The pretense of hope is over and the news is bitter - my friend Danny died today.
I want to write something uplifting about his life and his music, a tribute to the kind of man and musician he was but all I feel is emptiness and a dismal free floating anger. To a part of me, his death doesn't seem quite real yet while another part is weighted down at the unfairness and pain of it.
I hope he is some place where there is spicy food and a guitar, some place where there is applause, laughter and love, where the skies are clear and he doesn't have to play for the door.
You're the same as anybody else.
Sally Field to Tom Hanks, Forrest Gump
Depending on how you see yourself, the words can be comforting or insulting. It's all a matter of interpretation. Linus was barely six when he realized he was different, a dark haired, shy child in a family of blonde, blue eyed, loud and adventurous souls. He hated guns and was afraid of the sea, preferring poetry and gentle music to the raucus and often crude melodies his brothers made up as they worked in the fields. He learned to read early and would beg the schoolteacher for "real books", hardbound and heavy, rather than the ubiquitous comic books his brothers so admired. His world was made up of words and images only he could see and he soon became an invisible child, forgotten and overlooked by his hard working and distracted parents, dismissed by his brothers as not worth their time or trouble. There was no malice or harm intended, his daddy often said with a shrug, It's just that the boy lives on the other side of the river.
Being a child most people didn't take notice of when he was there - or miss when he wasn't - it was easy for Linus to drift, carried by currents even he didn't understand. He helped the schoolteacher with lessons, fed the seagulls with Doolittle, learned herbs from Rowena, picked wildflowers for Miss Violet and Victoria, joined Miss Clara in tending the graveyard. And he wandered constantly, with a distant, slightly set apart aimlessness - along the coast at low tide, into the back woods, through the square where he didn't hear those who called his name and didn't see those who waved. He carried a small notebook and a pencil stub and would stop here and there to make notes, no one knew why or about what. If he did notice someone, he might tip his cap and offer a small smile but otherwise he went his own way, focused on his own faraway and hazy thoughts, too young to find the words to express or explain them, too inward turned to try. By his teens he had mostly disappeared and become a shadow on the edge of island life, no one seemed to know how he lived or where and on the rare times we would catch a glimpse of him - a solitary and far off figure walking across the back pastures toward the sunset - we would run like the wind but never catch up. He would vanish into the horizon long before we reached the place he had been and there would be no trace of him save for a brief trail of bent grass that would unaccountably end at the end of the cliff. Loving the mystery and hoping that there might be real magic in the man, we pursued him each summer but found only suggestions of his passings by - a whisper of pipe smoke where it shouldn't have been, a broken branch snagged with a thread of denim, a bit of yellow pencil in the dirt of a back road. Summer after summer, the reality of Linus eluded us until it seemed he must be dead or turned into a bird and flown off to the faraway, as Miss Clara liked to think. Uncle Bernie said he had found Land's End and the Allalonestone from "The Water Babies" and was living with his own kind, happy and understood at last, at peace with himself. Nana dismissed it all as romantic drivel and childish notions, Boy drowned and was carried out to sea and that's a fact, she told us firmly, Only magic and mystery was that it took so long. Clearing ground for a new still years later, Bill Allbright discovered a hut made of mud and sticks and branches. A natural rock formation made for a makeshift bench at the edge of the cliff and inside the hut the embers from a fire were still warm. Of Linus, there was no evidence and the only other sign of life was the flock of seagulls circling overhead. Weren't no place to run off, nowhere he could've hid, Bill confessed to Miss Clara, Me on the one side and the sea on the other. Even so, reckon I'll find me another place for the still.
The mystery and magic of the boy who lived on the other side of the river remained. If the seagulls knew the truth, they weren't talking and if the children that came after us ever found him, they weren't telling. There are some things you take on faith or not at all.
They stalk each other sideways, backs arched and tails twitching. Their eyes lock but there is no sound until one breaks and runs, then the other pursues fiercely. They tumble and somersault over each other and end up wrestling on the floor in an enthusiastic kind of bear hug embrace, then each walks away with grace and as much dignity as they can manufacture, clearly pretending to have no interest in each other. It's a ritualized performance, sometimes repeated several times in a single day, sometimes not for weeks at a time but there is no malice in it, no intent to harm. The other cats watch with mild interest but are always careful to keep their distance - they never join in - only the young tabby and the older black cat are inclined to play this feline game and it always ends in a draw.
