Retribution

Round One.
From out of nowhere, the kitten rounds the corner at full tilt.  She hasn't counted upon the presence of one of the black cats, however, and she skids to a surprised stop right in front of him, rears up on her short back legs and waves her front paws in a kitten karate pose.  Unamused, the older cat sends her reeling with one bored swipe and returns to his grooming.  Undeterred, she gives an offended squeak, picks herself up and looks around for a secondary target. 

Round Two.
She settles on the passing tabby, dignified and less good natured, ignores the warning glare and launches herself into disaster.  The tabby hisses violently and there is a brief but still ear splitting scuffle before the black dog intervenes and sends both parties skittering in opposite directions.  The dog gives me her Well, someone has to be in charge look then stretches out in the doorway, head on her paws and eyes bright and alert.  She watches, she listens, she waits.  With half her energy, I think idly, I could remake the world.

Round Three.

It starts casually.  On her way to the kitchen, the kitten strolls by the other black cat who is on his way to another room.  They pass each other like ships in the night but as soon as his back is turned, she whips around and commences a low to the ground, silent stalk.  I don't know precisely what gives her away but the black cat somehow senses a shadow on his trail and stops suddenly, looks over his shoulder at the creeping menace and emits a low frequency growl.  The kitten freezes, one paw in mid-air as if pointing like a water dog - there's a second or two of absolute silence - then with a ferocious squeak, she leaps.  With one carefully timed and well aimed swat, the black cat sends her sprawling.

Round Four.
The tuxedo cat, a solid mass of feline with abs of steel and the soul of a barncat, is half asleep on the couch when the kitten begins her approach. She's stealthy as...well, as a cat...moving slowly and deliberately, never taking her eyes off her target, focusing in like a scud missile.  She scales the couch almost soundlessly and then pretends not to see the older cat.  Tails twitch with studied indifference, the tuxedo boy yawns.  For a moment I think it may come to nothing then they are abruptly nose to nose and neck in neck.  They tumble off the couch with a thud and begin to wrestle around on the floor, all tails and claws and teeth but all without a sound.  Not wanting to be left out, the small brown dog and the little dachshund decide to join this barroom like brawl and the tuxedo cat wisely withdraws, leaving only the kitten to play the prize in what turns into an enthusiastic tug of war.

Round Five turns out to be retribution.

  

Miracles

By dawn, the sky has turned the color of carbon paper.  I can hear thunder in the distance and the rain is coming down in sheets.  A dreary and dismal day, I think, already regretting last night's decision to put off the grocery store til today and wishing I'd had the good sense to have checked the forecast before turning in.  The downpour is supposed to last the entire day - what a small sacrifice it'd have been to shop last night - but what's done is done, no sense crying over spilled milk.

With Christmas just a day away, I inevitably start thinking about family, friends, lovers, the complete futility of regrets - can anything possibly be more useless than hindsight - and gratitude.  I wonder, just a little, about all the people who have come and gone in my life, where they are, how they are, how they're planning to spend the holidays.  Places and faces I haven't seen in decades come to mind and it strikes me how quickly and thoroughly we forget people and things when they're over.  We tame the most devastating and life altering events with time.  We recover from the worst setbacks and muddle through the hardest of losses.  We get over it or go through it and come out reasonably intact.  Even with all the empty spaces in our lives, what miracles we all are.

The drama of being young and worrying about what I would and wouldn't survive is behind me these days.  I loved riding the roller coaster until I didn't.  Now when I look back, I'm struck by how silly most of it was, how theatrical and melodramatic I made it.  Forlorn as it seemed then, I don't know a single soul who died of a broken heart even though at the time I was fairly convinced I would never love again, that all my dreams died with every breakup.  Age and experience bring a certain resolution, a calmness, a perspective that isn't possible when you're young and wild with hormones and imagination.  Real pain, real heartache, real tragedy don't waste themselves on foolish young girls with all their lives ahead of them.  We learn to walk as infants, then we re-learn as adults - one foot in front of the other 'til we get someplace real.

Still, the faces are clear, unlined and always young, just as we were then.  No gray hair, no frown lines, no chubby waistlines or liver spotted hands.  There was magic in being young and passionately in love but it wouldn't have done for every day.  At that pace, we'd never have seen thirty.

Christmas Eve day passes slowly and leisurely - I know the old black and white holiday movies by heart and am content to listen to them without actually having to watch - so the animals and I rarely stir from the bed.  It's our own tradition and it turns out to be a surprisingly peaceful one.   I do venture out but only to one of the numerous casinos - what amazing places these gambling halls are, no night or or day, never closing or even slowing down never mind acknowledging such a thing as Christmas - for a little sweet harmony from one of my favorite musical groups.  I visit with a few friends, take a few pictures, and leave early.

