Gathering the Flock

Upon my word, Alice, Miss Hilda remarked to my grandmother tartly, Where have all these farm animals come from?


The former governess snatched up her walking stick and smartly proceeded to the back yard where a dozen or so cows were contently grazing in the ghostly fog and a lone cowbell clanged randomly.


Away with you!  Miss Hilda ordered sharply with a slap of the stick against her riding boot, Scat!


Scat? my grandmother repeated from the doorway, Hilda, these are cows not cats!


No matter, Miss Hilda called back briskly, They'll make a wretched pasture of the yard, upon my word!


I was dispatched across the road to let Uncle Willie know that his cows had once again broken free and in due time he returned with me, leisurely rounded them up and herded them home.  The cowbell echoed eerily, becoming fainter as the fog closed in tighter.   Miss Hilda and my grandmother sat in companionable silence, drinking tea, nibbling on hand made scones and listening to the fog horn wail.  I had just begun a game of jacks when the dogs began to howl and there was a sudden, frantic pounding at the back door - Uncle Shad, looking disheveled and panicky, didn't wait to be let in - he was in the kitchen and then the living room before Nana had even gotten up from her rocking chair.


Alice!  It's Willie! he panted, Quick! Call the doc!


My grandmother gave me an urgent nod and I ran for the old telephone while she and Miss Hilda followed Uncle Shad out the back door, disappearing almost at once into the fog.  The factory whistle began an alarmed shriek, the signal for serious trouble.  Doc Martin was already on his way, Elsie the telephone operator told me reassuringly, everything would be fine, don't go traipsing out into the fog.

Something as yet undetermined had spooked the cows and being stupid and single minded creatures, they'd rushed the road, pinned Willie to the ground and broken both his legs, several ribs and his collarbone before turning as one toward The Old Road where four of the beasts plunged over the embankment in a mindless panic - three died on impact while the fourth and final one to fall survived, cushioned no doubt by the three she landed on.


Like a stack of flapjacks, Uncle Shad remarked to the doctor as they peered over the grassy edge, Hard way to go for a cow.


Doc Martin judged Willie's survival a miracle - he was young and inexperienced and had no clear idea of how tough island folk could be when needed - and although Willie's daughter and her entire family had to be called in to get him through the rest of the summer, fall and winter, come spring he was up and about.  The first thing he did was sell the lot of the remaining cows to a farmer from The Valley and wash his hands of the entire dairy business.  That summer all that remained of the three unfortunate cows was a pile of bleached out bones - time, tide, scavengers and a harsh Canadian winter had done their work well.  


The cowbell was never recovered - snapped off in the fall and washed out to sea, most said or taken as a souvenir by some curious onlooker - but that didn't explain the nights when the fog rolled in and tightened its grip, when farmers gathered their flocks and doubled checked their fences - and the lonely sound of a cowbell seemed to answer the call of the fog horn.


It's the fog, Uncle Shad told me sternly, and the night air.  Plays tricks on your ears.


I hoped not.

Another Summer Storm

On an impossibly hot and humid afternoon, thunder suddenly sets the walls to vibrating and although the sky is still bright and blue, rain pours down in sheets, wind driven and slamming against the windows like small rocks.  The crepe myrtle surrenders immediately, lowering its branches and shedding blossoms like confetti.  When it's over, tendrils of steam rise from the pavement - they drift like disconnected spider webs.  It's just another summer storm, Mother Nature feeling feisty and showing off for the poor folks.  It passes and the stray cats emerge from their various hiding places, delicately picking their way across the wet grass like old women holding their skirts as they cross a muddy field.  Next door, with no shelter except a covered cement patio, the dog howls before, after and all through the storm - just as he does most of every day and into the night.


He's not abused or neglected - well, not precisely - but he is lonely and starved for attention.  He cries like a wounded thing in the heat of these summer days.  Not allowed in the house since his puppy days, he spends his time alone, confined and bored, his soft whines and whimpers go unheard or unnoticed.  His owners are not cruel people nor bad people, just the sort that think there's nothing wrong in buying a dog and then forgetting him.  Just the sort who don't think a dog has needs beyond food, water, and a half hearted shelter.  Just the sort who never think this might trouble the neighbors.


I don't understand this mindset, never have and never will and it's one of the prime reasons I prefer and trust most animals to most people. 

