The Saddest Day In History Is Coming Soon! the billboard at the corner reads, then underneath, these words, Are You Saved?
I'm not exactly sure why this prominently displayed message/marketing tool/advertisement annoys me so but I find it offensive and will often alter my route to work to avoid seeing it. Perhaps it reminds me of the Jehovah's Witnesses who still - though uninvited and unwelcome - find their way to my door with their self righteous kindness and sad concern for my soul. Perhaps it's my natural cynicism toward zealots or my Baptist suspicion of evangelicals. Or my aversion to any end of days scenario limited to Christians. Maybe I just think that religion is better served if kept between believer and whatever higher power he or she chooses to believe in. Sitting at the red light, it occurs to me to wonder how many people could be fed or sheltered by the cost of the billboard alone - salvation shouldn't have dollar signs attached and shouldn't need billboards for its message.
I am, for better or worse, most assuredly not saved and will undoubtably be left behind come The Rapture but I still believe that no God would have created only one path to salvation and allowed only one race to travel on it. Redemption must be for all or it would simply not be worth seeking. We are, all of us, children of sin and all worthy to ask forgiveness. Without sin, who would need an afterlife?
At the end of each journey, what we have made of our lives will matter and there is no need of a billboard to remind us that we will be held accountable if but only to ourselves and each other. Harm no one intentionally, be as kind as you can, tread lightly and offer help where it is needed, find God where you will but keep it to yourself. If the Mayans were right, there are troubled waters ahead. Save yourself and let me worry about me.
Shame is the lie someone tells you about yourself ...Anais Nin.
And that you hear so often, you believe it, I wanted to add when I read this on a recent Facebook post.
My troubled mother, as much a victim of alcohol abuse as she was to make her children, must have heard a great many lies as a child. From what I know from my grandmother and my daddy, she was unwanted and unloved, subjected to a cold, cruel father and a helpless, distant mother. She was an only child, spoiled materialistically and denied emotionally, raised in the shadows of adultery, verbal if not physical abuse, and rampant alcoholism. In my cool, rational moments, I think that her only sin was to teach and pass on what she knew.
She taught us to be intolerant of anyone and anything different - Catholics, Jews, immigrants of all colors, blacks, gays, rock and roll, certain authors, anyone with wealth or power was a threat. They were misbegotten and lazy, taking advantage of the system, contaminating society, perverts and communists. I'm free, white and over twenty one, she used to say proudly, I belong here. Alcohol produced a drunken sort of self confidence in her, an assurance she didn't otherwise feel and was, I think, terribly lonely and afraid without.
She taught us envy, to covet what belonged to others and resent their having it, as if we had been cheated - jealousy of other peoples time and possessions and accomplishments - fear of trying, as if we should know our place and not even attempt to rise above it - inadequacy, as if we would never be good enough, worthy enough, bright enough. She reinforced our fears and poisoned us with rage and resentment against life, against people, against ourselves. She taught us hate and how to disguise it, hypocrisy and how to hide it, shame and how to feel it. She taught us her view of the world and the anger she had built on all her life. Her's was a bitter, unsatisfied life, consumed with an anxious, greedy lust that kept her constantly suspicious, hateful, dull witted, drunk and alone. She was a mean spirit in search of harm she could do to others and thriving on it.
It was a time when family secrets were kept secret, when alcohol abuse was covered up or never mentioned, when no one talked or sought help. To her dying day, my mother felt falsely accused and unfairly treated, lashing out at life with a rare viciousness and an unrelenting self pity. She simply never spared a thought for anyone else and died angry and wasted.
I can't find it in my heart to wish her peace in an afterlife, if one exists - there's just enough of her in me to keep my own hate burning bright and enough of my daddy in me to make me ashamed of it - but she's dead and buried and at least I don't still wish her harm. She's in a place where aside from poisoning the soil, she can't hurt anyone anymore and should she discover a kind and redemptive God, it'll be His choice to teach her what He knows.
As if to remind me that I'm not a quarter as much in control as I like to think, here's one of life's funny little ironies: I need my glasses to find my glasses.
