Roadblocks & Rules

We are all, so the old saying goes, works in progress. Some of us have progressed further and faster and others have been set aside for a time, but the real joy is that none of us are finished. Life, as AA proclaims, is a journey, not a destination. And it's true. You can get there from here.

But.....I hear myself say, All those roadblocks.....

Drive around! I hear myself answer, There's always another way!

I never had much use for Norman Vincent Peale, thought he was preachy and held too high an opinion of himself and his theories. I like to discover things for myself, as if it were my own idea, but the world is full of wisdom there for the taking. Listen and learn, as Nana used to say, Odds are you ain't near as smart as you think. She was, as usual, right in her assessment. She had a way of being curiously jaded and new penny optimistic at the same time, wavering between the two like a dandelion in the wind, never seeing the conflict. Even as a child, I seemed to be the one step forward, two steps back kind - a little forward progress, a little backsliding. In the end, you come out where you're supposed to be despite the roadblocks.

Within the context of free will, I'm partial to the theory or predestination, the concept that there's a plan in place put together by forces far older and wiser than we can imagine. One way or another, I think we more or less adhere to it although not consciously. I like to think that when it's right, it happens - be it falling in love or finding a job or buying a house. Not that we're denied choices or the right to change our minds or make mistakes - it's just that I find comfort in the idea of some cosmic blueprint at work, a guiding force that watches over us but attaches no conditions and pulls no strings. It doesn't interfere or judge, doesn't keep score and never says I told you so.

I think my grandmother thought the same way, that we live within a framework of something powerful and maybe even all-seeing, that we work, live and play within it but are still free to change direction as we please. The roadblocks we encounter are there for a reason - and there are rules for getting around them.

Rule One: Real: You'll need a map and possibly an alternative approach.

Rule Two: Imaginary: If your mind built it, your mind can dismantle it.

Rule Three: Man Made: If man assembled it, man can take it apart in less time.

If life were easy, we'd all be good at it, I think to myself.

Move On, Charlie

It can't be easy being a celebrity but somehow it makes me feel a little better that a well known face doesn't exempt you from life's ordinary ups and downs or protect you from your own stupidity. Truth is, I'm world weary of Charlie Sheen, Michelle Bachman, Brittany Spears and Rick Perry and I don't give a damn if Michael Douglas still smokes. For all the public faces that want to tell me what's in my best interests, get over it and get on with it, folks - the ship's going down and you're arranging deck chairs. If you can't feed your family on $400K a year, then there's something wrong with your eating habits - it's time we gave up on the idea that America is a classless society. I'm thinking I may vote a write in ballot - Warren Buffet for President, at the very least we'd get tax reform and maybe a touch of civility in politics.

I love my president. He's elegant and educated, well mannered and honest. I believe he's dedicated and sincere and willing to fight for fairness and peace but he's caught in a den of thieves and fools, surrounded by those who seek his political if not actual destruction. He's an idealist still, too much of a gentleman to fight on their terms and I fear he will not get a second chance to turn things around - the opposition is too committed to the rich and the corrupt, too busy lining their own pockets and insuring their personal places of power. Class warfare may not be a phrase they like - unless it works in their benefit - but it's securely in place in this country and will not be evicted or changed. When politicians can't pass a bill for disaster relief funding for those in the most dire need, it's time to Move On, Charlie - we've forgotten the basics in favor of getting re-elected.

I don't know what they have to say,

It makes no difference anyway,

Whatever it is, I'm against it!

No matter what it is,

Or who commenced it,

I'm against it!

Your proposition may be good,

But let's have one thing understood,

Whatever it is, I'm against it!

And even when you've changed it,

Or condensed it,

I'm against it!

The Marx Brothers

"Horsefeathers"

Used to be, I could tell the difference between politics and a Marx Brothers movie.

Tinker to Evers to Chance

There are moments when the elements unite, the gods smile, and the skies clear to make room for moonlight -they don't happen often and they don't last long but like Tinker to Evers to Chance, they're perfect - exquisitely timed, flawlessly executed and beautifully synchronized. These moments don't send invitations and there won't be time to freshen up - your only choice is to go with them or pass them by. Take the time to think them through and they'll be gone.