I watch all this and have to wonder why I can't be so casual and forgiving with human entanglements, why insignificant emotional fender benders have to turn into head on collisions. The power of reason should make me smarter than a cat, I keep reminding myself, yet they seem to have the edge - too wise to hold a grudge, too confident to take affront, too secure to care what other cats may think. Cats aren't compelled to compete or be vindicated, they fight and forget, they move on. Apologies aren't necessary - nothing in their interactions ever requires being sorry - and they never seek therapy or self help groups.
Cats just get along or go along, depending on their mood, taking what comes or doesn't with the same equilibrium, the same independent spirit and devil may care attitude.
Oh, to find the self assurance and untroubled life of a carefree cat.
Trying to convince my to sign up for our new health insurance plan, the doctor's wife gave me a sweet smile and suggested that I could cut back on expenses. Your fingernails, for example, she ventured with a meaningful glance at my manicure. When I shook my head at this notion, she shrugged. Or, you could sell your house and move. Startled speechless at this, my jaw dropped with the effort of believing that she was serious. Much later it occurred to me that I could've made a counter suggestion that she sell her expensive Land Rover and give me $1 an hour raise which I would in turn use to pay for the insurance. Tactless as it might have been, I suspected it would've have been deserved.
Replaying this conversation in my mind later in the morning I found myself getting angry. Sell my house and move? To be able to afford to sign up for health insurance?
She couldn't have really meant it, I told myself firmly.
I don't need you to worry for me cause I'm alright
I don't want you to tell me it's time to come home
I don't care what you say anymore, this is my life
Go ahead with your own life and leave me alone
Billy Joel
Trying to convince me to sign up for the new health insurance plan, the doctor told me a story about a woman trapped on the roof of her house during a flood. A helicopter arrived to rescue her but she would've been forced to leave her dog so she sent it away. I know they're like family, he told me with a patient smile, but times come and you have to put yourself first.
Sorry, Doc, I told him in return, They're not like family, they are family and I would've sent the helicopter away too. He looked at me a little sorrowfully as he might a helpless if slightly dimwitted child and shook his head, at a loss to understand my answer.
Loving animals isn't about logic. It isn't about the vet bills or the responsibilities or the sacrifices. It's not even about the trials or the joy they bring to your life. These small, dependent creatures each have their own god given life and if you're fortunate enough to share it, you do all you can to make it good, to make it last as long as possible. If there's no room for them in the helicopter, you don't go.
The argument downstairs was reaching epic proportions.
Even through my closed door, I could hear my mother alternately crying, wailing, and screeching like a jackal. My daddy's words were muffled, a low hum of calm and patience in a fierce storm but they were lost and useless against my mother's escalating rage. He was beaten before he started and I knew he would eventually climb the stairs to my room to mete out whatever punishment they finally settled on. I hadn't taken the $20 from her secret cookie jar but it wouldn't matter - it was gone, someone had to be held accountable - and in the interests of peace and quiet and a decent night's sleep, my daddy would acquiesce to her demands for retribution. He would hate it but he would do it, and come morning when she smirked and strutted in victory, he would not be able to meet my eyes. Shame is a powerful weapon, self sustaining and long lasting and it leaves a bitter taste on the tongue, a permanent wound on the soul.
My daddy, ever courteous even in the act of selling out his children, knocked on my door before entering. I focused on the weeping willow tree next door, imagining it a giant, flowing cavern with a hidden entrance, imagining that I could dive through and be safe from my family and protected from the world of evil witches, lying old crones and battered kings. My daddy spoke in low tones, hesitantly explaining that he had no choice, trying to reason me into a confession and a lesser punishment. The old weeping willow seemed to sing to me, offering up its branches and leaves as a cloak, beckoning in the wind and promising me shelter and fairness. Even if you didn't take it, my daddy said weakly, Your mother......