A few years ago I learned that there's no replacement for a failing memory or the chronic absent mindedness that comes with age but there is comfort in routines - always leaving my glasses in their accustomed place by the computer usually assures me that I will be able to find them. But for this morning, when for the life of me, I couldn't remember having done anything but turn off the programs and go directly to bed - and yet, no glasses. I questioned the dogs fiercely, meticulously searched the usual second hand places, scoured the kitchen and looked under the bed. No glasses. It wasn't the end of the world - I have multiple pairs, also having learned that at a certain point there's safety in numbers - but it was an annoyance that I could've done without on a Monday morning.
It isn't the life altering events that make us crazy and corrode relationships - it's the small things. An ashtray left unemptied, a towel dropped and left laying on the bathroom floor, the cap left off the toothpaste tube, not replacing a roll of toilet paper. Like tiny gnats, they pick at us and feed off the very silliness of it all but eventually, they grow and get strong and become ISSUES, like a seed caught between your teeth, they gnaw, grate, hurt, and finally are more than we can bear. Part of our very human nature, I suppose, but foolish to turn an unhung towel into a federal case, as my grandmother would have said.
Odd how we step up to the plate in the event of death or divorce, how we find unsuspected strength when we need it most, a steel resolve in the face of dire circumstances, how we will fight to the bitter end for someone we love - yet are undone by another's moment of thoughtlessness.
I found my glasses, mysteriously enough, carefully folded in the glass jar of dog treats by the back door, hidden in plain sight and exactly where I left them. Would that I was as forgiving of the flaws in others as I am of those in myself.
We're in a giant car headed toward a brick wall and everyone's arguing about where to sit.
David Suzuki
My mother - no fan of civil rights, sex education, legal aid for the poor or any other so called liberal cause - believed that the moon landing was a hoax, dreamed up by NASA scientists in collusion with a leftist government and the media elite. She would've laid down her life for Glenn Beck and had Rush Limbaugh to supper. I imagine if she could've foreseen the possibility of a black president, she'd have packed her things and moved back to Canada. Nixon was her salvation and redemption and she'd not hear a word against him. She had, Nana once let slip, Worshipped that damn fool Joe McCarthy, a vicious indictment from my entrenched republican grandmother.
It's sometimes hard for me to comprehend from whence I came and how, more or less intact, I escaped. I remembering praying daily for my mother and daddy to divorce and move on to different places as if time and distance could actually change the landscape. I would listen to them rage on and argue until my daddy took flight and wonder how it was that they didn't simply kill each other. But of course it was not to be - he was too responsible and she was too out of control. They fed off each other's emotions and misery, unhappy and confused and deeply, deeply troubled but set in concrete by their choices, unable to imagine or even dream of a different life. I learned early that you can never fully trust an addict - it took much longer to understand how foolish and dangerous it is to trust one who enables, especially with good intentions.
Caught in the crossfire of this sad and sick relationship, it took considerable time for my brothers and I to catch on and catch up. Overprotected and relied upon on one hand, resented and unloved on the other, we drifted in the wind. I buried myself in books and my imagination, they discovered fast cars and petty thefts - all three of us sought out bad company. As adults, I don't drink at all and they can't drink enough. Children of alcoholics aren't taught moderation or reason or confidence and we are all inclined to search out what we know and live on a sometimes desperate edge - afraid to fall off, more afraid to jump. We long for the short term fix and get stuck quickly and far too easily.
As useless as it is to speculate, I have my idle moments and I still wonder if divorce might have changed anything anything but the view.
In a quiet back corner of a smoke filled tavern, he sits and listens to the music, eyes closed and head leaning against the wall, one foot tapping and fingers keeping time. Some lyrics make him smile to himself.
He used to be a musician, a talented and well known bluesman, admired, imitated, followed. He made a name for himself and earned a good living on the road before settling down in a small Texas town to marry and raise a family. His music is still sung there although it's been years since he's stood on a stage - a traveling piano man makes a poor husband, his wife said - so he gave up the spotlight. Not an easy choice, people say when they talk about him, a waste of a God given gift in favor of becoming ordinary. Now he only plays for Sunday services and late at night when no one can hear. His hands are still quick and agile on the keyboard, chords and lyrics still circle around in his mind, but he made a promise to his family and he keeps it. Life is give and take, a little of this and some of that, and a hope that it all comes out right in the end. He finishes his beer and leaves by the back door.