The View From The Bar

He was dressed in the obligatory black with a red bandanna across his forehead and mirrored sunglasses hanging from his teeth, slouched across the bar, thick knuckled and grimy hands clutching a beer.  He gave me a sloppy grin when I ordered a last Coke and leaned toward me.  Take my pitcher, Red, whaddya say.  Buy you a drank or three.  It was two in the morning and I was tired and sweaty, about to pack it in.  The last thing in the world I needed was a drunken biker whispering sweet nothings in my ear in a smoke filled bar.  I turned and tried a friendly smile.  It's late, I said, and I've packed my gear.  Maybe next time.  


Music's still playin', he persisted, How 'bout a dance?


Reeling slightly from the alcohol fumes but trying to maintain my smile as well as my distance, I thanked him but declined and reached for my Coke - without warning, one hand with the texture of old barn wood closed on my wrist.  C'mon, Red, he said a little roughly, One for the road.  


I instinctively jerked back and his grip tightened.  Then from out of nowhere, there was a pool cue between us, resting lightly on his forearm.


You're trashed, Butch, a new and quiet voice said mildly, Now let go the lady.  I ain't gonna tell you twice.


I looked around to see a second biker at the end of the pool stick, a taller and heavier version of the first with more silver chains, gray pony tailed pulled over his jacket collar, and clear eyes.  He tapped the stick on the bar, grinned at his buddy.  Easy, big man, he said with just a shade of warning in his gravely voice, We don't wanna dance, not here.  The first biker hesitated for a fraction of a second then shrugged, let loose my wrist and muttered an apology to me.


 Reckon I sometimes forget my manners when I drink, ma'am, he said gruffly, No offense.


None taken, I replied and resisted the urge to give him a genuine smile.


He reluctantly allowed himself to be led away in the direction of the pool tables but still managed an over the shoulder backward glance.


Reckon you don't play pool either, do you?  he called.  The second biker gave him a friendly cuff on the back of the head and I just shook my head and laughed.  


Know when to give up and you'll save yourself a heap of trouble.

Just Say Thanks

Silly or not, it's taken me most of my life to learn to accept a compliment.


Gracious doesn't come naturally to me and I tend to be suspicious or self-conscious when someone says something nice.  I glow on the inside but on the surface I'm tense and embarrassed, fearful of letting them know how much it means to me and always unsure that I've earned it.  Praise, I've come to learn, is an easy gift to give but a hard one to receive.


Of course, it's a lot of work to keep myself insulated, and it never occurred to me that someone else might feel the same until I heard from my cousin, who it seems, shares this very same feeling.  This opened the possibility that there might even be others - who knows, there might be a community or an army of them - who struggle with it - and it was a surprising thought.  Who we are and what we show to the world is so seldom what we really are, I thought, how many people are keeping the same secrets I am?  How many others feel as frail, as insecure, as foolishly self-aware or as shy as I do?  How really different are we all?


Sometimes, a wise and very dear friend wrote to me, You just have to tolerate the fact that people love you.


So......
Thanks.

Fuss & Focus

I don't exactly know why but for me, birthdays have always been tests of endurance - a matter of wondering how much attention I can stand before I snap or worse, run for my life.  I envy those friends who can be gracious and good natured when the spotlight shines on them but I'll never be one of them.  In many ways, we are what we learn - and I never learned how to easily accept people being nice to me.


I was ridiculously touched by the effort and thoughtfulness my friends put into this celebration - there was a cake and there were gifts and music, even a continuously running slide show of photographs that I'd taken.  All these people gave of their time and talent (not to mention hard earned money) to be part of it and thank you seemed so inadequate that it nearly made me cry.  And therein lies the conflict - how to withstand the focus and be grateful for it at the same time.


Most photographers would, I think, admit to a certain shy streak.  The lens is a shield, a kind of insulation, a device of distraction.  As long as it's between me and my subjects (friends included), I feel protected and not bound to pretend.  Without it, I feel vulnerable and defenseless and ordinary.  Given the choice between invisibility and being noticed, I'd opt for invisibility every time but with trusty Nikon in hand, I can take part, can step into things I would normally steer clear of.  


