My friend June - tall, lithe, smart as a whip and the best forward the girls basketball team had ever had - lived on the east edge of town near the Cambridge line. From the back porch of her neglected triple decker, you could see the lights of the chemical plant and on certain days, if the wind was right, smell it's toxic fumes. From her front door, just across the city line, the neon lights of liquor stores and grimy convenience stores blazed. The first time my daddy dropped me off, he kissed my forehead and gave me a weary smile. Call me if you need a ride, he said to me, No need to have your mother know about this. I almost asked why and then realized that this was not the sort of neighborhood she would approve of nor the sort of friend she would like me to have.
All of June's family - mother and father, four brothers, and her grandparents who spoke only Italian - lived in this near tenement housing together. The rooms were small, well ordered, adorned with religious pictures and dimly lit. Laundry hung on a makeshift clothesline on the shabby back porch and there was always a welcoming smell of garlic in the air. Her daddy, a streetcar conductor and her mother who cleaned office buildings three nights a week, were devout Catholics and it was close knit family - loud, affectionately argumentative and demonstrative - they welcomed me as generously as they had the tiny stray kitten June had rescued one winter night and brought home in her coat pocket. Now, a well fed and prominent member of the family named Arpeggio ( in honor of Maria Callas and the old country, one of the boys told me with a grin ), he twined around my ankles in greeting and purred like a locomotive.
After supper, a massive assembly line affair with warm bread, platters of ravioli, meatballs lathered in rich, red, spicy sauce and a bottle of chianti, all shared around the old wooden kitchen table with multiple and good natured collisions of elbows and knees and a great clatter of silverware and conversation, June and I found a quiet corner and opened our books. The math equations and formulas that I struggled with as if they were a foreign language, came easily to her and while I breezed through the English reading assignments like falling off a log, she kept a dictionary close at hand. Arpeggio joined us and an Italian tenor aria'd in the background - the hours passed and before we knew it, it was almost midnight. It was decided that June's oldest brother, Michael, should drive me home - a call at that hour would almost certainly provoke too many questions from my mother - and in the interests of propriety, June tagged along for the ride. It was the first of many late night study sessions and many amazing suppers, none of which ever caught my mother's attention. Their English may have been less than perfect, their finances less than sterling, their background that of immigrants, but in this crowded and enthusiastic household, everyone understood discretion and intolerance.
After high school, we went our separate ways and as happens, lost touch. I remember hearing that all four boys served in Viet Nam and that only three came home, that June had won a scholarship to a small college in Vermont. After that I heard no more but the memory of those late suppers and that family with little money but all the love in the world, is still clear.
Imagine I end you an email - in English.
You don't speak English BUT you have a translator, so the message is translated into, say, Rumanian. You then read it and forward it to a friend.
Your friend doesn't speak Rumanian, BUT he has a translator too, so the message is translated into, say, Arabic. He reads it and then forwards it to another friend.
The second friend reads Arabic but has a couple of questions about the message and he sends it back to me only it arrives in binary code. I don't have a translator for binary code in any language and since the message has been interpreted in multiple languages, it doesn't make a whole lot of sense anymore.
I call the second friend for clarification on his questions and he reads to me from a book of instructions that I've never seen and has been translated from Chinese. I then call the author of the instruction book but it goes right to voice mail and the call is never returned.
Several weeks or months later, I get a memo demanding to know why I haven't straightened this out.
And this is how the health insurance game is played.
It was a moment of non-thought, possibly induced by one too many after dinner brandies, possibly just a careless and poorly thought out remark, but when my mother suggested a change in the Christmas routine, my grandmother turned to ice. An artificial tree? she growled, as if my mother had proposed a cross burning on her manicured front lawn, You think that this house should have an artificial Christmas tree? She glared at her daughter, her hands half in and half out of the sinkful of soapsuds and dinner dishes, her eyes narrowed. Have you taken leave of your senses altogether? My mother flushed and nervously lit another cigarette. I just thought .... she began and Nana cut her off in mid sentence. You didn't think at all, she snapped furiously, I've had a fresh cut tree in this house every year of my life and I will for as long as I live! My mother exploded into tears and fled the kitchen, leaving Nana muttering under her breath and scrubbing dishes with a vengeance. Artificial tree, my foot, she spat, no respect for tradition, always looking for the easy way out!
