Swing and a Miss

It was the last game of the summer.


The village was gathering around the field, settling in with cold lunches and soft drinks, spreading blankets and watching the makeshift teams warm up.  It was a near perfect day for baseball - the sun was high and cool ocean breezes drifted over us while fluffy, white clouds drifted overhead.  The sky was a deep blue and startling bright.  The teams took their places, Uncle Shad fired his starter pistol, and the game commenced.



Strike!  Rowena shouted at the first pitch, earning a modest grin from the mound and a collective glare from the dugout.  


Nana dished out cold chicken and potato salad, sweet pickles and olives, bottles of root beer.  My mother unwrapped slices of brown bread spread with butter and homemade blackberry jam.  We ate from paper plates and in a lapse of protocol strictly reserved for such occasions, drank right of the bottles.


Strike two!  Rowena yelled from behind home plate and the infield moved in slightly.


There was ginger ice cream in miniature dixie cups with tiny, flat wooden spoons and baskets of wild strawberries glazed with sugar.  Warm and well fed, feeling as if life could hardly get any better, we sprawled on the grass with my grandmother overseeing us from her lawn chair, her knitting in her lap.  My brothers began a game of cards and the dogs, full of scraps and sunshine, slept side by side and nose to nose.


There was a sudden crack of a bat as one of the Tiverton boys connected solidly with a pitch.  Heads turned but the ball drifted left and into foul territory, just a few feet from the tree line.


Three and two!  Rowena called loudly and the Tiverton boy shrugged and returned slowly to home plate.


I found myself getting sleepy and leaning back against the dogs' warm bodies I closed my eyes.  I could smell the salt air and the grass, feel Fritz and Lady breathing quietly, hear the tinny sound of country music from a far off radio.  I listened to the shouts of the players and the crowd cheering.


Strike three!  Rowena's voice cut through the afternoon haze, Yer out!


I don't remember who won or lost that summer afternoon.  Truth to tell, it didn't matter much.  What I do remember is the sights and sounds of summer, the coming together of an entire village and a childhood that I wished would last forever.

Cleared for Take Off

One perfect summer when I was about ten, umbrellas began to go missing all over the island.

As they were small things and not much used except by the tourists, the disappearances rated only slight notice, most folks thought they'd simply mislaid or forgotten them, but Uncle Shad began to suspect there was a plot in the making although he was hard pressed to say why exactly. Don't be a jackass, Uncle Willie advised him, Ain't no money to be made in kidnapped umbrellas. But Shad was convinced and began discreetly following the tourists, tracking their movements and watching their rented homes, following them and their children. In time, he discovered a clue - each and every family had made some kind of contact with Willie Foot prior to an umbrella abduction. Where Willie goes,he reported triumphantly, Mischief always follows! Not even my grandmother could dispute this evidence, circumstantial as it was. Willie's escapades were well documented if not legendary and islanders had long since stopped being surprised at his ingenuity. His mind was a mystery but his actions usually followed a well thought out if slightly bizarre path. Well, Nana said, If nothing else, Willie's a creative thinker. What can you do with umbrellas?

Swords? Uncle Shad suggested tentatively.

Chimney covers? Uncle Willie asked with a wink. Parachutes?

Nana frowned at them then turned to Ruthie and me, playing jacks on the kitchen floor. Girls, she called, If I gave you an umbrella and it wasn't raining, what would you do with it?

Fly! Ruthie immediately responded.

Just like Mary Poppins! I added.

Shad and Willie both laughed but Nana's face turned thoughtful. Indeed, she said, Of course you would.

A week or so later at the Sunday School Picnic, just as the softball game was getting underway, Willie Foot came streaking across left field, trailing a stream of tied together umbrellas in his wake and clutching open ones in each hand. He dodged one of the Sullivan boys in center field and somehow managed to trip up young Walter Ryan in right, then headed directly for the embankment, reached it, and before anyone could get to him, leaped off with a mighty war cry - gravity and wind did the rest, miraculously carrying him barely past the rocks, through a flock of startled sea gulls, and with an impressive splash, into the blue green ocean. Before the startled onlookers could react, there was shouting from below as Uncle Shad and Uncle Willie appeared in a dory, rowing for all they were worth toward the umbrella littered water and hauling the little man's body out of the sea.

Man overboard! I heard Shad holler and then, We got 'im, Alice!

Heads turned toward my grandmother, placidly packing up the remains of lunch and smiling slightly. She was never to say how she knew when and where Willie would appear or what he had planned and both uncles stuck to their story that they were simply in the right place at the right time. The next morning each found a box of rocks at their back doors while we discovered a tidy stack of umbrellas neatly arranged in the woodbox.

Nana smiled that same smile. You're welcome, Willie, I heard her say softly.

Peace on Earth

After an all day and night rain on Christmas Eve, Christmas morning finally comes - it's clear and cold and the sky is still trying to clear.  Merry Christmas, I tell the small brown dog peacefully asleep on my pillow.  The black dog stirs and nudges me with her nose.  And to you too, I say.  The cats, being cats and very wise, watch and wait - they will spring awake and rush for the kitchen when I throw back the covers, but not before.  


All over the city - all over the world - I imagine children are waking, some to their first Christmas morning.  Sleepy parents are gathering their wits, cameras are being set up, coffee is being brewed and church bells are ringing.  Tis the season for gifts and family celebrations, homecomings and hope.  For this one morning, I think, 
all is well with the world.


