Sophie

It was - to paraphrase a famous literary line - a gray and stormy day, only in the 40's with a nasty wind and rain coming down in sheets. Sitting in the middle of the street - well, huddled would be more accurate - was one of the most pitiful sights I had ever seen, a small white dog, drenched to the bone and shaking like a leaf, sitting in the pouring rain and crying softly. When I knelt and called her, she came running across the grass timidly and I gathered her up and brought her inside, ran warm water in the bathtub and dumped her in. From their kennels, my own dogs let loose an ear splitting stream of protest and abuse but I was committed. I removed her collar and tags, shampooed her thoroughly and dried her off with a soft brush and the hair dryer, gave her water and a dish of food. The cats circled warily, curious but cautious, while the dogs went loudly mad with excitement.

Her tags gave me her name - Sophie - and her address and telephone number, several blocks away. After leaving a message for her owners, I settled her on the couch with my own dogs. There was much pushing and shoving but no growling or biting and after several minutes, all three dogs were sleeping peacefully - remarkably! - nose to nose. Sophie's owner arrived not long after and I handed her over almost but not quite reluctantly, hoping that it was a one time thing, hoping that they were good people who wouldn't really neglect her or be careless with her. I always want to hope that.

Acts of God

Why do people have to die? I asked the new Sunday school teacher. He smiled at me with the tolerance of age, It's God's will, he told me kindly.

Why do people have to die? I asked the priest. That's not for us to question, he told me firmly.

Why do people have to die? I asked my fourth grade teacher. Why do you think? she asked in return.

Why do people have to die? I asked my grandmother. Nana frowned and said, How in heaven's name should I know? Maybe God isn't paying attention.

Why do people have to die? I asked my daddy. He lifted me onto his knee and stroked my hair, a gentle gesture, then kissed my forehead. I think, he said softly and in all seriousness, it's to make room for someone else.

Only the last answer made any sense to me - it seemed reasonable then and it still does. There's a small bit of comfort in the idea that we make room for others, that we use the space and time that is lent to us and then pass it on. It's not good enough, of course, nothing really ever is in the matter of death and dying, and there are times when my grandmother's answer seems more apt - acts of God and nature can be unbearably cruel and sadistic, passing the understanding of even those with perfect faith - but for a child, a simple but straightforward answer is often best.
Possibly it's the best answer for us all.

Mark Twain wrote that "Land is the only thing they're not making more of." Limited space is comprehensible, easily demonstrated, and pretty much everywhere we look no matter how old we are. We should use it well, wisely, and leave it better than we found it. Like time and life, we will give it up one day.

What happens after? I asked the the Sunday School teacher. Why, we go to heaven and have life eternal with Jesus and the saints, he told me somberly.

What happens after? I asked the priest. Have faith, he said.

What happens after? I asked my fourth grade teacher. What do you think happens? she asked in return,

What happens after? I asked my grandmother. Nana frowned and said, You'll find out when you get there.

What happens after? I asked my daddy and he smiled at me and shook his head. I don't know, hon, but it happens to us all so whatever it is, you won't be alone.

A Whirlwind of Negative

As months of the year go, February is my least favorite. The weather tends to be dismal, the paychecks smaller and I feel caught in a gray area between a winter storm and the coming spring - not knowing what to expect from this nasty tempered and unpredictable month. The leather jacket and long sleeves I begin the day with are suffocating by lunch, yet by sundown I'm shivering. I dislike this randomness, this up and down-ness of weather, these dark mornings and darker nights. Depression and doubt are strongest in February, waiting in the shadows for the opportunity of an unguarded moment - the chance to spring into my head and create a whirlwind of negative. October is a sad maiden, melancholy and wistful, but February is a vile tempered old crone, made of menace, sour milk and mood swings.

I battle this creature with music and antidepressants and as much sleep as I can find, trying to keep warm and dry and not give in to the temptation to hide until April. But there is a starkness to this month, a lean and mean quality that makes me think of old men in shabby overcoats and bread lines, empty streets and deserted buildings, the homeless in search of a heating grate, too thin cats and bare tree branches. Everything about this wretched month is pitiful, chilling and too long in passing. There is no inspiration in February.

Spring will come and these feelings will fade. The old crone will be banished to some isolated corner where she will grumble, threaten and make idle threats but no one will listen because by March the birds will be singing and the crepe myrtle will be making its annual comeback. My poor old neglected lawn will turn green once again, despite my total lack of maintenance, and the wild roses will bloom in my neighbor's garden. Scrawny cats will turn fat and sassy once more and I will barely remember these days of half light and uncertainty or how they made me feel.