And so I cut the cake and opened the presents, consented to the fuss and focus, tried to remind myself that the dear people surrounding me were actually friends and not a smiling firing squad.  I said my thank you's and hugged them all, then hurried back to the safety and camouflage of my camera.


I was raised to believe certain things about myself.  They weren't true but I didn't know that and to this day there are circumstances that trigger a negative response, a return to the child who was so unworthy and so in the way.  The simple truth is that it's easier to believe the bad stuff, easier to remember the familiar old songs.  When it comes to self worth, I'm still a work in progress and although I may never be completed, I keep trying.  


It's slow work.


Hopes are shy birds flying at a great distance, seldom reached by the best of guns - John James Audubon

A Change of Scenery

Follow your heart, I read recently, But take your brain with you.  I laughed outloud.  I imagine our hearts have all taken us places we shouldn't have gone at one time or another - mine certainly has - but as long as you don't get lost, a wrong turn here and there is just a detour, a small change of scenery.   Even with the very best intentions, none of us lead perfect lives and we ought to be grateful - forgiveness wouldn't have much meaning without a little sin.


Life, art, love and mistakes are all largely a matter of perspective.  I'm not always alone when I'm taking photographs and it never fails to intrigue me how two people can look at the same thing and see it so differently.  Some of us see only pieces of a picture while others see a vista and still others miss the magic entirely.  My best photographs evoke, capture, reflect emotion and mood - if I'm lucky, they speak in their own visual language - each dog or cat, each dancer, each musician is unique to me, a single figure in a single moment of a singular story.  I love photography and I love the effort of finding the essence of a subject.  If I can make you see what I see and make you feel what I feel even in only one of a hundred shots, then I'm more than satisfied.  Amid the smoke and noise and mood lighting, there is beauty.  The suggestion of a little sin, a little wildness or a little passion only makes it more interesting - most likely why I'm so partial to musicians.


Before his life was cut short, my friend Scotty tried his hand at having his own photography business.  As he was far more artist than business man, it failed catastrophically but he never regretted trying.


Every musician I know dreams of a breakthrough to stardom - none have made it but they keep on playing and keep on dreaming.


I've watched restaurants, modeling agencies, specialty shops, and art galleries struggle to survive.  Not a one regrets the effort or would not try again.


Fame and fortune are just not in the cards for most of us - it's enough to be known and appreciated in our own small towns, to live peacefully and work at something we love.  So if your heart leads you, follow - if you don't know where the road leads, that's all the more reason to take it.  You may not reach happily ever after but you'll be glad you tried.  And you might even be a step closer.

Companions

There was a hint of a smile on her face, more in her eyes.  

She was built like a fragile bird, diminished by a long life and a bit on the scrawny side but gracefully dressed in navy blue with a single strand of pearls around her throat and matching earrings. Her makeup was heavy and layered, a bright spot of color accented each cheek and she smelled of dusting powder and lavender. She gripped her walker and slowly approached a waiting room chair, pausing to give us a muted but cheerful hello while her caregiver signed her in then helped her to sit, her stocking'ed ankles primly crossed and her blue veined and trembling hands resting lightly in her lap. She had just turned 97, we knew, and still lived at home, stubbornly resisting her children's pleas for assisted living, happy and clearly well cared for in the hands of her live in maid, turned companion, turned nurse, Isobel. 


Ready, Miss Julia? the nurse asked from the doorway. Gently and capably, Isobel helped the tiny woman to her feet, positioned her hands on the walker, and followed close behind, her eyes never leaving her charge for a moment. Miss Julia moved slowly, eyes locked on the ground in front of her with each step, nodding at Isobel's reassurances that she was doing just fine, no hurry, easy does it, go at your own pace. Once in the exam room, she lifted the little woman into the chair as easily as a feather, then parked herself in a corner chair. She had been with Miss Julia for over forty years, had tended her and Mr. James for all of their married life, there would be no thought of asking her to leave, no expectation of privacy. When the doctor entered, Isobel stood and moved chair side where she took Miss Julia's hand in one of her own and rested the other lightly on her companion's shoulder.


The visit was brief - Doc pronounced her healthy and well.  If you don't go dancing tonight, my dear, it certainly won't be my fault, he told her with a smile, Thank you for letting me take care of your feet.

She smiled back at him and I noticed she was blushing ever so slightly.

