Sweet Time

My friend, Babe - musician, artist and photographer not to mention mother and grandmother - arrived late.  She gave me a hug before settling in with a shot of tequila and whispering in my ear.

I've been spending time with Jack, she confided with a grin.

What kind of time? I asked, already feeling a bit psychic.

Sweet time! she whispered back, eyes flashing, and we both laughed.

Good for you!  I told her and couldn't help but smile.  Being a hopeless romantic, I'd suspected this and had been hoping it was true - she's one of my favorite people, possessed of a gentle heart and an old soul, bright, funny, gifted, and fiercely independent.  We share a love of music, animals and photography, are close in age and have traveled many of the same roads, arriving in more or less the same place at more or less the same time.  Jack is a handsome, talented and sweet talking musician, seductive eyes and smile, a philosopher of sorts, always on the mend from his latest broken heart.  His lyrics are poetry set to music, her art expresses her feelings - they're a good match, a creative, intense, and complimentary match - and when it's over, I think they will both be the better for having spent time together.  With the right people, short term romances can make for warm memories and manageable heartaches - and even leave a lasting friendship.

High Expectations

Being a woman of natural spirit and hard earned independence, my grandmother disliked being reliant on other people as well as mechanical devices she didn't fully understand .  She had no patience with stupidity and no tolerance with dysfunctional machinery - be it a radio, an egg beater, even a Lincoln Mark IV, if it misbehaved, it was banished, smashed to smithereens when possible and replaced.  In this, I am most like her - a malfunctioning can opener can drive me to hysterical rage and I take its failure to perform personally.  I tell myself that my appliances are not targeting me but somewhere in a dark recess of my mind, the suspicion lingers.  In one or two instances when a number if things have gone consecutively wrong, I've even considered the possibility of an underground conspiracy at work and I have no doubt that it's the can opener giving the orders.  The printer that suddenly refuses to print, the cd player that refuses to play, the failing vacuum cleaner or the hair dryer that blows only cold air - all just soldiers.  I wonder what my grandmother would make of this new and improved world.




With people, she was selective and demanding, cultivating a wide number of acquaintances but a limited circle of true friends.  She seemed to prefer the company of women friends and even with those quite close to her usually maintained an enviable reserve.  Patience with the flaws of others was not her strong suit and being a widow for a good part of her life had taught her self reliance - she wasn't wealthy but she'd been left comfortable - that and her natural frugality served her well in the years she spent alone.  She was, if not happy, at least well content and as a rule, uncomplaining.  I suspect I've inherited that part of her nature as well albeit not the comfortable part.  She struggled through the first part of her life while I struggle through the last.


She looked on men much as she looked on cars - necessary evils with narrow usefulness, a constant need for maintenance and no trade in value.  Looking at her short, stocky and firmly corseted frame with her snowy hair and sensible shoes, it was impossible for me to imagine her as a young woman, newly wed and leaving home for marriage and motherhood.  From what I knew of my grandfather, I couldn't help but wonder if she'd been following a dream or just doing what was expected of her.


There's a saying that If it has tires or testicles, it's gonna be trouble.  I imagine that little gem would've made her smile.

No Children Required

Let's play Army, my brother suggested, not meeting my eyes and fidgeting with the plastic bayonet on his new toy rifle.


Despite my tomboy nature, I had a strong suspicion that "Army" would turn into "Prisoner of War", and I immediately said no, not giving the idea the briefest moment, and running for my own room, careful to lock the door behind me.  Curling up on the small cot, I opened my book and began to read - it was here, with my books and my stuffed tiger, that I could indulge the desperate fantasy of being an only child.  In recent times, I've wondered if this might not have been the beginning of my distrust of and cynicism toward people and the start of what would often be a reclusive lifestyle.  I still retreat when threatened and sometimes, just for the pleasure of it, even when I'm not. 