Life will have its own way and there are times when even the most generous and righteous decisions turn against us. No one could have imagined a fatal car wreck on a lonely stretch of Texas highway, a collision that took the lives of his wife and only daughter, leaving him the care and raising of four young and broken hearted boys. He had become a music teacher - theory and composition - and gave lessons on weekends, spent evenings tuning and repairing pianos and teaching his own children to play. His loss made him think about returning to the road and burying himself in the blues but his sons needed him more and in his heart he knew that he wasn't released from his promise - if anything, he was more tightly bound to honor it. He spent twenty years bringing up his boys as their mother would have wanted and never gave the first thought to remarrying or moving on. He wasn't the kind of a man to make a promise lightly, not the kind of man who takes advantage of fate to break free.
He lives still in a small Texas town, teaching and passing on what he knows and loves best but staying on the sidelines, listening but not taking the stage, watching the new bluesmen take their time in the limelight. If he has regrets, he keeps them to himself - he's lived long enough to know that wishing for what might have been is living in the past.
Mistakes are horses in disguise,
ain't no need to ride'em over,
'cause we couldn't ride'em different if we tried.
Guy Clark
After a violent confrontation in the driveway, the trespassing cat fled for the side fence and slipped through the space between two loose boards. Both dogs, out of their minds with the boldness of the intrusion, were frantic and I had no sooner calmed them then the cat reappeared, back arched and spitting fire but determined, so it seemed, to gain access to the garage. She eased through the double doors with the dogs practically tearing at her hindquarters and in a sudden flash of insight, I realized that no self respecting cat would take that kind of risk unless - Oh, please, dear Lord, don't let it be - she was protecting her young. I wanted to scream, Not in my garage! Instead, I locked the dogs in and approached the building quietly, opened both doors and peered in. Nothing moved and I cautiously took a few steps forward then stopped and listened intently for several minutes - still nothing. I backed out slowly and shut the doors, trying with all my heart to believe that there were no newborn kittens, that there was another explanation, any other explanation would do. I can be very convincing when absolutely necessary but I didn't believe myself for a second. A cat would simply not intentionally take on two dogs, twice in the space of a couple of minutes, without a compelling reason - the thought of stray kittens was more than I could bear and I trudged back to the house in despair. This weekend, I thought to myself dismally, I'll deal with it this weekend.
On Friday, a third confrontation sent both dogs reeling with shock and running for their lives after they'd forced their way into the garage and encountered the cat in full attack mode. They hesitated for the merest second and she leapt at them in a fury, claws fully extended and teeth drawn back in an unattractive grimace. She could be suicidal, I thought to myself, or on crack. The black dog, bewildered at this unexpected turn of events and unable to cope with this role reversal, lay down in the driveway and stared at the garage with a puzzled look. The small brown dog, yelping and whimpering as she licked her imaginary wounds, fled for the back door.
Since then I have made several careful inspections of the garage and come up empty, there is not a sign of kittens and the grown female has disappeared, I haven't seen her in three days. Even so, I can't shake the feeling that somewhere on this dead end street, under a house or sheltered beneath a deck, hidden in a flower bed or concealed in someone else's garage - she waits, tending her kittens or preparing to have them, one more casualty of a throwaway mindset in a throwaway society. I pray for her safety and that of her litter, more, I pray that whoever allowed her to roam at will and breed freely will face the consequences of their irresponsibility.
The difference between companion animals and careless owners is simple - the animals are worth saving.
My already published writer cousin, Linda, emails me that she plans to start a serious campaign of nagging with the intent of getting me to overcome my expectations of failure and submit some of my own writing. She is tenacious when she pursues a goal but this would be a long and drawn out battle as we are both well fortified and substantially well armed - she with her faith, me with my fear.
