Her fall from grace has been swift with as many ups and downs as any high class roller coaster ride. After her husband's desertion, she slipped effortlessly into an abusive relationship - ended it and found another with an old high school sweetheart. She remarried within weeks and has been paying the price ever since - her children are now estranged from her, her sister refuses to listen any longer, she's at war with her mother, and her job hangs by the thinnest of threads. It's tragic and painful to watch.
Might as well talk to the wall, the doctor says wearily after his latest closed door chat with her, At least the wall hears me.
She emerges from his office dry eyed and blank looking, seemingly untouched and unmoved by the session. She no longer meets your eyes when she speaks, she shuffles about the office like a robot, smiling less and never laughing. She's there and yet not - the chaos of her personal life has overwhelmed her and she's simply shut down. Because it has to be done, her sister and I pick up the slack, finishing her tasks and double checking her paperwork - any ability to be accurate is long gone and she's far too distracted to follow through on even the smallest of details. Her cell phone hums incessantly and she ducks into an exam room to text her answers, leaving her work untended and patients waiting. When the doctor catches her, she accepts the reprimand with dead eyes and no defense. I doubt she even hears it.
The atmosphere in the office is tense and suspicious, seething with gradually building resentment and wrapped in a transparent layer of anger. We're weary of the drama, the closed door meetings, the threats and distrust and the escalating stress. She's rejected all offers of help and turned silently defiant, certain that we don't understand her, and more, that we're all against her. I can't help but suspect that a part of her knows the truth about the man she married so hastily, knew it at the time and chose to bury it. And now, having traded her children and family and self respect for his company, she has no protection save her denial.
How do you know that? the doctor asks me.
I don't just know, I tell him with more honesty than I once thought I'd ever have, I remember.
Alcoholism isn't a spectator sport. Eventually the whole family gets to play ~ Joyce Rebeta-Burditt
On rare occasions, my daddy - a lifelong Luckies smoker - traded in his cigarettes for a pipe. He packed it from a pouch he carried in his back pocket and lit it with a wooden match - drawing and exhaling the sweet smoke until it caught. He became philosophical at such times, often telling me it made him feel wise, able to think deep thoughts and appreciate the stars.
Not every man can carry off a pipe, you know, he remarked one evening as we sat on the side porch, You were very discerning to know that I was one of them.
Indeed, I said and laughed. I had to admit a pipe smoker always made me think of words like distinguished and professorial and even discerning but I also knew that since it had been a gift from me, he was likely to smoke it just to please me.
On this night, he leaned back on his elbows with the pipe between his teeth, making a handsome silhouette if you overlooked the paint stained khaki pants ( he'd spent the day whitewashing the flagpole ) and the shabby, sleeveless t shirt. He studied the stars as if expecting them to speak - a quiet, soft spoken man still searching for peace in a very loud and unruly world - and pointed out the constellations to me, tracing their outlines for me and sighing at the cosmic wisdom of it all.
God did good, don't you think, he asked softly.
He did, I agreed.
Just over the lighthouse, a shooting star blazed by and he sat up in a rush, losing his grip on the pipe and sending a small shower of sparks into the night air. Quick! he said urgently, Make a wish!
Startled, I looked up to see the tail end of the star melting away. I made my wish - for more nights just like this one - and then it was gone.
My daddy pulled out his tobacco pouch and re-packed his pipe, went through the whole process of re-lighting it and settled back on his elbows again, long legs crossed at the ankles and face turned upward.
They're not really stars at all, you know, he said eventually, just chunks of rock and space dust burning up in the atmosphere. I don't guess that've made much of song though.
Guess not, I agreed companionably.
When you wish upon a rock....he sang then shook his head and laughed dryly, Nope, just isn't the same.
Tendrils of smoke swirled and drifted through the warm night air and we stayed and watched the stars until my mother called for me to go to bed. I went reluctantly, not wanting to let go of the perfect night, the pipe smoke, or the handsome silhouette of my daddy against the star filled sky.
Funny how often we don't recognize a memory in the making.