Only children seemed to lead more peaceful lives, I imagined though I had no idea whether it was actually true or not.  They were more appreciated, more tolerated, certainly more indulged and protected.  I couldn't see a real downside to one child families - from my point of view, children were an extravagance, more trouble than reward, and one to a family was more than adequate.  It seemed I'd known for as long as I could remember that they were not in my future.  My mother enjoyed telling tales of how much she'd sacrificed for us, how impossible we had been to raise and teach, how much she'd given up in order to be a parent and how she feared it would never end.  Trying to make sense of this only gave me a headache and a hazy sense of guilt - I would never, I promised myself, bring a child into the world, never punish myself and give in to something I didn't want, as I was sure my mother had done.  This was a decision, as my daddy patiently tried to convince me, that could make marriage something of a problem - if marriage was something I wanted, he was quick to add - but I knew, just flat out, without a doubt, deep in my heart, knew that he was wrong.


I managed to meet and marry two like minded men, one who shared my feelings and one who already had grown children.  I was happy to leave the issue of grandchildren to my youngest brother, who in no time at all, produced two boys and took up parenting with energy and enthusiasm.  My own parents were delighted if a little distant and I only hoped that my nephews would be raised differently than we'd been.  Cycles can be hard to break and we often teach what we learn.


When both my marriages ended in divorce, I remember feeling fortunate that there were no children to quarrel over - there was limited damage on both sides, although more so the second time around - a custody battle would've done me in.  


My mother began her family ingrained with the belief that children were necessary accessories, required add ons that would guarantee her acceptance and happiness.  She came to see them as burdens - imperfect, demanding and constantly in the way.   Right or wrong, I was convinced that whatever mysterious parenting gene was lacking in her was also lacking in me and I knew as surely as I knew anything, that children would've been an irreversible and fatal mistake.  


The friends I have with children are caring, committed parents - born to it, it seems to me, as naturally as grass grows, unable to imagine life without them.  But for me, even an only child would've been one too many.


Simply having children does not make mothers.  ~John A. Shedd

Six Days in a Ford

After six long days in a rental Ford - driving it is like being crammed into a cold capsule - I was finally assured that my car was repaired.  I paid the rental charges ($400), hitched a ride to the dealership ($600 plus) and foolishly believed that I could trust the repair. I didn't make it home - the car died and refused to start at an intersection not two blocks from my home, stranding me amid a road construction site and in the dark.  As I watched the poor old thing being loaded onto a tow truck and taken away, I realized I had no one but myself to blame - no one had forced me to return to a dealership with a habit of "fixing" things that aren't broken and I should've known that expecting fairness, competence or goodwill was futile.  I hadn't asked them to repair a John Deere or a motorcycle or a Jag, just a simple Chrysler.  I had been patient with their "baffled" mechanics, accepted the fact that the car hadn't even been steadily worked on the first three days in their care.  I even declined to bring up their past service record and accepted the fact that they didn't provide loaner vehicles.  I'd told myself that my emails had been unanswered because the owner of the dealership was out of town or somehow unavailable.  But standing at that one lane intersection, in the dark and hysterically angry, something finally snapped.  


The next morning, the dealership finally agreed to pay for a rental car, the owner assured me everything that could be done was being done, and the manager of the service department gave me a long and complicated list of repairs that the car would need in the future, each more costly than the last.  And still, whatever had killed the engine remained a mystery and while they were willing to keep trying, they didn't have much hope.  They all agreed that the best solution was a new car and as it happened, they had one they thought would be a good fit.  Surprise, surprise. I listened to the sales pitch resignedly and agreed to look at it the next day - by the time I got home, I'd gotten three calls from the sales department - they'd managed to extend the months to make it more affordable, offered to bring the car by at lunch rather than after work so I could test drive it, and finally, the salesman reminded me, he was going out of town the next night and wouldn't it be a shame if someone else were to get this particular car.  A real shame, I said dryly, thinking that like all used car salesmen, he had none and would use any tactic available to close a deal.  


That night instead of sleeping, I reviewed my options:
Buy the car and end the nightmare.
Shop around in an unrepaired car that might strand me at any moment, any time, any place.
Or:
Shop around in an unrepaired car that might strand me at any moment, any time, any place.
Buy the car and end the nightmare.


I could practically feel the jaws of the trap snapping shut.