The doctor offers me a place at his Christmas table, as do a number of others who worry about people like me who are what they consider alone during the holidays.  I smile and decline as I always do, not able to imagine anything I'd rather do less but not willing to say so.  It's a kind gesture and a sincere one and while I appreciate the generosity of spirit, I'm not willing to give up a single day of being alone.  It's not so much bad memories of holidays that make me retreat - not even bad memories of family, come to think of it, I get a little further past them with each passing year - there's just no other place where I'm as comfortable or content and no other place where I have better company.

So another Christmas will come and go, quietly and blessedly uneventfully.  I look back with gratitude, a tiny bit of sorrow, and only a very small sense of loss because family - whether two or four footed - is what we make it.

Aprons & Baked Apples

Domesticity and I parted ways decades ago - it went its way and I went mine and we haven't crossed paths since - but every now and again, I think of it with a little fondness.  Well....almost.

Tradition decreed marriage and family for a girl child.  I knew this from an early age but while I thought marriage might be acceptable, I had no illusions about children - I knew as surely as I knew anything that I didn't want them - the idea of childbirth was bad enough but the prospect of a lifetime of responsibility and nurturing was paralyzing.  I refused to even consider the thought of such a burden and though I sometimes wondered if there was some integral missing motherhood link in my genetic makeup, I had no regrets.  I felt the same about cooking and sewing, coffee klatches and dinner parties and cleaning house in a cute little number with heels and hose and pearls.  Self sacrifice just wasn't my strong suit.

Junior high school did not share this attitude, however, and come 7th grade I was forced into a home economics class - one year of learning to make a baked apple, one year of learning to make an apron.  The oven and the sewing machine became my instant enemies and the class only reinforced my conviction that women were silly, trivial creatures with the instincts of sheep.  My repeated requests to transfer to the shop class were denied with appalled looks and while the apple turned out to be passable enough, on the last day of school I tossed the apron into the first trash can I came to.  Oddly enough I still remember it - red and gray, the school colors - with trimmed pockets and ribbon edging.

The inevitable results of my disdain for the domestic life - being unable to sew on a button, barely able to boil water - don't trouble me all that much.  The ancient oven in the kitchen gave up the ghost months ago and I didn't see the point in having it repaired or replaced.  Any matched pieces of leftover revere ware are purely accidental.  I doubt I could put together a full place setting using the same silverware and there's a drawer in the dining room filled with table linens, price tags still attached.  It just goes to show how we change, how the things that are important to us change, how we trick ourselves with possessions and material things.  I console myself with a simple fact - if I'd had children, they might be as dust covered and neglected and useless as aprons and baked apples.  Unless the old cycle of life thing kicked in and then they might very well have become the height of domestic engineers.  I've often thought that somehow children grow up hungry for what they don't have - raised in a rigid religious home, they become devoted atheists, raised to be neat freaks, they celebrate disorder - until their children come along and the whole process reverses itself.

Who can tell where aprons and baked apples will lead. 

Ave Maria

After several days of freezing cold and rain, the sun emerges.  There's nothing tentative or half hearted about it, it streams full strength through the windows and the chill I feared might last for months finally, although very reluctantly, is forced to give a little ground.  I am grateful but still cautious as I pack my camera gear - it is still December after all - and sunlight can be a deceptive old dog, slow to move, a little tired, and not as fierce as it once was.  Much like me, I think, and sling my bag over my shoulder.

As a venue, the small church across the river is nearly perfect for a classical guitarist on a Sunday afternoon.
Although I've listened to him for years, this is my first time to actually see him perform and I'm delighted to find he looks exactly the way he sounds on the radio - a small man, with a beard, mustache, and wavy silver hair that looks almost feminine - he's dressed in an elegant tux and perched comfortably on a raised platform at the front of the sanctuary.  He's playing, very softly but intently, as the audience begins to file in and take their seats.  Sunlight filters in through the stain glass windows and the crowd is instinctively hushed.  I'm acutely aware of how loud the sound of my shutter seems to be - the background quiet is almost unnerving - and I say a small prayer that I'm not a distraction.  As if he senses my thoughts, he looks at me and smiles and the whole room seems to light up.  Halfway through the concert, I realize that he's so focused, so one with the music, that he barely knows I'm there although I'm less sure of the rest of the audience.  I try to time my shots to coincide with the applause but I've never shot in such complete and stunning silence and I feel awkward. No one coughs or clears their throats, there's no hum of an air conditioner, no outside or background noise at all.
It's a startling and slightly eerie experience and I can only hope the pictures will be worth it.

Most musicians I know have some kind of empathy with their instruments - many actually name them - but I can't remember a single one who seemed so in tune.  I watch his fingers fly over the frets with a whispery lightness, head bent and eyes closed as he begins "Ave Maria".  There is an exquisite delicacy to his touch and without realizing it I lower my camera and let it rest in my lap.  After a moment or two, I find myself in tears, moved by the sheer and astonishing beauty of Shubert and the man who plays it so lovingly.

There aren't that many perfect moments in life but this is one.