Nana's handyman arrived with the tree a week or so later, 12 feet of it, beautiful and almost perfect in its symmetry. He recut the stem and set it on the tree stand, gave it plentiful water and then spend considerable time - under my grandmother's watchful eyes - uncoiling light strands and arranging them to her satisfaction. She believed in giving the tree time to breathe and adapt to its new surroundings and would put the ornaments on herself the following day. By Christmas Week, the whole downstairs blazed with color and light and smelled of cinnamon, eggnog, and evergreen - the transformation seemed like a miracle to me. Gifts arrived daily, wrapped packages and fruit baskets and silver platters of homemade fudge mounted up under the tree and spilled into the hallway. There were lights in every window, a wreath on both the front and back door, red and white stockings hung from the mantle and carols playing night and day. Nana took her Christmas traditions to heart. All the family would gather on Christmas Eve for presents and a late supper - Christmas dinner would be served the next day with only the best china and silverware on the table. It was, I remember, the only time we ever said grace before a meal.
My mother and grandmother made peace by being respectfully polite to each other. My mother praised the tree and Nana nodded and gave her a neutral "thank you", graciously withholding the "I told you so" but thinking it all the same. No suggestion of an artificial tree was made again. It wasn't exactly peace on earth but for a day in a fractious and quarrelsome family a little short on love and with differences too deep to overcome, it was enough.
By New Year's it was gone, all packed away and stored for the next year, the discarded tree leaning crookedly on the sidewalk awaiting the trashmen, the Christmas Village with it's little houses and the blanket of cotton that served as snow dismantled and back in the attic, the stockings neatly folded and put back in their boxes. The time of transformation was over and it was a new year, a time to start over and try again.
Life is a series of short seasons, change and miracles.
Chaos is in the air in the wine shop.
Wrapping paper and ribbon, cellophane and unfinished gift baskets are everywhere, the floor is littered with bits of straw packing and discarded notes. Cheese plates are in progress, servers run to and fro for wine and extra crackers and the telephone rings endlessly - last minute gift orders, dinner reservations, catering questions. Every manager and owner is present and pitching in and despite the stress and mess, this is my favorite time of year in retail. We're all fueled by adrenaline and caffeine, lack of sleep and holiday anxiety - it's happy madness, unruly, loud, fast paced and in its own frantic, frenzied way, a whole lot of fun. Still, there won't be any regrets when the last gift basket has been delivered and the last table cleared and we're all able to return to our normal pace. The new year approaches.
Friends ask if I miss the snow and cold of New England - like I would a root canal without anaesthesia, I think but just laugh and say no. For better or worse, I have become transplanted in the Land of Dixie and magnolia trees,
bayous and parishes, extreme wealth and extreme poverty. The halls of the rehab hospital are falsely gay with decorations - wheelchair bound residents, some intact, some with broken or missing limbs, make their way from room to room. A nurse passes with a brightly colored basket of cookies, she wears a Santa hat and a cheerful smile and I can hear her humming under her breath. Scrub suited aides escort visitors bearing gifts and carry on lively conversations, Christmas music echos from the dining hall, there are sounds of laughter and ragged breathing and some crying. An unattended gurney sits by the elevator, its sheets tangled and in disarray and someone has put a large poinsettia plant squarely in its center. It would make an interesting photograph, I think as I pass, the sharp red and green against the stark white is eye catching and oddly evocative.
At the doctor's office, things are winding down with the last flurry of Medicare patients seen and sorted out before the new year and the new deductibles kick in. Our newly divorced little nurse has met someone and has a date for Christmas Eve, coworkers are off to New Orleans and Texas, the doctor and his family are leaving for the Festival of Lights in Natchitoches, a beautiful and historic small southern city just south of us. My friend Michael is packing his dogs and his presents for the trip to Arkansas and my friend Tricia is aglow with having all her daughters at home for the holiday.
At the end of the day, I crawl into bed with my own family of cats and dogs and revel in the prospect of sleeping til noon. Tis the season.
It's a pleasant enough facility - clean, lots of windows, every floor brightly decorated for the holidays. There is a spacious community dining room, the staff smile and welcome visitors and a large sign that reads "Recovery Road" hangs over the entrance to the physical therapy area. I find my friend, Henry, in a sunny 4th floor room in one of three beds, "The Andy Griffith Show" is chattering from his roommate's side of the room, otherwise it's peaceful. Aides are delivering dinner trays although it's just four in the afternoon - nights in hospitals and rehab centers come early and it's a long time til morning - these are empty hours for those in pain and seeking sleep. Patients with intact minds and atrophied limbs wait for morning and some relief from the boredom, even the misery of physical therapy is welcomed.
I find my cell phone and call his daughter. They chat for a few brief minutes, she assures him she is fine and will be here for Christmas, he assures her he's fine and being well cared for - there is truth and deception on both sides, neither wants to burden the other with the realities that she is in the midst of a divorce or that he faces a long and difficult recovery and is not likely to be home for the holidays.
