Making Do

Make do with what you have, my grandmother advised me with a scowl, it's no good taking on the world.

Nana was knitting and had run out of a needed color. As the nearest yarn shop was a two day ride away, she was forced to improvise - after some mild cursing and color matching, she decided to blend two shades of blue but it meant tearing out a good deal of her work and she was clearly distressed at the wasted time and effort. She disliked busy work and hated not getting things right the first time - her perfectionist streak wouldn't allow her to cut corners, even if only she would've been able to tell the difference. This particular afghan was spoken for, headed for the latest church bazaar to raise money for new choir robes and knowing that her work would be sold only increased the pressure she felt for it to be absolutely right and snag free. My mother thought it silly to be so invested in an afghan and said so, No one's going to appreciate it anyway, Mother, she said with a touch of bitterness and Nana gave her a withering look. You, of all people, have the least right to judge what people do and don't appreciate, she said warningly. And they were off. Deciding that I knew the gist of the argument and how it would go, I called the dogs and set off for a walk around the Old Road.

It was a Saturday night in August, the tide was in and the sun was nearly down with no sign of fog.
I walked past the breakwater and toward the village square - past the dance hall and the picture show, past the barber shop where a line was already forming for the Saturday night shaves and haircuts. McIntyre's was closing for the weekend and a handful of last minute customers were gathered on the steps in a small cluster, killing time and idling. The dogs raced toward them, eager for attention and the men obliged with welcoming, open armed gestures, men and dogs all mixed together in a tumble.

I turned down the offers of a ride back to the point and resumed my walk. The dogs followed, running into and out of the ditches and up and down the slopes on either side of the road, investigating trees and fences and muddy water with equal enthusiasm. By the time we reached home, the sun was nearly gone and there was a cool breeze off the ocean - there was a promise of stillness and serenity in the air, a quietness that only certain summer evenings could bring. There was peace until I opened the back door and discovered the argument hadn't waned but rather heated up. I stopped long enough to find a jacket and went back to walking, making do with what I had to escape and wondering when it would be safe to go home. The mysteries of mother vs daughter are eternal.