On the other hand, without the dreariness of February, how could we ever truly appreciate the color and sweetness of April? Let the whirlwind swirl and make its mischief while it can - the weather gods made this a short month for a reason.

Canadian at Heart

The far away softness of a morning train whistle intruded into my dream, faint but persistent, like a memory just out of reach and still out of focus. The curtains fluttered in the early ocean breeze and I could hear seagulls arguing over scraps, the throaty hum of a boat engine leaving the breakwater, and the steady rhythm of an axe splitting firewood. These were the sounds of summer, of home and growing up, of comfort in knowing where I was and belonging.

Outside the small motel cabin, the sun was breaking through and burning off the fog, revealing a bright blue sky littered with hazy clouds. I imagined I could feel the day beginning to warm, nearly sense the dew evaporating on the grass and the chilly ground heating up. The train whistle sounded again, closer this time, and from the other side of the trees I could just make out the silhouette of a locomotive as it slowly wound its way from The Valley, keeping to its schedule as it always had. You could plan a life around the Canadian Pacific, my grandmother had often told me, And you'd never be late.

It was late August and there hadn't been much traffic on the road from Yarmouth. The familiar villages were now behind me - Church Point, Bear River, Weymouth - I had taken my time driving, having no particular timetable to keep to and suspecting that it might be years if not a lifetime before I would find myself on these roads again. I had breakfast in Digby, watching the scallop boats come and go with the tides, then slowly headed down Highway 217, "The Digby Neck" as it was commonly known. I was thinking of how many times I had made this trip, through Gulliver's Cove and Little River, and Sandy Cove and finally to the extraordinary hairpin turn at East Ferry, where the road unexpectedly ended at the very edge of the ocean and more than one carelessly overconfident driver had plunged over the guard rail and been taken by an unforgiving tide. After one particularly spectacular night time crash, I remembered Uncle Shad telling Nana that it was a miracle anyone ever survived - Them whats lived to tell the tale, don't, he said grimly, It'd be temptin' fate to brag and it don't make no sense to try and outrun your own timetable.

Across the passage, Tiverton sat in the afternoon sun, a picture postcard of a tiny fishing village. Bait shacks lined the coastline and a dozen or so dories rocked on the whitecaps. A Nova Scotian flag waved from the old post office building and a small circle of old men mended nets on the end of the wharf. After Tiverton, there would be Central Grove at the halfway mark, two or three houses and a lily pond and you were past it, and then I would be on the top of the hill that overlooked Freeport - green and blue and sparkling from the square to The Point - a picture I can still see if I close my eyes and wish hard enough. The small white church on the left, just below the cemetery, the cove at high tide, Curt's candy store by the schoolhouse, the baseball field. The road stretched out like a shimmering ribbon, down for a ways, then flat for a ways - past McIntyre's and the dance hall, past where the post office used to be, then gradually rising up toward the sun and around a gentle, downward curve to where I could see the Sullivan's house and the remains of Willie Foot's, Uncle Len's pale green gingerbreaded one, and at the very foot of the hill, down a steep gravel driveway with a strawberry field on one side, what was once Nana's beloved summer house. It sat, almost untouched by time, just as I remembered, overgrown with high grass except for the shortcut path which led from the top of the driveway to the front road. Knowing that a new generation of villagers still cut through to save the long hike around the curve made me glad - Nana had always fussed about this minor trespassing but never with much conviction or heart. John Sullivan's boat was gone, replaced with a shiny aluminum storage shed, strangely out of place in the weeds and debris. There was not a remnant of the canteen and the ferry slip looked to be new. Sparrow's old house still stood but appeared empty and badly neglected while wildflowers grew in place of Old Hat's chicken wired garden.

Despite my citizenship, I will always be a Canadian in my heart.

Second Hand Dishes

He spent his life collecting things - original signed art works, statues, French furniture, designer apparel - gathering them together in a showplace home in an upscale neighborhood, surrounding himself with the finest beauty and art. None of it offered much comfort when the money ran out and the bills came due and onto the auction block it all went, to pay the light bill and buy groceries.