Spirits flit around like shadows in the almost dark, always just at the edges of awareness and keeping out of sight. They're shy creatures, made of memories and knowing that they can be dispelled by the light of reality. Still, every now and again, I think I see one - as if in a dream, they drift past me then dart back into the half light. Some I would like to chase and capture, most I would prefer to chase down and beat senseless. When they speak, it's in whispers so no one but me will hear. They nag and gnaw at me like a dog worrying a bone, trying to drown out the positive energy with doubt and fearfulness, with plain old uncertainty. They lie with absolute conviction.
I diminish them with faith, with optimism, and with accomplishment and they back off grudgingly. But in the way of spirits, they retreat only to wait and watch for the next opportunity.
Things change, I tell them, I am not the child you knew back then and you don't frighten me. I give you no power over me.
It was not always so easy but thanks to good friends, good examples, a 12 step program and a lot of having no other choices, I learned to fight back. The spirits still rage at times, raising the specters of resentment and anger. They whisper in my ear and tempt me when I'm vulnerable, taunting me with self doubt and promises of revenge. They do their best to keep me from trying with nasty warnings of failure and shame. They still win the occasional battle but on the whole, I can chase them off. One battle, I remind myself, doesn't lose the war.
I suppose we all have these spirits and demons at our heels but when we turn and confront them, despite their sulking and spitting, they eventually slink away.
We make them - we can unmake them
We give them power - we can take it away.
We live with them - we can live without them.
The past is a ghost, the future a dream and all we really have is now ~ Bill Cosby
Just after 6am and the morning is already steamy hot - I think I could cut the air into slices and serve it like birthday cake. The patch of sky I can see through the trees is yellowish and threatening, probably filled with rain, just waiting for its moment. Summer in the south means suffocating heat and god awful humidity, weather advisories and warnings. This is hurricane season when nature loses her temper and hail the size of marbles can rain down in June. Contrary to what we all brightly tell visitors, you don't get used to it - you just wait it out, praying for a river breeze and the air conditioning not to fail.
Whether it's age or hormones or just the slow decline of my naturally sunny disposition, I don't know, but I mind the heat more than I used to. I'm reminded of my mother - always sweating and short tempered as soon as the weather turned, too exhausted and miserable to do more than sit and fan herself. Even before she began menopause she lived in a kind of perpetual hot flash from May to October, self medicating with alcohol and a variety of over the counter, useless aids. By the time full on summer arrived, all we could do was follow my daddy's example - stay out of her way and hope for the best, a breeze off the lake perhaps or a new window unit. You never knew when a small rain cloud would turn into a hurricane.
I knew it was a callous thought, but there were times I thought that on some level she might've enjoyed her suffering. If nothing else, I was positive she liked the attention and deference it afforded her - it reinforced her concept of center stage, of being the main attraction. She was an unpredictable old drunk, much like a gathering storm under a yellow sky - might blow itself out and pass harmlessly by - or might make landfall and wreak havoc.
Never trust an unmarried woman, a travelin' salesman or a sick lookin' sky, Sparrow used to say, Ain't a shred of conscience in any of 'em.
After building and biding its time all day, the storm struck in late afternoon - the wind sheared through the trees like a tornado, bowing, bending and finally snapping limbs clean off. The rain began gently but within minutes was coming down in torrents and then there was the hail, slamming violently into the deck and the driveway, sharply bouncing off the roof like metal pellets out of the sky. The cats ran for cover and the dogs began to whine anxiously. It was over in a matter of minutes.
Red sky at night, sailor's delight.
Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.
There was no rhyme for a yellow sky. Deservedly so.
Sometimes all we need is to learn is to think quiet.
I walk into the house after work and am greeted with a symphony of sound that makes me yearn for a spa day.The cats twine around my ankles, anxiously meowing all in different keys and the dogs - the black one howls like a banshee, the small brown one beats on her kennel door and cries, and the little daschund sounds as if he's being beaten senseless. For a half second, I consider pretending that I've entered the wrong house and making a hasty exit. The noise is deafening and discordant and oh, so welcome.