A dinner tray arrives and the call ends. He eats unassisted, stubbornly and awkwardly struggling with his one good hand and accepting my help only to pour him a plastic cup of juice. The effort of eating is enormous and leaves him exhausted and when he's done he sinks back into the pillow with a self satisfied grin, I did it myself, he tells me and I smile at him, Indeed you did, I say, And did it very well.
We work on a crossword puzzle together for a little while, he solves while I fill in answers and in between we talk of Christmas and pain and therapy and friends. A journey of a thousand miles, I say to him and he replies, Begins with a single step.
How do you eat an elephant? I ask and he answers without hesitation, One bite at a time.
I tun his pillow, straighten the covers, give him a final sip of juice and a kiss then slip out, leaving him to his thoughts and I hope a good night's sleep and peaceful dreams.
The grass is covered with frost, stiff and crackling underfoot, and the skies are tinted gray with little sunlight getting through. Christmas is just over a week away and all along the bayou the trees are silhouetted against the horizon, their branches stark and sharply focused against the cloudy sky. A flock of blackbirds passes overhead and a lone heron sits statuesquely on a half submerged mix of debris and water weeds. It's a cold day and there's a suggestion of sadness in the air - even the sparrows scattered along the telephone wires seem to shiver and cluster together. It's winter, an unforgiving season despite the holidays and the holiness.
The mailbox overflows with unwanted bills and unsolicited catalogs, one time only special holiday offers, and a handful of Christmas cards - a very few friends and relations still take the time and trouble to handwrite them. One cousin carefully types several pages to encompass the entire year, makes copies and then uses bulk mail to send them out - this is the only time of year I hear from her and I suppose I should be honored by this annual missive. Instead, I generally find her superficial, cheerful and rambling prose annoying and the attached list of GOALS ATTAINED and THIS YEAR'S ACCOMPLISHMENTS slightly and self righteously obnoxious. I usually don't finish card or contents and have no trouble in transitioning them from mailbox to trash. Not exactly charitable, I know, but we aren't close, haven't seen each other in thirty plus years, and have precious little left in common. The cards from the bank, the real estate agent and the Chrysler dealer follow immediately afterward - we have even less in common.
By noon, the sun has fought its way through, the cold morning wind has become a sticky warm breeze and the lone heron has joined a dozen or so of his kind of the banks of the bayou. They are motionless to slow moving and remind me of a country cemetery, not sparing as much as a glance for the passing traffic or each other. The old gray and white cat that prowls our neighborhood and who had begun his day curled atop a heating unit was now sunning himself in the driveway next door. He watches the squirrels at the feeder, curiously passive and not interested in initiating a chase.
Even if you're a squirrel, uncertainty is the only constant you can count on.
The youngest kitten, usually a strutting and confident little thing, full of mischief and mayhem, cowers at the approach of the tabby. There is a moment of spitting and growling, both raise their hackles, then the little one abruptly turns tail and flees for the narrow space behind the stove. The tabby, as mild mannered and easy going a creature as I have ever known, flattens her ears down and gives chase but the kitten is faster and reaches safety with time to spare. The stand off continues for several minutes - loud but harmless - and finally I sweep the tabby up and deposit her in another room.
May I remind you, I tell her sternly, that you were once on the street yourself, six weeks old, homeless and unwanted. Have a little empathy. She glares at me. You don't have to like him, I continue, but mind me, you do have to stop being so mean to him. She is impassive, bored with this familiar lecture and paying no attention. With a careless flick of her tail, she dismisses me. Not a half hour later, they are at it again, this time she has cornered him behind the kitchen door and both are on their bellies, snarling and lashing out. This time, I snatch him and carry him out of harm's way. And don't kid yourself that I think you're completely innocent, I say sharply, You are a provocateur. He stares back at me innocently as if he doesn't understand what all the commotion is about. There is a touch of defiance in his eyes, a suggestion of swagger when he trots off.
Both he and the tabby spent the first weeks of their lives on the street. They adapted to scavenging, dodging traffic, and became street smart in the battle for survival, skills they no longer need but don't seem to want to let go. Each is independent and strong willed, tough as old boots and feisty. When it comes to territory, compromise is not in either of their natures - sharing anything is out of the question. It's a matter of chemistry, I suppose, they simply don't like each other and are drawn to expressing their opinions in strong terms, foul language and random violence.
The chemistry of cats may not be that far removed from the chemistry of the human species. There are no more than a handful of people I dislike for no reason at all - they have never harmed or bothered me, most I have had only the most superficial involvement with, but there is something I sense that sets off warning bells. Before a word has been spoken their faces have already told me Here is someone you do not wish to know. Perhaps the tabby sees this in the face of the kitten - perhaps the kitten knows this and tries to exploit it. Perhaps they are both following age old instincts and there is no explanation at all.
