Not everyone is meant for all things, I have come to realize as I listened to a friend talk about marriage and the recent - and very unexpected - divorce of someone we both care about. I've been thinking a great deal about my place in life lately, destiny and fate being so close mouthed about their intentions and so very fond, as they are, of hidden trap doors and surprises. Karma likes to conceal itself in our complacency and then spring about like a pinball - you get in the game or you get taken out. The very predictability of things can be shaken to its core by a glance or a word you think nothing of at the time, the devil being, as they say, alive and well in the details. The truth is that I understand no more about your inner workings than I do my own. And yet, for the most part, we all manage to muddle along.
The process of coming to know your own self is long and can be on the tricky side. Just when you think you have it mostly figured out, you step on a mine and realize that we are the most complex of creatures - multi layered, mysterious, seductively true and deceptively false. Regardless of what face we present to the world, we have too many sides to reconcile, too many emotions to sort out.
We're an oddly designed species, made up of hard angles and soft sides, social but solitary, filled with questions for which there are no answers, even if we had someone to ask. We are mirrors - some of us free standing and full length, some distorted as funhouses, some with one way glass. We pose, we examine, we check our hems and seams, then conceal what we don't like and hope no one notices. We are desperate to be understood yet spend every spare minute hoping no one figures us out. We are, whether we admit it or not, gameplayers one and all, even though sometimes we play alone.
Of myself, I can say that I usually don't read the fine print, the little contraindications and warnings and exceptions. I judge on first impressions, and while I may be mildly curious to look deeper and take apart the works, I seldom do. I suspect I fear that in the putting of it together again, I may end up with a leftover piece or two. While my altruism is always seeking the same decency I hope to find in myself, my shallow and selfish side expects very little from my human company.
We all have two lives, the one we learn with and the one we live with after that. Glenn Close to Robert Redford, "The Natural"
Write a letter, my counselor advised, Be as harsh as you like. Don't hold back. Put it all out there.
And then? I asked hesitantly.
Then, tear it to bits and throw it away, she said with a wise and kindly smile.
I've written a lot of letters since then, pouring out feelings on paper, being brutally honest and not caring what harm I might cause. And at the end of each one, I read it over, edit it, and tear it to shreds. It's like sucking the venom out of a snakebite, drawing out the poison and destroying it - you have to be careful not to swallow and while it doesn't usually resolve problems, it does clarify them and help me regain perspective - it buys me some time to calm down and think rather than lash out with whatever thought comes into my head.
I love language and the images it can conjure, the memories it can stir up, the healing it can bring. I love analogies and metaphors, finding the right word or phrase to express an idea or a feeling. I love the challenge of vocabulary and free expression, the delicacy of tact and the bite of sarcasm. If you make it a habit to think before you speak, your words are less likely to turn on you - as a general rule, it's better to regret what you didn't say than what you can't take back - most of us are far more clever twenty minutes later anyway. Words have color and texture and imagery for me. I read, play scrabble, do crosswords, and write to be in their company. I listen to folk singers and other songwriters because they seem to have a truly special connection to language, like poets and great novelists.
Listening to the rugged, silver haired, handsome man on stage tell sweet stories about his daddy as his fingers almost unconsciously wander over the guitar strings, I feel that connection - it's made of humor and self deprecation, humility and a touch of satire, of six decades of life experience related with a soft, southern drawl and a whimsical grin. He may look like a Kenny Rogers riverboat gambler but his soul is made of poetry and prose and he captures his audience like honey captures bees. He is unafraid of the words or their source and enchantment falls over us like snow.
Words do not always obey but they are always happy to serve you. I chase after them uselessly until, unbidden, they come. If I had his gift, I think to myself, they would chase after me, begging to be written down and put into song.
Aunt Genie, born Eugenia Louisa Marigold and the only surviving child of a union no one was allowed to speak of in my grandmother's house, taught us to build sand castles and paper airplanes and how to fly kites high above St. Mary's Bay. She was nimble fingered and could out knit and out stitch every member of the Ladies' Guild. She told stories of magical kingdoms under the sea where mermaids and starfish frolicked, striped fish rode sea horses into great battles and everyone lived on honey cakes and cream and never grew old. She wore bells on her ears and carried butterscotch in her pockets, always colored her nails in pastel and was usually barefoot. She captured hearts as easily as a child and could charm the wings off a fly if she took the notion.