It might be a perfect photograph, the sight of someone getting off a plane, the first breath from a brand new child. You could be standing at an altar or running from one. It might be those final seconds when you realize you have a problem and are ready to accept help, a parachute jump, a leap of faith, a chord so sweet it wrings you out and leaves you dazed. It could be an unexpected kiss, the look in the eyes of a dying friend or the joy of being trusted. It could be a secret revealed or a life saving outreached hand. It might be a dance or a small kindness or a sudden memory. It could the very second you let go of the pain or choose to forgive or have a tiny flash of inspired insight into your own inner self. Don't anticipate, don't plan or scheme, don't prepare or imagine what you will say - when you least expect it, ready or not, the time and moment will choose you.

Part of the magic of living is in the unknown, in the mysteries we find in ourselves and other people. There is sorrow to be uncovered, love to be found and lost, celebration to be had and joy to be shared. We find friends in unlikely places, commonality in struggle, and strength in numbers. And through it all, whether keeping to a strict agenda or simply drifting, there are these moments of perfection. Ironically, not all are happy - roses wouldn't grow without rain. Without the forced double play, the homerun would be meaningless.

Patience and timing and luck.

Tinker to Evers to Chance.

Prim, Proper & Perfect

I was in college when my cousin Gaye arrived in Boston to attend secretarial school. We were lukewarm friends, only related due to the fact that her daddy and mine had fought in the war together and become fast friends - she was terribly proper, nylons and low heeled pumps while I was worn out jeans and battered Nikes. She wanted all the traditional things, a pretty home, a picture perfect family, motherhood and all the amenities. We spent a fair amount of time together for two people with so little in common and my daddy often expressed his surprise that we got along at all. You come from such different worlds, he would say, How do you tolerate each other?

I had no answer for this. Gaye didn't own a pair of jeans - it wasn't ladylike - just the thought of crooked seams in her stockings was enough to undo her and she would go absolutely nowhere without perfect hair and makeup. She liked everything coordinated - shoes, gloves, purse, hat - and I was doing well if my earrings matched. She never cursed or lost her temper, never did anything that wasn't planned, liked only quiet music, and never raised her voice. She smiled a great deal and liked to quote from the Bible in moments in rare moments of stress or anger. I preferred to curse like a sailor and throw things. I thought she was prim and ridiculously fastidious. She thought I was wild and uncivilized and both of us thought the other would come to a disappointing and bad end.

She was, she freely admitted, husband hunting - preferably an intellectual sort of man with the potential for wealth and an appreciation for the finer things in life, one willing to support her while she produced and raised children. She was methodical about the process, attending social events and dances and teas, meeting and evaluating potential suitors with practiced ease. Some she encouraged, others she discarded, but by the end of her last year, she returned home empty handed, having found no one with the proper qualifications. I've exhausted the pool of available men, she told me, There's simply no one acceptable. I wished her better luck at home, watched her board a plane and sighed with relief.

She did marry, did produce and raise a brood of children, did find her pretty house and picture perfect family and lives to this day happily and contented with her junior league sort of life. She writes once a year, at Christmas, a lengthy and detailed synopsis of the year's accomplishments and achievements. The letters are cheerfully breezy and chatty and superficial - there are details of trips and adventures and career choices and grandchildren, all enthusiastically punctuated and underlined - the random happy face is sometimes used in place of a period and I can't shake off the feeling that this is the kind of a letter a Stepford wife might write - prim, proper, husband approved and perfect.

In comparison, my life has been disorderly and chaotic, filled with ups and downs and foolish drama, a series of mistakes and good choices, of learning and moving on, an on going battle against tradition, soft spoken geniality and accommodation. I may have had precious little stability but she's had precious little passion.

Who is to say which was the wiser choice?

No Joy in the Flower Beds

When it comes to doing yardwork, I would - as my friend Michael so colorfully says - rather be in hell with a broken back, so I was delighted when the man who cuts the grass suggested someone who would come and clean things up.