War Stories

Once a month or so during the summers on the island, Uncle Sherry came to visit and pass the time.   Despite one conspicuously empty sleeve, he stood tall and straight and almost always arrived with a burlap bag slung over his other shoulder - usually scallops fresh from the docks at Digby, sometimes lobsters - and one memorable morning in August, an honest to God swordfish.

If you're gon' ask a pretty woman to cook for you, he would tell my grandmother with a broad wink, Then it's best to bring provisions!

Sherry, you ol' one armed bandit! she would exclaim, I'd about given you up for lost...carry your ragged ass into this house this minute!

By then the dogs had heard his voice and stormed the back door in a frenzy - he always carried rib bones in the pocket of his overcoat - and they nearly knocked him down in their excitement.  My daddy was right behind them, shirtless and with shaving lather still on his face.

Sherry! he shouted, You old horse thief!  What took you so long!

They had grown up together, so Nana said, boyhood friends who had joined the Canadian Armed Forces and served together in France along with my Uncle Vern.  The war had not been kind, certainly not what they'd expected and only my daddy came home intact - Uncle Vern had lost a leg to a landmine and Sherry's arm had been blown off my a grenade - but it had also cemented their friendship.  After an overnight stay, they would be off to the Valley for a daytrip to see other old friends - the big reunion was held in the fall but these three gathered each summer - for old times sake, my daddy said, to reminisce, drink bourbon and tell not so gently edited war stories.  It was fascinating to hear and see them slip so easily into the past with tales of French barmaids and foxholes and lazy afternoons in sidewalk cafes.  And while there was always a drink to the ones who didn't come home, there were no stories of landmines or grenades or amputated limbs.  To hear them tell it, France had been one long, glorious adventure of wine, women, song and patriotism.

My mother, horrified that no one would pretend not to notice Sherry's empty sleeve and more than a little jealous of the bonds that held the men together, made herself scarce for these small reunions.   

We managed without her.  

Convinced that a one armed man could hardly fend for himself, Nana sent Sherry off the following morning with a veritable trunk full of provisions - quarts of chowder, loaves of bread tightly sealed in saran wrap, fried chicken and spare ribs, a basket of sweet corn - he protested but was no match for my iron-willed, grey haired grandmother. 

Wars and families make strange bedfellows.

Too Cold To Snow

The morning is dim and cloudy gray - there was a brief but chilling smattering of snow during the night - and I wake thinking that my decision to move south was sound enough but incomplete.  Looking out at the frozen crepe myrtle and frost covered grass, I wonder if I shouldn't have gone a little further.  It's a too cold to snow kind of morning, as my daddy might've said - every breath sends a wave of arctic chill into my lungs and the dogs waste no time being curious, they're out and back in in a matter of seconds.  The small brown dog trembles with cold and rushes for the bedroom, not even waiting for the accustomed biscuit, while the other two - bigger and made of sterner stuff - trot hastily inside and settle by heating vents.  It's tricky maintaining your dignity while freezing.

Too cold to snow, I think dismally, how does that even make sense?

I can see my daddy - practically mummified in layers - thermal socks and long underwear, cable knit sweaters and a snug wool cap pulled over his ears, bright mittens and an oversized scarf.  He would pull a chair close to the fire and hunker down beneath multiple blankets while my mother alternately laughed and scolded.  It seemed as if all their differences could be summed up according to the thermostat - he was always too cold and she was always too hot - they never agreed on what the temperature should be and were only rarely able to reach a compromise.  Even now it's hard to imagine a more constant or enduring conflict.   

In his younger days, my daddy was up after a blizzard, whistling and shoveling in the pre-dawn hours.  He would methodically clear the front steps, then the walk, the sidewalk, and finally the driveway.  Digging out the car was cold, cruel work and for countless winters he did it alone until he was finally persuaded that there was wisdom and efficiency in a gas powered snow blower.  We trudged to Sears and Roebuck in Porter Square in the midst of an early and reasonably mild storm and purchased a bright, shiny red Kenmore blower and a plastic gas container.   By the time we were up the following morning, the entire yard had been cleared and the freshly made snowdifts were hip-high.  My daddy, looking very much like Nanook of the North, was standing on the sidewalk, chatting easily with the neighbors and triumphantly spreading salt and de-icer like birdseed.  He never picked up another snow shovel.

Here in the south, the idea of a snow shovel is fortunately laughable but the cold still comes.  I leave the house and an intake of freezing air settles in my nose, throat, and lungs.  My gloved fingers tingle and there's always that shining moment of terror when I wonder if the car will start and if the sun will ever shine again.  It may be too cold to snow, but it's cold enough for me and mine.