She was called erratic, eccentric, colorful - Sparrow said she lived in a world of strange but no one disputed her kindness or sweet nature. Life was too loud and too harsh for Genie and she found her refuge in make believe and imagination. She was delicate minded and fragile in body, people said, and if she chose to cloak herself in fairy dust and rose tinted glasses, it harmed no one. She befriended the outcasts, the disliked, the lonely and the distracted, seeing in them the same qualities she saw in everyone, looking harder and deeper for the good, taking the time to explore their differences. She refused to write anyone off or demean them. Strays of all kind, human and animal alike, seemed to be drawn to her and she welcomed them all.
She lived alone in a rented room crowded with color - scarves and beads and embroidery decorated the walls, a rainbow maze of fabric swatches hung from hooks attached to the ceiling. There were scented candles and glass canning jars of marbles on the shelves, balls of bright yarn spilled out of the small closet, pieces of stained glass hung in the windows and made prisms on the whitewashed floor. In exchange for light housekeeping and three half days of child care, Genie got free wood for the pot bellied stove, kitchen privileges and a safe place to live and be herself. She tended her window box pansies, fed and tamed deer from her tiny back porch, filled scrapbooks with glossy magazine pictures of mountains and snowscapes and high fashion models amid the lights of big cities.
She saved shells and driftwood and slept on a pile of patchwork quilts, her only furniture being a high backed rocking chair and a folding table, a full length mirror covered with pale blue sheer material of unknown origin, a single chest of drawers - painted bright green with even brighter yellow and blue stripes - and an empty bookcase, strangely out of place for its simplicity and uncolored shelves.
Here, Aunt Genie wrote random lines of poetry on the backs of envelopes, knitted doll clothes that she gave away, held tea parties with imaginary guests and entertained island children with fables and dress up games, feeding us tomatoes and purloined spice cookies from the kitchen cabinets. She taught us to live, to dance, to imagine and dream, to celebrate the impossible and cast off small minds and suspicious looks.
Reality didn't appeal to her so she made up her own - and shared it generously.
Behold individuality and self expression. Who is to say that each is no more than garden variety, borderline madness on a short leash?
The watchmaker peers into a magnifying glass, his large bulk leaning forward and naturally unsmiling face in a frown. The small shop is quiet, its glass display cases - all with NO LEANING! signs prominently posted - could use a dusting. A cat sleeps atop a cluttered shelf and multiple time pieces tick tock steadily. Time passes more slowly here, it seems, there is a feel of the past in the musty air, a leathery smell of watch bands and oil. There is no cash register, no computer, no flashing lights or neon. An ancient wall mounted telephone, black with a rotary dial, presumably connects to the outside world but I've never seen it used, never heard it ring and there are no tell tale fingerprints on its dusty surface.
There are other signs on the wall and propped up on shelves - NO CREDIT CARDS, MERCHANDISE LEFT OVER 30 DAYS WILL BE FORFEITED, CHILDREN NOT ALLOWED, WARNING: ATTACK CAT ON DUTY. Looking at the sleepy old tabby, I doubted this last but you never know. I wait patiently, knowing from experience that small talk is not welcomed here. No one will ask how I'm doing or invite me to have a good day. This is no social crossroads establishment, conversations are held in low, muted tones and limited to the business at hand. The watchmaker looks up at me indifferently.
Broke, he says. Fixable? I ask. Not worth it, he replies with a shrug and hands me back my ten dollar Walmart watch, purchased for it's oversized face and numbers, both of which are kind to my old and tired eyes. Knowing it would be pointless to pursue the conversation, I tell him thanks, and make my exit. Predictably, there is no response.
I could take offense at this entire encounter, could take my business elsewhere but not everyone is blessed with social skills and bright smiles. I know what it's like to be broke down, used up, and all out of nice - so even though I don't know his name, nor he mine, I do know that small talk won't fix the watch.
I met him when he was just a young bluesman of ninety years - a slow moving, slow talking, on the frail side old black man with a flirtatious grin. He turned to fire when he sat down at the piano, the years melted away and you could imagine him as a young man, on stage with Muddy Waters with a lifetime of blues and music ahead of him. He'd no formal training, couldn't read the first note of music - but to his kind of musician, it doesn't much matter - if the music is in your soul, it travels directly to your fingers.
