provider. He was, if not happy, at least content and late at night he wrote of all the things that might have been, pouring out his bitterness and regrets on paper, hoping to put an end to them. He wrote mostly about the sea and her savageness, about a sadness that ebbed but never fully left, about how life plays tricks and takes what it likes, just like the sea. He was an ordinary man, disappointed and often gazing out over a horizon that beckoned but never got any closer except in his imagination. He was reconciled to what was but he missed what might have been and he never truly forgave the sea for her demands.
The sea, his last diary entry read, is never satisfied. The more you give, the more she demands.
It's often hard to tend to your own garden when the weeds of others are constantly trespassing.
They will creep through fences and take root, slither through the soil nonchalantly and wrap themselves around your roses. Your own flowers will starve and wilt, unable to withstand the mass assault and you will be so obsessed with weed killing that you may not notice. One day, being sure that the weeds have been beaten back and defeated, you will stand back and discover that your own garden has died from neglect. Or worse, that you've lost interest in flowers altogether and the weeds are still thriving and demanding attention.
Luckily, spring and second chances are only a season away - we live in a world where it's never too late for self renewal.
Despite all the technology in my life, I still pay bills by hand. There's something comforting in balancing my checkbook and signing my name, licking envelopes and pasting stamps. It feels old fashioned and familiar, like list making and marking events on an oversized wall calendar. It's reassuring to my naturally and hopelessly low tech nature.The concept of a paperless society tends to unnerve me in spite of all its promises of progress. I still like watches with real faces rather than digital readouts, still prefer cash to credit, would rather write than talk on the 'phone. I want books with spines, preferably in hardback, acoustic guitars before electric, a real piano rather than a keyboard and trifocals as opposed to contacts. I'm out of step and like it that way despite the fact that it's a struggle, I'm still more likely to cross things out instead of redact them, more willing to walk than run.
I drink diet coke and take plain aspirin, don't believe in electronic fencing or rap music, have developed a thing for Pavarotti and miss wood stoves and clotheslines. I hate cell phones, don't understand Ipods, am suspicious of GPS tracking devices, don't trust politicians and take a dim view of computer operated cash registers. I'd rather read Life or Readers Digest than People and can't stand the idea of fitness clubs. On line dating spooks me and having met my inner child made me want to move on.
I miss real neighborhoods and leaving my doors unlocked, being able to smoke in restaurants, song lyrics that make sense, people with a genuine work ethic, well behaved children, masses said in Latin. Shrink wrap plastic is the definition of evil and contrary to public opinion, there is precious little veritas in vino. The war on drugs will never be won, poor breeding has ruined too many breeds of dogs, and there's a difference between dancing and advertising.
Glass elevators are in poor taste and you shouldn't expect to find Kraft singles in an upscale wine and cheese shop.
I yearn for real butter on popcorn, romance, a Schipperke to win Westminster, on demand rehab, affordable health care, gun control, the recognition of same sex marriage, harmless chocolate.
To the flower children and rebels of the 60's, to the change resistance in us all, to the struggling, disillusioned and poor, all too stubborn to give up - Peace Out.
Live your life in such a way that when your feet hit the floor each morning, Satan shudders and says "Oh, no, she's awake."
This exceptionally fine advice was sent to me recently by a dear friend in Dallas - simple, straightforward and powerful. In these black times, we need all the help we can get and there's no time like desperation to keep faith and optimism alive and well. Some mornings, only sheer will and an assortment of cold, curious noses get me out of bed. I resent the sunlight pouring through the blinds and the bird songs I hear, every passing second of time is an enemy, daily chores and routines dull my senses to a point of indifference and the call to give up is loud and clear. Surely the light at the end of the tunnel can only be an oncoming freight train.
My animals bring me back from the edge - not just that I must care for them and keep them safe, see that they're fed and sheltered and protected - it's their outlook on life as well. The small brown dog finds happiness in the smallest of things - the smell of the grass, a late afternoon breeze, the warmth of the sun or the comfort of a new fleece blanket. The black dog's love of life is limitless and incomprehensibly enthusiastic - she is curious about everything, a wind up toy on warp speed, never complacent or depressed, never overwhelmed, never not sure that the next corner turned will bring fresh adventure and a new start. The cats, each in their own way, embrace life and celebrate it although at a slower pace. They wake to each new day bright eyed and lazy, never doubting that it will be better than the day before, always in search of the next meal, the next nap, the next cardboard box, the next squirrel sighting.
Giving up is not an option so let the devil beware. Better times will come.
