The Night Run

It was just after two in the morning when I passed the bus.

Every inside light seemed to be on and the interior was eerily yellowish.  I could clearly see the empty seats and the colors of the advertisements as it rumbled by me, swaying slightly from side to side, and for no reason that I could think of, I felt a sudden shiver down my spine.  There was not another vehicle in sight and most of the grand old houses in this part of town were dark and sleeping but I could see the destination header above the windshield distinctly - "Night Run", I read and felt a sure and certain chill.  A goose walking over my grave, my grandmother would've said.  I had a sudden and unnerving notion that things aboard the bus were wickedly wrong, that if it were to stop, a dozen dead and decaying bodies would tumble out, that the driver would be a  ghastly ghoul with cemetery dirt clinging to his boots.

I wondered about the route of the "Night Run" as I watched it disappearing in the rear view mirror, chugging a little drunkenly down the deserted street toward downtown.  I even had a second or two of curiosity so intense that I contemplated following, just because I'd never known a bus to run so late and so empty.  Would it return to the station or dim that brightly illuminated interior and drive through the graveyard?  And would it pick up more passengers?  Did even the dead have some destination?  A leftover whiff of exhaust brought me back to reality with its stench of diesel fuel (and death?) and I cursed my runaway imagination.  I was on a quiet city street at two in the morning, on my way home from a bar, hot and tired, and the city bus was just a city bus. Except that I was sure it wasn't.  

The chief trouble with my imagination is that it doesn't come with a kill switch.  The "Night Run" had been out of sight for several seconds before I realized that I was still in my idling car, sitting in the middle of the street with my foot firmly on the brake.

That's it, then, I said outloud, No more horror movies for you.

I was only a few minutes from home and just a few hours from daylight, but it was more than enough time to summon up another handful of apparitions.  I drove slowly, paying attention to the shadowy side streets and taking care not to get caught in the spaces between the street lamps.  Who knew what might be lurking in the dark, what might be waiting, what might've missed the bus.  I had visions of rotting corpses staggering down the sidewalk, of monsters behind the wrought iron fences and vampires slinking through the dark.  I drove a little faster, thinking that there would be safety if I could reach the intersection at St. Mark's where there would be light and open space and the nearness of a church.  Of course, I knew that there really were no demons or walking dead but if there were, they'd retreat.  

I crossed the intersection and drove the rest of the way in the clear, forcing the image of the bus with its unnatural, jaundiced light, its empty, abandoned seats and its unseen passengers out of my mind.  Wherever the "Night Run" had originated, whatever its destination was, and whoever was riding on it, were questions for another night and someone else's imagination.












 

Wheel of Fortune

The beginning of autumn.

The rain is over and there's a welcome coolness in the air.  The deck is littered and slick with wet, fallen leaves and the trees are still bent downward, glistening with left over moisture, shivering ever so slightly in the early evening breeze.  Everyone I know is ready for a change of season, ready to put the steamy summer behind them and move on.  Fall beckons like a dogeared old novel - I remember how much I loved it but can't quite recall the ending and I'm anxious to start re-reading.  I have a soft spot for British-written fiction, epic tales of families recounted over decades and told in different voices from alternating viewpoints.  One in particular, "Wheel of Fortune" by Susan Howatch is high on my list of favorites and I re-read yearly - for it's elegant dialogue, it's vivid character portrayals, it's plot and sub plots - but mostly because it reminds me how complex we are and how we filter our feelings and actions through our own experiences.  We make our own heroes and villains and build our own dramas - what you see may be exactly what I see, and yet not.  We interpret and translate according to our own inner selves and we write our own stories.  Your tragedy may be my celebration.  Your heartbreak may be my salvation.  One man's trash, so they say, is another man's treasure.  You hear an innocent question, I hear a veiled criticism.  You see a smile, I see a setup.  Don't grow up, I read somewhere, It's a trap.

This is the thing that most fascinates me about human behavior and the workings of our sometimes fractured minds.  I have come to expect a hidden agenda in the mechanism and I often find myself looking for a tell, a clue of some kind, as if kindness comes with a catch or a well intentioned remark has some concealed meaning.  A holdover of childhood, I tell myself, a remembrance from a failed or betrayed marrriage, a gift from a suspicious and distrusting mind.  Sometimes people are exactly what appear to be, no more and no less and certainly not behind the scenes plotters and anarchists.