May there be peace and enough to eat for everyone.  May there be shelter and warmth, an end to violence in all forms.  May confused and troubled minds be clear and self respect restored for all.  May we all find a better way.

And may The Cat Who Lives in the Garage and all others like her, come in from the cold.

Pass the Sugar, I Want a Divorce

Cold, irritable, and complaining about the number of parents and children ahead of us in line, my mother drank coffee from a cardboard cup, regretting her promise to take us to see Santa Claus and displaying a definite lack of Christmas spirit. My brothers went first and then it was my turn in the lap of this department store Santa who smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. And what's on your Christmas list, little girl? he inquired with a ferocious pinch of my cheek and a false laugh. A divorce for my daddy, I said quite clearly and my mother, suddenly as red as the imitation Santa's suit, grabbed my wrist and pulled me away with a vicious jerk. The store fell suddenly quiet when she slapped me, only the strains of "God Bless Ye Merry Gentlemen" piped in through the loudspeakers were audible, then stunned parents began gathering their children and hurrying toward the escalators. My enraged mother, now the center of attention and white faced with fury, pushed and shoved her way through the crowd, dragging all three of us like rag dolls and cursing like a sailor. Just wait until your father hears about this! she told us with a grim, tight lipped sneer/smile, You'll wish you'd never been born!

Fortunately for me, she was wrong - my daddy was saddened and disappointed by my lack of tact but reluctantly proud of my honesty, Inappropriate and misplaced as it was, he told me with a small and hesitant smile, It's just not a good idea to antagonize your mother, especially not in public, so no television for a week. My brothers, deemed to have been innocent bystanders and not part of any conspiracy to humiliate her, were summarily pardoned.

The storm swirled for a day or so, kicked up some dust and pointed remarks, then blew itself out and the skies cleared. Christmas was three weeks out and I was sent to my grandmother's to help with the decorations. By the time I returned, the incident had been rewritten and by virtue of some clever editing and no rebuttal witnesses, had become the tale of a long suffering and martyred mother with a brood of disagreeable, ungrateful children and a spineless, easily manipulated husband. This new version went unchallenged for the most part, Anything to maintain a fragile peace, my daddy was to tell me in an adult conversation many years later at The Parker House, Children are resilient and your mother needed her dignity.

Nothing is ever as simple and straightforward as pass the sugar, I want a divorce but some things ought to be.

Cover Up

With Christmas just a few days away, I find myself thinking about snow - the pretty White Christmas kind that falls from a dark blue, star studded sky.  It's a romantic vision.

Family holidays have mostly brushed by me these last few decades - I choose to sleep late and spend the days with my animals. I don't think too much about past Christmases or birthdays - it seems pointless - by nature I am emotionally solitary and a little withdrawn, uncomfortable with gift giving and getting, restless in the company of more than a handful of people, even those close to me.  I prefer the protection of my camera lens in a crowd and the anonymity of a dark bar to a well lit room.  It's a kind of self imposed isolation but it comforts me.

When I left the photo store after a ten year run,  I took a two year break from retail before returning to work in a wine shop.  For the first few months I felt at home - nearly every face was familiar - and people told me often they were glad to see me back in the retail world because I was such a "people person".  I found this to be an odd and troubling compliment, mostly because it was patently untrue, but also because it made me think of how we see each other.  If people saw me as so personable, I wondered, how accurate was my view of them?   How much of our real selves to we actually share with others and how much do we hide?  Was it shyness or self esteem?  Confidence or fear of being exposed?  If you were to scratch the surface of another person you know, would you be surprised?



There are genuinely nice people in the world - not nearly enough in my everyday world and none at all in politics, banking, the law or health insurance - kindness can't rule the world, after all, and niceness does have its sappy side.  But at this time of year, it seems like we could all put in a little extra effort and not regret it.

So while I think about snow, I don't miss or expect it.  Like my niceness, I suspect it's too often just a cover up.  

The Technical Side of Being Single

Being more than a little electronically challenged, I was less than enthusiastic about the local cable company's recent upgrade. The adaptor boxes arrived and sat on the kitchen table for several days until the cable went out and I was forced to connect them. While I now have picture and sound on both sets, the remote control power button doesn't work on the flat screen and the remote doesn't work at all on the smaller one. All things considered, I'm consoled by the fact that they work at all - I have a natural distrust of technology and my English major background failed to prepare me for the technical side of being single.


Used to be, when presented with an electronic challenge, my friend Scotty would drop by, appraise the situation, and then without the first glance at the instruction manual, put it together and make it work, whatever "it" happened to be. He saw clarity and sense in the little plastic bags of nuts and bolts Uand order in the jumble of cables and wires and diagrams. It's a guy thing, he would tell me with a crooked grin but I thought it was just how his mind worked - he liked working with his hands and putting things together, he liked being needed. He could connect a video recorder or install a window unit or fix a capricious vacuum cleaner. He printed his own black and white photographs, enjoying the creative process from start to finish.

I myself, am the no assembly required, just plug in and go, out of the box ready type. I prefer things to work simply and right with a minimum of fuss and small parts. Several pages of instructions - even when written in two languages and illustrated - depress me and I feel defeated before I begin. I've also realized that I dislike asking favors from friends so depressed and defeated or not, I unpack whatever tangle of equipment is included in whatever device, locate my glasses and a Phillips head screwdriver, and say a small prayer for patience. I already hate every minute it takes.

Such is the life of single woman, born out of time and too proud and stubborn for her own good.