Here's the thing, I began with the salesman who brought me the car to test drive.  And I calmly explained that while I was resigned to buying a car, I wasn't resigned to buying one from them and that I wasn't able to get past the idea that they owed me - following this was an offer which I turned down, and a second offer, which I also turned down.  This is now a matter of principle, I told him with a touch of sadness, I'm out a thousand dollars which in my mind is on your doorstep and I still don't have a repaired car, so thanks but no thanks.  To my surprise, there was a third offer which made up the thousand dollars and I said yes.


I suspect they still got the better of the deal, dealerships usually do, but the nightmare was over.  I said a quiet goodbye to the Cruiser - No hard feelings, old girl - and anxious for the next adventure, drove home.

Worry, Worry

Among my many and assorted flaws, I am a worrier, prone to invent a problem to worry about if none are close at hand.  

It's a habit I've had since my teens and I can clearly remember my daddy gently laughing at me and saying that it was a waste of time, that nothing I ever worried about was worth it, that the entire process was silly.  In the face of an ongoing war - it was the 60's - this made me furious and I would accuse him of apathy, of complacency and worse.  He would just give me his "wait and see" smile ( of all his expressions, this was the one that made me the most undone, the fastest ) and pay no mind to my outrage.  This led to many one sided but still  good natured shouting matches with no clear winner - my idealism was embedded in stone, his optimism and faith were immutable.  Anything was fair game - the welfare system, politics, drugs, books, and of course, the war.


When I left home for the last time to share a Back Bay apartment with the boy I would marry a year or so later, my mother and grandmother publicly disowned me, although my grandmother privately relented enough to take my calls.  My daddy, however, finally gave in to worry and while he wouldn't talk to me, he did keep in touch through Nana - his moral qualms were mild, his parental concerns were severe.  I missed him but fancied myself in love and determined to be on my own.  It was our first estrangement.


For all his worry, I did marry and attain respectability and I stayed married for ten years.  All was forgiven the moment a symbolic ring was slipped on my finger.


Age and experience have taught me that my daddy was mostly right.  Nowadays I worry about more substantial things and try and leave the world -still here and more or less intact despite all my dismal expectations - to fend for itself.  I support my causes quietly, lend a hand where and when I can, send money when I'm able but leave the active protesting to the young, putting the worry on their shoulders.

Worry is like a rocking chair, a friend of mine recently posted to a social networking site, It gives you something to do but doesn't get you anywhere.

Would that I could tattoo this behind my eyes so that I see it every time I blink and be reminded of its pure truth.

  

Invisible Lines

When I was ten, I could scarcely imagine twenty.
By the time I was twenty, forty seemed impossibly far away.

At fifty, I was sure sixty only happened to other people and when I got there, I decided it would be wiser to stop counting altogether.  



Age is like an artificial and invisible line in the sand.  On one side is the illusion of immortality and on the other, The Great Unknown - some would say there is no life until you cross over, others say everything important happens in between.  What I think seems to depend on current circumstances and how well or badly life is going at the moment.  It's an up and down world, unpredictable and full of surprises, fragile and precious, sometimes wise but more often foolish.  We learn most of the useful things too late to do us much good. 

The day before New Year's Eve saw an unimaginable tragedy in our small southern city - a 34 year old man backed out of his driveway with enough speed and force to strike and kill a 5 year old child on a bicycle. Before the police were even finished at the scene, there were calls for blood - he'd been drinking, he'd been on his cell, he'd been texting, where were the parents who should've been watching their child and so on.  It was an unbearably sad story, made more so for its happening so close to Christmas and it will resonate forever in the lives of those involved - grief, like age, is like an uphill climb against a strong wind.  It takes small steps and rests often, tries not to look down for fear of falling.  You gain a little ground, you lose a little and work your way through it because there's no other route and no short cut.   


A part of me is grateful that I don't know the driver or the child's family, grateful for the distance between me and their pain.  Even if I had them, words provide no comfort for such times - there's never an explanation for the taking of a child and no one really cares about God's great and mysterious plans.


There's no solace for a heart wounded by the loss of a child.

Wifi: A Tale of Technology, Terror & Triumph: One Woman's Story of Life in the Digital Age

It was, as Dickens so enduringly wrote, the best of times, it was the worst of times....the season of light, the
season of darkness...