And yet.  

It runs like a river, this search for what I imagine to be truth.  When I see others on the same journey, others with the same telltale expression, I think how glad I am to have gotten past all that suspicious nonsense and arrived at a place of confidence and certainty and acceptance and how sad for those who have not.

And yet.

It may be a battle that will never be fully won or lost, only a continuing fight and opportunity to live and learn.
I hear hoofbeats and make myself think horse.   But as unlikely as it may be, it could be a zebra.  Or in some cases, even a unicorn.

And yet.

Horses, zebras or unicorns. Susan Howatch's novel suggests that we're all prisoners on the wheel, destinies preset and spinning through life without any real choices.  Maybe so, but I prefer to think we all see things through the filters we design for ourselves.  The real trick is seeing through our own illusions.

Taking Sides

When a friend of mine recently tripped and fell headfirst into a hole he had dug for himself, I was unpleasantly surprised at the number of people who threw dirt instead of lowering a rope.  They may not have cast the first stone, but they wasted no time in firing back.

When it comes to words, we are the most fragile of creatures.  We hold onto the hurtful things people throw as if they were gold and share them as if they were immutable wisdom.  We recruit others with them, pass them along to gain allies, inflict them and then sit back and say See, I told you so.  And in this rush to take sides and assign blame, we end up at the edge of the hole ourselves.  It makes me think of a playground fight complete with name calling and bloody noses and spontaneous cruelty - by the time it's over, it isn't about what it was about anymore - it becomes a matter of who won or lost and who could yell the loudest and punch the hardest.  Why on earth do we so often choose right over happy?  Right has its own self righteous charm, I suppose, a fleeting sense of vindication or self satisfaction, but happy is healthier, longer lasting and easier on the nerves.

Sometimes taking sides is necessary, even essential, but it's worth remembering that what you do to someone else today, might very well be done to you tomorrow.  Who will defend you?  And who will simply add fuel to the fire?
   
It's easy to judge others behind their back, to desert them when their need is the most desperate and claim self defense.

It's hard to stay a course when you're under attack.

But wars have started with less so if you're filled with fire, just remember that fire spreads and will burn everything in its path.  It won't care who threw the first stone or who was right.  It'll just burn it all down.  So here's a lesson:


Now and again I get distracted at mealtime and turn my back on the dogs.  This inevitably leads to a nasty confrontation and I'm forced to haul one dog ( always the Schipperke) off one of the smaller ones.  She's very serious about food and gives no quarter if she thinks she's being cheated - having an aggressive nature to begin with, she requires special handling and it's wise to approach her with caution - but these food disputes are deadly serious and sometimes it takes great force.  This time when she pinned the little daschund down with much snarling and bared teeth, I was nearby and able to grab her collar and yank her away.  She spun around and attempted to sink her teeth into my wrist but I anticipated her and counter attacked with a twist and shout movement that sent her spiraling across the kitchen floor.

Now, if I'd been the little daschund (shaken but not harmed), I'd have given her a little space and a little time to calm down.  I'd have been angry and resentful and sulky.  I might even have made a scene and said something nasty and spiteful.  Instead, he dusted himself off and trotted right over to her, tail wagging a mile a minute, his small body confident and forgiving.  It took him all of ten seconds or so to forget that she'd gone for his throat and tried to make a meal of him - all of fifteen for her to forget my intervention.

In their nothing personal world, you turn the other cheek and move on down the line.

In mine, you write about it on Facebook.

In their world, they're sleeping side by side in a matter of minutes.

In mine, you're not even speaking.

In their world, forgive and forget comes naturally.  Small wonder I usually prefer their world to mine.