Spirits of the Fire

The day before Thanksgiving is bitterly cold and still damp from the last few days of winter rain.  It's the kind of weather that creeps undetected into your bones and settles like wet dirt - clingy and unseen, impossible to shake off - it calls up memories of New England during the nasty season.  You can't bundle up enough to ward it off and in my house I can feel it, slithering under door frames and around the window sills, inching its way down from the attic and seeping up from beneath the floors.  It penetrates the walls of this little hundred year old house and there's no place to hide unless I stay in bed - an obvious impracticality - or turn the heat up to 80 - an obvious extravagance - so I slip into my thermals and pull on thick socks, layer to the point of immobility and then crawl under a blanket.  The small brown dog gives me a pleading look and I leave my little nest to find her a sweater then together we burrow back in.

We shall stay here 'til spring, I tell her and she looks at me as if it's my fault.  The little dachshund crawls up next to her and arranges his small body to shield her and share his warmth.  Soon the couch is so full of animals that I can barely move, even the kitten finds a niche and curls up into a tight ball on my shoulder. Never one to follow the crowd, the black dog, thick coated and tough as old boots, takes a chair across from the couch and assumes a posture of watchfulness.  She lays her head on her paws, listening for any sound from inside or out, always on the edge of ready-set-go and untroubled by the cold.  There are times I envy her.

This is fireplace weather, I think, remembering New England.  Most everyone had one with a brick hearth and a painted mantle - a fire was a welcoming sight to come to on those cold winter evenings - the dogs would sigh and stretch out before it and Nana would make hot chocolate just before bedtime.  She served it in tiny white china cups, sweet and frothy with whipped cream and sometimes my daddy would help us toast marshmallows on skinny green sticks.  The flames would crackle in a blaze of color - red, blue, and yellow incandescence against the sooty bricks - sometimes they would snap like sharp twigs and send showers of bright, hot sparks up the chimney.  The sweet, smoky smell filled the room and when there were only embers and ashes left, the glow was hypnotizing.  I imagined I could see shapes and faces as the last logs burned down, eyes peered back at me and I thought of wolves and owls, vampires and bloodless, white-faced night creatures out of Grimm's Fairy Tales.  Spirits of the fire, come to purify and cleanse and make everything new again.  Some nights they even followed me up the stairs and made their way into my dreams where my imagination never did seem to call forth sweet spirits.  It seemed to prefer the darker, horror-tinged apparitions, usually there to do do my bidding but sometimes turning on me with bloody fangs and talon-like nails.  Every branch scratching on my window, every howl of winter wind, every flicker of wicked flame seemed to call me - I dared not think to what purpose - some dreams are like a runaway team of horses, too powerful to stop, too wild to be reined in, better to go along for the ride and hope you aren't rudely thrown off.

I still have a fireplace - gas fueled with sad, sorry imitation logs, not much to inspire the imagination and not meant to - it's efficient and quietly contained, its flames hiss steadily but it offers no magic and makes no memories.

How dull it is to be grown up.










  

Demon Music

Family holidays being my least favorite days of the year, I've created my own personal tradition - stay in bed, eat only things that are bad for me, and do nothing that requires showering or clean clothes - I find it gets me through the day nicely.  And so another Thanksgiving Day passes.

Families.  All dysfunctional in their own way - some simply quirky, others shadowy and possibly sinister, and some outright dangerous - odd little collections of still odder people created by chance and genetics and held together by necessity, habit, common needs.  Add drugs to the mix and they become held together by secrets and sickness and scores to settle.  Addiction is a contagious disease and no one in an affected family is spared.  Over time they learn coping skills - enabling, withdrawing, absence - and of course, the Big Kahuna, denial.  The lucky ones take flight and escape, albeit carrying the infection and damaged if unaware.  They won't understand why they don't trust people, why relationships are rocky to the point of failure, why they prefer a solitary life, why they cringe at a raised voice or expect a raised hand.  They won't comprehend their own free-floating anger or lack of confidence and they won't recognize truth when it's told to them.  Pleasing others will be more essential than pleasing themselves even though they know they have no real chance of measuring up.  They'll be controllers, desperate to maintain order on their own terms, obsessively focused on routine and familiar territory.  In their hearts they know that change is just a code word for chaos.

All things considered, it's a hard way to live, although often preferable to confronting the demons face to face and risk discovering that we've had a hand in their maturity and staying power.

It's good to remember that no one sets out to become an alcoholic or a junkie.  No one sets out to marry one either.

 We may not recognize it, but sickness calls to sickness and we're mostly always at home.

So I'm wary about family celebrations, even in the most seemingly healthy and happy homes.  Demons live in the undercurrents, in the things that aren't always seen and aren't always spoken, the things that we pretend aren't there.  They play their sweetest music when you're not listening.

Normal, as folksinger and songwriter Bernice Lewis penned, is just a setting on the washing machine.   

Hardly Ever an Unkind Word

At the time I didn't know who she was - an old woman bundled up in a heavy coat, sitting on a blanket in a neighborhood park on a cold mid-November day, listening to music.  I was up and moving partly to capture the faces in the crowd, partly to keep warm and it was her face that drew me - her life was written on it and she'd clearly done some hard traveling - the deeply etched lines and wrinkles and the small signs of skin cancer gave it away.  When I pointed my camera at her, she instinctively tilted her head and gave me a hint of a smile, but her eyes flashed as if they were dancing.  I snapped the shutter, having no idea how important this single photo would be be one day, until yesterday when I saw that she'd died.  At 76, she'd earned her rest.