Whatever it is, both these little former orphans, for all their street smarts, will work it out on their own terms and in their own time, just as we all have to do.
With no more than a pocketful of change and a burning curiosity to explore the world beyond the small island, Billy packed a knapsack and set out on foot for the ferry. He crossed early, alone save for a car full of whale watchers on their way home and Cap barely noticed him. He was a slightly built boy of fifteen, usually compliant and shy, and short for his age, and had struggled with an unspoken of restlessness his whole life - island life, which so satisfied and reassured his family and friends, nagged at him. He had been born with the wanderlust and it called to him constantly, seductive and filled with the promise of things he had only heard about - orange groves and passenger trains, skyscrapers and circus animals - he wanted to see it all and though young and naive, he was a determined and moderately clever young boy with a winning smile and an anxious heart. He cringed at his nickname, Billy Timid, and longed to shed it.
He began as a dishwasher, sleeping in an abandoned bait shack, eating leftovers and saving every hard earned nickel. He worked through the hard winter and after several months moved on, taller, thinner but just as restless as ever. He signed on as a cabin boy on The Princess Helene and for a year made the daily crossings between Digby and St. John, attending to tourists and travelers with easy precision and never losing sight of his goal. After one crossing, he simply slipped off and out of sight into the streets of St. John, a harsh and grimy city with a cold heart. He kept moving that very night. He had no passport or birth certificate but crossing the border those days was no great challenge - a folded up twenty dollar bill and a sincere look easily convinced a customs official to look away for a moment - and just like that he was in Maine at the height of apple picking season. When the orchards were depleted he discovered a simple truth of life on the road - an itinerant dishwasher never has to look long for work - and from diner to cafe to roadside stand, he made his way down the east coast to Jacksonville, to Gainesville, through the orange groves and skyscrapers and finally to Daytona, the winter headquarters of the circus. After a year or two and one all too brief winter on The Keys, he caught a train back to Maine, hitched back up the coast to Bar Harbor and boarded ship for the trip home. His travels and his dreams were complete and though he had little more in his pocket than when he started and still carried the battered old knapsack, he was content and ready to come home. He had followed his wanderlust full circle and the island welcomed him with open arms - a wanderer home with tales of cities and grand adventures, of the people he had met along the way, all the secrets of freedom, the good and the bad blended into a tapestry, told and re-told, each telling a little grander, a little more magical.
For most of the island, youth was given but once and worked away or spent like a handful of change at a penny arcade. Billy's was invested and paid interest for years - it showed us that dreams can see the light of day and become real, that living can be more than hard work and gray hair, that memories can stay with you and be recalled as needed. It showed us that courage and curiosity go hand in hand and, that in the overall scheme of things, stepping up is easier than being afraid. No one called him Billy Timid anymore.
With all due respect, doctor, I said, not having a clue where this stand your grounded-ness was coming from, Last time I followed your orders about something non-medical, I got reamed and you didn't stand up. I'm not about to repeat that mistake.
He blinked and lowered his glasses, looking at me as if I'd lost my mind and was looking forward to being out of work. I don't mean to be insubordinate, I added, but what you're telling me directly contradicts the instructions I already have and I'm not risking another reprimand.
It was, of course, not a real conversation, just lines I should have spoken and didn't.
The day before, I had - under protest and pointing out that it was contrary to procedure, an objection that was impatiently waved off - followed an order he had given me. My aquiescence had resulted in a lengthy and sharply worded lecture that had stung me deeply and the wound was still fresh, aching with resentment and bitterness. I felt I had been unjustly accused and unfairly punished and thought I might choke on my own fury. It was a trap of my own making, built and reinforced in childhood, founded on the absolute powerlessness of a child at the mercy of an adult world. It has become a driving need to excel in hopes of avoiding mistakes. Perfection, I tell myself a hundred times a day, is an unattainable goal - my best is all I have to offer - but when I fall short through no fault of my own, when I hear disappointment, impatience, or anger in the voices of those I work for, the very ones who have put me between the rock and the hard place, my every instinct is to lash out and defend myself. Instead, I swallow hard and promise to do better - the effort this takes leaves me crushed and so angry I can barely contain the urge to pack my things and quit on the spot. I despise my fear of unemployment.
I've lost the sense of belonging in my job, of mattering or making a difference. There are constant reminders that I could be replaced by someone younger, smarter, more pliable, better trained. My work remains intact but my spirit is damaged. Against this husband and wife partnership, even when they disagree, collide, overrule each other and issue conflicting orders, I feel that child's powerlessness. It doesn't seem to matter much that we are caught in the crossfire - whichever way we turn will be wrong.
My mind and intellect tell me to let go, to not waste time on foolish slights and workplace inequities. My fragile side tells me it's wasted time and effort. All sides remind me that I just work here.