Can go to hell, I finished for him defiantly and the willow nearly cheered. My own words shocked me and for a moment I flinched, as if he might actually strike me, but this was my daddy - weary to the bone, trapped, not proud of his actions and too impotent to fight back. He sighed deeply and left, closing the door quietly. Well? I heard my mother demand roughly, but there was no answer. Amid the following shower of threats and curses, the front door opened and closed, and the old station wagon pulled out of the drive and drove off. I remember thinking how unfair it was that he could escape with a quick turn of an ignition key, the image of a criminal fleeing the scene of a crime came to my mind, and I turned back to the weeping willow, wishing it closer, wishing I could disappear into it.
He was always impeccably dressed - even when wearing his Saturday clothes, his khakis were creased, his shirt ironed and his shoes shined. He smelled of Old Spice and presented a congenial and courteous figure of a successful southern lawyer. When he asked advice, he listened to the answer and paid attention. When he gave advice, it was thoughtful and precise. He appeared to be a respected, old school, almost elegant southern gentleman, smiling when speaking of his wife and family, serious about his law practice, dedicated to the country club and now and then overdoing the martinis. I never saw the rough edges or the private side that landed him in jail, accused of carnal knowledge of a juvenile - an 80 year old lawyer having oral sex with a 16 year old in the very confines of his law office.
How do you return to your life, I wonder?
There's no cover in a small southern city such as our's, not if you're well known and well thought of, not if you're a member of the upper class, not if you live in the right zip code and sometimes make headlines. All the charitable donations and good works will not give you back your privacy, will not insulate you from sex scandals. You can play golf with judges but unless you're Tiger Woods, there won't be any special favors granted. It makes me appreciate the anonymity of big city life where you can dive into your particular dark side and hardly be noticed.
After all the sad jokes have been made and grow stale, after the publicity dies down and the talk turns to other things, after a trial or a plea or whatever the outcome, I'm still left wondering - how do we forgive? How do we rebuild? How does he return to his life?
Why, my daddy might say and I can almost hear the cynicism in his tone, He follows the example of the politicians. What else?
I rode the old plow horse into the woods, imagining myself a wild Indian on a bareback pony, in search of new hunting grounds. Indians had once lived on this farmland, so my daddy had told me and although I suspected they had been closer to Navajos rather than Apaches, I preferred to think in terms of war paint and proud warriors. The old horse walked lazily and calmly through the trees, not exactly a fast moving Indian pony with feathers in his mane, but close enough for me. The trail he followed was his choice, not mine, and if struck by a whim I knew he would duck under a low hanging limb and sweep me off, but still I sat straight and defiant, a lonely brave following imaginary smoke signals and drums. Other days the horse might be a thoroughbred, rounding the last turn like the wind and headed for the finish line amid wild applause, leaving all the horses in the dust. Sometimes though, he was just an old work horse with a six year old on his back, wandering the pastures at his own pace, carrying me away from the noise of harsh reality and into a quiet, pastel sunset.
Back in the stall, I brushed him and smoothed his mane, fed him oats, and carrots and apple slices my grandmother Ruby had slipped in my overall pockets then curled up in the dusty, sweet, warm hay and read until I fell asleep. I liked thinking that he was watching over me like a great soft eyed guardian angel. I loved the pigs and chickens, adored the cows, but I trusted the old horse to keep my secrets and protect me. One day, I thought, I would ride such a horse down the road and into The Land of No Looking Back where there would be apple orchards and sugar maples and it would always be summer - we would never grow old, no one would ever find us, and we would never have to come back. The old horse listened to all this with a soft whinny of approval and a stamp of his hoof, his liquid eyes watching me with a lazy gaze. He shook his mane and switched his tail at the flies, nuzzled me for another slice of apple.
It was hard to leave the barn when the dinner bell rang, harder still to wait for the next morning and the next ride. On some nights I was so anxiously impatient that I slipped out after bedtime and made my way back to the stall to sleep in the hay. Nothing bad could happen in the company of the old horse, not in my imagination or in real life.