It began innocently and simply enough - feeling chained to my desktop, I began to wonder about adding a laptop computer to my minimally armed technological arsenal.  The idea of portability appealed to me as often something comes into my mind and I either have to remember it - a highly risky proposition at best - or jot it down on whatever I have handy.  Perhaps, I thought, I might still be adaptable enough to take it to the next level, and I began exploring possibilities.  Being a cautious sort, I played with this idea for several months before actually taking action but a few days after Christmas I reviewed my checkbook balance and decided to take a leap of faith.


The salesgirl, a pert and pretty little thing, demonstrated several models - the courage to buy on line had failed me - and I settled on a Dell, 14" inch, preloaded with Windows 7 (the same program as on my desktop, a good omen, I told myself) with a metallic blue top (which hadn't influenced me in the slightest, I repeatedly told myself, already remembering how often Alice talked to herself in Wonderland).  All I had to do, she assured with me, was take it out of the box and plug it in.  I felt that familiar "too good to be true" doubt creeping into my mind, and I questioned her severely about this but she held her ground and finally, with less certainty than I'd started in with, I handed over my credit card.


At home, with The Device out of the box and plugged in, the situation took a dismal and downhill turn - no matter what I did, there was no internet access.  Frustrated but not willing to concede, I determined to take it back and ask for help, not realizing that it was long past closing.  The next best thing was Dell support - they proudly advertised their 24-7 service, their commitment to customers, their professionalism and expertise. The one thing they didn't advertise was any proficiency in the English language - once connected to a technician in New Delhi (as best I could determine, operating from the center of a barnyard), I felt despair and regret.  A tiny voice (a gnat? I mused) seemed to be sighing and whispering in my ear - it sounded ruefully like I told you so.......told you so .....told you so......


After a fruitless two hour support session, tech support determined that my existing modem did not have the facility for a wireless connection, but that I could buy a wireless router and they would guide me through installation.  Or, they were quick to point out, I could connect the cable from my desktop to my laptop and use it thus.  It took some time to make them understand that if I wanted to sit on the bedroom floor with the laptop connected to the desktop, I might as well use the desktop (irony may not be the same in this country and India), but I eventually agreed and the following day returned to the place of purchase and obtained a wireless router.  From 11:00 that morning - New Year's Day, did I mention - until past 5:00 that afternoon, a new technician ( but undeniably in the same barnyard) guided and instructed me through a set up process.  About halfway through, my overworked cell phone died which forced us to email communications and a three hour delay while it recharged, but in the end despite networks and cables and a nearly fatal language barrier, The Device was finally wirelessly connected.  The desktop,however, as I discovered the following morning, was not.  Feeling slightly homicidal, I initiated a second, three hour support session - another barnyard, another technician - and eventually, the desktop internet was restored.  


Day Four: A long and tedious day at work, rejuventated by a ham sandwich, a cup of tomato soup and the promise of an early bedtime, I turned on The Device.  The "no internet connection " appeared immediately and  for just a moment, I considered packing it and all its contents into my car and driving directly through BestBuy's plate glass window at maximum speed.  With a shotgun. In a rare moment of reason, I instead decided a live chat with Dell Support would be more productive - I connected on the desktop, followed their instructions to disconnect one cable and reconnect it to The Device and immediately lost internet access on both computers.  I changed the cables back and reconnected, received the same instructions, obtained the same results.  On the third attempt, I refused to touch another cable and after a half hour's worth of back and forth was advised that I was speaking to a hardware technician and that the problem was in the software so would I please contact - by telephone only - a pay for service department.  No,I carefully typed back, I will not.
Another several minutes of back and forth, I could feel my temper building.  I counted to ten, then twenty, then slowly typed I have spent nothing but time and money on a product that it useless to me and I will not spend one more minute or one more dime listening to any technician that cannot speak English.  You should be ashamed.  And before I could rethink the words, I punched "Send" and "Exit".  It was a little past midnight. 


The cell phone chirped me awake a little after one am and I steeled myself for another round of "support".
I don't speak Indian, I said sharply, So if you don't speak English then don't waste my time.


A lilting, sing song but far more understandable voice answered me with an immediate apology and an offer to help.  Against my better judgement, I relented but alas, too little, too late.  They would have a technician call and make an appointment to come and repair it, they said, all their resources were exhausted and they had come to the conclusion that the sim card was bad.  I had no idea what that meant and discovered that I cared even less.