It's been years since I've had a Christmas tree.
When in retail, there was simply no time to even look for one let alone decorate, light and maintain it. My handmade needlepoint ornaments have been packed away for better than a decade, the memory of walking in on the last tree and discovering it and the ornaments had been raided for chew toys remains vivid. My Christmas spirit was no match for that minor disaster and in good conscience I couldn't blame the dogs or cats for succumbing to the tree's allure and temptation - none of them can manage a stitch so how could they know. I sometimes think about dragging out the boxes of candles and wreaths and wooden Santas, about hanging lights on the eaves or arranging animated reindeer on the front lawn, but the time and effort it would take are more than I have to spare. The only thing I hold dear is the music - each verse of each carol is precious to me - and I start humming them incessantly about this time every year. The simple beauty and spirituality of the Christmas hymns calm and comfort me and I am still surprised to discover that even now I remember all five verses of "Good King Wencelas". As I currently am in the employ of a doctor of podiatry, this bit of memorization is admittedly less useful than say the surgical procedure code for a bunionectomy ( one of the most ridiculous sounding words in the entire language in my opinion, certainly in the top 100 ) but it's fun to sing.
So I think about decorating and always decide maybe next year or the year after. I read what my cousin Linda has written about her tree, the ornaments in particular and how each has a history or a special memory attached, and I think of all the years I needlepointed and cross stitched my heart out. It was a time when I had time - for small luxuries and gift giving and the spirit of the season. Now my Christmas wishes are for sleep, enough money to pay the annual tax bill, one more sitting through of "The Bishop's Wife" and a radio station that plays Christmas music from now until New Year's.
I'll never forget what you've done for us, my friend Henry's daughter said to me, There's no way to say thank you.
I considered this for a moment, marveling at how beautiful, articulate, bright and together she was and remembering how much we had in common. Her stories of childhood are mine - the knock down drag outs, the criticisms, the mixed messages, the search for sanity and trust in an alcoholic household, the emptiness of being caught between two parents who's personal war never ends. Your dad was there for me in all the rough times, I tell her carefully, I'd be a pretty poor friend if I wasn't there when he needed a little help. She smiles a sad smile, brushes her hair away from her face. Her daddy stirs in the hospital bed and asks for juice and we both move toward him - he gives us a crooked grin, one side of his face still paralyzed from the stroke, and says quite clearly, You can never have enough orange juice. He holds the cup in his good hand and drinks steadily, not something he could do a week ago, then replaces it on the bedside table and tells us thank you. It's a small gift but a precious one, each minor step toward recovery a blessing and his little girl, now a grown up child with her own life and family and everyday troubles, smiles at him and leans over to kiss his cheek. She takes a seat next to me and leans back with a soft sigh. He's so much better, she says gratefully and I nod.
I've followed her life since she was in grade school, in part because of my friendship with her daddy, in part out of worry but mostly because it so paralleled my own. Her mother, a cold and distant figure with an explosive temper and a viperish tongue, determined to control and manipulate her husband and child for her own ends, overflowing with resentment, jealousy, rage and bitterness at her lot in life - her daddy, a quiet and gentle mediator and peacemaker, ground down by years of domination and abuse until he surrendered to the solace of alcohol (or work, living apart and other women) and gave up on his own needs. These were things I knew about and it pained me to see another child caught up in the same private and isolated nightmare. Bad marriages, I had discovered, were often like quicksand - victims were unwilling to leave familiar territory and even in the midst of drowning would not reach for an outstretched hand - love may turn to dust and disrespect and lies but the grip and comfort of sickness seeking sickness hardens like cement. Children of such marriages are held fast, learning early and easily not to trust, not to tell their secrets, not to expect anything. They dream of escape only to find that geography changes only the scenery and that you are drawn back to what is familiar even when it's the same old sickness of enabling and rescue and codependence and misery.
This strong and pretty child, this educated and bright young woman, is now living apart from her husband with a divorce in the works. She's gotten away but she hasn't escaped.
So we sit side by side in a hospital room, sharing stories and watching her daddy sleep. There are close to 40 years separating us but it makes little difference - we are survivors and all in it together.