Patrick arrived on a suffocatingly humid afternoon, along with Mollie, an eight year old lab and therapy dog with stunningly good manners. After no more than an hour's work, Mollie was peacefully sleeping in the shade by the front steps while Patrick, shirtless and looking as if he'd just stepped out from a swimming pool, cut and hauled limbs, packed lawn and leaf bags to overflowing, trimmed the crepe myrtle, watered and mulched the flower beds. It was 106 and sweat poured from his shoulders and back and arms, even accumulated on his eye lashes. I could barely breathe in the heat but he was unstoppable and by the time he was done, the yard had been transformed and a brush pile of green debris four feet tall and thirty feet long had been neatly arranged and laid out next to the curb. Even Mollie seemed pleased at the results - from the drivers side of the pickup she looked out and gave an approving woof.

It's probably an extravagance on my part to pay people to do this kind of work for me when I'm completely capable of doing it myself - but no amount of antidepressant or antiperspirant can seduce me into outside manual labor in these temperatures. I know it's against a long southern tradition but flower beds bring me no joy. So I thank the good Lord for the roofers, the trash men, the mail carriers, the painters and carpenters and all the undervalued yardmen who for mere coin of the realm will dehydrate and sweat themselves into oblivion to make my life easier.

The Cat Who Lives in the Garage

The kittens that were born under the house last spring have all grown and gone their separate ways but their mother, rather than return from wherever she came, has - regrettably - taken up residence in the garage. It's not the Ritz, not even a loving home, but it's dry and reasonably safe and since her occupancy, the mouse population is down considerably. Although it was against every rational instinct I had, compassion finally won out and each evening I leave her a dish of food and a bowl of fresh water.

She's just an ordinary gray and black striped cat, four white paws and big eyes, one of a dozen or so that roam the neighborhood and scavenge for survival in between breeding. She's shy, cautious, but not overtly unfriendly and she hasn't much fear of the dogs. I doubt she was born homeless - when I open the double doors, she gives me a brief and surprised look then moves gracefully into the shadows, but not more than a few feet away - she may sense that I present no threat but life has taught her to be wary. I wonder if she was left behind or just turned out, if she had a name or was ever loved. She's agile and looks to be healthy, free of any scars or injuries, a victim of being unwanted rather than outright abuse or neglect. It takes a cold and soulless heart to mistreat an animal and if it were up to me, no one who does it would live to do it a second time.

The small brown dog knows she's there and each time I let her out she races for the garage, eases between the double doors and starts searching. The cat watches from the work bench, silently assessing the threat, then deciding the danger is minimal, meows to give away her position. The little dog looks up, sees her, and begins to wiggle from nose to tail, anxiously whining and whimpering to be acknowledged, frantic to make a new friend and not understanding why the trespassing feline isn't equally as willing. The cat, true to her nature, pretends not to notice.

When I came back to the south for the last time, I came alone except for my black cat and we lived in a friend's garage while waiting for the house in New England to sell and for my husband and other animals to join us. The floors were rough, cold concrete - we slept together on a lumpy cot and lived out of cardboard boxes and suitcases,

eating at a different fast food restaurant each night and waiting for time to pass. It felt - although it wasn't - like poverty.

The cat who lives in the garage has not sacrificed her dignity or independence and as we live in a reasonably mild climate, chances are that she will survive and live to breed again. Some things are inevitable but I still damn the cruelty and stupidity that brought her to me.

Saying Goodbye

An old and dear friend writes to me about the probable loss of her sixteen year old cat who is suffering from renal failure. I know this pain all too well and I find myself almost too heartbroken to reply - words are such pitifully inadequate comfort and I'm too far away to stand by her and share her heartache. There's no easy way through these moments, no quick escape from the reality of loss. Her home will be emptier and her heart will hurt for a very long time - but she will find the strength and will to do what's necessary - she will offer up her own suffering to ease his. And one day she will think of him and smile at the memory, past the worst of the pain and grateful for the sixteen years. But for now it's about saying goodbye.

I have stood in hushed exam rooms, saying goodbye and waiting for a lethal injection to be prepared, too many times in my life. Death comes quickly and peacefully, the vet gently confirms it with her stethoscope, and it's over. All the before tears haven't helped much and I fight uselessly for control of my emotions but they break free anyway, as they must. The act of euthanasia is over but the coming to terms is just beginning - there are buckets of afterward tears still to come - acceptance is distant, shrouded by the immediate reality of what has just happened. The sense of loss is brutal and overwhelming and for several moments I think I cannot survive this and the world around me begins to fade in and out. Then, because what I have had done was right, because what I have done has released an animal I love beyond words from pain and sickness, another thought comes, You'll never hurt again, I think, You've been loved and now I give you back to God's care.

