Congratulations, It's a Girl!

On a rare afternoon off, I decided to make a quick stop at the duck pond. Braced against a tree, I picked up my trusty Nikon and focused on a white bird picking his stork-like way through the water - I was just about to press the shutter when I felt the slightest pressure on my left shoulder and when I turned my head I discovered a half grown, black and white cat, sitting calmly in the Y of the tree and, I swear, grinning at me. Oh, no, I said aloud, Don't even think about it. But of course, it was already too late - the moment that small white paw had touched my shoulder, fate or destiny or karma or the gods of soft touches had begun celebrating.

On the drive to the vet, the kitten lay quietly in my lap, purring. Congratulations, it's a girl! Doc laughed after pronouncing her fit, worm and flea free, and about 5 months old. She had purred her way through the entire exam. The scene at home was predictably less serene with the existing cats scattering anxiously at the first unfamiliar meow, the black dog -sensing new prey - immediately moved to insatiable and frantic curiosity, and the small brown dog overjoyed at the prospect of a new friend. Chaos ensued and I cursed the gods of soft touches.

The following morning things were slightly more calm. The new arrival, having spent the night in the bathroom contentedly asleep on a towel in the sink and with her own private litter box, yawned and stretched and climbed into my arms. Hunger, being a great motivator, the other cats ate cautiously while the dogs circled and whined. Nobody got hurt and I deemed the first communal gathering a moderate success. Kenneling the dogs, I left for work with all five cats peacefully sleeping, albeit lightly and in different rooms. What I would come home to was less sure but cats are civilized creatures and I felt confident that they work out new territories and coping skills without my help.

By the second day, she had made friends and allies of both dogs and was on her way toward peaceful coexistence with her new siblings. There were still brief and random flashes of hostility - made up of far more posturing than actual menace - all to be expected in the process of introducing and integrating a new face.

So much for attrition, I think to myself as a new scuffle breaks out and then resolves itself as quickly as it had started. Tolerance and acceptance come far less quickly in the human world.

Annie's Ghosts

Annie had been, her mother admitted, a difficult child - fragile but stubborn, shy but curious, withdrawn but adventurous. She had cried long into the winter nights and would not be comforted by a bottle or a lullaby or the old standby rocking chair in which Mary Evelyn had soothed many a child before her. When she was able to walk, she found more hiding places that anyone thought the old house possessed and disappeared for hours at a time without a trace, refusing to answer her mother's frantic calls and submitting to her punishment - locked in the attic for the same amount of time she had been missing - without the first tear. She talked to ghosts, she began telling people, spirits who knew her name followed her about, and at this Mary Evelyn gave in and signed the papers sending her away. Bewitched, she complained bitterly, The child is bewitched.

Annie grew up alone in a small, empty room - much like the attic - and was released at the age of eighteen, a strange and pale child with haunted eyes. She found work as a maid and slipped into an anonymous, quietly regimented life, living in a small room and keeping to herself as she had been taught. She took her medication faithfully though it dulled her senses and made her hazy and she never missed a day of work. She had no visitors and made no friends and when Mary Evelyn came to see her, she locked her door and refused to answer, leaving her mother angry and confused at her ingratitude. After all I've done to help her, Mary Evelyn complained to my grandmother over afternoon sherry, It's a fair sin to treat me like this. My grandmother sighed, You sent her to an asylum for 12 years, she told Mary Evelyn pointedly, It changes people.

I was thirteen the year Mary Evelyn keeled over in the corn crop and fell dead in the stalks. She was alone by then, her children spread all over the provinces and their daddy having been gone for years. The funeral was held in the small church on a chilly October morning and only Annie came, standing in the back, a thin figure in a simple black dress and veil. She accepted condolences passively and at the graveside she stood apart from the mourners and spoke to no one save the banker. A few weeks later, a "For Sale" sign appeared on the old house. Land o' mercy,
Aunt Vi told Aunt Pearl, She stayed long enough to see Mary Evelyn put in the ground and then just up and disappeared! The shame of it! Aunt Pearl, no less scandalized but by nature prone to disagree with her sister, shrugged, Family's a blessing and a sorrow, Vi. Come, let's have a cup of tea and you'll feel better. Nana hushed them both firmly and sent me to gather kindling for the stove.