I'll bet that good looking man you were married to took you dancing all the time, the nurse told her at the check out desk.  Miss Julia looked up, eyes suddenly welling with tears, and reached a frail hand out to grasp mine.


You knew James?  she asked in a trembling voice, as she always did, and I nodded.


We all knew him, I reminded her, as I always did, He was a sweet, charming and very elegant man. 


And a little bit of a flirt, the nurse added and laughed, We miss him.


Me too, Miss Julia said softly and reached up to give us both a hug.  Thank you, girls, I'm so very glad I came. And just so you know, the man was a dancin' fool, a regular Fred Astaire!  Isobel produced a perfectly folded, lace handkerchief - Miss Julia thanked her and wiped her tears away with a small and very ladylike gesture.  She gave us a last smile and let Isobel lead her out.


If a memory makes you cry, keep it close to your heart.












































  

Worry Begone

Half empty, half full.  It's all in how you look at it.

During the moments when I let worry overtake me, the world turns a little dark.  My mind focuses on the negative - no insurance, no savings, a seven year old car, bills I won't live long enough to pay, not enough memory to absorb a changing workplace, no possibility of retirement.  I feel like I'm on the long road of what ifs with the chance of injury or illness lurking at every intersection and disaster in the making - the a/c could fail, the roof could cave in, I could slip and break a hip or simply keel over from too much chocolate and nicotine and not enough green vegetables.  The IRS could audit me, I could lose my livelihood, my bank could be indicted or lightning strike the massive pine tree and crush me in my sleep.  When it gets to the pine tree point, good sense usually kicks in and I take a breath and a step back.  There's absolutely nothing I can do about any of these possible scenarios and dwelling on them will only drag me down and depress me.  

Cowgirl up! I hear a voice inside my head say impatiently, Look on the bright side!

I have absolutely no signs of an oncoming heart attack or any other debilitating illness.

The car is running like a dream.

I'd be bored senseless if I were to retire.

The IRS has more important people to worry about.

I can start saving with the very next paycheck.

The pine tree has stood for well over a century.

Worry begone!

Attitude is everything, I tell myself and the little carnival of four footed children who are clamoring for supper.  The cats are loudly protesting from every corner of the kitchen and the dogs are dancing around my feet, the little daschund nipping at my cuffs and giving me deeply soulful looks.  The simplicity of their needs and lives brings me back to reality and I fill the eight dishes, put them in their accustomed places, and stand back to make sure nobody gets out of line.

All they ask is food, shelter, a warm bed at night and someone to love them.  As a general rule, they're almost always smarter and more well adjusted than I am.  Worry begone!

Fish for Supper

My Uncle Ernie was what my grandmother called "a right serious" fisherman.


Fish for supper, Mother! he told my her cheerfully as he slung his creel over his shoulder, gathered his rods and reels and pulled his old cap over his shaggy hair.  I was allowed to carry our lunch in one hand and a bucket of worms in the other.


Down the gravel driveway we went on a beautiful summer day, walked for just a bit on the road and then turned into the dirt road that led to the lake.  The woods were cool and smelled of evergreen and I remember my uncle whistling - there was a spring in his step all the way.  We settled on a grass covered incline under the shade of a tree, a lazy spot close to the water.  Uncle Ernie baited the hooks and cast both lines in easy, graceful movements then pulled his cap over his eyes and stretched out.  I sat next to him, hugging my knees and rocking back and forth, hoping he might smoke his pipe and feeling ever so lucky that he'd finally agreed to let me come along.  I began to chatter and he gave me a stern look.


Fishing is about being quiet, he told me, and being patient.


I hushed, content to watch the lake ripple and shimmer with colors.


In due time, a fish swam by, snagged the worm and took the bait.  Alerted by a small bell at the end of his fishing rod, Uncle Ernie was instantly upright - there was a brief struggle and the clear water turned grainy with sand - I held my breath and then the fish gave a mighty jerk and was free.


Bugger! my uncle exclaimed and reeled in his line, put a fresh worm on the hook and re-cast.  When my line went suddenly taut and the rod began to spin, he grabbed me and put me behind his knees, holding my hands on the pole with a fierce grip and guiding me through the motions.  Amazingly, the fish was landed and he carefully showed me how to remove the hook - the worms hadn't bothered me much but this made my stomach lurch a little.  He deposited it neatly into the creel, assured me I was "a natural" and gave me a broad smile.