She wore nothing but the best designer clothes and shoes, never appeared anywhere without her nails done and her face made up, and accessorized with oversized jewels. When she finally decided it was time to experiment with blue jeans, To keep up with the times, she told me, and the young people! She chose Christian Dior and I didn't have the heart to tell her that most of my jeans came from the Army Navy surplus store - it would have been distressing to her.
She had come from a small town in Tennessee, married well, produced three children. She was someone who pretty much actually practiced her faith on a daily basis and was open hearted, tolerant beyond any requirement, determined to make everyone feel at home and welcome. I doubt she ever understood the city girl her son had married but no mind, she was a woman who in large measure respected the choices of others and she accepted me with no questions asked. I sometimes thought that she felt her it was her mission to make up for what she was sure I had been denied in my childhood - it was well meant, born of affection and caring, but often suffocating - she went out of her way to assure that I was included in everything, whether I wanted to be or not - free will and family don't always make the best partners. But I loved her, for her Dior blue jeans, her infectious laugh, her kindness and concern. She was, in an odd way, a submissive and traditional southern woman, putting church and family above all else, being charitable with her wealth, and keeping her private battles to herself. For surely there were demons to fight, seeing all her children marry and divorce, watching them outgrow her care and control, now and again being treated more as a decoration than a flesh and blood woman with the power of reason. Life on a pedestal can be airy, carefree, as well as lonely.
She was, so she said, happy and fulfilled being in second place to the powerful and dominating force of the man she had married. If she had ambitions, she channeled them into her children, her community, and her churchwork. She was happy traveling, seeing to everyone else's needs, organizing and keeping track, shopping and antiquing. She kept the homefires burning and was a proper, admired, and docile wife, every whim granted, every wish granted. I didn't want to but there were times when I wondered if there might not be a part of her that was restless being under the generous and accomodating thumb of an adoring husband, if she might not have occasionally wanted to tilt the balance of power - just a bit. As close as we were, I doubt I knew the real woman anymore than she knew me.
Prayer changes things and miracles happen every day, a 12 stepper musician friend reminded me as he set up his equipment. The bar was already jammed with musicians and fans and friends, all there to raise money and support a local guitar player recently diagnosed with cancer - the very best of the region's players gave their time and talent without a second thought - telling stories, playing their hearts out, passing the hat, offering prayers and get well wishes. The air was blue with cigarette smoke but hip deep in hope.
We aren't promised much in this earthly life but struggle and disappointment and it's tempting to blame what we don't understand on God or fate, easy to be angry at the unfairness of it all. Weariness makes us easy targets - we are frail creatures, made of bones that break and flesh that doesn't always heal - optimism often eludes us and dreams hang just out of reach. We lose those we love, work all our lives just to break even and keep body and soul together, and in the end, it's all out of our hands. The one joy and redemption, inevitable outcome aside, is that we make a difference even if we don't see it or reap its rewards.
My friend Danny has touched lives and made a difference - small acts of kindness, encouragement for young and struggling musicians, persistence and dedication in the face of adversity. More than once he's lost his way and found it again and on balance has given more than he's taken. Confronted with an evil illness, he keeps faith, stays upbeat and positive, and continues to fight his way through. And though he isn't at his own benefit, his immune system being fragile and his body in need of rest, his essence is everywhere. He has learned to love trouble and giving up is something he doesn't know how to do.
He's leaving for home soon, going back to California and his roots, to the place where his music started. We will be poorer for his absence.
Bible scholars on the island were in short supply and Miss Abby was the definitive source for questions of conscience and parables. Though much respected and well thought of, the preacher was too busy with every day church business to provide any more than traditional spiritual guidance and regular Sunday scoldings - Miss Abby knew every chapter and verse of The Good Book by heart and recited the Bible stories with hellfire in her heart and a shotgun at her side. If one don't work against the devil, reckon the other will, she liked to tell folks when they visited, Have another biscuit.