There is an intense sadness to this, a reminder of how wealth cannot buy happiness and a lesson about the value of things. Those who live the highest, fall the lowest, my grandmother might say, and material things are still only things, no matter their pedigree or market worth. They can't buy a good nights sleep or a contented soul, can't fill the real emptiness of a life gone badly off track. They may be a long way from cinder block bookcases and second hand dishes in a four story walk up but in the end, they're still just things - passing from hand to hand, house to house, and finally being sacrificed for utility bills, a carton of cigarettes, a gallon of gas or the next fix. Image, as my grandmother did say, Don't feed the bulldog.

The public will descend like a flock of crows picking over the remains. They will examine and inspect and hand over their cash for all these treasures, carting them off in pick up trucks and suburban suv's. They will chatter, judge and appraise, bargain, barter and complain at the prices, not realizing or perhaps not caring that these things constitute the measure of a man and his flaws and failings. If fortune should smile, there may be enough profit for him to start again - if he has learned the lessons of things, he may succeed again, even though it's a long and rocky road back.

Smart Money

My friend Michael - unsentimental, fussy, intolerant and often meticulous to the point of prissy - has been adopted by a cat.

This unlikely pairing happened during the recent storm when a black cat appeared on his doorstep and brazenly slipped through an open door and immediately made himself at home. Michael, only half as hard hearted and unsympathetic as he would have people believe, fed him a corn dog before depositing him back into the snow - but the cat, being a cat, was still there the next morning and complaining loudly about his treatment - so he was let in again. No special menus here! Michael told him firmly and produced a slice of pizza, You eat what I eat. And so, several cat toys and one litter box later, begins the journey.

This budding relationship may or may not succeed. Cats are accustomed to getting their own way, they dislike being shooed away, they assume that nothing is off limits and dismiss obedience as an unworthy ambition. Michael is not a fan of accommodation in any form and has always lived alone, unfettered by obligations to anyone but himself. The introduction of a cat into his household changes the equation and may very well disrupt the balance of power dramatically. In the battle of man vs cat, early in the game as it may be, the smart money's on the cat.

Sunshine, Alka Seltzer & Hot Soup

All I could see from the window was white.

Four days of confinement with aspirin, cold medicine, a raging bout of bronchitis and hours of restless half sleep had finally made me delusional, I decided and crawled a little deeper beneath the covers. It looked all the world as if the outside world was blanketed in snow. Not to worry, I croaked to the small brown dog through a violent coughing spasm that stole my breath and racked my already sore ribs, It's just the moonlight playing tricks. She whined softly and didn't appear to be convinced, burrowing closer between me and the pillows, shivering slightly. Struggling to breathe through a haze of congestion and a headache that refused to give an inch, I closed my eyes against the brightness and tried to ignore the cries of the cats - they sounded hungry which wasn't possible in the middle of the night, I told myself - and then the dim and muted sounds from the television in the next room began to slowly penetrate my fogged in brain. School closings? Weather advisories? Another coughing fit struck and I pulled myself upright, gasping for air and suddenly feeling blinded - all I could see from every window was white. A television voice was warning of ice on bridges, power outages and the perils of winter driving. It was then I realized it was full morning and I was in hell.

I dragged myself to the kitchen, to the aspirin and alka seltzer and kleenex. The dogs followed anxiously and when I opened the back door, the black dog bolted out, skidding on the snow covered deck and into the yard, joyous and curious at the same time, exhilarated and eager. The entire landscape had altered - everything was covered in snow, shrubs were flattened and tree branches were hanging on the ground with the weight of it. It was still falling and there was that eerie stillness in the air that I remembered from New England storms. The small brown dog took one quick look, sniffed the icy air cautiously, and then scampered back to the safety of the bed. It was a reaction I completely understood.

As the temperature climbed during the day, I listened to the snow sliding off the roof - each miniature avalanche sending the black dog into a frenzy and the brown dog deeper into the bedclothes - and said a small prayer for sunshine, alka seltzer and hot soup.

The Fate of the Other Shoe

It lay on its side, just on the outer edge of the passing lane, forlorn and misbegotten, muddy soled and abandoned, its yellow laces blowing in the breezes of the passing cars - a sad and solitary workboot, discarded and defenseless, alone and at the mercy of the traffic. Had it been a suicide, I wondered - the final tragic act of a desperate shoe - or perhaps an accident, caught in a gust of wind and blown out of the back of a pickup, not missed until it was too late. Had it tumbled out of an overfilled trash bag or been the victim of a would be shoe thief. And where was its mate, its companion on the road of life, its partner for all the miles - did it grieve in some dark closet or lay buried in some odiferous landfill? Would I perhaps drive by it a little further down the road, passing it like some ragtag hitchhiker and ignoring its pleas for a ride? Would I even notice it?