 

Chill and Pill

After three days of sleepless and sick, I wake just about 4:30 and for the life of me can't slip back into that hour and a half of peaceful dreaming still left to me.  My mind, I realize dimly, is fully engaged with worry about - of all things - debt.  Where it has come from I don't know but suddenly I discover I'm unable to turn it off and I start mentally reviewing the contents of the closets, the drawers, the jewelry boxes, making fuzzy edged lists of things I might be able to sell.  After a half hour, I give in and get reluctantly up to face the day. But the thoughts continue to race - needlework Christmas tree ornaments, I think, some camera equipment, a hand made crocheted tablecloth, unused table linens, the brand new dog kennels that didn't work, masses of costume jewelry, artwork that has no meaning except to me, shoes and clothes I haven't worn for decades.  It's time, I resolve, to clean house, give up my foolish and profitless packrat ways and concentrate on paying the Visa bill.

Here is a bitter truth: there's nothing here I can take with me.  And as it stands, there won't be enough to enough to send me.

I tell myself this is just the aftermath of cabin fever and a cold, of bad dreams born of worry and an ever present fear of mortality that sometimes I suspect might be just around the corner.  I'm dwelling on the dark side and the dread, and this is not how my mind usually works.  It's delayed grief for the recent loss of a beloved cat, it's the upcoming end of the year taxes, it's the increased price of my antidepressants.  And there, THERE, in that flash of a moment of unexpected insight - I remember I haven't taken one in days. The thought is nearly paralyzing in its intensity and it takes several seconds for me to reach enough awareness to curse my own carelessness.  

Of course, there is still a grain of truth is all this negativity and it would be an excellent idea to clean house and let loose of some of these dusty old possessions that really are no more than possessions and do little more than take up space.  But I will do it judiciously and thoughtfully, not out of panic and despair and dread and a lack of medication.

First the pill.  Then the chill. 
First, reinforce and repair the neglected brain chemistry.  Then clean the closets.

Insufficient Funds

Knowing that the new and upscale mesh playpen wouldn't hold the little daschund, I decided to put the black dog in it, thinking that she would enjoy the extra space and the airiness of it (not to mention hoping that it might distract her from what the day before had been a dime sized hotspot on her side and now was roughly the size of my palm).  Apparently, I don't think quite enough like a dog because she hated it instantly and instead of one dog crying and pawing, I now had two.  In the meantime, though I looked high and low, I couldn't find my office keys and finally fled the house without them to escape the dogs' distress.  I ducked through the pouring rain and got to the office only to discover that neither the doctor nor the nurses were there - a half hour later they still weren't there and the prospect of getting a late start on a Monday morning was unnerving me.  Pawing through my purse for the 3rd time in search of the keys, I was startled to discover my last paycheck, the one I'd have sworn I'd deposited ten days prior - my last nerve unraveled when I thought of the bills I had already mailed, out there in the world and being callously labeled "Insufficient funds" due to my own carelessness.

In the meantime, the nurses finally arrived and we all stumbled into the office only to find that the xray processor - older than dirt and far less reliable even though it had been serviced the Friday before - had developed an appetite for xray film.  The doctor, running late and in one of his bear moods, was decidedly less than thrilled at this unhappy turn of events.   Put all together, as I attempted to explain to him the following morning as he filled syringes and lectured me on neglecting my health, coming down with a head cold hadn't even been on my radar.  Don't care, he muttered and jabbed the first syringe into my hip, You know better. A second jab and a semi gentle cuff to the back of my head.  Go home and get better.

I spent the day on the couch with a box of Puffs, a bag of Hall's, and old black and white John Garfield movies playing, sleeping in between the bouts of coughing, sneezing and sniffling, feeling as my second husband used to say,  like I'd have to get better to die.  Waiting  for the medicines to kick in, I drank enough water to sink a medium sized ship and marinated in resentment over lost time.  John Garfield went from handsome, struggling, young musician to sleazy villain to desperate but ill fated hero - bringing his dark good looks and brooding intensity to each role - so that the day wasn't entirely wasted.  My efforts to sleep were pretty much rendered useless by bouts of coughing and an inability to breathe and I found myself again thinking how ironic it is that all the best medicine and research can't cure a common cold.  We may get to Mars, may perfect cloning, may solve the enigma of creation - and yet we are undone by a simple respiratory infection.

Today it's Lauren Bacall and with a little luck, tomorrow it will be back to the real world.