And a final word about "xfinity", the new and improved cable service - once again, progress for its own sake with absolutely no redeeming features - the picture now randomly and constantly pixilates and breaks up, the sound abruptly stops and starts with no warning, the screen freezes then returns with dialogue and movement radically out of sync.  Could be I'm not the only one technically inept.

Old Houses

I didn't think much about the lack of hot water on Friday morning - it's an old house and routinely high maintenance - I went about my morning chores, and to save a few steps, left The Cat Who Lives in the Garage a bowl of food on the back deck rather than take it to her inside the old wooden structure.  As soon as I got to work, I called the heating and plumbing people - they assured me they would be able to make a service call that day and I promptly shelved the problem in my "things that will be fixed later tonight" file.

We worked our usual half day Friday and I was home by noon, having rearranged my day to meet the technician rather than go from work to the grocery store - it was a minor inconvenience at the time, but this is a busy season for heating and plumbing companies, and the technician, a tall and lanky man in denims and a faded blue railroad cap, didn't arrive until just after 4:00.  Over the frenzied barking of the dogs, he introduced himself as Ken and gave me a friendly smile - I collared then locked up the dogs and pointed him to the garage - he tipped his cap and casually walked toward the back gate.

A few minutes later he was knocking at the back door - the friendly smile had turned into a genuinely serious look of concern - and I followed him to the garage where he showed me the self destructed water heater, sitting forlornly in a pile of burned leaves and ashes.  Scorch marks went all the way up one side and the wooden wall, just inches away, was blackened with soot.  It took several seconds for me to fully comprehend that there had been a fire, several minutes before I realized that it was a miracle anything had survived - the garage is old and made of wood, filled with a decade's worth of cardboard boxes, plastic bags of trash, discarded carpet and old half full cans of paint.  Dead, papery leaves cover the floor and collect in every nook and corner, including where the now defunct water heater stood.  It was, I began to understand as I watched Ken pick and pry at the old heater in search of a cause, an ideal environment for fire.  Shaking his head and looking at me as if I'd just won the lottery - the fire had died for no apparent reason without spreading and taking everything with it from garage to trees to my house and the one next door and at that moment, I think we both knew it - Ken was grimly silent.  I found myself thinking of a line from an old blues song my daddy had taught me, His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.


Come Monday, a new water heater will be installed.  Between now and then, cold showers seem a small price to pay.

Hand in Heart

In the past four months, she has given birth to her second child, had an emergency appendectomy, been in two car wrecks, suffered a ruptured cyst on her ovary. And on Sunday morning, her daddy refused the last minute desperate measures that might have saved his life and lost his battle with heart failure. His death was not easy, not peaceful - just the end of a long and painful struggle - those he leaves behind are frozen with grief, stunned by the unwelcome invasion of guilt and relief they feel. Death, my daddy had told me so often, is always hardest on the ones left behind.

Being estranged from my family, I was spared this particular hardship. I received news of my mother's death through a telephone call and learned of my daddy's through a letter and newspaper clipping from my cousin - it was very much like reading of the passing of a long lost relation turned stranger - any feelings I might have once had were dead and buried and I searched in vain to grieve, eventually coming to think that I'd already done so years before. There was nothing left to mourn or be missed and while I was curious about this lack of emotion, I was also grateful for it. At twenty one, our little nurse doesn't have this insulation - she comes from a close and loving family and her emotions are vivid and sometimes chaotic, always right there on the surface for anyone to see. A part of me envies her unrestrained feelings and her tears while another part feels just the slightest contempt - I wonder if love is not just a habit or worse, an obligation - I have more feelings for my animals than I can remember having for my parents or either of my husbands and this forces me to consider the possibility that something is lacking in me.

I don't like admitting it, but I can't remember any real sense of loss when my daddy died. I read and re-read the obituary notice but it was as if the connections had rusted out over time. I felt a faint sadness but I didn't cry or lose any sleep, had no gut wrenching regrets. He was, in many ways, a foolish and flawed man, but also a gentle and fine man. Perhaps time really does heal all wounds - or perhaps they just wear away from not being thought about.

Seems love and loss go hand in heart or not at all.

Food for Thought

When it came to everyday meals, my mother was a perfectly adequate if uninspired cook.

Standard evening meals (with the exception of spaghetti every Wednesday and beans and franks each Saturday), consisted of mashed potatoes, two vegetables - one green and one yellow or orange - and some variety of meat, chicken or chops, an inexpensive pot roast or meatloaf. But when it came to desserts and breads, there was a time when she could and regularly did outbake everyone I knew, both my grandmothers included.

In her kitchen, there were rules with no exceptions. Artificial ingredients were absolutely forbidden - the very idea of whipped cream from a pressurized spray can offended her and the mere mention of a sugar or salt substitute could get you unceremoniously tossed out on your ear. She shunned the use shortcuts and most anything that needed to be defrosted. No ready made mixes where allowed and the concept of margarine was too insulting to be discussed. When she made strawberry shortcake, it was from scratch - fresh berries and cream whipped by hand served in flaky, still warm pastry shells. I began coming to terms with her alcoholism when the shortcake was served on store bought spongecake with frozen strawberries and Cool Whip. There were no more marathon Saturday morning baking sessions, no more fresh breads or egg tarts or slabs of apple pie with sweet, sticky juice and a hand laid criss cross crust. She wouldn't admit it, but she'd always baked by memory and instinct and with both beginning to fail, she found having to rely on an actual cookbook to be degrading - it hurt her pride. Any damn fool can cook out of a book,

she wept to my daddy after a disasterous mixup with sugar and salt and an inedible banana cream pie. And with that she put away her baking dishes and mixing bowls forever and we came became a Saralee and Aunt Jemima family.