After everybody's fed and watered and let outside, peace descends - the cats groom themselves then find places for their after dinner naps while the dogs all gravitate to wherever I am and curl up as close as they can get. In minutes, the whole circus is content and fast asleep. And so the days and evenings go, chaos and quiet taking turns. The next morning there is a fierce thunderstorm raging overhead and knowing the dogs will never venture out, I reset the alarm and go back to bed. But an hour later when it still hasn't passed, I throw on some clothes and make a run to the car for the umbrella - then drag three protesting little bodies into the back yard for as long as I can stand. They're miserable and wet and anxious about the thunder but they try their best and once back inside, after I towel them off and give them a biscuit, they burrow in the bedclothes and go to sleep again. Not ten minutes later the storm is over but too late to do me much good. I take a quick shower, dry my hair, and hop back into bed for a nap while the curlers heat up.
Here's a trick I learned from living with my animals - learn to think quiet in the midst of chaos. Sanity and reason can prevail if you don't join in.
Might've been the thunder I imagined I heard.
Could've been the single and silent lighting strike that I dreamed split a jagged line across the sky.
But more'n likely, it was the soft whine and anxious, gentle throat kiss from a small daschund that woke me. As soon as I stirred from sleep, he pounced like a tiny tiger.
Out? I asked sleepily and he nudged my neck fiercely, his entire body quivering with anticipation, his every ready, set, go! movement an encouragement. I pushed aside the covers and stumbled out of bed - it was quarter after three in the morning. On the deck it was just beginning to rain and the air was hot and still. I watched him disappear into the shadows, then emerge in a proud strut, enthusiastically covering his tracks and looking pleased with himself as he trotted back to me.
Good dog! I told him and stroked his ears, Good dog!
A few hours later that same morning, as I cleaned up a mess he had not woken me for, I reminded myself it was about praise, not punishment - about practice and consistency and reinforcing good behavior - not so different than raising a child, I told myself. Praise builds up and strenghtens, makes you proud and determined to do better. Punishment tears down and singles out flaws, makes you feel unloved and worthless.
None of us hear good job! nearly enough, not as children, not as adults.
Patience, I said aloud, Aside from stain and odor removers may be the greatest gift we ever find.
The storm that had been so perilously close at hand at 3 am had dissipated and passed by. The sky was clear and light although the air was heavy and close with early morning humidity. It was going to be another scorching day. I let the dogs out one final time before I left for work and watched the little daschund find a patch of leaves and lift his stubby back leg.
Good dog! I told him again and gave him a hug.
I was rewarded with a kiss and a look from those shining, innocent brown eyes that words can't describe but any true dog lover knows well - it warms your heart and reminds you that every life is a gift and should be treasured.
Praise, don't punish. It makes all the difference.
What a good dog!
Barbara Woodhouse
Between the rocky cliffs that fell off to the ocean and the tree line of the Westport woods, deep in the lonely shadows where not even the dogs would go, there was alleged to be a cave that Shiloh called home. He had, so folks said, retreated to it in childhood and had never left. He lived in complete isolation and independence, talking to the trees and befriending wounded animals but, Nana assured me, it was only a legend - no one had seen him in decades - and despite the dire threats of what could happen to a foolish soul venturing into the dark, no one had ever turned up dead or even gone missing for long. The children knew better, of course, but their tales of a wild eyed man in rags who walked with wolves and sheltered injured creatures of all kinds were written off to imagination and childish fantasy. No one paid them any mind but no one attempted to prove them wrong either - a fact the children were well aware of though the grownups preferred to overlook it.
Is he real? I asked Sparrow one evening as we watched the sun setting behind the Westport skyline, Is there really a man who keeps the woods safe?
There was once, the old man answered gruffly, But it was a long time ago. Now it's just a story to keep the lil' ones out of trouble.
Is he real? I asked John Sullivan as he and his brother baited hooks in the early morning sunshine.
He is if'n you want him to be, John allowed with a shrug, but it ain't a good idea to go lookin'.
Is he real? I finally asked James one Sunday after church, thinking that a preacher would give me a straight answer.
But the minister just smiled and gave me a quick hug.
Adults were clearly not going to own up to knowing much of anything, I decided, so I would go to the source. Cap agreeably let me and Ruthie make the crossing on a sunny morning - we had thought it would be safer in daylight, though of course we reassured each other, there was nothing to fear - and once across the passage we walked hand in hand through the village and to the woods. There, as we stood uncertainly where the sun didn't quite reach, we hugged, took deep breaths, whispered the words of a last minute, just in case spell we'd gotten from Glenda and sprinkled the path before us with magic herbs we'd pleaded for from Rowena. Then with all the innocence and resolution of eight year old girls trying to be very brave, hoping for the best and as prepared as we could be for the worst, we crossed the line together.