She lived in a small attic-turned-apartment above the general store, sharing quarters with her parents and sleeping in a closet sized room, feeling suffocated and trapped by morning prayers and nightly scripture readings. Seeing evil and temptation everywhere, her parents watched her like a hawk - after school she donned an apron and worked behind the counter, evenings she studied under their watchful eyes, Sundays she spent in church. It was said that she slipped out and down the outside stairs each night after midnight and that by fourteen, she'd known every young man on the island and the entire scallop fleet, that she could be had for a smile and a compliment. By sixteen, her reputation for what was called easy virtue had spread to the mainland and they came in groups, from as far away as Yarmouth and Church Point - seeking an hour or two with a girl who didn't want to see their faces, just their money. By eighteen she was gone, once the rumors finally reached her parents, they waited til she had gone out, then simply locked the doors and burned her belongings, disowning and denying her with a religious satisfaction that shocked even the preacher. They were never to relent or forgive, never to admit the part they had played, never to speak her name again. There was, they told James, no place for a whore in their faith and it wasn't their fault she'd succumbed to the devil and the sins of the flesh. Harlots belong in hell for all eternity, her mother told the young minister, She's nothing to do with us and will burn alone.
Cast off and condemned but by no means penniless, she made her way through the provinces, eventually settling in Quebec and opening a small but selective and prosperous brothel. She had learned discretion and elegance as well as French, and spent the remainder of her life in comfort, overseeing, protecting and growing her business. She contracted no disease, never spent a night in jail, and was not struck down by her sin. When James wrote of her mother's death, she sent flowers, a showy and somewhat gaudy oversized wreath with an unsigned card - her father immediately had it removed - and several years later she arrived for his funeral, a tall and slim dark haired beauty in expensive and tasteful clothes who stayed only long enough to attend the service before slipping into a long, dark car complete with tinted windows and a driver, and leaving without fanfare. The wages of sin 'pear to be improving, Miss Clara remarked as she put the finishing touches on the gravesite and arranged the final flowers. James just shook his head but that Sunday he preached at length about pride and forgiveness and the obligations we have to each other - there was not a word about hellfire or harlots or sin. Ain't it a pleasure to have a preacher who lives in the real world, Clara added after the service and there were nods of agreement.
The girl who had lived above the store and thought herself unwanted and unloved, who made her way in a cold world and defied the rules not to mention her family and The Good Book, died quietly in Quebec just before her 70th birthday, a wealthy and well known woman of means and influence. Her only repentance was a last letter to James - she had enclosed a substantial check, to be used solely at his discretion, no strings attached - and asked that her ashes, soon to follow, be scattered on the island, at the place of his choosing.
I go to explain myself to God, she had written, and having no expectation of heaven, it seems right to me that the profits of my profession should be left behind.
Just a few weeks later, a package arrived from Quebec and James did as he'd been asked. Most of the island watched in respectful silence as he stood on the edge of the cliffs above St. Mary's Bay and emptied the plain black urn. He had searched for appropriate words for days and finally found a quote from Shakespeare. Some rise by sin, he shouted above the wind, Some by virtue fall. And with that, the wind carried the ashes over the cliff and into the churning ocean. Standing between my grandmother and Miss Clara - still in her apron and gardening gloves with her shears in one hand - I watched this small ceremony in awe. What did he mean, Nana? I finally asked and she and Miss Clara smiled at me. It means, Clara said clearly, that we all do the best we can with what we're given and hope for mercy. Nana took my hand and we navigated through the meadow grass toward the old Lincoln. The air was sweet with the smell of wildflowers and sunshine and a tinge of salt spray. And, she added, that we are all due an expectation of heaven.
Old habits are always just one drink away and a fall off the wagon usually means a hard landing for all involved.
Hearing of a longtime friend's recent stumble after more than twelve years of sobriety, program, and hard work, I was heartbroken and badly shocked. Even know I know that rock solid is no more than an illusion maintained on a day to day basis, there are people who embrace help with open arms, who change their lives and commit to helping others. When such a person crashes, it affects everyone who knows him. He has abandoned his family, put his music behind him, shunned those who love him, and returned to a life of grim and tragic consequences, setting aside the last twelve years as easily as pushing away a dinner plate. It happens every day, I remind myself, there is no good or bad to be found, no reason to be uncovered, no crisis to great to be faced. Blue skies and sunshine greet you yet the need to drink, a compulsion too powerful to ignore suddenly becomes a brutal and overwhelming force. All it takes is one.
The hardest thing about understanding the insanity of drug addiction is everything - we look for logic where there is none, we want cause and effect and some reason for the abuse, the name calling, the broken promises and apologies. We want to know why someone would choose self destruction, why when there is no money to pay bills there is always enough money for a drink. We ache to comprehend why reason and well ordered arguments and threats don't work with drunks and drug addicts, why we are not enough. We understand symptoms of illness until they are expressed in behavior - then we curse lack of will power. In the very midst of madness, we search for answers that don't exist and refuse to give up the fight, making our own selves sick in the process.
And so I add another name to my prayers and hope that he will find his way back to recovery, sanity, music and those that love him.
Looking out from the sunporch windows, I see the white capped ocean and think how perfect to live by the sea.