Not long after that, the house I'd grown up in was sold, my daddy moved in with my grandmother, and my mother found a place in the country where she spent her days alone and didn't cook at all except on weekends. The isolation allowed her to drink without discretion or recrimination and it was here she began a gradual descent into the fuzzy world of dementia and eventually cancer. The cabinets in the tiny kitchen bulged with cereal boxes and multiple stacks of canned goods, rotting food cluttered the kitchen sink, the refrigerator reeked from spoiled milk and moldy packages of meat but the liquor cabinet was always fully stocked, a half dozen or so six packs of beer crowding out the back up stash of icebox manhattens in their slim, dark, dust-free bottles.

My mother's table - too often the prelude to an after dinner battle with food as the fuel - became a place to play cards, fold clothes, and answer letters. She was right about any fool being able to cook from a book and I learned to make green beans and porkchops and the like - but I never took much pleasure in the kitchen and I never, ever stopped missing that shortcake and apple pie.

The Owl in the Oak Tree

The owl in the oak tree had huge yellow eyes. He sat motionless on a branch, blending perfectly with the dusky October light and I would never have seen him but for the light breeze that stirred the leaves for a quick instant. I'd never seen an owl in the city before, never mind in Nana's well kept back yard and there was something weirdly witchy about his presence - I didn't know why, but it was spooky and felt wrong. When I closed my eyes for a few seconds and then looked back, it took another several seconds to find him again, like one of the hidden objects puzzles my daddy liked to work. Your eyes can play tricks on you, he used to tell me, Look really hard then relax your eyes and see the whole picture. And like magic, something I'd been staring directly at and not seeing would appear as clear as day. The owl in the oak tree was like that - shrouded and yellow eyed and mysterious, there one minute and gone the next. I decided that my imagination was running away with me and took a tentative step closer - with a whispery flutter, the owl suddenly spread its wings, turned its yellow eyes in my direction and took flight. I instinctively dropped to the grass and covered my head with my hands but the owl soared well past me and glided away. Had I felt a rush of wind from his wings or imagined it? Nana was calling me to supper by then and I ran to tell her of the owl - the somehow magic owl, I was already thinking - she listened absent mindedly while brushing grass off my jeans then reminded me about elbows on the table and told me to finish my milk.

My daddy arrived not long after, frayed and preoccupied from a long day, too tired to eat. I thought of telling him about the owl but didn't - I'd begun to get the idea that the owl might not have wanted anyone to know about him, that maybe it ought to be a secret. By bedtime, I was certain that he had been a magic owl and that grownups wouldn't have been able to see him anyway, better to keep him to myself. I dreamed of his yellow eyes and camouflage feathers, of being being carried away on his wings and flying into the dark night skies to places only imagination could take you. But time passed, nights got colder, and by the first snow I wasn't even sure he'd been real - an owl in the city wasn't at all likely, I knew, and early fall nights with shadows and lights in conflict could easily play games with your eyes. I outgrew the notion of magic owls in oak trees but never completely gave up the possibility.

There are still early fall evenings where shadows and light play in the oak trees and night birds sing. Who knows that a yellow eyed owl might not be watching from the unfallen leaves, watching and waiting to take flight and show off a little magic.

But for the Grace of God

The rain began in the small hours of Sunday morning, hard, cold and without let up. It's December now and this small southern city, which barely a month ago was so filled with warmth and sunshine, has slid across the threshold to winter. The dogs have to be hand carried out and The Cat Who Lives in the Garage retreats to the relative shelter of that structure. When I bring her food and water, she cries at the injustice of it all - it's cold but dry, I remind her, and she could come inside the house at any time - but she fears these unknown walls and waits impatiently for me to leave. That night the rain beats like pellets on the roof, floods the streets and gutters, and gives me vivid dreams. A crack of thunder startles the cats and they scatter for cover while the dogs, one per pillow, growl and shiver and edge nearer to me. There but for the grace of God, I tell them quietly. The black one nudges my shoulder until I put one reassuring hand on her still damp coat - the small brown one slips under the covers and curls against me - they both whine very softly at the fierceness of the storm and one by one, the cats gradually return and take their places. We all sleep but it's light and restless. By morning, the weather still hasn't cleared and it seems I can't take a step without a nervous animal underfoot. The steady rain continues, pacing itself, I think, conserving its energy and endurance, waiting us out. There's no point in railing against nature but when I finally leave and find myself very nearly ankle deep in water in the driveway, I rail anyway - cursing the cold, the persistent downpour, the flimsy umbrella, the need to work for a living, and most of all, anyone and everyone who is heartless or ignorant or just plain irresponsible enough to leave an animal behind to fend for itself. There is, I believe, a special place in hell for such people and it's never too soon to get there.

Back in the Light

Over the last dozen or so years I've taken hundreds, maybe thousands of pictures of musicians. As photographs go,

this one is far from perfect - I was caught off guard and it's poorly lit and cluttered with microphones - but still it's the only one that nearly made me cry. It's one of those moments when the stage becomes secondary and the emotion between two old friends shows its face despite the audience and the cameras and the chatter.