She'd also earned her way.  She'd raised one son and then two grandchildren, all musicians, on something like $800 a month for years, no small thing.  She'd seen her family through all the hard times and heartache, often their only means of transportation to and from various venues.  She'd worked the door, helped carry gear, saw them safely home.  And nobody could've been more encouraging or supportive of their music, even when the music itself strayed outside the lines.  She'd fed and sheltered them through it all with very little thought of herself and hardly ever an unkind word.  She was very good at putting herself in the shoes of another, thought it was important not to judge or criticize, especially if about someone else's dreams.  Death has a way of making us look back, often adding a soft focus to what we see and remember, a small and forgivable bit of editing in most cases but sometimes it isn't necessary - sometimes the memories are all too adequate and need no adornments, no extra kindness.

I can't credit the following quote but I doubt I've ever read truer words.

Grief never ends.
But it changes.
It's a passage, not a place to stay.
Grief is not a sign of weakness nor a lack of faith.
It's the price of love.

And That's What It's All About

It was midway through a Monday morning from hell when the credit card machine decided to dig in its heels and fail halfway through a transaction.  The display abruptly went wild for a few seconds, lights flashed and warning tones chirped, then it went dark.  Three 'phone lines were simultaneously ringing, the doctor was hovering over my shoulder demanding to know if the printer repairman had called, there was a line at the glass window and another at the check out counter and not a nurse in sight.  I felt like a firework in mid explosion.

A young-ish sounding and calm-voiced tech support guy named John took my call, first inquiring after my health - I was in no mood to chit chat and made that clear - he immediately apologized, asked a few routine questions and then put me on hold.  When he came back, he warned me that it was a complicated fix but that he'd walk me through it.  I growled.

Are you ready? he asked, There's a lot of steps so be sure you have room.

Yes! I snapped, too angry and impatient to wonder what the hell room had to do with it.

Ok, he said with that irritating level-headedness, Put your left foot in.

My hand froze above the screen.  

What??  I demanded incredulously.

Put your left foot in, he repeated serenely, Then put your left foot out.

Certain I'd crossed into The Twilight Zone, I stood there with my hand poised over the LED and tried to make sense of what I was hearing.

Now, he continued placidly, Hit enter and then punch 9.

Instantly the screen lit up correctly.  

That's it???  I couldn't believe it.

That's it, he assured me and I could've sworn he laughed, But I thought you needed to smile.

John....I kept my tone even, couldn't have been able to stay mad if I'd tried,  You know, nobody likes a wise ass merchant services guy.

Then he did laugh and so did I.  Because sometimes the Hokey Pokey really is what it's all about.

And that's a true story.

Separate Ways

The signs are unmistakable. 

It's a muggy November day, a Sunday, and rather than blowing leaves or hanging security lights or smoking meat in the backyard, my neighbor Kevin is loading a pickup truck.  His face is grim and tight and he strides back and forth with armful after armful of possessions, haphazardly tossing them into the truck bed with angry, disjointed motions.  There's no sign of Sharon, his wife, and no yapping little Maltese at his heels. This, I realize, is a husband on his way out.

You work too hard, Kevin, I call to him as I unload groceries.

Seems so, he tells me, That's why I'm getting a divorce.

And even though I instinctively knew it, to have it put out there, hanging in the humid air, stops me in my tracks.  I tell him I'm sorry to hear it but he just shrugs.

They've lived next door for the last five or so years and while I don't know them well, I have gotten used to them being there.  He's a worker bee - spending every free evening and weekend hour building or puttering with home improvement projects.  Landscaping and a fire pit for the back yard, repairs to the fence, cutting and stacking wood for the fireplace, planting roses and trimming trees, installing an awning over the patio. I find myself remembering how my second husband always managed to have a half dozen projects in the works - anything to put some distance between us and drink unobserved - and begin to wonder if what I've been assuming was industry might've been avoidance.  A house, two cars in the driveway and a little dog don't make a home and all too often love is fleeting if not pitifully inadequate against the inevitable storms.  You can love unreservedly - often without even working very hard at it - but it takes real effort to live with someone, to adapt and compromise and sacrifice and bend.  I've learned that not all of us are cut out for a lifetime of togetherness and harder still, not all of us should try.

When divorce was a scandal, couples stayed together whether they should've or not.  No surrender.

Now that it's common as dirt, people give up without a second thought.  No resistance.

I'm glad that we're past the illusions but sometimes I wonder if the whole concept isn't obsolete.

His belongings neatly and securely lashed in the cargo bed, Kevin's shiny and well cared for pickup truck eases out of the driveway and down the street.   In the front window of the house he leaves behind, a curtain stirs and then is still. 