Deciding that this was a little grim, I considered other explanations. My daddy had often quoted me his theory that for that every single shoe at the side of the road, there was a one shoed man, searching and anxious to be reunited. He also thought it was possible that these orphan shoes at the side of the road might be the innocent victims of a one footed man, who, hating to be reminded of his handicap, had ordered the unnecessary shoe out, much like Lady Macbeth - Out! damned spot, Out I say! - he would cry in his best Shakespearean voice, only substituting shoe for spot while he fiercely rubbed the soles of his dress shoes together. When he asked my opinion of this latest theory, I had told him I thought it was unlikely but theatrical and he was so pleased he immediately launched into the remainder of Lady Macbeth's lines, finishing with a cackling, Yet who would have known the old man to have had so much blood in him! His last theory was my favorite - Alien abduction! he declared, So swift and efficient that only one shoe was left behind!

It fell off during the struggle, no doubt, my grandmother remarked with a small smile.
Exactly! he cried and with a sweeping gesture he removed an imaginary hat and bowed to her. She laughed and threw a ball of yarn at him, Oh, go on with you, you fool, act your age! but I could see she was pleased to be included in the game.

The discarded workboot faded in my rearview mirror and passed out of sight, just another silly shoe at the side of the road. Whether it had come to be there by happenstance or deliberate act, I would never know. It would hang on for a few days and then one morning I might or might not notice that it was gone. Single or otherwise, I'm glad not to be a shoe.

Fred & Ginger

Put on your dancin' shoes, Alice! Uncle Shad called coming through the back door unannounced with the dogs at his heels, I'm takin' you on the town!

My grandmother scowled at him. You drunk, Shadrack? she demanded crossly and he laughed and gave her a bear hug then twirled her around and slipped her apron over her head. I'm celebratin', Alice, and you're helpin'!

Uncle Shad, a small man with china blue eyes and a ready grin, had lived with his common law wife for more than thirty years, regretting every hour but too obligated to leave. She was a scrawny woman, made of hard bones and harder feelings, a complainer and a nag with a hot temper and an acid tongue. At one time, she had been a slim and pretty thing, courted and sought after, but island life had not been kind and the only thing Shad was dug in about was leaving the island - he gave in to her every demand but on this he would not be moved. The bitter quarrel was now in its 31st year and showed no signs of exhausting itself. That morning, he told Nana, she had finally packed her belongings and caught the first ferry, headed for greener grass and more friendly pastures - she had, he admitted, taken every cent he had in the world but it was a small price, all things considered, and he was happy to pay it. Got me a last $20 dollar bill and I'm a free man, my girl, so let's go show those youngsters a thing or two about dancin'! To my utter astonishment, my grandmother agreed, changing out of her house dress and apron and slipping into ruby red shoes, an ankle length black skirt and a sequined blouse. They left for the dance hall arm in arm and laughing like teenagers.

It was said that they danced the night away to Hank Williams, Sonny James, and Patsy Kline - tirelessly strutting their stuff to Jerry Lee Lewis and waltzing everyone off to the floor to Jim Reeves' "He'll Have To Go". By the end of the night, Nana shed her ruby shoes and danced barefoot, her sequins glittering and her petticoats flaring. I had never seen this side of her, didn't even know it existed, and I was torn between being proud and humiliated. In the end, proud won - Nana and Uncle Shad made too handsome a couple for anything else.

The days following the amazing dance were grim with recovery, aspirin and arthritis rubs. Nana hobbled for nearly a week, her ankles swollen, her shoulders and neck stiff with pain. Shad wasn't seen for three days, taking to his bed with hot water bottles for his joints and poultices for his feet. I hope it was worth it, Mother, my own mother said with a snide look, You could have broken a hip or had a heart attack.

Keep your sour grapes to yourself, my grandmother told her tartly and added more epsom's salts to her foot bath.

Legacies

The shock of hearing the word cancer and the name of a dear musician friend of mine in the same breath stuns me and leaves me feeling betrayed and outraged, furious at the unfairness of fate, and helpless. It's a combination I've heard too often with people I care for, people who have lived good lives and who deserve far better. There is an emptiness without them.