God gives, but if you misuse, He can take away. A wildly talented and successful singer and songwriter in Nashville can trip and fall and wake up homeless, hungry and broke, living on streets that show no mercy for his plight and no appreciation of his gifts. It's a hard fall into the shadows - family is lost, friends give up, guitars are pawned, reclaimed, and pawned again - days and nights blur into years of lost time and hopelessness. Nobody knows you when you live day to day and wake up under a bridge on a cold, rainy Nashville morning. You might sell your soul for a hot shower and a fix or a drink but even a shave is out of reach until you're ready to climb up and out and even then it's a long haul back to the light - the climb is treacherous with missteps and backsliding on every level. Not many make it and even when you're back on firm ground you can hit a rough patch and lose your footing again. And then, a friend extends a hand, a woman offers forgiveness, an audience celebrates your return - someone in the crowd shouts out Welcome home! and suddenly you're back in the light with a clear mind and a grateful heart and you decide to stay.

That's the story behind this one, very imperfect photograph - a small moment between old friends, a moment when the music begins to play again and the lyrics make sense again.

You've been in the shadows a long time, old friend. Welcome back into the light.

Gunshot to Glass

I watch The Cat Who Lives in the Garage adeptly descend from her perch on the fence and approach the food bowl. She keeps one eye on it and the other on me and my camera, pausing every few steps to assess the danger and listening carefully to the frenzied barking emanating from inside the house. The dogs are not pleased with her presence and they want her - and me, I'm sure - to be quite clear about their feelings. She keeps her guard up and stays alert but when she reaches the food dish she ignores the non-stop barking and concentrates on her meal. In the battle to win her trust, I feel we've reached another milestone but experience tells me that the finish line is still a very long away,

It also occurs to me that trying to befriend this animal ( although to what end, I still don't know ) is an exhausting and highly frustrating process. It's hard enough to build trust within a species - and there you frequently have the added benefit of a common language on your side - while all I have is friskies, a stubborn streak, and a good heart.

Of all the bridges we build to try and connect to each other, trust is the strongest, the most delicate, the most sacred.

It can stand for a thousand years unsupported or come crashing down like gunshot to glass. Once broken, it may be patched and over time, even repaired, but without its original integrity, it can't ever be made as new. No matter how deeply the seeds of suspicion are buried, the heart always knows they're still there, pushing gently and slowly but with great resolve, toward the surface. Each and every day after each and every rehab, I prayed for my husband and myself, wanted so desperately to believe in his sobriety that I was consumed. And always, the disease came back, and with it the inevitable cover ups and lies and betrayals. On the surface, I willed myself to believe, but deep in my heart, I knew - the rebuilt bridge was in serious and mortal danger of collapse and I was afraid I might not make it across in time.

I don't know what The Cat Who Lives in the Garage has experienced with humans or what circumstances brought her to my door, only that her instincts to be wary are fully engaged and that she is prepared for betrayal. Convincing her to trust me is likely to be a long and rocky road, mostly uphill and it may even prove futile, but I'm committed to trying.

Stray cats and alcoholics, I think to myself, there ought to be a country song in that somewhere. Meanwhile, the cat eases so close I could reach out and touch her - but I don't. I'm beginning to see that the way she looks me is the way I looked at my husband, through a filter of suspicion, doubt, and a safe distance away. No sudden movements, I remind myself with a sigh, no gunshot to glass.

A Better Class of Horsethief

Mark my words, my Aunt Helen said darkly as she adjusted the bow on her silk blouse, I pride myself on my tolerance but breeding will tell. No good will ever come from allowing the child to associate with the lower classes.

Oh, put a sock in it and have another drink, my love, Uncle Eddie advised, You spend too much time in that Beacon Hill elevated atmosphere.

Helen, dear, my grandmother added sweetly, More sherry? Your glass is empty. Again.

Aunt Helen sniffed in her overly delicate way, produced a lace handkerchief from her cashmere sweatered sleeve and glared first at her husband, then at her sister in law, but, I noticed, accepted a third or possibly fourth glass of sherry. The dispute was over her proposal that I spend a year or two at her elite girls school - I was in need of what she called "finish and polishing" - it made me sound like a manicure, I had complained to Nana and then made it clear that I would rather die then take one step over her snobby threshold. My grandmother had smiled, a little bitterly to be sure, but reassured me I had nothing to fear and my daddy had laughed outright at the suggestion, earning a look of pure malice from Aunt Helen's side of the table.

Really, Guy, she had said sharply, Are you against the child's betterment?

His usually gentle eyes narrowed at this and for once, my daddy - always the pacifist and peacemaker - spoke without thinking first. Would she learn better manners than you have, Helen?

There was a moment of shocked silence before Aunt Helen abruptly excused herself and hastily fled the room, lace handkerchief clutched in one white knuckled fist. Uncle Eddie sighed hugely and poured himself a generous sherry but made no move to follow. Well, my grandmother said mildly, That went well, Edgecombe. Nothing like a little class warfare to clear the air.

My fault, my daddy muttered, I know she meant well.

The hell she did, Uncle Eddie shrugged, She meant to hit a nerve. She's never gotten over her great grandfather being a horsethief.

Several pairs of eyes turned to him in disbelief.

Oh, yes, he sighed, A better class of horsethief to be sure, he started as a schoolteacher, but they hung him all the same. Damn fool woman's still not over it, always been afraid someone would find out and ruin her reputation at that stiff necked school. Christ, it was over a hundred years ago!