As a child, I dreamed of writing, of spending my days in an attic with an old Remington and a scarred up desk that overlooked a small town with a main square. A writer should have a solitary life, I believed, the better to observe and reflect and interpret - even then my reclusive side was fighting for its rights and a place to be. I might share this place with a cat or two, I thought, but my contact with the outside world would be strictly limited to calls with publishers and agents. I would be the mysterious and rarely glimpsed author, sleeping by day and writing through the night - stories my grandmother had told me, well edited memories of family and friends from the life I'd had before becoming a writer, tales I created from some blend of imagination and actual events or wishfulness. I would, naturally, be wildly successful and sought after and eventually be able to retire to some small and isolated island with dirt roads and no neighbors. My integrity would be intact and I would ever so graciously turn down speaking engagements and book tours, gaining a reputation for eccentricity and talent. I would be humble when my novels appeared on the best seller list, crediting my ability to God and an alcoholic upbringing. I would have horses, cabinets filled with Jersey Milk bars, a view of the ocean and endless time.
My dreams were reinforced by A+ term papers and English essays - writers didn't need to know numbers I told myself in high school and college and dismissed those poor grades with a creative flourish. I was to be a writer, a wordsmith - An Artist - not a mathematician or an accountant. I was to follow in the footsteps of my literary heroes and poets - did Walter Farley or Edward Stratemeyer or H. Allen Smith balance their own checkbooks? I thought not. A writer is a creative force using words as his strength and language as his salvation.
Unfortunately, Time and her evil stepsister, Reality - an uncommonly ugly pairing if ever there was one - do not always respect dreams. They are sure footed creatures and never stumble unlike Fame and Fortune. And since a writer has to eat, even if it's no more than a Jersey Milk bar and an Orange Crush, I kept my day jobs, learned to balance my checkbook, graduated, came to love dogs as well as cats, and married. Days turned into weeks, then months, then years, and the world continued to spin without my literary contributions. Time marched on with Reality at her side and neither as much as bothered to ask for my input.
Now I write because I enjoy the process - it clears my mind, gives my imagination free rein, and detoxifies me. It's not fame or fortune, and I do it from an aging computer in a corner of a bedroom and not a private island, but it's enough. If you're in a small boat and you can't swim, it's best not to make waves.
The new kitten - now a nearly full grown, long haired and luxurious coated, solid black cat, the fifth of his color to share my life - watches the water flow out of the kitchen faucet and fill the sink. One paw takes a swipe at the mounting soapsuds then dismisses them in favor of the running water, sending a fine spray of droplets everywhere. I could swear this makes him smile. A few more swipes and he's bored with the game, opting for a silent and light footed jump to the floor where he unceremoniously lands in the water bowl. He's beautiful, deadly, affectionate, playful and funny - just none too bright. The small brown dog, who had been drinking from the bowl at the time of impact, yelps with surprise and scurries backward and out of harm's way. She collides with the tabby who had the back luck to be passing at a critical moment and the tabby lashes out with a nasty hiss. This arouses the interest of the black dog who comes trotting anxiously across the floor and she in turn skitters into another three cats in the midst of a disagreement. Two flee across the dining room table, sending candlesticks crashing and putting a crystal bowl in peril but the third stands his ground and arches his back in warning. Amid all this sudden chaos, the new kitten strolls innocently off, wet but dignified - his work is done, chaos has been served. At the doorway to the bedroom, he gives a vigorous shake and disappears with a backward look that strongly suggests he is pleased with himself.
I know people like this. They carry chaos in a backpack and when the world is peaceful and calm, they set a little free then stand back, a safe distance away, and watch. Some are simply bored and in need of entertainment, others enjoy inflicting confusion and conflict into our lives just because they can. Still others are empowered by causing a stampede from the sidelines, illustrating what a small amount of power can accomplish in an unsuspecting crowd. It's easy enough to yell fire when you're halfway through the theater exit door. These are the people who see a key pad between my shoulders and know exactly which button to push:
Push 1: Hurt my feelings
Push 2: Make me angry
Push 3: Make me cry
Push 4: Make me feel unappreciated
Push 5: Make me lose my temper
Push 6: Make me crazy
The reality is, of course, that I allow these feelings and that no one can drive me to them unless I pave the way. Just for today, the road is closed.