On Saturday nights, Miss Abby lined up tin cans on stumps for target practice. Shading her eyes, she raised her old shotgun to her shoulder, set her body in a shooter's stance, and blew the bejesus out of every target. None of us could recall a time when she had ever missed - her aim, like her faith, was deadly accurate - and though the recoil often set her back a pace or two and once had even dislocated her collar bone - these were small prices to pay for being ready to fight the devil. Could be you only get one shot at ol' Satan, she warned us, Best to make it count.
During the day she raised rabbits for showing and kept honey bees. Some of the best of the good Lord's creations don't walk two legged, she advised us as she taught us how to approach the bee hives and clean out the hutches,
Rabbits and bees be every bit God's creatures as you and me. Serpents on the other hand, were clearly the work of the devil and she showed them no mercy, blasting them to kingdom come at every opportunity. Vipers! she snarled and took aim, Begone! She kept a small bible in her apron pocket at all times and often quoted just before shooting, Behold, unto you I give the power to tread on serpents! The dead reptile would be kicked aside, lifeless and unclean, and Miss Abby would tell us to fling it into the sea. I had no idea until that summer that my daddy, as gentle and tolerant a man as ever lived, had a powerful, debilitating fear of the unholy creatures. On hearing of Miss Abby's merciless treatment of them, he shivered and muttered, More power to her. Uncle Willie made one attempt to point out that even serpents served a purpose and Miss Abby gave him a long, dark look then ordered him off her property, Blasphemy! she snapped and reached for her gun. Uncle Willie wisely chose not to debate her.
Sitting in her old cane rocker with her shotgun beside her and her Bible in her lap, she read to us - the story of Daniel in the lion's den, Joshua and the battle of Jericho, Moses and the Red Sea - grand tales of miracles, faith and retribution, lessons in morality and the endless battles between good and evil. Let there be no serpents in your gardens, children. Have another biscuit.
Little by slow, they say in the 12 step programs, Little by slow.
I sometimes wish I could be 20 again, provided that I could keep my 60 years of learning and experience and do a better job of it. I've always liked the concept if reincarnation - it's a series of second chances to grow and come back smarter, kinder, more appreciative, working your way through different forms and seeing the world with different eyes. Playing with the dogs, on their level, I see a new perspective and I'm reminded that my own point of view may not be the only point of view, even feet take on a new meaning when you're at eye level with them. So while I see arrogance, someone else sees confidence. While I see poverty, someone else sees the inevitable consequence of laziness. While I see kindness, someone else sees weakness. Whatever we see or don't see, it's all through the filters we call our own experience. Overcoming our own experiences to see the other sides of things and people is a process and some of us are more open to it than others. Nothing changes slower or with more pain than inbred, comfortable fitting old attitudes - like a new pair of shoes, they need breaking in and wearing.
So, dear, the patient asked as she was fitted into a surgical boot, Does it come in navy blue?
The nurse glanced at her to verify the seriousness of the question. No, she said shortly.
And I have to wear it 24 hours a day? the patient persisted, Even when I sleep?
That, the doctor said mildly, would be the definition of 24 hours a day.
Why, I wonder, do we seek out professional people, pay them for their counsel and advice, and then refuse to follow their instructions?
I need a bottle of red wine, the customer tells us, Not too expensive.
We make a suggestion, a modestly priced California cabernet from an old, established winery.
The customer handles the bottle, inspecting the label, frowning. Is this one good? he asks doubtfully.
Oh, a co-worker tells him with a broad smile to take the edge off, You want a "good" one?
Little by slow, I remind myself. Have patience, don't take offense at stupidity, smile, and get through the day.
If, at this stage of my life, a man I loved suggested that we live together, my reaction would be instantaneous - I would leap at the opportunity without a second thought or recoil and run for the hills. It would not occur to me to have a series of conversations or think it through - I am more a person of impulse than I like to believe.
A friend I have known almost since I was able to walk finds herself precisely at this point. Her immediate reaction was caution - she is slightly younger but far more insightful than I - and gentle pressure on the brakes was second nature. That she loves this man as he does her is clear and were it 30 years ago when there was room and time to make mistakes, she might've jumped to clean out drawers and make a permanent space for him, might've run that yellow light without hesitation. But age and experience have taught her wisdom and foresight, the ability to look forward more clearly, to evaluate risk and consider options, to weigh the impact upon them both and her daughter. If anything, she has a tendency to overthink, but at this particular intersection, it's wise to look in all directions and I envy her restraint and common sense. She's in love but not ready to jump off the cliff.