 

Gang Girls

Elizabeth Garcia - Liz to her rough and tumble friends with their leather jackets and biker boots - pretty much ruled junior high school.  She smoked like a chimney, wore gold hoop earrings, covered her pockmarked face with layers of makeup and traveled in a pack.  She was a gang girl with a quick temper and a colorful vocabulary, the first predatory female I'd ever known - tall, massive and powerfully built, tatooed and terrifying.  She had no use for classes or teachers and she flaunted discipline, defied authority and dared anyone to get in her way.

Her one weakness was sports - softball, wrestling, and field hockey.  Fiercely competitive and with a rock hard determination to win, she overshadowed her teammates, verbally battering us to perform, daring us to lose.  We played out of fear as much as anything else, reveling at each win and dreading the aftermath of the few and far between losses.  Disappointing a coach or a school or even a parent was one thing - disappointing Liz could get you a black eye and that was when she was feeling charitable.  What I remember most clearly, is how she looked in her gym wear - the dark green pullovers and bloomers were designed for athletics, meant to be sexless and functional and proper - and while they hung loosely on the rest of us, Liz filled her's so tightly that we worried she might one day rip her seams and just bust out.

I only faced her once, in a practice softball game where I had the bad luck to be on the opposing side.  I came to the plate and she was on the mound, a hugely muscled and imposing figure with the sunlight at her back, her hair tucked up under a cap but her earrings glinting.  Before stepping up I'd had a sudden and startling revelation - if by some miracle, I was to get a hit, she was sure to mow me over before I got to first.  On the other hand, if I didn't, it was equally likely that she'd hunt me down and deliver an equal punishment for not trying hard enough.   The catcher settled in behind me, Liz went into her windup and I had an overpowering urge to shut my eyes and pray.  Her first pitch whistled by me, her second was low but so close I almost felt it graze my knees.  On the third, I swung and missed and on the fourth, having nothing to lose, I connected and felt a shockwave from my fingertips to my shoulders.  The ball soared up and away and I ran for all I was worth, only dimly aware of Liz calmly and competently taking a few backward steps, shading her eyes with one meaty hand and extending her glove with the other.  The ball dropped in with a thud and the umpire signaled me out - out I may have been, but I was intact.  Several feet away, Liz removed her cap and wiped her forehead, then with barely a glance my way, resumed her pitching stance.  For the briefest second, I thought she might have nodded to me, just the faintest sign of approval, and I sighed with relief although later I decided I'd imagined it.

Seems to me it's always about the doing not the trying.

Glad She Was Here

Every time I get to this place, I pray that God will spare me.  

Here are two things I believe in:  It's neither moral, justifiable or kind to extend a life just because we know how or because we can.  Second, a beloved animal will tell you when it's time.  This morning as I fed the cats, I saw it in her eyes and knew.  My precious Mischief, sweet and timid and never a moment's trouble in all her fourteen years, let me know it was time to to go.  She's been in poor health for several months, her coat had become ragged and she was far too thin.  Selfishly, I had kept her with me, setting aside some quiet time each day just for her and stroking her until she fell asleep with her head nestled on my shoulder.  It calmed and quieted her for a time but I knew it was just delaying the inevitable.  So I called my vet to let her know we'd be coming and left work early, wrapped her in a blanket and made the last, long drive.  I knew it was right, knew it was time, knew I had to let her go.  None of my knowing helped in the least.

We laid her on the blanket and closed the exam room door to shut out the noise.  She didn't protest, didn't struggle, just folded herself into my arms while the vet gave her a sedative, speaking gently and lovingly to her all the while.  We had been here many times before, she and I.  After some small time passed, my sweet cat grew sleepy and laid her head down while I stroked her fur and comforted her.  Shortly after that, the vet returned and administered a final injection.  Together and in silence, we watched her drift away and take her final breath, peacefully and I think, perhaps, a little gratefully.  I imagined her crossing The Rainbow Bridge, happy, healthy, fat and sassy once more.

Every time I get to this place, I pray that God will spare me.  Instead, He gives me the strength to let her go and reminds me not to be sad that she's gone, but glad that she was here.