Winter Roses

Despite the change of season, the roses are thriving.  They seem to go from tightly closed buds to full petals almost overnight, undeterred by the cold or the wind or the rain, reaching for the sunlight with all their energy and optimism.  They have hope and potential and a vision for the future and passing by them each morning brightens my day just a little.  It's little enough comfort in a world gone dizzyingly mad, a reminder that we are all struggling to get through the day and fighting private battles.

More often than not, my battles are with myself, with the person I want to be and the one I am.  I've lived too long to tolerate the overwhelming stupidity and rudeness of the general public, worked too hard to be bullied no matter how reasonable and soft the voice may be, and spent too much time and effort trying to quietly fade into the background.  The old woman who wears purple no longer peers out from behind her garden gate - more and more often she swings it wide open and invites you in for a cup of arsenic-laced tea.  Would that I had the will to be more like the roses, swaying gently in the chilly November wind and lifting their velvety petaled faces upward.  I would hide my thorns but keep them sharpened - for self defense only in the event someone tried to pick me.

The old woman who wears purple, however, is more weed-like.  She's a little faded, her roots go a little deeper, she has a long memory and a short temper.  Her thorns are stubbornness and impatience and an overall world weariness.  Somewhere along the way, she's lost her faith and replaced it with cynicism and doubt.  She's on the road to isolationism, with any luck, to a small house with locked doors overlooking an ocean in a country she's always wished she'd been born to. 

Friends will be welcome - provided they bring American cigarettes, eat sparingly and don't stay overlong - but mostly I imagine retirement as another word for retreat, a time to sort myself out and revel in the remaining years.  I'd like to think that the anger that has sustained me all my life will drift out to sea and harmlessly dissipate.  I'd like to think that I can do without it and live quietly with my animals, my camera, my books.

Maybe I'll even plant roses.  

Although I'm leaning toward poison ivy.

A Side of Frozen Shoulder, Please

On the blessedly rare morning when I find myself feeling creaky and old, I usually try to remind myself of how fortunate I really am - compared to most of my friends, I'm in remarkable shape.  I still have most if not all of my original parts, have no persistent or even mildly annoying aches or pains as might be expected, no chronic conditions except a little routine bronchitis and until recently wasn't taking so much as a single medication. To be sure, it's not as easy as it used to be to untangle myself from sitting Indian style (but I can still do it) and sometimes I need a hand to help me up if I'm been kneeling to take a picture, but on the whole, I rarely feel my age although I suspect I look every year of it.  So when my right shoulder and arm began acting up this past summer, I ignored it - I believe in always trying denial first - and as it worsened, I learned to compensate.  I paid attention to which movements hurt and which didn't and practiced being careful, favoring my right side when necessary, mostly learning to adapt and telling myself it wasn't so bad.  And then one morning I reached behind my back to fasten the clasp on my bra and my arm and shoulder imploded with a fierce burning pain that lasted long after I let go.  Not long after that, putting on and taking off my scrub top began to make my shoulder twinge, one careless reach sideways would bring on a disabling spasm, one stretch of my right arm toward anything meant a bright burning sensation that took its sweet time fading away and it became more and more difficult to find a sleep position that didn't ache.  Finally convinced it was likely a rotater cuff injury and would have to be looked at, I reluctantly made an appointment with the orthopaedist, and spent one entire miserable week fretting about worst case scenarios involving casts, disability paperwork, loss of income, a bill I wouldn't live long enough to pay and pain.  Lots of pain.  By the day of the appointment, I was perilously close to changing my mind, then as I stepped into my bra and pulled it over my ankles, my knees, and my hips until I got to my shoulders, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror.

Jesus wept, I told the mirror image, You're too damn old to be playing at acrobatics.  Go get this done.

The doctor - khakis and a button down shirt, gold rimmed glasses, fluffy silver hair and kind eyes - was immediately reassuring.  He peered at xrays and then manipulated my arm into a variety of positions, tested for weakness and strength, noted each wince, and then pronounced it to be "frozen shoulder" - nowheres near as dramatic as a torn rotater cuff - but far less serious, easily treatable with stretching exercises, and transitory.  The technical name for it was "adhesive capsulitis", common in folks between 40 and 60.

You're outside the range, he admitted with a quick glance at the chart, but not by much, and gave me a smile to take the sting out of this remark.

I smiled back, foolishly grateful and a tad indignant at the same time.  

Between a bout of tennis elbow (I could lift 50 pounds without half trying but couldn't staple two pieces of paper together) and a case of trigger thumb ( almost hated to have that fixed, I got a little transfixed by the clicking noise it made when it released) and now frozen shoulder, I'm beginning to feel a little like a side of beef.

So I think I'll tell people I've had adhesive capsulitis, lateral epicondylitis, and digial tenovaginitis stenosans.
It sounds so much more sophisticated and just a tiny bit romantic.