I heard him play live just twice - once on stage in Helena, Arkansas and once a day or two later in a grimy, dusty, and cluttered bar/grill/store in Clarksdale, Mississippi. Listening to him pound the old piano and watching his twisted and scarred hands travel over the keys was mesmerizing and magical - it was the kind of music I'd give my right arm to be able to play, just once, and he'd been at it for nine decades. Later, I found him on the back porch in an decrepit old lawn chair, nodding off in the warm sunshine and looking dapper and elegant. He agreed to let me take his picture and blew me a kiss afterward. Don't rightly know why you'd want a picture of these here old bones, he told me, but ya'll is sho nuff welcome to it.
The good Lord takes a whole lot of care with gifts He gives - Pinetop played another seven years.
Pinetop Perkins
1913 -2004
If you don't stop fidgeting, my grandmother muttered through a mouthful of pins, new dress or not I'm gonna tan your hide.
It was the week before Easter and she was annoyed and cranky that we had been unable to find a what she thought to be a suitable dress. The selection at Robert Hall had been less than satisfactory and we had moved on to Filene's and Jordan Marsh, all without success. Reduced to having update last year's dress was making her short tempered - she had cut the sleeves, remade the collar, added a Pepto Bismol pink sash and was now adjusting the hem. I hated the sash with a passion, in truth hated all things frilly and girly, particularly the new patent leather shiny black Mary Janes and the lacy white anklets. Hold still! she snapped at me and gave the hem a final tug before finally setting me free.
I was, according to my mother, an unruly and ungrateful child, an unapologetic tomboy with a liking for dirt and a gift for talking back, a hopelessly un-girly little girl with no interest in dolls or dressing up. I hated having my hair curled and being forced into dance class, preferred fishing and frog catching over learning to bake. I didn't want to go shopping or try on make up or learn to play the piano, not when there were baseball games to play and hooks to bait, stones to skip and trees to climb. Being a girl left me cold and the prospect of womanhood was too silly to be taken seriously.
Easter Sunday came and we sat in a neat row in the crowded church, still as statues, washed, pressed and ironed with clean faces and not daring so much as a whisper. The service was long, the sermon interminable, the air hot and stuffy. Not many years later I would stand in the warm water of baptism and accept Jesus Christ as my personal savior before being thoroughly dunked under, a decision that had not been mine and which I barely understood at the time. My sneakers had been traded in for black pumps and a matching purse and it was a very long time before I came across that boyish little girl again. I happened upon her after my second divorce and a fling or three - having come to living happily alone, back in blue jeans, non-church going and a little crotchety - one morning she looked back at me from the mirror and winked.
Life is cycles and circles and finding contentment in your own self.
The freezer is forlorn - a lone package of red beans and rice, a box of breakfast sandwiches, a half dozen foil wrapped drumsticks. Below isn't much better - a carton of diet Coke in small glass bottles and a week's worth of chocolate milk. How I haven't succumbed to malnutrition or coronary artery disease is a mystery.
The fact is, cooking is troublesome, messy, and time consuming. My Betty Crocker Cookbook for Young Adults sits gathering dust - I remember once looking up how long to cook hamburgers, and once how to make a cream sauce, I may have actually been a Young Adult at the time - but apart from that, I have no use for it. Cooking simply doesn't excite, inspire or provoke me. As a result, the cabinets are cluttered with mismatched dinnerware and the drawers are filled with a haphazard collection of partial sets of steak knives and stainless. I have table linens I've never used and have discovered that napkin rings make quite acceptable cat toys. The domesticity that comes so easily to others has always eluded me - not that I've ever gone in search of it - but I suspect I may be a gene or two short on the home front. White picket fences and motherhood have never appealed to me, kitchens are foreign lands. With two lukewarm marriages behind me, I sometimes wonder if there weren't warning signs I overlooked. I'm easy prey for falling in love but not much good at the required maintenance of a long term partnership and if a man expects to be fed in my house, he'd better be ready to do the cooking.
I suspect we all shine at the things we love and neglect that which we don't. Looking back, I can see that the traditional marriage and the tried and true American dream wasn't for me. I get restless and want to move on, to the next house or the next city, the next great love or the next brief affair. I hate the thought of getting stuck, of routines or sameness or life without a sense of adventure. Ironically, the very things I hate are also the things that bring me the most comfort - being stuck,
routines, the predictable nature of a quiet and relatively reclusive life. Wanderlust and security have always been warring factions in my life.