Don't Fence Me In

It should've been a small change, a matter of assembling a playpen for the little daschund to ( I so hoped ) accommodate his hatred of the wire kennel.  But once it was together, it was apparent that I'd not given quite enough thought to the issue of space and that some rearranging would be called for.  I looked around ruefully, wondering what magic ( other than a new house ) I would have to pull off to make it all work and it was well into the very early hours of the next day before I finished.  The end product is less than ideal but I think it might be workable - the dog's cooperation is, as yet, undetermined.

I've always been troubled by the sight of animals in cages and I dislike confining my dogs - it reassures me no end that the two older ones have adapted so well, they come in from outside each morning and each noon and go directly to the kennels (the black dog has even learned how to open her's) and jump right in, waiting patiently for a "Good Dog!" and a biscuit.  I'd hoped that the little daschund would see this and follow suit but it was not to be - he scurries for the bedroom and darts beneath the bed or refuses to come in at all when he knows I'm leaving - so that twice a day, five days a week, my heart hurts and I feel like a cold hearted and evil executioner.  The new enclosure is a topless series of plastic panels that hook together and give him more space than he could possibly need - I've added a new, plush dogbed and a water bowl and his favorite pillow. Hope springs eternal.

Too Clever by Half

Of my great grandmother, I can only say that unlike the rest of us, she was tall and on the slender side.  Her hair was entirely grey and when unplaited and uncoiled, it hung past her waist.  She wore silver spectacles and like all the women in our family, sensible shoes.

She was a Morrell, pronounced MORR -ill, accent on the first sylable, a plain and well established Nova Scotian name.  Morrells went back centuries in history and it was a perfectly adequate and honorable name until my Aunt Helen married my Uncle Edgecomb and without so much as a by-your-leave, altered the pronunciation to 
Morr -ELL, accent on the second sylable.  The women in the family went wild, incensed at the idea that their name wasn't good enough for the prissy and prim Beacon Hill headmistress.  For all her tea party manners and lacquered pink pearl nails, she was, they collectively agreed, an uppity, fortune hunting old maid with illusions of grandeur.  She'd clearly bewitched my uncle, tricked him into marriage with feminine wiles.

Too clever by half, my girl, my great grandmother said accusingly at their initial meeting.  Helen stretched out one pale, delicate, perfectly manicured hand.

How terribly kind of you to have me, she said brightly.

My great grandmother glared at her and quite deliberately shifted a wad of chewing tobacco from one cheek to the other then spat contemptuously.  Before Helen's appalled eyes, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and the poor headmistress flinched and paled noticeably.

Ain't done much work with those hands, have you, my girl, Nanny said flatly.

I beg your pardon! Helen exclaimed but her eyes seemed a bit dazed and she withdrew her hand as if struck.

No need, my great grandmother snapped back uncharitably and gave me an exasperated roll of her eyes, Too clever by half, she repeated with a raspy cackle.

Poor Helen - she was almost always referred to as such after that fateful day - stood wide eyed and silent, her pride injured and her insufferable superiority badly dented.  Nothing had prepared her for this lower class assault on her dignity and status and words, usually her most reliable weapon, had dramatically failed her. She gave my Uncle Eddie - who, it appeared was doing his utmost not to smile - a desperate, pleading look but he simply took her elbow and steered her firmly toward the sun porch.

Come along, old girl, I heard him say cheerfully, It's not as bad as all that.

Cream or lemon, Helen, dear?  My grandmother inquired sweetly as he deposited her into a chair.  Lemon, I think, she added when there was no answer, Definitely lemon.

From upstairs there came an undeniably satisfied cackle of laughter and Poor Helen - for the first time in her life she assured us later - promptly fainted dead away.

Calgon..... Take Me Away

If only it were so simple.

Rod Stewart was crooning a classic version of "Our Love Is Here To Stay".  I filled the bathtub, lit the candles and turned out the lights.  Calgon, I thought, Take me away, and slipping into water up to my chin, closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing, nothing more.

It was serene.
It was soothing.
It was idyllic.

And it lasted for about 60 seconds.

I never heard the slow creak of the door opening, there was no warning meow - but I did sense a presence and when I opened my eyes, there on the edge of the bathtub was the young tuxedo cat.