Nana began to laugh, softly at first and then wildly until tears were welling up in her eyes. My mother joined in, my daddy followed, and finally even Uncle Eddie gave in, his shoulders shaking so hard that his sherry spilled on the linen tablecloth. It took him the rest of the day, after we were all sworn to a lifelong silence, for him to coax Aunt Helen back and my daddy had to make an apology - before witnesses - but there was no more mention of my changing schools.

Scratch a saint, find a sinner. Or maybe an unrepentant horsethief.

Misdirection

And this I have learned - some people are born to destroy each other while others are meant to stand aside and watch. It's a lesson in sickness and perversion and detachment.

My friend Henry, now residing in a third nursing home, in part due to an incident of abuse which resulted in his wife's arrest, sits and almost desperately tells me how it's his fault. It's been a year since his stroke and he's made no visible physical progress - his left side is dead weight, he can't walk or care for himself, his muscles have atrophied and become useless. His mind, however, is fully engaged with misdirected bitterness and blame and a twisted, enraged sense of self pity. The mood swings are violent and he lashes out with uncontrolled, unmedicated fury at the closest target - his wife .She responds with equal brutality, with equal verbal abuse and finally flings him out of his wheelchair. Another in a long series of 911 calls is made and when the firefighters arrive, they in turn call the police. She is arrested and led away in hysterics and handcuffs, he is left alone.

A week later, I hear all this over a sad, lonely lunch in the nursing home dining room. For three solid and painful hours I listen as Henry recites a litany of his faults and launches a full out defense of his wife. She just isn't cut out to be a caregiver, he tells me, she works 80 hours a week, supports him and pays the bills, does everything for him and in return he provokes her, blames her for the stroke, smashes anything he can reach with his cane, complains and demands more than she can possibly give. The police arrested the wrong person, he tells me, she is an angel with a heart of gold, and terribly, dreadfully misunderstood. He has made her what she is, he tells me and his eyes fill with tears - no one ever sees what he puts her through before she breaks down and explodes. She's the real victim, he tries to persuade me, Everybody has it wrong.

Even it that's so, I say, she doesn't have the right to hurt you.

Nothing hurt but my pride, he says with a hopeful smile.

This time, I tell him and he laughs and pats my hand.

Some people are locked together in sickness and denial, born to destroy each other yet unable or unwilling to be apart. The rest of us watch and worry and wait to pick up the pieces. It's a mystery, part illusion, part misdirection,

but no magic.

Cherry Tarts & The Cupboard Mouse

Eye to eye with the mouse in the cupboard, my Aunt Vi promptly shrieked, Lord have mercy! and immediately fainted.

Now what? my grandmother grumbled as she removed a baking pan of cherry tarts from the ancient oven and placed it on the counter, What is it, Vi?

There was a low moan from the pantry and Nana impatiently made her way to the small room off the kitchen. Mouse! my Aunt Vi whispered from the floor where she was cowering against a cabinet, white faced and wide eyed.

Viola, my grandmother said wearily, I swear you faint at the drop of a hat!

There was no mouse to be seen by then although the bag of sugar he'd been nibbling on showed tiny but distinct teeth marks and there were smudged tracks in the spilled sugar. Nana, spatula in hand and prepared to do battle to the death, flung open each and every cupboard door, but the little rodent, wise in the ways of cupboard living, had long since fled. Nana added cheese and mouse traps to her shopping list and before sending me off to McIntyre's gave me a stern warning, Not a word of this to your mother or I'll tan your hide! I'll never get her into the pantry again if she thinks a mouse might be waiting! With the dogs at my heels, I trotted off, already scheming about mice and my mother, plotting ways to put them together without getting caught.

You see, my grandmother explained later, You bait the trap with cheese - the mouse snatches it and the trap springs and breaks his nasty little neck.

I had no particular feelings about mice but I was horrified at this savage prospect. Why can't we catch him and let him go? I asked.

Nana frowned and gave me a disapproving look. Because he'd just come back, she said a trifle impatiently, And he'd bring friends and they'd bring friends and in no time we'd be overrun. She softened just a little when I began to cry.

You have to understand - with mice, it's them or us. There's no other way and besides, it's very quick, practically painless.

Looking at the deadly little wooden traps, I had my doubts but I shouldn't have worried for after several days and all the traps having been sprung, not a single mouse had been executed. Nana set the traps each night and removed them each morning before my mother could stumble upon them, but there were no tiny mouse corpses. Sometimes the bits of cheese were gone and sometimes they weren't - it seemed our mouse was a clever little creature, probably with some experience in the area of mousetraps. Nothing! my grandmother would disgustedly mutter as she collected the empty traps. She disliked being outsmarted by a mouse.

The great mouse hunt came to a sad and surprising end one foggy summer morning. Nana had made a fresh batch of cherry tarts and left them to cool on the kitchen counter while she made the beds. My mother rounded the corner of the room with a bundle of clean clothes in one hand and the old iron in the other - when she saw the mouse up to his whiskers in the cherry tarts, she reacted not with her usual panic and screams, but with one dead on pitch of the old iron - it caught the mouse squarely on the head and the poor thing tumbled into the tarts, dead as a doornail. Only then did my mother let loose with full blown hysteria, collapsing on the floor in a pile of pillow cases and wailing at the top of her lungs.

Nana and I buried the mouse (and most of the cherry tarts) beside the blackberry brambles while my mother looked on from a a safe distance away. We had no more trouble with mice that summer, Nana ordered a new iron from latest Spiegel's catalogue, and my mother - who had so loved cherry tarts - gave them up for life.