After months of begging and pleading and a half dozen letters to Santa asking for a Lionel train set, my brother got his wish. By mid January, he had lost all interest in it and it lay piled up and abandoned in a corner of his closet, gathering dust. One fine spring night, my daddy packed up all the pieces and took them to the basement, intending to sort them out and give the whole works away to Goodwill, where as my mother remarked a little bitterly, it might find its way to a grateful child - but somewhere along the way, he had a change of heart and ended up spending weeks and then months designing and building a model city for the train to run through. The entire affair was mounted on a wooden platform supported by sawhorses and to my mother's dismay, when complete it took up better than half the basement - but even she had to admit it was impressive. There were roads and bridges, trees and tunnels, streetlights and storefronts, all made of plastic and paper mache. Railroad track wound up, down, and through it all and the train - locomotive, boxcars, flatcars and caboose - steamed cheerfully along its path. I remember he used black thread for wires, painstakingly woven from one telephone pole to the next, and fluffs of cotton for snow, but mostly I remember the clear mountain lake on the outskirts of town - smooth as glass when the train wasn't running, ice blue and clear - made from Aqua Velva. Even as a child I realized it was a masterful achievement and my usually modest daddy swelled with pride when he showed it off.
At some point, my mother wearied of the obstacle course she had to run to navigate her way to the washing machine and dryer and she decreed that the train had to go. My daddy slowly and carefully un-built it all, packing each piece in tissue paper and boxing it up. I never knew whether it made its way to Goodwill or storage, maybe with Nana's delicate and carefully maintained Christmas village, he never said.
I was long gone by the time the house was sold and I never knew what happened to the material things with the exception of what ended up transported to the lake. We lose and leave behind the trappings as we move through life, we give up old habits and learn new ones. We have to in order to grow and and progress. Life doesn't stand still for the good parts or the bad.
For a little while, all the bells and whistles of the Lionel train set consumed our evenings. Its construction taught us the value of craft and workmanship, of dedication and finishing what you started, of persistence and keeping promises you make to yourself. Then it taught us that everything has its time. And finally it taught us that things are only things - they won't help you to heaven or keep you warm at night and you can't measure a life in terms of what you accumulate in possessions.
Sometimes in the stillness of the morning when I hear a distant train whistle, I think of my daddy, that Lionel train set and the city he built for it. Until then, I'd never thought he'd been proud of anything except his children.
Slowly but surely and with a little help from my trusty Nikon, I am coming to like and appreciate the art of dance.
My friend Tricia danced as a young girl and my friend Iris took ballet growing up but nothing about it ever appealed to me - like the piano lessons I was forced into, it seemed a silly way to spend time when I could be out playing softball or building a mud hut. It was, in a word, sissified, something I'd vowed never to be. When the doctor asked if I might be interested in photographing his daughter's monthly dance performances, I agreed and hoped my reluctance didn't show. It would be a change of pace from the dark, smoky bars and with any luck there would be stage lighting and good backgrounds. I didn't expect to enjoy it much but the man does sign my paychecks and having become accustomed to certain aspects of Southern life, I couldn't think of a graceful way to say no. On the way to the theatre, an unwelcome memory suddenly surfaced - my twelve year old self in blue velveteen pants, an imitation powdered wig and a blue cap with a white feather, dancing a Chopin minuet with an equally ridiculously costumed and humiliated female partner at our end of the year piano and dance recital. It was the only time in my life that I'd ever regretted choosing basketball over ballroom dancing. Never again, we'd solemnly promised each other when the dreadful dance was finally finished and we fled the stage to scrub off the horrendous makeup and change back into regular clothes. We'd had few friends in the audience that night but word gets around and neither of us wanted to show our face for days. What, we lamented, could be any more sissified than a minuet? The horror of it haunted us.