My great grandmother, a wisp of a woman with hair in a neat bun and wire spectacles, was far less fragile than she looked. She was already old when I knew her and moved slowly, taking care with each step and relying on an old wooden cane to steady herself. Mother! my exasperated grandmother would exclaim when she discovered her carrying wood to the stove or removing the breakfast dishes, I can do that! And my great grandmother would raise her cane in a warning gesture - I ain't no invalid, Alice, she would snap, And I don't need no caterin' to! I was totin' and carryin' fore you was born! Nana would protest this uselessly with huge sighs of frustration and unheeded pleas of But Mother, what if you fall again? At this, the snap would usually turn to a bitter snarl - the old woman hated being reminded of her old bones, Then I'm guessin' I'll be breakin' another damn hip but I ain't gonna fall again if you git out of my way!
Three women, all under one roof and each stubborn, strong willed and with a mile wide feisty streak, spelled disaster. Each fancied themselves in charge, none liked taking orders, all three were determined to rule the roost. Spats and quarrels seemed to break out hourly and it was impossible to please one without displeasing the other two. Having no wish to be caught between a wife and a mother in law, menfolk commonly made themselves scarce during these summer days, children learned early to stay out from underfoot and even the dogs found sunspots far away from the conflicts. The kitchen was the most common battleground - sunshine streamed through every window and salt air blew through the back door on each perfect summer day - and the women bickered over how long to bake biscuits, how much wood to add to the stove, which apron belonged to who, how the broom had come to be misplaced, how much sugar to add to the lemonade, who had not folded the dish towel properly. I learned that if you're bound and determined to provoke an argument, nothing is too small to be overlooked, no nit too small to pick.
For Christ's sweet sake, my grandfather, a boorish and ill tempered brute of a man, would thunder, It's like living in a goddam chicken yard! The women would cringe slightly and lower their voices, continuing their quarreling in harsh whispers but accommodating the old man's fury with a bitter shame. You don't want me to have settle this! he would shout, a poorly veiled warning and they would skulk away like children caught with hands in the cookie jar. Our's was a house, as my great grandmother once told me, always on the edge of the miseries.
Having been emotionally leveled by a failed live-in relationship that he expected to lead to marriage, my friend Jeff - cute as a teddy bear, bright, smart, funny, generous, sweet, and a sharp dresser - hangs back, afraid to offer his heart again and risk a second rejection. He has come to trust his own fear and uncertainty more than his instincts, come to rely on keeping company with loneliness rather than take a chance. He was wholeheartedly in love and the memory still haunts him.
Time dulls the sharp edges of breaking up but it passes slowly. We invest ourselves in other people, sometimes with everything we have to give, and the last thing we expect is to be thrown over, it shocks our senses and distorts reality to a point where we run and hide, unwilling to trust another soul, unable to imagine life ever making it up to us. We mend only when we face the pain and move past it, realizing that it happens to us all, that it may be life altering and devastating, unendurable and agonizing, but rarely fatal. Breaking up make us all sad poets writing tragic verse that no one else wants to read. We think our heartache to be unique and misunderstood and when we meet someone who has not only survived but discovered the will to try again, we write them off - They didn't love the way I did, we tell ourselves, They didn't have what I had and lost.
Except we did. We all did. And most of us all will again.
Fate is a gameplayer and life is just a round in the game. You win, you lose, you retire, then make a comeback. Broken hearts don't stay broken no matter how we may try. One way or another, we all get in the game and whether we play fair or cheat, the game goes on.
O, happy day. Jeff has met a girl. It makes me smile inside and out.
Clarence Darrow lost The United States vs Scopes and very few people remember that the verdict was later overturned on a technicality or that the case was never retried.
Sad to say, I've given up on the news.
Tired and frustrated at the end of the day, worn down with unfairness, incivility, and stupidity, I find I just can't face listening to any more tales of genocide or torture or crooked, two faced politicians or radical extremists or cruelty to animals or bank fraud and all the profits that accompany it. The country I was raised in and loved has become an almost foreign land - compromise, essential to governing, is no longer possible, men in power rail against the poor, the disabled (Siberia?? Why not just shoot'em?), and the forgotten, and cardboard Christians with secret agendas based on hate burn holy books, promoting murder then awkwardly distancing themselves from the consequences, as if they didn't know. Tolerance, once a virtue, seems to have become a new deadly sin. If I hear the latest sound bite phrase "Boots on the ground" once more I think I may suffocate, even if it is on my beloved public radio.