Thinking will not overcome fear but action will.

W. Clement Stone

Reservations Not Required

I get more than my fair share of invitations this time of year - single people seem to generate a need in others to reach out and share family holiday times. I always appreciate the gestures, they're sincere and well meant and kind, but I always say no. I'm happiest sleeping the day away and not being reminded of my own family dinners - the pleasant ones at my grandmother's are almost too fuzzy to remember and the ugly ones are too clear to forget. I don't really relate very well to happy, loving families, football games and afternoon naps - my preference is solitude and quiet and sleep - and maybe some warmed up red beans and rice.

I give thanks for today, for the roof over my head, the animals in my bed, the friends who understand and don't pressure me to join them, for the life I've redeemed.

At the local soup kitchen, Thanksgiving dinner starts with a simple prayer and ends with music, all provided by people who give up their own time to do for others. The homeless and the disabled, the addicted and the poor and the forgotten all line up for an hour's worth of refuge. There's no big screen television, no dressing up, no overstuffed chairs, no fancy dinnerware, just warmth, plenty of food, and a touch of God's grace to welcome you in and then send you on your way. No reservations are required and no one is turned away from this table. I think of this place when I feel ingratitude prying at the corners of my mind, when resentment for all that I don't have overshadows all that I do.

There is a genuine sense of family here in this small, shabby building - of sharing and giving thanks, of tolerance and respect for self and others. Outside the doors, they are struggling and impaired people but inside, they are children in need of a meal and a friendly face, a place to rest and be safe - they are souls in search of family and better times.

Truth is, they are you and me and everyone. There is sadness here as well as hope, charity as well as dignity, and compassion without condescension.

So come Thanksgiving Day, I will sleep in and be grateful in my own way, as I hope, will we all. And for a few hours, I will share my time with others who have far less to be grateful for. It seems a good way to spend the day, a good way to say thank you and remember that everyone should have a place at the table.

Dixieland

My daddy kept his record collection on a shelf in closet by the front door - Pete Fountain, Pee Wee Hunt, Al Hirt, King Creole, and my own favorite, The Preservation Hall Jazz Band of New Orleans. Dixieland was the very first music I ever heard and came to love in my whole life.

On a perfect November afternoon, I sat on the grass just a few feet from this amazing group of men, all in black suits, white shirts and ties, and listened to a faultless blend of drums, piano, and horns. I've rarely felt so lucky or so carried away and I couldn't help but think how my daddy would've absolutely loved this day. There were people all around me, applauding and dancing, children being swung in the air in the arms of parents, shutters clicking a mile a minute. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, glorious.

If anything bound my daddy and me, it was music. We played it, listened to it, talked about it and loved it. My mother was lukewarm about it and neither of my brothers cared in the least, but my daddy and I were die hard fans, it was in our blood and our hearts and we couldn't have imagined life without it. He taught me chords from the time I was old enough to reach a keyboard, played me blues from New Orleans and Chicago until I knew every note, told me stories of playing in a band in the army. I knew all the names, famous and unknown, could recognize a style and signature of a player after just a few notes, knew their stories and histories. Each time he brought a new record home, he waited until the house was empty then we listened together. It made him smile, tap his fingers and feet, made the sadness in his eyes lighten.

Mostly he played the piano but every now and then he took out a battered old clarinet, handled it delicately and played along with the records. At the farm, he strapped on an accordion and along with my Uncle Byron would play til the cows came home while the rest of the family sat around the old dining room table and listened. Even after I was sent to bed, I could hear it and often fell asleep to the sounds of makeshift dixieland and improvised ragtime. It was better than a bedtime story, more comforting than milk and homemade gingersnaps.

Music called to my daddy all his life. He would truly have loved yesterday and I like to think that just maybe he heard it.

All Souls Together

My cousin Linda's ghost story ( inthesamevein.blogspot.com) captured my interest immediately - in part because it was mysterious - who doesn't like a good ghost story - in part, because I admire her writing, and in part because I like the idea behind it, that anything is possible if we are open minded and just a little bit brave.

The thought that the circle of life doesn't end with death comforts me far more than the ideas of heaven and hell I was taught as a child. I don't think of myself as a highly religious person, but I do rely on my sense of spirituality in most if not all things - we are all, so I believe, connected on one level or another - with each other as well as some higher power on some higher plane. It's only one short step to the next level, that life continues in ways we don't recognize or understand and that every soul, including my beloved four footed ones, has a shot. If ever I am to encounter a restless spirit, I hope I will be curious and not afraid, brave and not disbelieving. If I hear footsteps in

an empty house or a cry in the night, I hope I offer to help and not run for cover.

I think we all leave something behind for others to remember, to be guided by, maybe even to follow. It helps, of course, to be a romantic and accept the movie versions of the afterlife with angels watching over us and keeping us from harm - a Brad Pitt or a Will Smith at the end of the road, beckoning us into the sunset is hardly anything to fear. My idea of heaven is Rainbow Bridge and a reunion with the animals I have loved all my life - it will be smoke free and sunny and at the edge of an ocean with the blues playing in the background.

Cleaning out my grandmother's house after her death, I sensed her presence in every room. At my friend Scotty's memorial, I was sure he was watching and listening. I can still hear my friend Ran's dry sarcasm at my stubborness and still hear the music my friend Danny made.

Ghosts are everywhere, all souls together.