Annie never came home again. A retired couple from New York bought the old house, gutted it and rebuilt it without an attic, opting for an open floor plan with beamed ceilings, panoramic windows and sky lights. Driving by, Nana would shake her head and smile, A house without an attic, she told me, Can't be any ghosts in there and I reckon Annie would like that.

Life in a Butterfly Garden

If only life were a butterfly garden ....cool and sweet and filled with fluttering, fragile creations. Color and patterns would be everywhere, like a moving mural against a background of greenery and blue sky. There might even be a waterfall in the distance and we would move through it all with delicate footsteps, awestruck by what God and nature can provide. If only life were poetry, filled with reason and rhyme and spoken in its own rhythm for no more purpose than the beauty of the words. I would want to stop time in such a place and touch the flowers - this would be a resting place, a place to heal and be restored and take away the memory.

Though not of butterfly gardens, I have memories of such times and places - sand dunes as far as the eye could see, side by side with the ocean. Seagulls soaring against a skyline, pond lilies growing wild by the side of the road, a cat with a heart shaped face sleeping against my shoulder. Waking to the silence of the first snowfall and a perfectly designed landscape that suggested sleep and peaceful dreams. The scent of a particular cologne, the sound of a harmonica wailing, the family of foxes we happened upon in the tall grass on a late summer day. The day I first discovered Anne of Green Gables, my first taste of red velvet cake, being carried away by a Stephen King novel, Pete Fountain's clarinet, the magic of a morning in Memphis or a night in New Orleans. My first sight of a small gray and white tiger cat named Tiffany and all the animals that came after.

This is my butterfly garden, small and fleeting moments that are attached to my memory like perfect sunsets or the flash of a heat lightning strike - clear, sharp, as if they happened just yesterday. They will not come again. Life in a butterfly garden would lose its magic if we were to overstay our visit.

Attachments

We all have them, the things or places or people that keep us grounded. Leaving them behind or watching them slip away can be like being ripped out by our roots and carelessly thrown aside, all the more so when it's not our decision.

A house you've grown up in can be that way - even if you leave it behind, you expect it will always be there in time of need. You can close your eyes and see its details room by room, remember its warmth and comfort, the color of the paint or wallpaper, the furniture, all the first things that happened there, how each picture hung on the wall, the music that played and how the sun came through the windows. To know you can't return is bitter. And yet, it's still just a house, just stone and lumber and design and memories. Surely, the emotional contents are of more value - the things you can take with you and hold in your heart.

I stand in the driveway, feeling the sun and listening to the ocean, knowing that strangers now live there, people I don't know who can't possibly appreciate the importance of the house or the connection I feel to it. I feel dislocated and displaced and terribly sad, as if I have lost something dear, a part of me I thought would always be there is now in someone else's hands. No one asked me about letting this old house go, it was there one minute and gone the next. The voices of my grandmother and my daddy are gone as well, the quarrels silenced, the laughter too distant to be heard. There is a sense of betrayal here where once there was permanence and great joy. It's time to move on, I know, a home is more than bricks and favorite rooms and forgotten voices, more than just childhood.

The grass in the front yard is high, the windows cloudy with dust and salt spray, the path to the road overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. Here I came of age, fell in love a half dozen times, learned to read, came to understand baseball, took my first pictures of the boats in the passage. Here I grew up, beside the ocean, summer after summer and sometimes into the fall. Here is home, no matter how much distance there is between us, no matter how many years away I may be.

There have been a dozen houses since, moves and marriages and changes, some of my own making, some not. My attachments to things and places and people formed, were broken, and formed again. The house has stood through it all, weathering storms and surviving intact and unchanged - this is my foundation and so will it always be.