They are never with us long enough and once they're gone, missing them never really ends. They are, some say,

lesser creatures, not worth our emotional investment or grief. But those of us who love them, who care for them and share what we have with them for all their lives, know better.

When the time comes, we know it and we let them go because saying goodbye is really no more than putting their welfare ahead of our own.

For Iris.

For Rory.

And for Trevor.

Character Counts

Rarely one to mince words, my grandmother took one quick look at my mother's friend from next door and made her pronouncement in three clipped words - Drunken, trashy guttersnipe - and with that, she straightened her shoulders and shut the door behind her. My mother, woozy from an afternoon of drinking and card playing, wailed a protest and attempted to follow her but tripped on the carpet and fell heavily. Her icebox manhatten glass shattered on the edge of the stairs and when she pulled herself up, she stepped squarely into the broken glass, slashing her foot open in several places and embedding shards of glass between her toes. She began screaming and I ran for my room and locked the door. From my window, I watched my grandmother hesitate, look back, hesitate again, then stiffen her spine and climb into the Lincoln. She drove away quickly and didn't look back.

After several minutes, the screaming subsided and degenerated into a quarrel, loud and heated, over the need for medical attention, home first aid as opposed to to the ER. As neither was fit to drive - my mother disabled as she had stepped on her right foot and Betty whose polio had left her handicapped and crippled and able to walk only with the aid of metal canes - first aid won. When my daddy arrived home, he found my mother bleary eyed and mumbling, her injured foot wrapped in bloody towels, and no sign of Betty. He packed her into the old station wagon for the trip to the ER and my grandmother arrived to sit with me shortly afterward - both were grim faced and silent and I suspected that the worst was yet to come. Nana cleaned up the broken glass, scrubbed the carpet, washed the glasses and threw the empty liquor bottle (and two full ones) into the trash, then made me grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Eat, she told me and lit a Kent, striking a wooden match on the scarred kitchen table, a most unladylike gesture which seemed to surprise even her. It flared and I smelled sulphur and smoke in the stale air - a bad omen, I thought dismally, a sign of things to come when my daddy got home, I was sure. It occurred to me that I could probably outrun my grandmother, maybe even get as far as St. Luke's, a nearby Catholic church whose doors were almost never locked - a scene from "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" flashed through my mind, Charles Laughton trying to escape a violent mob and pleading for Sanctuary! but I dismissed the idea. I had a sense that no priest in his right mind would actually dare stand up to my grandmother.

My daddy came home alone. It seemed that my mother's behavior at the ER had been on the erratic side and the doctors had thought it wise to keep her overnight for observation. She hadn't cared much for this decision, had fought it so adamantly that despite the alcohol in her system, she'd been sedated, so my daddy said. He had dark circles under his eyes, blood stains on his shirt and looked haggard and beaten up. Overiding his objections, Nana made coffee and more grilled cheese sandwiches, insisted that he eat, take a hot shower, and go to bed. She would stay overnight, she told him firmly, and would hear no argument - he was too tired to make one anyway and did as he was told. She and I cleaned up the kitchen for the second time, let the dogs out, and said goodnight. Not a word was said about the events of the afternoon, not then and not in the following days. My mother came home the next afternoon and for a time was sober, almost contrite. Weeks later, my daddy sat me down and talked to me about character, how it was formed, how it could be influenced by others, how important it was to maintain. It was, I thought, more of a frail and fraudulent attempt to clear my mother and convict Betty than a lesson in character but I knew better than to argue. More often than not, I was to learn, character comes with flaws.

Snap Beans

The Farmers Market was bustling with activity, vendors and shoppers thronged the crowded riverfront plaza, there were cries of fresh coffee, beignets, just baked biscuits. The stalls offered jars of preserves tied with bright ribbons,watermelons and tomatoes, baskets of corn, apples and peaches and crates of strawberries and blueberries all newly washed and shining in the early morning sun. The sights, sounds and smells took me back to memories of summers on the farm - shelling peas on the front veranda, peeling apples for baking, husking just picked corn and watching the latest litter of kittens at play while my daddy napped in the rocking chair.

