Keeping It Civil

The happy optimism and indiscriminate niceness of some people notwithstanding, we are not all meant to get along. There are times when the most we can hope for is to keep it civil.

The morning silence is pierced by the ranting and raving of Aunt Lizzie's stray cats - it comes through my open window with a startling clarity and is immediately followed by an uproar from the dogs which in turn is immediately followed by a steady stream of loud albeit mild cursing from my grandmother. They have interrupted her morning routine and being a woman who likes her peace and quiet, she doesn't take kindly to it. Stop that damn racket! I hear her yell, uncertain if this is directed at the dogs or the cats but then I hear water running and the sudden slam of the back door. She plows through the tall back grass like a runaway tractor - there is an explosive Take that! and a violent splash - then abrupt silence. Looking out my window, I see the two cats slink away, looking very much like drowned wharf rats, and my triumphant grandmother, wooden bucket in hand, with a satisfied smile. She tramps back through the yard and the back door slams again. When the dogs protest, I hear her tell them Hush! There's more where that came from! She is not a woman of idle threats and they settle down at once.

Order is restored and soon after the smell of biscuits, bacon and maple syrup is in the air - the dogs arrive in my room with a clatter of tags, leaping onto the bed to deliver morning kisses, their regular wake up call. The factory whistle blows sharply, announcing that it's seven o'clock and time to rise and shine. Breakfast is on the table and Nana is already busy with the Monday morning wash, meticulously feeding wet clothes through the old wringer washer and into her ancient woven basket. By the time the factory whistle blows again for mid morning break, the wash will be hung in the morning sun, the breakfast dishes washed and put away, the kitchen swept and counters rinsed. She will give me a shiny new quarter for filling the woodbox and then send me out to play. From the playhouse, I see her take off her apron, straighten her shoulders and march across the yard to Aunt Lizzie's back door. She doesn't bother to knock, hoping, I imagine, to catch Lizzie in mid flight back to her daybed in the kitchen where she has played at being invalided for as many years as I can remember. The yelling commences at once - two old women in a screaming match over a pair of stray cats - and as usual, it's a draw. Lizzie suggests my grandmother mind her own business, Nana threatens to let the dogs loose. Lizzie hollers for her to get her ample backside out of her house, Nana calls her a scrawny, flea bitten bag of bones who's never had a sick day in her life.
There is a crash of metal, a shattering screech, my grandmother emerges with a look of pure fury and barely avoids being hit by an airborne sauce pan before she kicks the back door shut. And stay out! Lizzie bellows. With pleasure! Nana shouts back.

Politeness, Adlai Stevenson wrote, is the art of choosing among our real thoughts. Perhaps, but in the real world of flawed family and relations, it's more useful to be able to duck and dodge.