Listen Up

It's the better part of human nature to want to help someone we care about, especially if they're in trouble - we're all, I suspect, fixers at heart - wanting to make things better, make dark days easier and lighter, ease a burden or take away a heartache. We don't like to see friends hurting, worse, we don't like admitting that there's nothing we can do. We park the white horse at the rail, dismount and prepare to take up the challenge of repairing whatever's broken, rarely thinking that maybe all we can or need to do is listen. Not every hardship is a cry for help and not every victim is looking for a white knight or a handout - sometimes all you need to know is you're not alone - such times are for listening and listening again, then listening some more. It's not as ineffective as we might think but it's also not as easy as it sounds.

Most folks I know, myself included, do not idly wait well - we are generally designed to act rather than observe and often see patience as passivity. Cures don't come overnight, no matter how needed or deserved. When I first joined Al Anon, I thought it was remarkable that no one comforted the mostly women members when they told their stories in faltering, uncertain voices, or when they broke down and cried. No one went to their side or offered more than a kleenex - the old members knew better than to tell them it would be alright or that it would pass -

sometimes it wouldn't be and sometimes it doesn't. Initially I took this for coldness, not grasping that listening is an act in itself, that there are times when it's all we have to offer.

When I'm tempted to counsel or give advice, I try and remember those meetings and how it felt to have people do no more than listen. Our choices are our own - we live with the outcomes or we don't, but either way it has to be our decision. If we listen long enough, the words may echo back and when we hear ourselves as others hear us, we may just find a way through.

A doctor can prescribe.

A therapist can guide.

A priest can absolve.

A friend listens without objecting.

A Little Leftover Lust

He's almost young enough to be my son, this dark haired musician with the good time smile and the carefree, classic good looks, and I find myself feeling a quick flash of heat when he leans in toward me and asks to buy me a drink. It's nearly a forgotten feeling and passes swiftly - just a momentary reminder that I may be older, but I'm not dead. He grins, pours me a coke, and takes the stage with an easy, unselfconscious flair. If I were only twenty years younger, my friend BJ sighs and I nod. I know exactly what she means.

It's reassuring to know that my hormones still work - if perhaps a tad erratically - and that the sight and nearness of an attractive man can still make me sit up and take notice if not outright stir my blood. I find myself vividly aware of his hand resting on my shoulder and the faint smell of cologne when he kisses my cheek, I notice what he drinks and what brand of cigarettes he smokes, pay attention to the way he carries himself. These are signs of life and I'm glad to have them reawakened. There's nothing here to act upon, Lord knows, but at least my senses are intact - better to wear out than rust, I like to think - and when I raise my camera and focus in, he looks straight at me and gives me a wink. This distracts me, makes me laugh, and not only do I miss the shot, I find I don't really mind.

I love this life of smoky bars and light hearted flirtations, of music played for the love of music, of margueritas and pool tables and late nights that don't end til early morning.

My energy, sexual and otherwise, is invested in capturing the images and the passion behind them. I'm only held hostage because I want to be.

Even so, my heart skips a beat at that sexy, seductive on stage wink. It responds while my mind is otherwise occupied and my flesh is weary and I kind of like it that way.

Silly Putty & Promises

I bit innocently into the tuna fish sandwich and cracked my teeth on something jagged and hard, sending a small shockwave of pain into my jaw and causing me to yelp with surprise - when I spit, out came a filling but since it didn't hurt, I ignored it until I realized that my tongue would seek out the vacant rough spot every few seconds despite orders from my mind - and that did hurt. I considered the alternatives - the tooth is scheduled to be pulled in a couple of weeks, didn't seem much point in making a bridge loan dentist appointment. I thought maybe I could pack it with chewing gum and let it harden, creative but probably not terribly effective in the long run - then I thought of Silly Putty and wondered if it was toxic. In the end I discovered the dental equivalent - a soft substance that hardens with moisture, is tasteless, and best of all was right there on the drugstore shelf. Feeling smarter than the average bear, I followed the directions, rolled a small portion into a ball and then packed the tooth firmly and slid in my bridgework effortlessly. My tongue still wants to go there but all it finds is a smooth surface. I was, I admit, pretty well pleased with myself.

There are times when I think the world turns on band aid fixes - Silly Putty and duct tape, for instance - designed to bridge some kind of gap in the system and provide temporary relief - but fundamental problems aren't so easily solved. Like it or not, at some point the real issue is going to have to be confronted and a real solution is going to have to be uncovered, a fact the politicians (among others) refuse to acknowledge.

The doctor has solved his staffing problem by sending our second receptionist to our other office two days a week.

Two years ago he promised it would be temporary - a year ago he swore it would be only til the first of the year - and eight weeks ago, he assured her it would only be until our second nurse was back from maternity leave. All that has come and gone and she still travels the 120 miles every Tuesday and Thursday in an unreliable old Camry that just last night broke down and caused her (and her husband and her seven year old) to not get home until after midnight. Each time she talks with him about this, he has a new and compelling reason to go back on his word and while the reasons are legitimate enough, the fact is that in our common people's world, a promise is a promise. It shouldn't be given lightly or superficially and it should never be given if you have no intention of keeping it. If you routinely promise what you can't or choose not to deliver, you're planting the seeds of distrust and it makes no real difference that you almost meant it at the time - a con job, even when wrapped in ribbon and pretty words, is still a con job and a broken promise can't be mended by Silly Putty or duct tape.

If you give your word, stand by it. It may not matter to you, but it matters to someone else.