There were, mercifully, no minuets at the performance. I set my fastest lens on my camera and found a quiet corner where I thought I might capture the best lighting and set to work. The dancers were young and thin to the point of being malnourished, but they moved with stunning grace, flexibility and unity. The costumes were colorful but simple, the music often familiar, the smiles genuine. The more I watched, the more taken I was, I think I knew somewhere but had forgotten that dance requires iron discipline and sacrifices I would never even dream of making. I stayed for the entire dress rehearsal and was pleased to return for the next performances, each time a little more captivated.
Photographing dancers in fair or mood lighting is a new challenge - learning to wait for the right shot at the right moment, to capture the suggestion of movement while there's stillness - I quickly saw that it was a matter of luck and prayer and overshooting.
Even an old dog can learn a new trick or two and in the meantime I've decided to delete the word sissified from vocabulary.
One perfectly ordinary, run of the mill morning, the looking glass speaks. Surprise, it tells me, You're too old to die young.
I meet the mirror's steady gaze, noting the circles underneath my eyes, the paragraph marks on either side of my mouth, all the lines and creases and imperfections that show my age - they're not flaws so much as badges - and I find I don't mind nearly as much as I expected to. If nothing else, I'm a survivor with a stubborn streak.... a little tired, a little broke down but still up and about and able to take a little nourishment in the form of music and photography, friends and my little ones at home. This Sunday morning is so full of sun, so clear and cool for the last day of May, so perfect it makes me want to cry. The only sounds are the muted chatter of a squirrel high in the pine tree and the doves somewhere in the next yard. A redbird alights on the fence for the briefest moment, its bright feathers shining in the sun, its movements quick and delicate. After a second or two, it spreads its wings and glides smoothly and gracefully off.
I remember the exultation of 21, the trauma and depression of 30, the resignation of 40, the reality of 50 and finally the acceptance and fatalism of 60. Each decade brought change and challenge, both good and bad. I said goodbye to old friends and hello to new ones, learned new skills and shed old habits, did my best to adapt to each new situation, wavering between the past and the future while trying to stay in the present. The scenery and the weather seemed to change with each passing year as did the faces - I searched for something constant and came up empty handed - every day was a day nearer the end than the beginning.
It may be too late for me to be sent to an early grave, but this I know - we become old only when we allow it.
Hail to the rainbow of available hair colors and wrinkle creams and slimming jeans, the anti-aging serums and
lifting creams and all the Jenny Craigs in the world - they will not save you.
On the other hand, nothing says you have to actually listen to the looking glass - it can only see the surface and the surface is always a tad deceptive, always a little more interested in how we appear than how we actually are. Age is nothing to run from and our true reflections are inside us.
One way or another, it was clearly an inside job.
Completely unprepared for chaos, I turned the key and opened the front door and was immediately tackled about the ankles by nine and a half pounds of very excited, very anxious, and very proud of himself daschund - the very same nine and a half pounds I was reasonable sure I'd left in a kennel that very morning.
It appeared that he'd done some redecorating - the bed had been unmade, the sofa pillows rearranged, a wastebasket was upended and there were indications that he'd tried to clean out the guest room closet. He raced around like a wind up toy, showing off all he'd accomplished, obviously pleased with himself, right down to the tell tale wet spot on the carpet. I told myself that too much time had passed for him to be scolded and make the connection but the truth was that I didn't have the heart to punish him and spoil his moment. I let the other dogs out of their kennels and we all went out to the back yard - they went about their business calmly and routinely, while he rushed around the perimeter a half dozen times like a tiny whirling dervish and finally crashed at my feet.
Although I still suspected a fine feline hand in all this, I had no proof and the cats weren't talking - I didn't like it but reasonable doubt prevailed and I had to make room for the possibility that I hadn't completely secured the kennel latch. A careless moment perhaps or my sub conscious at work, I wasn't sure, but there was no real harm done and the little one had had himself a fine morning.
This is life with dogs - a little chaotic, a little loud, and a whole lot of love.
Her fall from grace has been swift with as many ups and downs as any high class roller coaster ride. After her husband's desertion, she slipped effortlessly into an abusive relationship - ended it and found another with an old high school sweetheart. She remarried within weeks and has been paying the price ever since - her children are now estranged from her, her sister refuses to listen any longer, she's at war with her mother, and her job hangs by the thinnest of threads. It's tragic and painful to watch.