Truth is, it's getting hard to give a damn anymore.
We've become de-sensitized to the way the world works, given up on defeating the demons of war, hunger, civil rights, poverty, and especially politics. We have, at long last, an educated, elegant, virtuous president and we sneer at him, question his parentage and his right to rule, tell racy racial jokes all the while claiming to champion equal rights and what's best for the people. Find me a politician who actually cares more about the people than getting re-elected or filling his pockets or his next press conference and I'll find you a soon to be out of work, used up, and disillusioned idealist with less name recognition than dirt and a bleak future. Should a lone voice of sanity, reason or sincerity be heard above the fray, he or she will be shouted down, stoned, possibly exiled or hung in effigy. Narrow minds provide narrow guidelines for becoming part of the process of change and not everyone is welcome at the table. We are on the verge of becoming the United States of Corporations - government by, for, and of the people with power, winning and losing on technicalities.
Beware the next monkey trial. We may not have come as far as we think.
"Fanaticism and ignorance are always busy and they need feeding."
Spencer Tracy as Clarence Darrow in "Inherit the Wind"PS: As I am about to publish this, I have a change of heart when I hear that Glenn Beck is leaving.
One less ignorant fanatic polluting the airwaves is cause for celebration, maybe even renewed hope.
Innocently unaware that she was being stalked, the small brown dog curled her body into a tight nose to tail ball atop the pillow and slept in a circle of sunshine. The youngest kitten stretched out flat on his belly and crept toward her, one discreet paw at a time. By the time she sensed danger, he had already reared up on his back legs and was well into pounce mode - there was a terrified, high pitched yelp when he landed, a brief and chaotic struggle, then he leapt off the bed at full speed, leaving her wild eyed and trembling. It took several minutes of cradling and stroking, all the while speaking in my most soothing voice to calm her. The kitten returned and curled up at the foot of the bed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened but, I noticed, he did keep a respectful and cautious distance away. I wanted to think it was out of guilt, but knowing his character, it wasn't likely - it was far more probable that he was evaluating, possibly gloating, and all the while strategizing a second and more direct assault. In the tradition of the many previous black cats that have lived with me, he is something of an expert in the techniques and tactics of terror - I sometimes wonder if the arts of stealth and silence are not natural gifts.
After some considerable reassurance, the small brown dog retook her position on the pillow, more centered this time and closer to me. The kitten attempted to initiate a staring contest but by that time the black dog had arrived and exerted her authority via a menacing look in his direction - she dislikes any commotion in which she does not play a leading role. The kitten assumed a bored look then feigned sleep. No one was taken in by this deception - the brown dog slept lightly, her chin on my shoulder while the black dog remained watchful, resting her muzzle on her paws but open eyed and alert.
Although it feels like they crash down upon us, unexpected events usually approach with stealth and silence, biding their time until we are the least aware and the most vulnerable. Then they strike like a firestorm, catching us ill prepared and off guard. They come in varying disguises - a disabling and severe stroke, a car accident, an unforeseen death, the sudden and jolting loss of a job, a 4am hospital admission which leads to surgery, a nerve wracking confrontation with a fellow human being,
a breakdown of soul or faith, sometimes both. Resilience and stubborness lead us through, wounds heal and we adapt, accept, find alternatives and carry on. In the event that we have limited choices, we make them bravely and try not to look back. It makes us fragile, confused, uncertain, sometimes scarred but always, eternally and inarguably human.
We were not promised fairness or lack of struggle, not even assured that we would find our place or get to where we're going. There may be no Promised Land, no milk and honey, no Easy Street. We are easily sidetracked and distracted, often losing sight of the trees while lost in the forest. We forget that we are all we have, but in the end, with persistence, optimism, hard work and a sturdy backpack, we climb mountains and find ourselves.
On the other hand.