I listen to the meant to be comforting words about how it's not how long you live but how well, about making the most of the time you're given and making a difference, but they're hollow. They don't compensate for the loss or the pain and no matter what you may leave behind, it isn't the same as staying to finish what you've started, not the same as being here for those who love you. The missing never really ends although with time it may lessen. Given enough time and practice, you can learn to live with anything, my daddy would say, and while that's true, it's still an obscenity to be taken before your time, an affront to the lives you have touched and changed. Those we love are never gone if we keep them in our hearts, I'm told, but it's cold comfort - a legacy, no matter how impressive or soul stirring it may be, is still not much more than a memory, not touchable or huggable, not there to listen or share or bring solace. I treasure my memories but would trade any one of them, anytime, for the real thing - maybe it's this more than anything else that we all have in common. To be left behind is an experience we all understand and at the same time can't begin to comprehend.

Cancer doesn't care about memories or legacies, about families or friends or suffering, about the music that might not be be played, the poetry that might never be written, the art that might never be exhibited. That falls to the rest of us along with the process of keeping company with the illness, of smiling when we want to cry, of having faith despite the odds, of being there to witness these lives, imperfect as they may be. No refunds, no returns, no exceptions.

So we will gather together, make music, raise money for hospital bills and doctors and chemotherapy. We will comfort and be grateful for each other and try not to look too far ahead. It won't be enough but it will have to do.

The Boy Who Lived in the Barn

Jonah's entry into the world and the tale of the boy who lived in the barn was a story Nana loved to tell.

He had been born, so island legend said, under an evening star in the aftermath of a blizzard so fierce that the snow drifts reached halfway to the eaves of the old house, preventing his daddy from being there and even keeping the midwives away .Nina was attended to by her own hands and she brought her son into the world with exquisite pain and unwavering determination, cut the cord with her pinking shears, then wrapped the baby in blankets and lay down to die. And she might have, Uncle Shad said, ' Cept for the horses wakin' up that boy.

The horses had become restless during the night and woken the boy who lived in the barn, a young drifter who helped out with chores and kept an eye on the stock. In the after storm stillness with the snow heavy and bending the trees to the ground, with not the slightest sound except the far away ocean, he listened to the horses whinnying and pawing at their stalls and then he heard the baby cry. The boy climbed to the window in the loft, forced it open and listened - the cries were steady and desperate and the horses were becoming more and more agitated. With no particular plan in mind, he saddled one of the horses and managed to open the barn doors enough to pass through - the horse immediately sunk to his flanks in snow but somehow they made a narrow path to the farmhouse. He found Nina and the wailing newborn and without the first idea of what to do or how to do it, he washed the baby in warm water and wrapped him in clean flannel, then still holding him, covered Nina with clean blankets, re-kindled the fire, and heated up soup. He settled the child in the crib while he took the horse back to the barn and then trekked back, warmed milk in a saucepan and filled a bottle. The boy who lived in the barn spent the next three days caring for the baby, for Nina, for the horses - guided only by instinct, common sense, and prayer. On the third day, Rowena and Miss Hilda arrived with linens, herbs, firewood, two bottles of brandy and a basket of food. They were stunned and amazed to discover Nina, conscious although in need of a bath and shampoo, the baby asleep in the boy's arms, the fire blazing and the smell of cooking. Well done, young man! Miss Hilda exclaimed with a rare smile, Good show!

The boy studied his feet shyly. T'wasn't me, m'am, he said slowly, The horses knew somethin' was wrong.
Rubbish! Hilda snapped back, Don't be immodest, boy. She looked askance at him ( What's a scants, Nana? I interrupted and from the sunporch my daddy collapsed in a fit of laughter. It means suspicious, hon, he called,
probably the way your grandmother is looking at you right now.) before beginning to unpack bread and butter and glass jars of chowder. Rowena gathered the baby up and hugged the boy, Get some sleep, she advised him kindly,
You've earned it.

By the time that Josh got home another two days later, everyone knew of Jonah's birth and how the boy who lived in the barn had cared for him and his mother, likely saving two lives and generally being regarded as a hero. Wanting to thank him, Josh made his way to the barn only to find the stalls mucked out, the horses fed and watered, and the boy gone. No one remembered seeing him leave, Cap didn't recall him crossing on the ferry, there was no note - he had simply up and vanished, no easy thing to do on a twelve mile long island - and it was to remain an enduring mystery.
As all good mysteries should, my daddy said with a wink.