Passin' Through

It was a warm night and the three of them and the dog were sprawled on the sidewalk just outside the bar. My first thought was how young they were - two boys and a girl, all in ragged clothing and looking a little worse for wear. The dog came to me immediately and the girl was quick to point out that he was friendly. She had come into the bar earlier in the evening with two empty water bottles, had them filled, and slipped out - I'd barely noticed her. Now, she cupped her hands and poured water into them and the dog drank politely then nuzzled her neck in thanks. Her name's Venus, one of the boys offered and at the sound of her name, the dog cocked her head at him. We're just passin' through, m'am, the girl told me although I hadn't asked, Can you help us out? The dog looked up at me, hopefully I thought though I knew it wasn't really so. Where ya'll going? I asked and the girl grinned, California! Of course, the voice in my head remarked, where else? It's always California or Florida - sun, sand, a beach to sleep on and easy times.

I don't quite know why - it might have been their youth, their slightly dirty but innocent faces, the 60's image that they evoked or it might have just been the dog - but I dug in my pocket and handed over a ten dollar bill. Good luck! I told them and found that I really meant it. Thank you, m'am, they called after me, We really appreciate it!
I knew I would miss that ten dollars but even if it had been misspent, the gesture had made me feel good. Whether given or received, small kindnesses tend to do that.

Maybe they'll find a beach and easy times, maybe not. Maybe they'll get jailed in Mississippi or Alabama where free spirits are suspect. Maybe they'll make it all the way through and call home somewhere on the road. Maybe they're runaways or local kids with an knack for panhandling - whatever their travels bring, I wish them well.

Oh, and m'am, the girl called after me, Just so you know, we always feed the dog first!

Nice touch.

Caprice & Whimsy

Named for a whim, Caprice came into the world on a warm summer evening in August. The waiting was over just after midnight and the midwife proudly delivered her into her mother's anxious arms while her daddy took a final sip of store bought whiskey and then swore off it for life. Got to raise me a girl, he proclaimed with a flourish, ain't gonna be likker'd up no more, Carrie, honest I ain't. Caprice's mother gave him a weary smile, having heard such promises before and knowing from experience that good intentions don't always come to pass.

Children, however, can and do change lives and true to his word, Ellis never took another drink. He dismantled his makeshift still that autumn and repaired the ground with care, building in its place, a play area. A swing set, a treehouse, painted blocks and a tea table for four replaced his whiskey making equipment. He planted daisies all around the perimeter then enclosed the whole works with a child sized white picket fence and small gate. In the spring of Caprice's third year, there were tea parties and puppet shows every weekend - island children came by the dozens for homemade cookies, lemonade and story time when Carrie would gather them all to her and read whatever was at hand - fairy tales or the new Life magazine or poetry. Ellis watched over them all, enchanted with his daughter's every gesture and at peace with the pace and progress of his life.

Carrie's second child was born the year Caprice turned four, another girl as Ellis had hoped, as dark as Caprice was fair. It was the year an epidemic of measles struck the coast and spread with a fury, striking innocent children with malice and often deadly force. Marguerite - who was called Whimsy long before she was actually born - came into the world deaf and as she was a happy and in all other ways normal child, no one noticed until her second birthday.

There were doctors and tests, evaluations and specialists, even talk of special schools and implants. Ellis would've traveled the world and given all that he had for his imperfect daughter while Carrie adamantly refused to give over the care of her child to strangers no matter how qualified or worthy. She'll do fine with us, Carrie insisted, We can teach her. Ellis's face darkened and his well worn hands became fists. But she'll never hear! he raged impotently,
She'll never hear! The arguments went on and on until both were too weary and worn out to continue - neither would compromise or yield and inevitably the strain took its toll. Ellis began sleeping in the spare bedroom and as Carrie made no protest, a bitter and angry cloud fell over the family.