We are creatures with hidden sides and many layers, frequently pulled in opposing directions and changing moods and mindsets as we go. Still, we have our principles and life is too short to be spent in a kitchen - or in any other single room.
When lethargy creeps up on me like a thief in the dark, in a mask and crepe soled shoes, it moves so slowly and silently that I don't notice its presence until it's too late. A quick nap, I tell myself, Just an hour or so to rest my eyes. The next thing I know it's midnight and the second next thing I know is that it's light and filmy gray outside - it's morning. The television has played all night long, I am still in underwear mode, have spent twelve hours sleeping above the covers, and the animals are restless. I want to be annoyed with myself for having wasted this never to come again time in dreams - I dimly remember something about a world made entirely of chocolate - but what's done is done and it's a new day, time to move on. There's no time to regret where I might've gone or what I might've missed.
I face down the enemies of lethargy, apathy, and complacency, the trifecta of senior citizenship, and pull on a clean pair of jeans, a fresh t shirt ( it reads You have to start before you can finish! ) and my old Nikes. I don't hit the floor running, but I do at least hit the floor upright, awake and well rested.
I make a mental list of what needs to be done while doling out cat and dog food and refilling water bowls, brushing what few teeth aren't in a glass by the sink and splashing cold water on my face. The day is sunless but still I hope for blue skies and enough warmth to open the windows and blow away the cobwebs and the fuzzy feeling that comes from oversleeping. First things first, I tell myself sternly and make up the bed linens to remove any temptation to crawl back in - lethargy sustains itself on its own and in the back of my mind there's the thought that I've already lost twelve hours, what difference would another twelve make - dangerous thinking for so early in the morning, more so for someone naturally inclined to be reclusive. But for the need to work and my passion for music, I sometimes think I might never leave home at all.
Solitary soul that I am, I like keeping the world on the other side of the door. It's not peaceful out there, not comfortable, too much pushing and shoving to get nowhere too quickly, too many angry and impatient people at odds with everything. Here, I have no one to satisfy except myself, no one to answer to, no one to please except a random assortment of animals with small demands.
Only here, can I keep the peace and and grow old, tending my own thoughts and content to let the rest of the world pass me by. Only here can phones go unanswered, a knock on the door be ignored.
Here I can shut out the noise and the distractions and be in the company of the one I know best.
Here I answer only to me.
A thin layer of dust covered everything in the room, motes floated in the stale air, even the flimsy curtains seemed tinged with gray-brown. The rocking chair in the corner was stagnant with disuse,
sitting in a ray of sunshine but reproachful. A long dead ivy, dry and used up with raspy looking parchment leaves, hung crookedly from a hook over an empty bookcase. The room reeked of musty memories and abandonment - a tiny heap of bones lay by the pantry door - even the mice had deserted.
My grandmother opened the old icebox door and made a small noise of disgust. We start here, she told me, holding a lavender scented handkerchief to her nose. The shelves held a crock of butter, several bottles of solidified milk and a ragged chunk of cheese, flaky and green with mold, sitting on a pretty china plate. She laid out a bucket of soapsuds and a pile of rags, a bottle of disinfectant that made my throat scratch and my eyes water, and a stiff wire brush. Scrub, she said firmly, Til it hurts. Aunt Vi and Aunt Pearl began methodically removing plates, cups, glasses and silverware from the cabinets, discarding what was too fractured to be saved, making neat piles of the rest. Nana gave the old wood stove a fierce stare, then pulled on her gloves and approached it fearlessly. My mother began washing windows and polishing them with handfuls of newspaper, dodging spider webs as she went. Both my brothers were assigned to the outside to gather and bag trash and debris. It took four days to clean and restore the house but when we were done, it had a welcoming sparkle and a fresh air smell - Nana threw open all the doors and windows and we sat on the veranda until dark, eating the cold chicken sandwiches and drinking the iced coffee Miss Hilda had thoughtfully provided. The next day, the Sullivan boys arrived with a pick up truck and hauled off trash and broken furniture, cardboard boxes of flood damaged books, piles of motheaten old clothes and faded pictures in cracked frames - my grandmother watched impassively as the litter of a lifetime was carted away.