Life is often more forgiving if you jump with a parachute, more tolerant of risk taking at 20 than 50. This is not someone who commits easily, not someone willing to share her life just out of love and good chemistry - she wants it all. I have a suspicion that this time she may find the happy ever after.
She had just turned 92 and while her body was in decline, her mind was still sharp, her wit still agile. Having finished with the doctor, she made the long trek down the hallway - shaky but unassisted, a nurse at her elbow, just in case - and she reached the front desk, a little out of breath, a little bent over, but still under her own power. She gave me a smile and a gold tooth gleamed, her hands were heavily veined with crooked fingers and neat nails. She wore an oversized watch and a plain gold band - 70 years of marriage to the same old man, she had once told me - and her hair, completely white but still thick and wavy, was pinned up in an uncooperative bun at the back of her neck. She adjusted her bifocals and produced her checkbook, Doc says I'm good for another 100,000 miles, she announced in a voice that was tremulous but cheerful, How much I owe, hon? She meticulously wrote out her check, the letters formed slowly and with great care, her crippled fingers fighting every pen stroke, the movements clearly painful for her. She folded her receipt and next appointment card and tucked them into her purse with some effort, pulled her coat closer over her thin shoulders, glanced around to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything. The nurse pulled open the door for her and she made her way through one cautious step at a time. In the waiting room, her son, Walter - a mere lad of 70 - reached for his cane and pulled himself to his feet, straightened his tie, and took her elbow. See you next time, I called, Ya'll behave yourselves, hear? Walter gave me a sour look and said At our age, there's not much choice, while his mother turned and gave us a wink, Ya'll too, she said with a cackling laugh, Ain't never too old to misbehave! Her son, we suspected a little less shocked than he appeared, glared at her, Mama! She gave him a mild cuff to the ear, Lighten up, boy, she snapped at him, I'm old but I ain't dead! Defeated in the face of such optimism, he guided her toward the door without another word, shoulders sagging and eyes on the floor.
Age is so much more than chronology.
As if trying to redeem itself, the last day of February dawns clear, filled with sunshine and something very like warmth. The cat sitting on the back porch railing grooms itself and yawns, taking the day for granted as it stretches in the sunlight. The dogs erupt out the back door and the trespassing feline makes a startled leap and disappears under the deck in a flash of calico. The dogs stage their usual ineffective pursuit but the cat is fleet of foot and agile - she moves like liquid lightning and leaves them in the dust - her dignity is slightly ruffled by this less than lofty retreat but she is still graceful, emerging victorious in the front yard and taking up a new position on the roof of my car where she curls up into a ball and immediately falls asleep.
Things at my friend Michael's are less peaceful. After a week in Dallas, he returned to his house and new cat, surveyed the scene and immediately picked up the telephone, bypassing the niceties of small talk to begin the conversation with a harried "COME GET THIS THING!" I sighed and calmly told him no, you let him in, you deal with him. After several minutes of ranting and raving - this call's main complaint seeming to be the cat's determination to trip him by twining around his ankles - I explained about separation anxiety, about the need for a clean litter box, about an animal's need for affection, about feline behavior and attitude. Meet him halfway, I advised, Learn to live with him by watching where you're walking, by paying attention. Make a small effort to understand him. Living with a cat is an adjustment. There were un-veiled threats about barn cats and microwaves, muttered warnings about devil cats and cats who refused to abide by the rules, cats who interfered and got underfoot and upset the natural order, cats who failed to appreciate their good fortune, cats who - simply stated - behaved like cats. Having heard it all before, I listened as patiently as I could, hoping that this extended vent might wear itself out and fade away. Through it all, I could hear the cat in the background, his loud meow's coming through the telephone lines clearly and coherently. It was more than I could say for Michael.
I'm struck by the thought that those of us who are wound the tightest unravel the fastest.
