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.