Full of questions - who were we cleaning for, why, who had lived here - I trailed around after Nana like a curious puppy but time after time she shooed me away. Aunt Vi and Aunt Pearl were equally silent and my mother hushed me with a wicked, warning stare. But mysteries cry to be solved and finally I approached Sparrow, intently engaged in a checkers match with the schoolteacher and more than a little distracted by his losing streak. What old house? he demanded irritably, Girl, what are you going on about? Jimmy tripled jumped him and he cursed loudly enough to wake the old dog, Don't know nothin' about no old house, now git, I'm busy! The schoolteacher leaned back in his rickety caned chair and grinned, That's six out of seven, you old reprobate, do you concede? Sparrow growled another curse and gave the checkerboard a rough shove, sending checkers flying. Concede, my ass, he snapped, But I've had enough for one day.
There were no answers to be had anywhere else - both Uncle Shad and Uncle Willie ignored my questions, Miss Hilda told me a morality tale about keeping confidences, Miss Clara simply smiled and John Sullivan said that "Curiosity killed the cat". I couldn't imagine what secret would be this well guarded and had no idea what a cat had to do with anything. The warm days of summer passed and the mystery deepened and then it was September and time to leave.
The last time I was home, more than twenty years ago now, I discovered that woods and wild grass had reclaimed the property. There were breezes and songbirds but no sign of the house that had once so stood so ready, nothing but a fading memory of a secret I'd almost long forgotten.
There's something to be said for showing up every day for well over 80 years. The real work of living is in the details.
Miss Bessie taught school for all her adult life and never missed a single day of class. She raised eight children, much of the time on her earnings alone, cared for elderly parents, supported and loved a disabled husband, and went to church every Sunday. She fought off cancer, the diabetes that took her left eye, the rheumatoid arthritis that crippled her hands. When her health finally forced her to retire at 74 and she had to accommodate her dialysis, she took a job in a food kitchen two days a week and volunteered at the senior center the other three. She stood a mere five foot, one inch and weighed no more than a hundred pounds, she walked with a cane and carried a small Bible in her purse and she sometimes left home without her teeth, her store bought dentures having never fit quite properly and they often pained her gums. When she could no longer drive, she learned the bus schedules and routes, declaring that the free Medicaid transportation was meant for those truly in need, And besides, she said with a wink, They be so busy and overworked, bless their hearts, I'd be late everywhere I went. At my age, time is a gift from the good Lord and I cain't afford to be wastin' it.
The arthritis in her knees grew worse and the steps to the bus became more than she could manage so she turned to taxis, raiding her coin jars and paying the drivers in quarters and dimes and nickels, tipping only when she felt she could and never more than fifty cents. It's a burden, she told the doctor, but as long as I'm above ground I'm happy to carry it.
She passed 80, then 85 - seeming to grow smaller and more frail with each passing year. A walker replaced the cane after her second heart attack and she gave up the food kitchen and cut back at the senior center, settling for two afternoons a week of nothing more strenuous than reading stories and helping to write letters. Her children worried, her husband fussed, but she was determined to keep on. I ain't nobody special, I heard her snap at her son one afternoon, Least I can do is be of use while I'm still able. But of course she was somebody special and the news of her death at 87 - a third and finally fatal heart attack in the middle of a Hemingway story at the senior center, one of her daughters told us - saddened us immeasurably.
My grandmother, who considered being of use essential to a life well lived, would've liked Miss Bessie and likely reminded me that we all have our own brand of uniqueness.
Without wearing any mask that we are conscious of, we have a special face for each friend.
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Every second Saturday, my grandmother roused us extra early for a trip to the mainland - it was the farmers market day, a combination street festival and vegetable extravaganza that started when the sun came up and lasted until dark. The street was closed off to accommodate horses and wagons and the sleepy little town came to life with the noise of vendors and animals and people. You could buy fresh scallops or greens, handmade quilts, prize winning pigs, an entire basket of sweet corn. For those who were cash poor, the barter system was put into effect - two jars of blueberry jam for one of sour pickles or a homemade cherry pie in exchange for a slab of bacon. Services were swapped as well, carpentry for painting or plowing for help digging a well. Books could be traded for stamps or coins or school lessons. It was a wonder of rural coordination and cooperation.