The following day, I brought The Device with me to work to await the technician.  Our software rep happened to me there and she volunteered to look at it - in less than six keystrokes, I was connected on line, and she gave me clear and easy instructions to connect at home, instructions which actually worked.  My mind, which had been feeling like a un-put-together jigsaw puzzle designed in India, seemed to clear - I still have no idea how it all works, no real understanding of wifi or networks or how so called support could be so unsupportive and flat out wrong - but it matters not.  The battle is won - and even my new ipod, courtesy of my cousin, functions.


Next: Music downloads to the ipod my cousin so generously sent me.  Stand aside, New Delhi, I'm on my way.

Late In, Late Out

Here's an inconvenient truth - life is too short and we learn too late not to waste time.


Watching the night skies from the back deck as the dogs prowl the yard, I remember seeing and wishing on shooting stars from the side porch of the family house on the island. The scent of the ocean was powerful, moonlight made the whitecaps clearly visible, and there was a peaceful silence that seemed to envelop everything as far as I could see. My grandmother sat in her rocking chair with yellow lamplight spilling from the window - I could almost hear her knitting needles clacking steadily - my daddy was stretched out on the loveseat with a book and my mother had fallen asleep over a game of solitaire. Now and again a car rounded The Point, headights sweeping out over the guard rail and briefly illuminating the dark water before passing. A young fisherman and a dog walked by, silhouettes in deep shadows, too far away to recognize but for the familiar voice that called to me.


Evenin', missy!  I heard and knew that it was one of the Sullivan boys, finally done and headed for home.


Runnin' late!  I called back.


The figure shrugged, Ayuh, he answered, Late in, late out.


With the dog close at his heels, he rounded The Old Road and disappeared from sight.  I listened to his footsteps echoing on the night air and thought of dancing in the moonlight.  Inside the house, the old telephone trilled out our ring - two longs, one short - and I heard my grandmother leave the rocking chair and shuffle slowly into the dining room to answer.  It was late for a call, I remember thinking, the village rose and retired early on week nights and I knew from experience that calls after nine usually signaled bad news or trouble.  A few minutes later, Nana came to the screen door and told me to come inside - I knew at a glance that whatever it was, it wasn't good.  My daddy was upright, his book carelessly laid aside and forgotten.  My mother was crying.  I looked from one to the other and tried to force down the sudden flash of fear and the sick feeling I felt in my belly.  As good as my family was at denying emotions and distancing themselves - of not getting involved or too close - something had caught them badly off guard and I didn't have to be told that someone was dead.  It was just a matter of who.

This night the call was about my Uncle Eddie - my grandmother's brother and to be precise, a great uncle - a short and stubby man with a carefully kept mustache who favored checkered vests and who had unaccountably married my Aunt Helen, the head  mistress of an exclusive girls school on Beacon Hill, and a first class snob. It was an odd and annoying relationship and not well tolerated by the rest of us - Aunt Helen put on airs and as she herself might've said, was "offputting" while Uncle Eddie was as down to earth as mud - affable and good natured with a quick wit and an easy going disposition.  He often referred to himself as a commoner in the presence of a queen but he said it with a sparkle in his eyes, gently making more fun of his wife than himself.
Aunt Helen disliked his teasing but her arrogant reproaches were mostly met with laughter - they slid off him like water on oilskin - All that rarified air has gone to your head, old girl, he would say with a hearty and affectionate laugh, But I love you anyway.

That day, as had become his habit, he was late in to work and planned on being late out.  Aunt Helen had
graciously held dinner til well after nine but by eleven, she was concerned and that was when the hospital had called.  Uncle Eddie had stopped on Route 128 to help a driver in distress and midway through a tire change had suffered a heart attack.  They had done all they could but he wasn't expected to recover and by the time she reached the hospital, he'd died.  I'm at a loss, Aunt Helen wept, Could you possibly come home?

When death and the good Lord come callin', Sparrow liked to tell us, Ain't no use pretendin' you ain't home.

At the funeral I thought of the Sullivan boy and his dog - would always think of him when I remembered Uncle Eddie, to this very day.  Late in, late out.