Strawberries grew wild in the field between the driveway and the curve of the road and years of cutting through had made something of a path through. Further down, a thicket of blackberry brambles grew wild and had to be cut back each summer to keep the flagpole clear. On warm summer mornings, Nana would send us out with small, plastic buckets to collect berries for pies, cobblers, muffins and jams. We emerged bloody and bruised but victoriously carrying full pails of sweet fruit that she would gently wash and drain and turn into all manner of pastries. By that afternoon, the whole house would be steamy and hot and reeking of wild fruit and Nana would be washing dishes and setting pies to cool on the window sills. The following day we would make rounds, delivering baked goods all over the island to the elderly and infirm, the lonely, the pastor and the postmistress and the factory workers. It's a small thing, Nana told me, but it makes a difference.
My mother sneered at this generosity, calling it a waste of time and unappreciated charity, but Nana ignored her. She preferred the company of the island women to that of her own daughter as a general rule, saying that poverty was more honest, that it built character, strength and resilience.
You can't be a spoiled brat when you're one of a dozen kids, she pointed out briskly, there's no room for selfishness when you're just trying to survive.
This lightly veiled reference to my parents' marriage was a theme of my grandmother's. While she believed in til death us do part, she also believed that marital mistakes should be corrected and that vows didn't apply in certain situations. She hinted that my mother had somehow tricked my daddy into marriage to get away from home and then nailed him down with children and responsibilities, knowing that he would never abandon her. It was a cruel thought, bitter and angry, but knowing my mother as I later came to, it wasn't impossible. Nana was mystified by her only child - her drinking, her indifference to her children, her selfishness and infidelities - all made my grandmother furious and ashamed and overwhelmed with guilt that somehow it was her fault. My daddy dismissed this with a wave of his hand, telling her with something almost like conviction, that she was making a mountain of a molehill, that it wasn't as bad as it appeared, that most of the blame was on him anyway - he worked all the time, hadn't been there, hadn't provided for her as she'd expected. I'm something of a disappointment to her, Alice, I heard him say, I'm not what she was counting on. My grandmother flared at this and railed at him but he laughed it off, gave her a hug and told her not to weary. She smiled at that and shooed him away to help pack the day's baked goods into the old Lincoln.
You're daddy's a damn fool, Nana told me, a good man, but a damn fool.
The sign on the kennel cage was 11X14 and in thick, black, block letters read one word: CAUTION. It was underlined several times for emphasis.
The black dog sat, scrunched into a corner with her hackles raised and her teeth bared, growling at the helpless young kennel assistant. She was a serious sight, all menace and canines and madness in her eyes. Leash in hand, he took a tentative step toward her and she slammed her muzzle at the cage bars, snarling and intent on blood. He jumped back and gave me an apologetic look. She's a little upset, he said, white faced and weakly. So I see, I told him mildly, I'll handle her. I knelt in front in the cage and spoke her name and she instantly leaped at me, entire body trembling and barking loudy in protest and accusation. She rushed me, all kisses and frantic pawing with hot breath panting in my ears. Madness became joy, her relief at being set free was overwhelming. She gave a throaty farewell growl to the other dogs, made a final but half hearted lunge at the kennel assistant then consented to being leashed and led out, head held high, small body trotting disdainfully and with as much dignity as she could manage under the circumstances. And so, to the relief of everyone involved, ended the dogs' annual spa day.
We drove home quietly, the small brown dog curled between my neck and the headrest, the black dog sleeping on the passenger seat, exhausted from battle and content to chase the rabbits in her dreams. The following night I was to find myself in the Animal Emergency Clinic - while I had been at work, the black dog had jumped or fallen and badly twisted a front leg. She was in a fair amount of pain and although I knew it would self-correct, I couldn't bear to see her hurting so I carried her to the all night clinic - it was early in the evening and we were the only ones there until a young couple brought in their boxer who had smashed a jar of hot sauce and eaten it as well as the glass. This was followed by a miscarrying cat, a terrier mix who had been in a fight with a raccoon, and an Old English Sheepdog who had been caught in a barbed wire fence. The black dog watched this sad little parade from the safety of my lap, she made no sounds or threats until the vet tech approached her, muzzle in hand, and then hiding her face she began to growl a warning. I slipped the muzzle on and handed her over reluctantly. Twenty minutes and a pain injection later we were on our way home again and by the following morning she was her old feisty, fearsome self, terrorizing the cats and wreaking havoc throughout the house. All was once again right in her world.