When Nana was done and the old Lincoln's trunk packed to capacity, she carefully checked her list to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything or anyone. Lunch at the sunny and cheerful harborside cafe followed and then after a quick sidetrip to the province liquor store, we were back on the road and headed home.
We made deliveries that very afternoon, all over the island - Nana thumbed through her little spiral notebook to see who had requested what and how much, then precisely parceled out the selected items from the trunk and into waiting arms. In typical island fashion, each delivery meant an invitation to stop and visit, but mindful of the hour, we pressed on. It would be nearly four by the time we finally arrived home - coming up on supper time, much yet to be done and Aunt Vi would be arriving for the Saturday night shampoo and bath session. We were dusty and tired and glad to see the driveway and the waiting dogs come into sight.
I am now the age my grandmother was then and when I recall these childhood memories they are as bright and clear as if it had been yesterday. We are never children long enough, too quickly overcome by obligations and overdue bills, the demands of parenting and chores, the very process of being an adult. Time runs out while we are too busy to notice and genetically engineered food replaces the color, community, and simple joy of the farmers markets. It may be progress but it's not as sweet.
It was, to tell the truth, a very small and harmless field mouse.
Moving across the kitchen floor at whisker twitching speed, it sped by the sleeping dogs and darted under the stove with barely a sound. My mother turned just in time to see the last of its tail disappear and commenced to shrieking loud enough to wake the dead and all their relatives. There was a crash from the pantry as my startled grandmother rushed around the corner only to find my mother cowering in a corner, trembling hands at her throat, her face ashen with fear. Mouse! she wailed, Mouse! Mouse! Kill it!
Nana turned on me with a suspicious glare and I shook my head violently, laughing too hard to protest my innocence verbally. The dogs were in an uproar, pawing and scrabbling at the stove, trying to poke their noses underneath and howling fiercely. There was the sound of footsteps slamming down the stairs and my daddy appeared in the doorway of the dining room, shirtless and lathered in shaving cream. Mouse! my mother continued to scream, Mouse! Mouse! Kill it! She grabbed a broom off the wall and held it out on front of her as if it might be endowed with supernatural powers and would protect her against this deadly menace. It seemed to reassure her, her screams turned to panicky whispers - Mouse! she repeated but less breathless, less terrified, Mouse! Her eyes locked on the stove and the dogs, her grip on the broom tightened, she began to cry and inch her way toward the door. She reached it and pushed through backwards, her death grip on the broom never wavering. Mouse, mouse, mouse, I could her chanting as if it were a magic spell, Mouse in the house, kill it, kill it, kill it. As Nana and my daddy and I watched, slack jawed with surprise, the chant turned to a precise dance and the actual mouse was nearly forgotten. My mother, in pink fuzzy slippers and a shapeless housedress, began to two step and sing on the wet grass - mouse, mouse, I could hear plainly, kill it, kill it and then a THUD! as she smacked the broom against the ground. Mouse, mouse, kill it, kill it, THUD! Mouse, mouse, kill it, kill it, THUD!
Taken leave of her senses, she has, my grandmother remarked mildly, as if she saw such a sight every day, Guy, you might want to stop her before she breaks my broom. My daddy nodded and slipped out the door, gently retrieved her and led her back inside. She was to stay in her room for the next three days, refusing to come out until she was satisfied the mouse was dead and, to my grandmother's dismay, refusing to surrender the broom. When, on the fourth day, the mouse was still unapprehended, my daddy took bold and decisive action, paying Aunt Lizzie next door $5 for the next dead mouse her cats presented her with. On the fifth day, he took my mother her proof - a tiny, mangled and bloodied mouse corpse wrapped in an old dishtowel. He lied effortlessly, so convincingly that had I not been part of the small conspiracy, even I would've believed him. The actual mouse was never captured, Likely died of fright, Nana said with small smile and began sweeping the kitchen.
It's always wrong to tell a lie, my daddy was to tell me, but sometimes, and here he paused to repeat himself for emphasis, only sometimes and only under the most dire of circumstances, a very small deception can be a very great kindness.
My grandmother took a more jaundiced view of the incident, Well, she puts on a good show, I'll give her that. Might ought to consider a career on the stage, if you ask me.