Caprice turned five, then six, then seven and still the battle over her sister continued. Whimsy communicated with gestures and pictures she drew in the dirt and the two grew closer until finally Caprice took her troubles to the schoolteacher - Jimmy immediately ordered a book on American Sign Language and began teaching her - she in turn taught Whimsy - both were quick to catch on and were soon having animated conversations without a word being spoken. Carrie and Ellis watched in stunned disbelief as their little girls patiently, and by example, found a way through the silence that had separated them and over time, they learned as well.

And a little child shall lead them.

A Hint of Tarmac

The old wine master swirled his glass and held it tilted against the light, nodding approvingly and smiling. He breathed in its scent deeply, swirled it again, then raised it to his lips and sipped, swishing it like mouthwash over his tongue and finally swallowing. A perfect concoction, he announced to the small crowd holding its collective breath, It confronts the nose boldly with a muscular assault of graphite and ginger .... gushes over the palate like a shovel full of freshly turned earth. He took a second sip, blowing out his cheeks and closing his eyes. An undertone of acid washed jeans with the most delicate suggestion of mildew and the finish .....it coats like sweetened paint thinner and has a hint, just the most subtle hint, of tarmac. Salute! His audience applauded these generous accolades and promptly formed an orderly line to the tasting table, glasses in hand, while he withdrew an ironed, monogramed handerchief to wipe his overworked brow and polish his spectacles. His work was done.

Servers, all in black and trying hard not to intrude, passed among the guests with silver trays of salmon mousse, melon slices dipped in vanilla honey, tiny finger sandwiches of roasted pork with garlic sauce, and water crackers accompanied by miniature silver thimbles of thyme, sassafrass, mint and wild apple butter. Digesting the scene from the relative safety of the wine cellar - a cheeseburger in one hand and a diet coke in the other - I tried to make sense of all this elite-ness and failed miserably. It was all too much ado about nothing and it reminded me of scenes from"Alice in Wonderland" - the Queen's croquet game and especially the Mad Hatter's tea party. I seemed to have fallen down a very deep rabbit hole indeed. Meanwhile, the wine master ( much like the hedgehog ) appeared to have fallen asleep amid all the chattering guests but no one seemed to notice or mind. The party continued until closing.

Eat, drink and be merry. And all that jazz.

The Short Life of Fashion

The man in the tan sansabelt pants and polyester shirt - his hairpiece just a fraction out place - set a pricey bottle of wine on the counter, gave me a grim look, and ordered me to have it chilled. My pleasure, I told him smartly and hoped to God that he would turn his back to me and return to his table before I broke down laughing. His wife, a substantial blonde barely contained in her form fitting capri pants and push up bra, wore a pasted on, frozen smile that never wavered while her glassy eyed stare seemed to be locked in place. Perhaps, I thought, the result of only having one contact lens in place - the effect of her one blue and one brown eye was startling. I filled an ice bucket and began the process of chilling the expensive chardonnay, all the while trying to erase the image of those stretchy tan pants and those mismatched eyes, wondering if this particular colorful couple might live in a house without the benefit of mirrors.

Let me be perfectly clear - I am a jeans and t shirt gal from the get go and these days spend my working days in scrubs and running shoes. I am not a fashion statement in any language and as a rule do not judge those around me in terms of apparel. But sansabelts? And multi colored artificial eyes? All tied together with arrogance? It was simply too much and as I watched them walk back to the table - well, to be perfectly accurate, he swaggered and she tottered, maintaining a vise like grip on his arm - it was nearly impossible to maintain any professionalism.
Even on those days when I slink into the grocery store in dark glasses and my floppy straw hat, sans makeup or teeth and dodging any familiar face, even on those days I am careful to keep a low profile and stay anonymous. Recognition is to be avoided at all costs and calling attention to myself borders on sin. Not only am I a sight, I am perfectly aware that I'm a sight and prefer to keep it a private matter.

Out of curiousity, I looked up sansabelts - introduced in 1959 and still, much to my surprise, available and going strong some 50 odd years later - just as unflattering and foolish now as they were then. And here I was thinking they had gone the way of sousaphones and nehru jackets.

Then again, possibly I have misjudged the short life of fashion.