Go 'way, I muttered, You'll fall in.

She paid no attention to me but reached out one paw and took a gentle swipe at the bubbles.  This was followed by a delicate and quite ladylike sneeze, which was then followed by the telltale click-clack of small dog paws on the tile floor.  I had an immediate premonition of disaster but by the time I reacted, the little daschund had already arrived and nudged the young cat - already in a precarious position - a paw's length further toward the water.  There was a half second in which I might've saved her and myself if I hadn't been so surprised, but then it was gone.  There was a violent splash and a blood chilling yowl - the water abruptly became a whirling hot tub of flailing cat and claws - the now terrified dog yelped and dove into a corner and with a magnificently impossible and impressive display of agility and panicky persistence, the cat made her escape in a flurry of spray, soap bubbles and blood.  My blood, naturally - her hind feet had found the necessary purchase on my left calf.

The Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble .....Rod Stewart sang hoarsely.

It took me the better part of an hour to locate and towel dry the cat, calm the dog, and mop the bathroom floor.
Whatever great mind wrote about courage in the face of adversity has never spent a night in my house.

Jumping Ship

I feel an overwhelming sense of sadness as I read about the dissolution of a very long and very intense  friendship.  It seems to be happening right before my eyes, playing out in venomous Facebook postings with words that aren't likely to be forgiven or forgotten.  It's one nasty cauldron of hurt feelings and betrayal, of blame and resentment, of shockingly vicious personal attacks.  Whatever the original cause or justification soon won't matter - it's all going to be lost in the whirlwind and damaged beyond repair.  The real issues are already clouded over and buried in a sea of misdirection.

Most of us are too smart to declare for one side or the other, at least publicly, but private postings are another matter and the consensus is simple, straightforward and unanimous - there's a madman on the loose, emotionally broken, delusional, spiraling out of control and possibly drinking again, not to mention determinedly on the fast track to self destruction.   Those who cared enough to look beyond the wild rantings and offer help, despite the risk, were shunned, threatened with violence, mercilessly cursed and condemned.  They jumped ship in self defense and to their credit, kept the encounters to themselves until recently.  

Through all this, something was nagging at the corners of my mind.  I had a fuzzy but strong sense of having heard the lines, or something very much like them, before - often and loudly - but I'm out of practice and it took a few days before I recognized the once familiar dialogue of an alcoholic melt down.  All the signs were there from the rage and mindless lashing out to the self pity to the defiance-laced denial and the mental chaos to the incredibly focused (and successful ) effort to drive everyone away.  Meanwhile, the postings against him began to show a pattern - bitterly I-told-you-so, vindictive, malicious, sarcastic, even triumphant and a little celebratory - and I was more than a little surprised to see how quickly and collectively the line between love and hate could be crossed.  I thought of sending him a message then realized the futility of such a gesture - You don't argue with or expect reason from a whiskey bottle, I remembered a counselor telling me, Anything you say, no matter what you say, will be used against you.  Hang back for now.

So I do but it drains me and the worry makes me sick at heart.

Once a dam has been breached and the flood waters pour out, anything in the water's path will be overtaken and swept under.  There's nothing to be done but wait and see and pray that the water's not as poisoned as its source.

Spell Check

I'm the first to admit that I'm a spelling/grammar snob but lately I've begun to feel a little like William Holden correcting Judy Holiday in "Born Yesterday".  In just one day, I've seen the following on a social networking site:  

Bare with me.

(This or that) shouldn't be aloud.

People effected by ( whatever )

It's to much to think about.

Your the man.

Literacy, it seems, is fast becoming an outdated custom, gone the way of the dinosaurs.  Have we really gotten that stupid or lazy or careless?  I don't judge by color or dress or religion or even political leanings but I confess - if you can't spell or punctuate (and are out of elementary school), I'm not going to take you seriously.

Language is an art and shouldn't be abused.  Words have meanings and aren't meant to be interchangeable.

Go jump in a lake is not the same as Go jump into a lake.

Helping your Uncle Jack off the horse is not the same as Helping your uncle jack off the horse.

Spell check.
Dictionary.
Your choice.