My stricken mother, whether exhausted from genuine terror or simply depleted from the effort of her
performance, recovered her wits and saw no more mice all that summer. I was often tempted to tell her the truth but I honored my secret. It was to be an important lesson in human frailty, kindness,
and the stark vision of a mind in meltdown and in the grand scheme of things, I eventually came to understand, whether it had been real or conjured mattered not at all.
On the twilight edge between sleep and waking, I dreamed it was raining rocks.
An hour earlier I had gotten up to let the dogs out and there was no hint of the sudden hailstorm that seemed to explode out of the sky. It passed so quickly that when I woke the second time I wouldn't have been sure it had been real except that the trees were bent over and small rivers of water were still rushing down the sides of the street. Nature had given a brief yelp, reasserted her power for a few stunning moments, and then crept back into seclusion.
I imagine her to be an old crone with warts and a badly bent back, misshapen fingers clutched around a gnarly old cane and wearing scuffed, muddy boots. Her hair would be wild and wind driven under a ragged and aged bonnet, she would have narrow evil eyes and her voice would be high pitched with a tendency to cackle. She would be very tall but on the thin side - a raspy old witch with a quick trigger temper and the power to back it up - a woman who disliked being forgotten, underestimated or taken for granted. Hidden below the ugliness, there would be great beauty, an indication of a softer and more gentle side, capable of light summer breezes and sunshine, of perfect days and nights with warm air and moonlight. Here, she would say, Take this magnificent day and live it to the fullest. You never know when I may snatch it back or what tomorrow will bring.
A single tiny sparrow sits on the fence in the leftover rain. I watch him hop from post to post, flare his small nut colored wings and chirp out a good morning. There is still thunder echoing from the gray skies and I imagine that there is more rain to come, that it will be a cold and stormy March day, a day when I long for a white sand beach on some deserted coast, an unopened novel and a pitcher of sweet lemonade.
In my mind, I can hear Mother Nature laughing - but not loud enough to drown out the sparrows.
Lips that touch liquor, Aunt May was fond of saying primly, will never touch mine. And Uncle Will would slap his knee and hoot back at her, Explains you still being single, my girl!
It was an argument that had been going on between them for as long as anyone could remember, this odd pairing of brother and sister so willing to snipe at each other but presenting an unassailable and unified front in the face of any outside criticism. Aunt May had kept house for her aging parents all her adult life, caretaking and tending seven days a week, getting one day a month off to herself and only when she could arrange for Will to step in. Her entire life had been lived within the walls of the old gingerbreaded house and she had not complained nor pined for anything more. Will, a carpenter by trade, had never married and after the long and lingering deaths of both parents, had moved back from the mainland to keep his sister company. He spent his days making repairs and puttering in the small workshop while May continued to maintain the house. They got along, Fair to partly cloudy as Miss Clara liked to say, bickering and quarreling about anything and everything but usually ending up on the old sideporch in the evening, playing checkers or gin rummy by lamplight - it was as much a concession to her strict Baptist upbringing as May was ever to make, Will never being able to convince her that a card game played inside the actual house wouldn't bring the Devil Himself down on her head.
Rabbits? May exclaimed on her 71st birthday when Will presented her with a pair of rust colored dwarf bunnies and unveiled the portable hutch he had discreetly built - carpeted, insulated, skylighted. Rabbits? she repeated, Lord have mercy, Will, what are you thinking? Will just smiled and handed over the shoe box - nestled inside and burrowed in straw, the two babies were mostly asleep, velvety soft to the touch, about the size of young kittens.
May's disbelief and confusion at this turn of events - I scarce knew whether we were to raise'em or eat'em, she confessed to Nana - turned instantly maternal, her normally austere expression softened. Wan't sure if she was gonna cry or shoot me, Will told my grandmother, But I had me a hunch she might come to like'em considerable.