Where is everyone? my mother asked, coming to the front door with an apron full of radishes.

Gone to pick blueberries at Uncle Dave's, my daddy said in sleepy voice. He opened his eyes cautiously and looked in the direction of the door. Why? Did you want to go?

My mother gave a harsh sounding laugh. When there's enough frost in hell to kill the snap beans, she said sharply and my daddy gave her a surprised look.

The phrase stuck with me - I was sure I'd heard it before and certainly not from my mother who was your basic When hell freezes over sort of person. My daddy was frowning as he shifted in the chair, suddenly restless and he abruptly got up and went inside, beckoning me to follow. We climbed the stairs to my Aunt Ola's room and he began thumbing through a bookcase, running his fingers over the spines and muttering frost and snap beans, snap beans and frost. It was something about a journey, I'm sure.

Whatever it was, he didn't find it and stood puzzling over the books for several minutes then shook his head in mild frustration, Well, he said finally, It'll come to me.

It was Mr. Christian, I said tentatively, from "Mutiny on the Bounty". He spun around with a delighted smile and swept me up in a hug.

That's right! he exclaimed, That's exactly right! How on earth did you remember?

I was absurdly pleased with myself for pleasing him and hugged his neck fiercely as he carried me downstairs.

You, he announced to my grandmother, have a very bright granddaughter! And you, he added with a "gotcha", sideways look at my mother, have been reading! Nana Ruby smiled tolerantly, as you might at a kindly and well meaning idiot but my mother turned and gave him a furious glare. Some people would do well to mind their own business, she advised curtly.

My daddy just laughed and my mother stiffened her spine and continued to chop radishes with zest, pointedly ignoring us both. Still, I had a feeling she was somehow pleased - there was a hint of color in her cheeks and the suggestion of an involuntary smile. It was a rare moment and even my grandmother looked sideways at her daughter in law and winked.

The Extraction

I didn't feel the first injection and there was barely a twinge with the second and third. The hygienist slipped the nitrous mask in place. Fifteen minutes later the offending tooth was history and I was on my way home. The young and good looking dentist had accomplished what for me was nothing less than a miracle - painlessly, deftly, quickly.

More importantly - I was breathing normally, hadn't broken any fingernails, had never had the first stirrings of an anxiety attack. The pain of healing was more uncomfortable than the extraction.

On my way home from work the following day, I stopped at the wine shop for a gift certificate for the friend who had so generously given his time and talent to install a window unit for me during the heat wave and a gift basket for the dentist. I struggled with the card, torn between a simple thank you and a message of sainthood.

Kindness is not as common as we would like in this sometimes sorry world and for those of us who are confronted with uncontrollable fear, whatever the source, finding compassion and understanding can be a long battle. I do not approve of my dental phobia, I despise it and am ashamed of it, but have never been able to conquer it. Reflexes and biology take over the moment I step into a dentist's office - my heart pounds like a sledge hammer, I can't breathe, I shake, I often dissolve into tears just from the anxiety and anticipation. Everything about it unravels me internally and makes me terrified. To survive a visit is a monumental achievement - to survive a visit without a melt down is life changing.

I don't know how to tell this to this young, good looking, dry humored and immensely kind doctor, don't know how to tell him what his patience and gentle nature have meant to me or how far he has brought me in just two quick visits. I don't know how to tell him that after a lifetime of terror and fear and pain, I trust him. Maybe I'll find a way in subsequent visits or just maybe, he already knows and is wise enough not to tell me.

Them & Us

I don't remember why the so called welfare mothers chose Sears & Roebuck for their protest but on a pleasant Saturday afternoon in September, just after school started, they gathered with signs and loud speakers and not a few rocks and stormed the unsuspecting Porter Square store. They were mostly young, black and with children in their arms or their bellies and made such a scene that the police - all white - were called to break them up but not before several windows had been broken and traffic hopelessly snarled. I watched from a hemmed in bus as the uniformed officers waded in and began dispersing them and when one very young and very pregnant girl refused to budge, she was given a sharp crack with a nightstick and forcibly dragged away, handcuffed, and put into one of the squad cars. A second was arrested when she threw a rock and struck an officer on the shoulder, a third carried off after she had passively laid down on the pavement and refused to move. It all happened so quickly that by the time the local news arrived, there was little left to film except the display windows being boarded up and the traffic being sorted out. Sears cried vandalism, the police cried public nuisance and resisting arrest, the women just cried. Until that day, civil disobedience had been little more to me than an overused phrase in a civics book - seeing it in action was something altogether different, horrifyingly real and frightening.