Tick Tock Habits

Having never given a stray thought to retirement until recently, I now find it much on my mind, especially after a night of sleeping in fits and starts - an hour here, an hour there - until the little alarm clock trills (well, actually it shatters the morning stillness like a fire siren) and all the animals seems to rise and shine as one. Of course they've been on and off awake since about three, accommodating each of my tosses and turns with a stubborn push back and now they're hungry and impatient for food and attention.  If there's one thing they all universally understand, it's that damn alarm clock.  Five in the morning and it's a free-for-all.

Except for a random year here and there, I've worked all my life and have never been able to imagine not doing so.  I like routine and stability and being counted upon, having a place to go where I'm needed and a desk of my own, the security of a paycheck.  Being useful and having a clear role to play is comforting and familiar.  Until recently, I'd never thought about not working just as I'd never thought about dying but now in the quiet of the night when I can't sleep and all I hear is the tick tock of the little clock above my head and the animals' slow, steady breathing, new and radical thoughts drift through my mind.  Sleeping 'til seven or even eight.  Actually taking a vacation.  Not having to be anywhere at a specified time.  Grocery shopping during the week.  Freedom vs idleness.  Time on my hands and no demands save what I impose on myself.  Work is a habit, a necessary evil if you haven't the foresight to come from or marry money and I'm beginning to wonder if it might not be time for a change.  My five year plan is starting to look too long.  With a part time job, I think idly, could I do it in three?  Could I do it in less?

The entire idea is so foreign that it almost doesn't compute but I'm slowly and tentatively learning to like it.

Meanwhile, I try to be like Charlie Brown and "dread one day at a time".














 

Three Pounds of Persistence

Never underestimate the power of a cat-can-do attitude.

In the two maybe three seconds it took for me to turn my back to reach for the mustard, the new kitten had sunk her tiny teeth into the unfinished salami sandwich and was in travelin' mode, dragging it backwards across the counter despite its weight and the fact that it was nearly half her size. 

Disengage! I cried in alarm and she glared at me - very kittenesque - and when I reached for it, she gave a small, plaintive meow and actually hung on.  I couldn't help but laugh at this one-sided contest and when the sandwich was finally free, I relented at her disappointed (and mad) little face and gave her a kitten-sized bite.
She trotted off so proudly I wasn't sure who had actually won.  I poured a glass of milk and turned with it and sandwich in hand only to stumble over the three dogs/witnesses.  I managed to save the milk but the poor salami never had a chance.

Dear Lord, I often think, give me patience.

I suppose the real trick is not to pray for a better life but rather the strength to endure and appreciate the one you have.  

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As if she were leading a cavalry charge, the kitten comes from nowhere, racing at full speed across the kitchen floor.  She clears one sleeping cat without breaking a sweat, side swipes a second which causes a brief flare up
and a nasty word or two, gains the coffee table easily and then with a determined kitten war whoop, flings her little self on top of the sleeping and unsuspecting small brown dog.  The dog yelps - unhurt but scared half to death - and immediately burrows into my side for protection, trembling and whimpering.  While I reassure her, the kitten moves on to the little dachshund - she pounces ferociously on his feathery tail and he whips around, pinning her down with one shaggy paw - she gives an indignant squeak of protest but she's nailed and she knows it.

What goes around, comes around, I tell her without much sympathy, Grin and bear it.

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You'd think after living with cats all these years, I'd have learned to recognize a set up.

Reaching down to retrieve a stray sock from the floor, I'm completely unprepared for the new kitten to erupt from under the bed and with a pigeon-like attack trill, leap and fasten herself around my wrist.  Caught entirely off guard, I jump in surprise and mutter a mild curse - it takes several seconds to peel her off - and I let her think it's her idea when she finally lets go and darts back under the bed, readying herself, I suspect, for the next passerby.  From where she's lying in the doorway, the black dog watches this intently and after a moment or two, she crawls in the direction of the bed and cautiously pokes her nose under the bedspread.  An instant later, a tiny gray paw appears and gives her a smart smack on the nose - she yelps, then growls, then tries her best to force her way under the bed, receiving a second swat for her trouble.  The kitten takes full advantage of her confusion and scrambles out the other side before she can free herself.

I'm still searching for the other sock.

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On a damp and chilly November morning, the kitten navigates like Magellan - from the floor to the bed in back of me, then a confident jump to my left shoulder, and finally into my lap - where she settles contentedly and begins to purr.  Rather than stay settled however, she is soon randomly reaching one small paw toward the keyboard and snagging my sleeve with her nails in an effort to distract me.  A kitten in search of attention is impossible to ignore - she's three pounds of persistence - and besides being bold as brass and fearless, this little one has a streak of mule in her.

Her other side, though, is sweetness and light.  She will just as easily curl up in the curve of the little dachshund's belly and fall fast asleep as charge him like some runaway whirling dervish.  And there's barely a whisper of protest when all three dogs fall onto her and play tug of war with her tail and ears as if she's just the best pull toy they've ever had.  She can rough and tumble with the best of them and then this afternoon, at her second vet visit - despite the unfamiliar environment, the noise, the smells - she was so relaxed she fell asleep while we were waiting.