The rabbits, christened Nick and Norah after "The Thin Man", a favorite novel of Will's, thrived. The hutch was expanded and remodeled over the years, moved into the kitchen during the winter and tucked into a corner of the sideporch during spring and summer, its door left open so that the two small creatures could come and go at their leisure. After several litters, Rowena was called upon to perform an emergency sterilization, both May and Will had realized that they would be overrun in record time if Nick and Norah were left to their own devices and neither could bear the thought of any of their babies coming to what they delicately referred to as "a bad end". There was a heated exchange about which rabbit was to fall under the knife, resolved when Rowena explained to them that a castration was less invasive, far more uncomplicated than a hysterectomy and thereby safer for the rabbit. Despite her assurances, Will had his doubts and made himself scarce when the time came. Never have known a man not to get restless 'bout takin' a creature's manhood, Rowena said with a shrug. May, either in a rare and forgiving mood or distracted by Rowena's quick hands and flashing scalpel, was equally charitable. Likely he wants to mourn in private, she suggested and Rowena nodded, stemmed the blood flow efficiently and put in a few stitches. Done and done, she pronounced, wiped her hands and pocketed her scalpel, He'll be his own self come morning.
Nick spent the night in an old milk crate that May had lined with straw and rags and by morning was indeed his bright eyed old self. Will had returned after midnight and he and May had kept watch over the sleeping rabbit until dawn, sitting side by side on the porch glider, silently swinging and waiting - a confirmed old bachelor who smelled slightly of whiskey, an old maid who had decided not to mention it, and a newly castrated rabbit.
We all have moments when we're wise enough to keep our thoughts to ourselves.
Sometimes I imagine that during the process of creating life, God stands over us us and peruses a kind of Chinese menu of qualities then decides what gifts to bestow - intellect, beauty, kindness, quick wit, the love of animals or children or music, height, weight, hair and eye color, good teeth. No one gets everything but we all get small parts so as to keep everything in balance - consequently there are empty people, evil people, fools and idiots. Generosity to one means selfishness to another, if I am blessed with acne, then you are blessed with perfect skin - if you are made to serve, then I am made to be served - all in the name of keeping the scales even and the fragile cosmic equilibrium in place. God does not make mistakes in this process, even one life cut short means another extended, though His motives are never clear and the mystery is never revealed. There are times when faith is the only thing we have to hold onto and we are consumed with doubt, shaken to our very roots by events beyond our control, by loss and pain and death and crisis. Faith is often furthest out of reach when we need it the most. God is a real estate developer, Michelle Shocked wrote, This may be a low rent universe.
My friend, Lindsey, is one of the rare people who can restore my faith just by her presence. She is animatedly pretty with dimples and an infectious smile, a naturally sunny disposition and a joyful love of life that spills out of her like laughter. There is a kindness and gentleness to her manner that she shares like sunshine, it's impossible not to answer in kind, impossible to resist a hug. She sees good all around her, has a passionate love of family
and the instincts of a long term caregiver - self sacrificing, cheerful, idealistic and warm. Not surprisingly, she has chosen a medical career, a profession much in need of her kind of compassion and ideally suited to her needs and gifts, her quick mind and overall sweetness. Those put in her care will be truly fortunate - they will find empathy as well as a friend and someone to share their pain, they will find genuine concern and a guileless, open smile, a pair of gentle but very strong helping hands to comfort them.
Such people are rare and precious and I my faith tells me that God watches over them as they watch over us.
God is a real estate developer
With offices around the nation
They say one day he'll liquidate
His holdings on high
But I say that's all speculation
He may be an absentee landlord
This may be a low rent universe
The roof may need repairs
But at least the floor is there
And the rent is not due til the first
So save one last dance for the Savior
When that final Hail Mary is said
Life is a dancehall
That's why we've got all those
Little Angels dancin' round with pinheads
The Lord Almightly Ltd
And his chosen elect
Sit on the Up on High Development Board
Quoting the Bibe as they hoard
The Good Book has a new look, I suspect
Michelle Shocked
If Congress were of a mind, they could learn a lot about getting along from our four footed friends.
In a relatively small space, a couple of thousand dogs and a cat or two, a tiny horse, two chickens and an astonishing long and neon yellow snake all came together to celebrate Mardi Gras. Big dogs and small dogs, tiny breeds and huge ones, all met and found common ground, interacting with each other and their respective owners, peacefully and genially enjoying an early spring afternoon - there were pugs and poodles, Great Danes and chihuahuas, mutts and purebreds, and every variety of terrier. And there were no battles, no accusations, no remarks about parentage or citizenship, no inflamed rhetoric or us against them signs. It was a model of what can be accomplished when we spare just a little time to consider others and remember that we all share this world together, despite size, color, breed, species, gender or sexual preference.
If the world is going to the dogs, so be it. Who's the really enlightened species?