What if the lesser efforts of our four footed companions is really the wiser course? Who can say what the world might be like if we were all to concentrate on the simple philosophy of eat, sleep, play and pounce? It could be that all our worries and woes, all our words and wisdom, wouldn't be worth a
bowl of Friskies. Being human is generally considered better but just maybe it ain't necessarily so.
According to legend, the ruins of the old Titus place, on the back side of the ballfield, were haunted. It sat in a shelter of trees and rocks overlooking the water but hidden from view - children didn't play there and the adults, most of whom had lived long enough to learn to avoid tempting the fates, hardly spoke of it at all. No one believed in ghosts, naturally, the islanders were a pragmatic lot, concerned with day to day living and the reality of the weather and the tides, but as Uncle Shad said, No need in takin' foolish chances.
Ayah, John Sullivan told Ruthie and me, one late Saturday afternoon, I recollect Clarence Titus, a cold, mean son of a bitch with a quick temper. Beat his woman and 'twas those that thought he poisoned the wildlife, though 'twasn't ever proved. Jacob, sitting by his brother as they baited hooks for the morning run, stopped to roll a smoke. Some said she killed him, he said softly, then set the house afire. But that weren't never proved neither. The brothers exchanged a glance and John have us a warning look. Long time ago, he muttered, bad business, best forgotten.
Ruthie and I stumbled on it by accident, a glade of sorts, filled with blackened timbers and remnants of a structure. The ground was scorched and surrounded by dead grass, there was an old, smoky smell in the air although the fire had been decades past. Without being told, we knew that no one had even tried to save it and that whoever had lived here had been allowed to perish. How we knew was a mystery and why we knew not to talk about it, not even to each other, was something we didn't understand. We skirted around the edges of the charred wood and broken glass and dead trees and began to run until we were well clear, breathing hard and half expecting some ghastly burnt up and not quite dead figure to appear and snatch us underground. Ain't no such things as ghosts, Ruthie panted and like Alice and the Red Queen, we ran faster, hoping for wings and the sight of a friendly face. We ran like the wind, clearing fallen logs and lichen covered rocks with ease, sending birds flying out of their nests and squirrels scurrying for cover. We ran until we were out of the woods and back in the light, then collapsed on the edge of the ballfield, laughing hysterically with relief and feeling foolish. Let's get ice cream, Ruthie said, And root beer. And let's not go back there again.
It was a sensible decision even if we'd been threatened by no more than our own imaginations but children often learn their lessons the hard way and their memories can be short - the following week we armed ourselves with cap pistols and the slingshots Uncle Len had made for us, stuffed our pockets with rocks made magic by a secret spell Rowena had taught us, packed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and made for the woods, determined to see, confront, and conquer any unfriendly spirit that might be lingering in the Titus ruins. It was often said of us - and all island children - that we were powerful long on curiosity and a mite short on good sense but the day was bright and clear, the ocean a deep and rich blue and the sun was high in the sky. We were well fortified, determined, and secure in the knowledge that there were no such things as ghosts. By noon, a fog bank was rolling in fast and the woods turned dark and misty, shadowy and fearsome with possibilities. By the time we reached the clearing, we could barely hear the sea and even the gulls were silent - it was wet and gloomy and we felt trapped and smothered in the dull layer of fog. Uncle Bernie's stories of gory monsters with red eyes, wicked fangs and a taste for children came back to us and the cap pistols gave us very little comfort. Should we encounter a vengeful spirit, we agreed with crossed hearts and spit, we would put all our faith in the magic rocks.
It happened very suddenly - we heard the muted hoot of an owl, a lone gull shrieked, and then the sound of hoof beats - a rider appeared on the other side of the ruins, a thin and shrouded figure, cloaked in a flowing black cape, astride a fire breathing steed. A voice of steel cried out Who dares defile this sacred ground? and the great stallion reared with a whinny of fury, hooves pawing at the air and mane flying. Who dares? the voice thundered. Ruthie and I broke our paralysis of terror and ran for our lives, never even thinking of the magic rocks and never noticing that the fiery steed had an uncanny resemblance to Miss Clara's painted pony or that the enraged rider looked and sounded suspiciously like John Sullivan We had unleashed the hounds of hell, a gruesome and bloody death was on our heels - we never slowed down, looked back or stopped screaming. We finally emerged from the woods just before Old Hat's, bruised, scratched and thoroughly terrorized, but profoundly grateful for having escaped with our young lives. The old woman barely spared us a glance, occupied as she was with shooting tin cans neatly arranged on the fence line and we flew across her property like wild animals on the run - at the time, nothing her old scattergun could have threatened us with seemed as dangerous as what horror might be hot on our trails. We kept running until we reached the safety of the breakwater. Ghosts can't swim, Ruthie told me in between ragged breaths. Neither can we, I reminded her and we took off again, running all the way home through a swirl of dust and fog and laughter.