One Word Answers

The half persian is a shy and nearly withdrawn cat - black with a silver undercoat, fluffy from head to tail and huge round eyes. She has been in residence several years but is just now beginning to open up. I watch her emerge from under the bed, cautiously take measure of what she sees and decide it's safe, then take a few steps toward me. She is a lovely animal but very much a loner, retreating at the first sign of the black dog, skittering away at any sort of commotion and keeping her thoughts to herself. This is a cat who values privacy, the protection of darkness, and the quiet side of her own nature. She will sometimes curl up in my lap and consent to being stroked but she remains alert and distant. Winning her over has been long and hard won fight but well worth it.

In a prior lifetime, my friend Tricia invested that same kind of effort with me. I arrived in the south wanting only to stay hidden behind a husband and a family name. My social skills were rusted, I distrusted small talk, hated crowds, new people terrified me. I felt I would be discovered if I were to reveal anything about my past and in my heart I knew I had married mostly for the wrong reasons. I worried I would be exposed every time I opened my mouth to speak so silence and one word answers seemed the least treacherous course. I knew I wasn't worth anyone's efforts. Tricia, however, patiently kept on engaging me, pushing me, forcing me - just as she still does - and in the end, she overcame me. It was easier to give into friendship than keep fighting.

She has since seen me through divorces, job losses, and all the rages and resentments of every day life. She supports, fusses, scolds, encourages, praises and empathizes. Her advice - whether I follow it or not - is almost always sound and it's a huge comfort to know that she's on my side. She has stuck with me, restoring my faith in the integrity of friendship and its possibilities and always there with a kleenex, an aspirin, a kind word, or a hug.
Friendship does not come easy to me - like the half persian, I tread lightly and watch for danger around every corner, always careful to hold back just a little, just in case.

No Call for Clowns

The clown woke - as he usually did - hungover, sickish, bleary eyed and alone. He stumbled through a hot shower and a cup of Starbuck's then picked out a fresh costume, slicked up his spiky hair and painted his face. It was then, as he preened in the full length mirror before pronouncing himself perfect, that he remembered he was a clown, overweight, out of work, friendless and idle minded. He had nowhere to be, no calls to make or return, nothing that he needed to do. The entire day stretched out before him and there was no good reason not to take a drink - one would clear his head, two would warm him, three would make him feel normal and after that it wouldn't matter. He carefully Visine'd his eyes before mixing a pitcher of martinis - he was, in fact, an unsuccessful and very bad clown - when the circus had folded its tents and left town they'd left him behind to the mercy of grade school carnivals, traveling magic shows and ultimate failure.

By noon, his outlook had improved. Feeling mildly hazy, grandiose and unaware that he was staggering ever so slightly, he decided to treat himself to lunch and an afternoon drive. He was at home in bars, confident that everyone would recognize him, bound to run into someone he knew. He gorged himself on mussels and imported cheeses, making loud conversation with the bartender and insinuating himself into the company of strangers with each clown card he freely handed out. He sipped his martinis with what he thought was elegance and grace, never fully realizing that his speech was slurring and that his barstool perch was bordering on the precarious. When he saw a familiar face, he didn't just say hello, he hailed with enthusiasm and issued a boisterous invitation to join him. No one cared to be seen keeping company with a drunken clown so no one accepted and after several hours, he made his way out alone, leaving the bartender a generous tip so as to maintain the fictionalized version of his self importance. He might be remembered but he would not be missed - there was a collective sigh of relief as the door closed behind him as well as some pitying laughter and head shaking.

He weaved his way home with the exaggerated care and false confidence that all regular drunk drivers believe they have, carefully keeping to the quiet back streets where there would be the least chance of encountering a police car, still firmly believing that he was perfectly fit to drive.

He shed his clown costume for sharply creased khaki shorts and a Ralph Lauren sports shirt, donned his imported loafers and made a fresh pitcher of martinis before settling on the patio. Without the clown suit and the makeup, without his painted smile, he became what he was - a sad, middle aged, abandoned, lonely drunk, still in search of the circus and the days when he thought he had mattered. It was still light when he finally passed out in his designer patio chair without even the ducks on the bayou for company.