There is something soul stirring about a house on the water. The sheer magnificence and peace of the ocean, the silhouettes of the boats at rest, the sunsets and dawns, all call to something central in our beings. There are no beginnings or endings to the sea. It teems with life and joy, it gives us a clearer perspective, it is legend. It has no favorites and its company is free for the asking. There is, I can hear my grandmother telling me, no better friend and no deadlier enemy. She is thinking of all the fisherman, young and old, who left harbor before sunrise and never came home. She is thinking of wreckage and bodies pulled from the sea, of funerals and the sorrow of the families left behind. Those who choose the sea, she once said to me, really don't have much choice. It's in their blood and they have to go.
Those who love the ocean, I think, have the same feeling. There are places we are meant to be, places that heal and restore us, places where we are truly at home. Until we get there, there is a kind of vague restlessness to us, a mild sense of something not exactly right. We seek but do not find until - if we are very fortunate - we come to live by the water.
Despite my dreams, I think it likely that I will not see the ocean again, will not stand in Uncle Willie's pasture and look toward the horizon again, will not play in the tidepools of the coves or collect driftwood or watch the boats returning through the passage. The pirate ships and pleasure boats of my memory may have to do.
Still, I plan for one more ferry ride with Cap, one more taste of haddock, one more night watching the lights from St. Mary's Bay and always, one more lighthouse.
Two people can keep a secret, so it is said, only if one of them is dead. In those parts of our lives that we keep only to ourselves lie our greatest secrets.Be they built of a shame to great to share, a sadness to profound to admit, or a happiness that would be shattered if revealed, these are the feelings and moments we are quiet about. Whether they are celebrated, stored away for a rainy day or even denied and buried in the dark corners of our minds where we do not visit, these are the solitary things that we keep hidden - we tread lightly around them, knowing they might turn to dust at the slightest ray of light and somehow leave us a little empty. Even the painful secrets have their place and purpose. Whether we admit it or not, we all have them and many we will take to the grave, which some would say, is as it should be.
At the time, being fifteen and frightened, feeling invisible, unloved and very angry, my friend Trudy decided to make a statement that would get everyone's attention - she locked herself in the upstairs bathroom and calmly drew a straight edge blade across her wrists - at first there was so little blood and pain that she was surprised and she cut twice more. Then there was blood and pain, a great deal of both and she watched morbidly until she realized that she might lose enough blood to pass out and if no one were to come, might actually die. Holding her wrist under the faucet with a towel pressed hard against it, she stopped the bleeding, bandaged the cuts, cleaned up the mess. It was summer but she stayed in long sleeves, suddenly having lost the will to get even and be noticed. The seriousness of what she had tried to do scared her badly and she told no one but spent long hours thinking and wondering what she had really intended and hoped for. Each time she got close, she shut her mind, not wanting to admit to suicide - attempted, she reminded herself - for effect, hating the I'll show them ideas that cluttered her thoughts. It wasn't who she was, she told herself sternly, and it wasn't worth her life to make them sorry.
It was to be a secret she carried all her life, carried for so long she barely gave it a second thought after her teens. It had made her neither stronger nor wiser and in retrospect she came to see it as a moment of foolish self indulgence, a half hearted gesture born of youth, pride, and neglect of soul.
Scars heal, minds mend, souls can be restored.
And some secrets you need never tell.
Of Incurious Kate - cousin to Willie Foot and daughter of Elizabeth in the time before her mother went proverbially as mad as a headless chicken - it was said that such beauty of mind and soul could not be left unflawed so the good Lord had given her horrifically crossed eyes, but for the bridge of her nose they would have met and been joined as surely as Siamese twins. She was a compliant and passive child, obedient, unnaturally quiet, usually expressionless, and capable of maintaining the same pose for hours on end without the slightest sound or movement. In these almost sleep-like states, she appeared perfectly content although a little other-worldly and whatever thoughts she might have had, she kept to herself. If asked what she was doing, she would appear to give the question considerable thought - sometimes she answered, I'm being, or I'm watching, but if pressed she would give no other details and we were all left to wonder, being or watching what?
She lived, everyone thought, in a private and walled in place that only she could access, isolated and protected from the real world and all its cares, rarely venturing beyond her own front door or outside her own mind, but as the island was to learn, God may have deprived her of some senses, but He had replaced them with others less common. She was as natural a storm senser as anyone had ever known, able to feel approaching bad weather long before it could be felt on the wind or in the air. She was a diviner, easily able to find the exact spot for a well to be drilled, navigating terrain with her eyes closed and coming to a stop at the precise location where an underground spring was waiting to be tapped. When she be could be coaxed into a fishing boat during a dry spell, she could lead the small fleet to waters that teemed with haddock, flounder, mackerel - she stood with her hands at her sides, letting the wind guide her. The boats followed the direction she faced and inevitably came upon the best fishing grounds. And she knew when death was on its way, laying hands on the elderly, the infirm, the injured - not speaking but offering comfort in some way no one else could see, helping to ease the way just by her presence.