The sleepy afternoon passed.  Warmed by the sun, watching the clouds and listening to the woods, I fell almost asleep, only distantly hearing the occasional Bugger! or Gotcha, you old sonofabitch!


When we had what Uncle Ernie judged was enough fish to feed a small army, we headed home.  Fish were sizzling in Nana's old cast iron skillet in no time while Aunt Norma and I began to set the table.  It was then that my daddy asked me if we'd had a good time and I proudly announced the new words I'd learned - in the abrupt silence that followed my Aunt Norma gave a small, startled shriek, dropped a dinner plate and then looked stunned as it broke into a dozen different pieces.  At the stove, my grandmother abandoned the skillet and fixed my Uncle Ernie with what my mother called her wrath of God look - tight lipped, narrow eyed, and not to be trifled with.


Ernest!  she snapped icily.


Uncle Ernie began to stammer, his handsome good looks went a little pale.  Now, Mother...... he began tentatively, edging toward the dining room, I didn't mean ..I mean I didn't realize what I ...I would never.. 


Feeling the doorway on either side, he turned tail and fled.  


You might catch the fish but you don't always get to eat'em.






  
  

Fireworks

It started with a small sparkler, a brief flare of color that fizzled, died and might have done no harm - but within a few hours it had ignited and started a blazing fire.  The families aligned on either side of the flames, sister against sister, mother doing her best to make peace, children caught between.  It was the eve of Independence Day, still daylight, but the fireworks were made of tears and threats, harsh words and ultimatums - they were loud, angry, and desperate, ringing with accusation and blame.



True enough, our choices are so much our own that we sometimes forget the collateral damage.  So busy are we fighting fire with fire, matching and overshouting each hurtful word, that we wander off target and use anything we can think of as ammunition.  Original disagreements turn poisonous and any legitimate point we might have been trying to make gets lost in the noise. 


The children listen, not knowing which way to go and trying hard not to cry.  They may not comprehend the language or the issues, but they completely understand the emotions, especially the angry ones.



It seems to me that we can always choose to fuel the fire or do our best to put it out.  


We do too much of one and not enough of the other.  And only the fireworks are left.

The Girl from Uncertain

She belts out a song like nobody's business.

With a thick mane of red hair, a guitar slung over one shoulder, and a voice that can go from tender love song to bar room brawl in an instant, the girl from Uncertain puts on a show.  Sometimes it's the lyrics that make her smile, sometimes it's the company, sometimes I think it's just that she's alive and singing, making each moment a celebration.  She doesn't hesitate or show fear or back off and as I get to know her better, I come to understand that it's how she lives her life - brazenly independent, determined, learning with every mistake and always coming back stronger.


She's on her 7th marriage, I'm stunned to discover, eight years now and still holding - a record, she tells me with a genuine grin and a shake of that amazing hair.  She can drive an 18 wheeler or operate a forklift, wait tables or arrange flowers.  She's a graphic artist with her own sign company and remarkably has two grown children - married at seventeen will do that, she says with a hint of pride.  All in all, she's a windstorm of talent, courage, confidence and survival, a woman of strength.  I suspect she gave up regrets a long time ago in favor of moving on, choosing to dwell on the good parts and downplay the bad.  


The women in my life who have inspired me all know a little something about adversity and getting past it.


My friend Tricia - we've known each other for the better part of thirty years and my trust in her is absolute.  She scolds, worries, advises, praises and is always there, no matter what foolishness I've gotten myself into.


My friend Iris - we've known each other pretty much since we could walk.  When I need logic and a push in the right direction, when I get lost in a fog, she's like a lighthouse.  Our memories go back a very long way.


My cousin Linda - reconnecting with her these past few years has taught me about tenacity, courage, self pity, and tolerance.  She's nearly the last of my blood family, a source of endless encouragement and understanding.

These are the women who have faced and conquered it all - divorce, widowhood, long term illness, social stigma and motherhood.  They are bright, funny, articulate and wise and each is a source of strength to me, living proof of what can be accomplished with determination, hard work, patience and no small amount of confidence.



Believe in what you can do.
Do what makes you happy.
It's easier than you think and worth every single second of effort.