Rocks aside, I imagined my daddy would side with the women and was caught sadly off guard when he backed the police, telling me in no uncertain terms that welfare parasites deserved what they got, that they were too lazy to work and preferred to have babies in order to get more public assistance. Besides, my mother added with a nasty sneer, They're nothing but dope fiends and drunks and colored trash. God help us if this busing thing catches on, you'll have to be in school with them. The thought made her shudder and reach for another drink.

This introduction to my parents' theory of "them and us" came as a mild shock. My daddy had told me for as long as I could remember that there was no shame in poverty, he was proud of his background, deprived as it might have been, and grateful for the chance to rise above it. He had never taught me any outright or recognizable racism that I could recall and I had always assumed that unlike my mother - who had no earthly use for anyone who wasn't white and Protestant, conveniently forgetting that the entire country had immigrant roots, even on her own precious family tree - he didn't give much thought to skin color or country or origin. I hadn't reckoned with his business being in the heart of what had once been an upper class Cambridge neighborhood but which had fallen on hard times and was struggling to survive a fundamental change in character. Someone had to be held accountable and the easiest scapegoats were poor and black.

The next school day, I took a serious look at the only black student in my school, a young, withdrawn and frail looking boy the same age as I was who I'd known since the first grade. I'd never considered how much time he spent alone or that he wasn't involved in sports or music or any after school projects. Truth was, I'd never considered him at all and now was feeling a little ashamed of myself. I wish that I could say I spoke to him, he spoke back and we became friends, but I had no idea how to begin the conversation - I knew absolutely nothing about him except his name and that he had no friends at school. It must have been difficult being the only dark face in a sea of white and to this day I wish I'd approached him, talked to him, given him a chance. I believed my parents were wrong but wasn't prepared to put it to the test.

A Week in the Country

The surface of the lake was dark blue-black, smooth as glass, clear and not too cold. By mid-morning it would be swarming with swimmers, speed boats and water skiers, all city people looking for relief from the crowds and the

4th of July heat wave. My mother had found this place through a lodge friend, just an hour and a half from Boston but a world away - we were renting a small cabin with bunk beds and a hotplate, not the Ritz as she liked to say, but it was cooler than the city and cheap. My grandmother had taken one brief, scathing look and immediately left for a nearby resort hotel. Roughing it isn't my style anymore, she told us briskly, You can all come for dinner if you like. We watched the Lincoln pull away in a swirl of dust and gravel, bitterly jealous and quietly dreading the week to come. Go find something to do! my mother snapped at us impatiently, And take the damn dogs with you!

My daddy arrived that night, hot and tired but cheerful. He had brought our bicycles, a box of books and board games, a tiny, portable black and white television and several cardboard containers of fried chicken. We ate at the wooden picnic table in front of the cabin, swatting mosquitoes and feeding scraps to the dogs while my mother slept peacefully after a full day of drinking. On the second night, they began to argue and on the third morning, he had us pack our things and return to the city - my brothers were sent to friends' houses and I spent the remainder of the week at my grandmother's who had elected to come home after one night at the hotel. My mother stayed behind, watching us drive away with a look I wasn't sure of - rage or maybe relief - it was hard to tell.

Keeping to tradition, the almost vacation was consigned to the Things We Never Talk About List - there are many such lists in alcoholic households - and we all pretended it had never happened. Looking back, I'm amazed by the ease with which we slipped into the routine of denial, telling ourselves privately that this was simply how families operated, that we were no different than any other. As children, we were quick studies - learning not to ask questions and assuming that any fault lay with us was far safer than the mildest form of confrontation. Emotions were too unpredictable to be set free.