There's no call for clowns without a circus.

Taking Shelter

We are like hurricanes - we gather strength, then falter, change direction, gather strength again. We don't always know where we're headed - whether to make landfall or die out in the gulf and while we swirl and threaten and strut, life goes on in spite of us. It seems to me that there is always a storm waiting to be born somewhere and we have to choose between taking shelter or fighting our way through.

On my personal radar, I discover that most, although not all, of my storms have been brewed internally and that I can determine their course more than I care to admit. Most, although not all, will wear themselves out if I don't take them too seriously and most, although not all, will do just small damage.

I kept Nicky's death this past weekend mostly to myself, not wanting to put it on display, not wanting to have to justify the emotional mayhem it caused me, not wanting to talk about it. I wrote about it, hoping that some of the pain might dissipate, but when it didn't, I came home to my remaining animals and took shelter with them. They know I left with a cat in my arms and returned without one but their lives remain unchanged - even if they knew the pain I feel each time I put out six food bowls rather than seven, they would not understand. Still, I find comfort just in their being.
In that they do not understand loss or grief, they will never know the callousness of hearing the words, It was just a cat, or the well intentioned but slightly mystified, Sorry, usually followed by a quick exit. When you need them the most, words often have a way of not coming easily if at all.

I don't have or own or keep animals - I share my life, my happiness and my sorrow with them. I care for them and tend them as the precious, fragile and temporary beings that they are. In return, they stay by my side as long as God allows then I give them into His care. It was marginally easier with Nicky, his illness was gut wrenchingly apparent and I could not allow him additional suffering. This was no small storm but a hurricane of the first magnitude.

As they are all cast offs or strays or foundlings, I have never been there when they come into the world. It's a hard gift to be there when they leave it but a gift nonetheless.

Happenstance

I came across his picture by happenstance - idly strolling through a social networking site and calling up random names from years ago. He is older, grayer, more filled out, but that slight grin was unmistakable and just as I remembered. It's been over 40 years and we're all grown up now. Would he recall the summer of 1966 as vividly as I do still? And if he didn't, would I really want to know?

I turned 18 that July and he was 20 - we'd known each other since childhood but had never been more than friends. He was the first one to turn up at the back door that year, driving a battered old Ford and easily winning over my grandmother with good manners and a shy smile. I'd had a mild crush on him for the past several summers and when he asked me to the dance I said yes immediately - he was tall and thin and good looking, polite and respectful, what Nana liked to call "a good catch" - she'd known his family all her life and was impressed with this redheaded young man, He's been raised right, she confided to my mother, Takes after his daddy, helps care for all those young'uns and he finished his grade 12, no small thing. Most island education stopped as soon as you were old enough to work and a high school education was a rare accomplishment requiring dedication, hard work, and a curious mind, all traits Nana admired, but mostly I think she was simply charmed by this new young man who tipped his cap, stood when she stood, held her chair and always knocked before entering. She was less sure about the fact that he owned his own car until he pointed out that he'd saved for it for years and that he was too much of a gentleman to use it to his advantage, especially with her granddaughter. We only missed one curfew all that summer after encountering a lost sheep in a thick fog - Nana eventually gave us her complete blessing and years later would still ask about him, wondering if we'd kept in touch. I had to admit we hadn't - I'd heard he married and built a new house but there was 2,000 miles and an ocean between us by then and if there had been a real opportunity, we'd missed it. Come fall, summer loves between island boys and girls from away - no matter how sweet - were consigned to memory, the house closed up for another winter and the last ferry crossing made.

That was my last Freeport summer. There was college and work and real life to be dealt with, new loves waited for us both, choices had to be made and life paths selected. Even so, I still think of him and smile - that final summer with the redheaded boy was the finest and happiest I've ever known. It's magical to be young and in love by the ocean, even if it's only for a summer.