Between work and home, I encounter three separate and equal road construction areas. Traffic slows to a crawl while road workers - some of whom I suspect are enjoying this temporary empowerment over hurrying vehicles and harried drivers - direct us to stop, turn, go back, or just wait. I live nearby and access the side streets easily, arriving home before some of my fellow drivers have been cleared to pass. Travel and traffic, I think to myself, yet another metaphor for life.
I live on a quiet dead end street amid neighbors I barely know except to wave to when we happen to be coming or going at the same time. We are all too pressed for time and too self involved to interact or get to know each other, too busy working and living and trying to maintain the pace to spare a moment for our common interests. The pursuit of life with all its detours and dead ends consumes us, as if it's a race we can actually win. I find myself wanting to take several steps back to a time when I saw the finish line as just one more square on the checkerboard, one more checkpoint to pass through. When I'm too weary of obstacles and adversity and can't see the end of the road, I try and take a deep breath, try to remind myself that it's the journey that matters. Who you meet along the way and the connections you make, how you treat others and how you are treated in return matter more than what time you arrive. We begin with nothing and no matter how low we fall or high we rise, we all end with nothing. All that really counts is the in between time and how we use it - we can grow and learn and do good or we can get stuck and stagnate. It's always our choice.
So, I tell myself as I ease on down the road and wave to the anonymous couple across the street, pass the children waiting for the school bus and stop briefly to talk with the man who cuts my grass,
it's a clear, sunny spring day and I'll make the most of it. Living is a process, a learning experience, as unpredictable as the weather. Detours and dead ends are just travel advisories.
There's a storm brewing on this dark morning, I can hear far off thunder and the crack of lightning as it cuts across the skies. It's a bad day to be a stray cat.
At the bus stop, an old woman in a torn sweater shields herself and her belongings with a tattered black umbrella. Traffic breezes by and takes no notice of her, plowing through the already flooded streets and sending a heavy spray of water in her direction. She scowls and shakes her fist at the drivers, an impotent but unmistakable gesture of anger at their lack of consideration. As I sit at the red light and watch her pull off one then both of her sodden boots and pour out the rainwater, I wonder at her persistence, she is a tiny thing laden with plastic bags and a shiny black purse, a frayed scarf wrapped around her flyaway hair. I don't know exactly why but I imagine she can curse like a drunken sailor on shore leave. There's something about her leathery, wrinkled old face and the set of her jaw that suggests she will take no backtalk - she may be small and old and drenched to the skin, but she carries her burdens willingly and I suspect she's independent minded and formidable.
The world is not, as I thought when I was much younger, such a carefree place where all dreams come true, all endings are happy and everyone is equal. Nor is it as dark a place as I once imagined, where everyone in power is corrupt and war-hungry and everything from ethics to children can be bought and sold. Only a handful of us are completely good or completely evil or completely useless, all the rest is a shadowland of bartering and trade offs, trying and giving up, doing your best or your least, seeking or hoarding fairness, kindness, concern. We are made in God's image, but built of fragile threads and thin wire, complications and contradictions in different packages with different labels - defined by our individuality and our commonalities. Now and again I wonder if God is not fundamentally a satirist with a slightly twisted sense of humor, if we are not an amusement park for a cosmically bored creator. Sometimes I wonder why I bother to wonder.
The old woman at the bus stop is gone, replaced by three hip hopping teenagers in low slung jeans and headbands and floppy Keds. They are joined by a very pregnant young woman carrying an infant and all three jump up and offer her their seat on the bench.
I imagine this would make even a satirical God smile.