We had other weeks in the country. As we got older, it got easier to isolate ourselves and stay occupied. We developed skills like avoidance and appeasement, learned to ignore the outbreaks of moods and stay out of the way, enabling our way through the years and trying to stay under the radar. Most of the time it worked and when it didn't, we ran until it blew over, taking shelter where and with anyone we could find. My mother took to the country alone and there was peace - restless, superficial, and temporary, but still peace.

Sorry, Wrong Number

I didn't know whether to be amused or offended but feeling intrigued by the anonymous message on my cell phone - a lengthy, rambling and somewhat incoherent sounding accusation about my having made harassing telephone calls to man ( who's voice I'd never heard), about his wife ( who I didn't know) and a husband ( who I don't have), I thought I might return the call as considerably enough, he had left me his cell phone number in the event that I might want to discuss the situation with him personally. His threats to call the telephone company, the sheriff, the city police, the FBI and to make my life a living hell were made in a weary, resigned tone of voice, quite impassionate and calm. He sounded more tired than angry - curious for such call, I thought, and a little sad.

Secure in the knowledge that he had made a mistake, I called his cell phone, intending to set him straight. It went to voice mail and disappointed, I left my name and number, I suppose in hopes of an apology and the even more vain hope of some personal vindication - sad to say, even a mistaken accusation from a total stranger still triggers my defenses. I can't abide being blamed for something I didn't do, no matter how trivial or foolish it may be, it makes me feel mistreated and judged unfairly, which in turn makes me angry, which in turn makes me determined to get even. Remnants of childhood cling to me like lint - if I feel I've been wronged, forgiveness isn't in my nature.

There was no return telephone call from the sad voiced man with the suspect wife. Perhaps he hasn't listened to his messages or realizes he made a mistake and lacks the courage to correct it. Maybe he isn't the kind of man who thinks putting things right is important. I'll probably never know and while I tell myself is doesn't matter, that it was a wrong number and an insignificant accusation, I still feel the sting of injustice.

There are days when I allow the angry child in me to show her stubborn face and I despair of my own foolishness.

Behind the Walls

I feel incarcerated.

I had spent weeks looking forward to a long holiday weekend, of by passing the 5:30 wake up call, of organizing and cleaning the house, of a trip to the zoo, of getting out to see and photograph my musician friends - of a vacation. By no stretch of the imagination was an abscessed tooth on the itinerary and while there is no pain, the chipmunk look is not something I want to present to the public so here I stay, behind the walls, infuriated with myself and missing it all. This is time that will not come again and the loss of each passing hour grates on my nerves like chalk on a blackboard.

To fill the time, I attend to the small things that I've put off for months - bringing some order to the multiple boxes of random picture cd's, sorting through old negatives, pawing through the drawers of mismatched silverware - boring, mindless work while old movies play in the background and the animals sleep peacefully. I color my hair and iron my scrubs, throw a haphazard coat of paint on my neglected nails, look for a Stephen King to re-read. And finally, I sit at the computer and wonder if I can lessen my anger and restlessness by writing about it. This should be an opportunity, I tell myself and the screen, a time to work on accepting what I can't change. I feel like growling at the old AA wisdom simply because it's so annoyingly, persistently, and unfailingly right.

I want someone to blame - other than myself, it goes without saying - for this dismal state of affairs, yet no likely suspect steps forward. My teeth, my neglect (a glimmer of hope here when I remember that it was my mother who instilled me with my dental hygiene habits - but no, that won't work because I didn't have to choose to maintain them), my fault. It always comes from childhood, the nurse with the perfect teeth had told me with a sweet and understanding smile, All dental trauma, all fear. I think this is so, but, the small AA voice reminds me, that was a half century ago, it's time to move on.

And indeed it is. Incarcerated or not, there are still three days left to this long holiday weekend, the swelling is receding, the antibiotics have eased the pain. With any luck, I may be able to get my bridgework in long enough to make tonight's scheduled photo shoot.

Never underestimate what you can and can't change.

A Dream of Fear

Nothing sends me into a spiral of denial faster or more completely than a twinge-y tooth so predictably I tolerated the pain for just over two weeks before it became impossible. Finally, the night came when the pain woke me just after 2:30 in the morning and no amount of pain medication would calm it. I realized, with a suicidal sense of desperation, that I had no choice - I could look down and see my swollen cheek, feel its misshapen bulge of infection and knew that I would have to see the dentist.