She brought them peace and the promise of an afterlife, all without speaking a word and although no one wanted to find her on their doorstep, many were relieved when they did.
It was, the island supposed, inevitable and only right that James and Lydia would take her in - Kate's gifts needed tending and the preacher and his wife were gentle folk with open minds and generous spirits. It was Lydia who suggested sunglasses, suspecting that it might make it easier for Kate to communicate with others if they weren't so distracted by her eyes and hoping that it would allow Kate herself to engage them in return. The idea turned out to be a stroke of genius - with her crossed eyes shielded, there were no more gawking stares, no well intentioned efforts to pretend not to notice. She wasn't mended and there was no overnight miracle but gradually Katie began to spend less time in the faraway places of her mind and more in the actual world. With a little help from the schoolteacher, she learned her letters using crayons and a blank sketch pad - she was drawn to the colors and texture and soon began to create her own drawings, colorful and bright caricatures of passers by and tourists, then charcoal sketches of her surroundings. Her art was abstract, often wildly out of proportion - huge flowers in the most unlikely of colors towering over small oceans, portraits that showed scars their owners didn't know showed,
pictures of sleeping green cats and red robed angels, pink trees with lavender leaves, a demonlike, great whiskered catfish poised to devour a miniature whale. And faces, done in shadowy shades of blue and purple, some with lightly penciled in tears. As Lydia carefully dated each drawing and bound it into a scrapbook, she realized that they ranged from what had to be imagination to fantasy to horror. Do you think this is how she sees the world? she asked James and the preacher, holding the scaly and jagged toothed catfish at arms length as if it might come to life and snap off his fingers, frowned. I hope not, he said finally, I truly hope not.
Kate was in sight of twenty when she she began drawing the owls - no fantasy these, but sharply detailed birds with piercing, rounded, sleepy eyes. She drew barn owls and snowy owls, great horned owls, owls with short ears and long, screech owls and owls with wickedly gleaming black talons and yellow eyes. Lydia took these sketches to the schoolteacher who confirmed that some could not possibly be found in their part of the world. Picture books? he asked her, Magazines? Lydia shook her head, bewildered and unnerved. For reasons she couldn't explain even to herself, she kept the owl drawings separate, rolled up and stored in a linen chest. After several restless nights, she locked the chest and hid the key in a porcelain box atop a closet shelf, all the while chiding herself for her foolishness but unable to ignore or articulate the sense of dread the drawings produced. She said nothing to James, fearing he might try to reassure her that they were only drawings and that her imagination was running away with her. Owls weren't inherently wicked, she knew, but Kate's owls felt wrong, felt threatening, as if they were omens. I feel better knowing they're locked away, she admitted to my grandmother, but really I'd like to burn them even though I don't dare. My ever practical grandmother poured her more iced tea and reminded her that James was a man of God, Who better to ward off an evil owl? she asked and Lydia managed a shaky smile.
Incurious Kate - no one had called her that in years, not since she'd begun exploring the world in her own fashion - simply put aside her crayons and sketch pad one winter day, curled up in a rocking chair facing the fireplace and stared into the flames. At some point, she simply stopped breathing and died. Lydia, elbow deep in suds at the kitchen sink and watching the snow falling on the sleeping vegetable garden, thinking about that night's choir practice and reminding herself that she had to find time to proofread James' sermon before Sunday, thought she saw an owl fly past the window. She flinched sharply and in the same instant it took her to catch her breath, she knew. She dried her hands and walked slowly to the fireplace - there was, she realized, no sense in hurrying - and found Kate in the rocking chair, hands clasped around her dark glasses, eyes closed, a final owl drawing resting in her lap - a sweet and solemn faced baby barn owl with green crossed eyes and pastel feathers against a bright blue and yellow background. She would burn the rest, Lydia thought, but this one owl she would keep.
It's not for us to know or judge how others see the world, I remember James preaching that Sunday, We are all here for a purpose and a time, known only to God. Let us pray.
Restless and restrained in my Sunday clothes, slightly bored and anxious to be done with church, I was looking up when I thought I saw the owl, high in the rafters above the pulpit, hidden in the shadows and motionless. Don't fidget, my grandmother whispered sharply to me, but Lydia looked up, narrowed her eyes slightly, then squeezed my hand, nodded and smiled. I was always to wonder if the owl, just the barest outline of feathers and yellow eyes, had come to see Katie home.