When I was a little girl, I dreaded disappointing my daddy. The look in his eyes was far worse than any physical punishment or harsh words could ever bring about and as I reached for the telephone to make the appointment, I understood that I couldn't bear to see that same look in the eyes of my dentist, not again. He has done nothing but care for me and treat me for years with kindness and understanding and love and I have broken promise after promise after promise to do better. I couldn't take this this latest abscess to him, couldn't face those kind and worried eyes one more time. Reluctantly, I called a new dentist - on a Wednesday before a holiday weekend, no less, with little hope in my heart and already trying to figure out how I would make it through until the next week. To my surprise, he agreed to see me the following morning - terror and relief immediately began a raging and bloody battle in my mind, each competing for my attention, demanding they be heard and take center stage. I was too torn to be rational, in too much pain to resist or change my mind and so afraid that I was trembling at just the prospect of the visit. I slunk home to a handful of pain pills and a healthy dose of antibiotics then crawled into bed to sleep and cry and pray for forgiveness, strength and other miracles.

I slept badly, seeming to hear the ticking of a clock with every breath, counting down the seconds til the next morning. I dreamed of fear itself, incapacitating and terrible, dressed in white and holding me hostage, a syringe in one hand and a scythe in the other. One thought kept circling around me, the absolute certainty that I couldn't do this, would rather die than face it. Then the pain would flare, a vicious reminder that abscessed teeth don't heal on their own, that I was trapped and out of options. And finally, the inevitable - I had done this to myself and was paying the price. When morning came, I showered and dressed, gulped down more antibiotics and pain pills and brushed my teeth properly. Feeling more than a little schizophrenic and phobic, having trouble breathing already, I left for what I was sure would be the queen mother of all nightmares, still not convinced that I would actually be able to see it through but not able to locate an alternative exit. Concentrate on tomorrow, I kept telling myself,

Get past this. No one dies from a dentist visit. No one dies from fear.

In the waiting room, on the verge of an all out panic attack, I gripped the arms of the chair until my fingers went numb and when the nurse called my name I had trouble letting go. I forced myself to follow her to a treatment room, pushed back the almost overwhelming urge to scream. I thought I recognized the sound of a drill but it was hard to tell because of the roaring in my ears, the sound of my own heartbeat in in double time was deafening.

Fear is part and parcel of living, an intuitive and natural defense mechanism that alerts us to danger, makes us more aware of threats, keeps us careful and paying attention. Taken to the extreme, it becomes a phobia and a risk in itself but reality never ever lives up to fear's expectations. The xray confirmed that there was too much infection and inflammation to do an extraction this day - as if that wasn't obvious by the state of my face - and the procedure has been scheduled for next week. Having met the staff and the dentist, having talked with them and shared the fear, the worst is over. Fear will try again, of this I have no doubt, but it will lose - defeated by trust, kindness, and a gentle touch.

Lost in the Hardware Store

After being verbally beaten into submission by my distressed yardman, I finally agreed to water the crepe myrtle and azaleas. It was against my better judgement - death by neglect has always been my motto when it comes to green and growing things that need tending - but I'd given my word. And so I discovered that the water hose was missing a nozzle. On my way back to work, I dashed into the hardware store - upscale, airy, overpriced - and was approached by a young man who gave me a big smile and asked if he could help find anything.

I need a...... and to my surprise, the word evaporated in mid sentence. Sorry, I mumbled, I need a.... a thing....a whatchamacallit ......and while I was still trying to retrieve the elusive word and on the point of resorting to gestures, he gave me a thoughtful, straight faced frown and in a perfectly serious voice, asked, What color?

It was a good moment, a light, laugh out loud moment and I was grateful for it. The day was looking up and that same afternoon, after some 50 days of drought, a cluster of violent thunderstorms came crashing through the city like a killer wave, scattering tree limbs and flooding the streets in a matter of minutes, bringing relief from the scorching heat and moisture to the starved ground. I wondered if there might be a connection between my shiny new water nozzle and the sudden climate change - if so, I should have bought it weeks ago.

The following morning there was still thunder rumbling overhead but even at five am the air was oppressive and steamy hot. Our long hot summer seems far from over.

Don't underestimate the small things and unexpected moments.