At the foot of the couch, the kitten nestles in her new blanket and sleeps peacefully in the afternoon sunlight.
When the little dachshund jumps up to join her, she barely stirs - even when he sighs and lays his head across her small body, all she can manage is a sleepy look - and in just a few seconds, both are asleep.  By bedtime, he will be his usual calm, sweet self but she will be well rested and ready to take on the world.  

To me, nothing says home like a slightly schizophrenic kitten.

The In-Between Times

It's the in-between times that get you, those brief and shining moments when you allow yourself the delusion that things will get better, will change, will pass.

My friend, Joann, struggling with the responsibility of a father lost to Alzheimer's and a helpless, victimized mother, is learning just how strong she is.  The emotional toll is enormous, the physical demands intolerable.
One moment he's there - knows who she is and is rational and calm - then he's gone and in his place there's an abusive, physically violent stranger, a monster who presents a real danger to himself and his family.  None of the medications are helping - some even appear to make it worse - and it's about to get worse as he faces discharge from the hospital and being sent home to recover from a broken hip.  The idea of a nursing home is brought up and quickly dismissed, no one is quite willing to consign him to that particular brand of hell, not yet anyway and besides it would break them financially.  A professional nurse/caregiver is suggested but the patient is unmanageable and would be a threat to their safety, finding the right one has so far proved impossible.  Visions of her daddy in restraints and medicated to this side of a coma are too grim to even consider, yet where else is there to turn.  How long is long enough for her to put her life on hold, she wonders, how long does she fight?  And at what cost?

Then he has a good spell.  He eats and reads and tells jokes, tells her he loves her, gives his whole heart to the physical therapy exercises, talks of the future.  Things are bright and hopeful until they darken and he grabs her by her hair and delivers a stunning left hook to her jaw, making her see stars and cry out in pain.
He doesn't even know why and she retreats in fear and anger and despair, too hurt and emotionally exhausted to face another minute.  He will not remember this the next morning, will ask about her bruised and swollen jaw and be ready to shoot the sob who hit his baby girl and she will not know what to tell him.  And then by late afternoon, he'll be gone again - in his place, a frustrated, sick, brutal old man, shouting threats at all who come near, viciously raging against all who would help him.  There's no escape and no mercy.

Take him or give him back, she begs of God, and immediately regrets what she sees as selfishness.

The in-between times are the worst false promises.

Smoke'em If You Got'em, Boys

Idle hands, my grandmother announces briskly over breakfast, are the devil's workshop.  It's a fine day to wash windows and stack wood.

The sunporch, glassed in on three sides, faces the ocean and it's my job to keep the windows clean.  Nana fills a bucket with soap and water and pulls out the long handled scrub brush.  She begins cleaning the inside glass and I start on the outside.  It's a beautiful summer day with sunlight sparkling on the waves - the high grass sways in the morning breeze and the flag snaps smartly each time it catches the wind.  Seagulls soar overhead and I hear the familiar chug-a-lug of the ferry making the crossing.  My mother is in the kitchen and I can smell the warm sweetness of bread just out of the old oven - Uncle Eddie and Aunt Helen are to arrive later today and there is to be fresh bread and fish chowder waiting for lunch - and in the backyard, my brothers are resentfully carrying armload after armload of cord wood from the new woodpile to the woodshed, stopping every now and again to sneak a forbidden cigarette out of a stolen pack of Kent 100's.  They think, wrongly, that Nana hasn't noticed, a fact that will be painfully clarified before the day is out.

After the windows are soaped and rinsed once then twice, they gleam and dry in the sun.  Nana pronounces the job well done and rewards me with a shiny new quarter and a strawberry tart then sends me upstairs to begin the process of stripping the beds.  She spends the remainder of the morning with the wringer washer until every sheet and pillow case has been fed through and hung out to dry, stopping at regular intervals to inspect the woodshed and make sure that the boys are stacking the wood neatly. 

If it's worth doing, she reminds them, it's worth doing well.  They grumble under their breaths but pick up their pace, eager to be done and released.  My mother moves on to pie making, two apple with sugar coated crusts and one blueberry with a delicate patchwork of crisscrossed pastry strips.  The kitchen fairly reeks with the smells of good country cooking - I may not like my mother much but on days like this I can't help but admire her skills - and I like the fact that with company coming, she and my grandmother have too much to do to quarrel.

Nana sets the finished pies on the window sill to cool.  Couldn't have done better myself, Jan, she says and my mother shrugs, trying to be self deprecating, but I can tell by her face that she's ridiculously pleased.  We are not a family that gives or accepts compliments often or well.

Not long after the noon whistle blows, a shiny new Cadillac makes the turn into the driveway and the dogs commence to barking.  My Uncle Eddie, wearing a tweed vest, with his handlebar mustache meticulously twirled and carrying a white handled walking stick - he looks startlingly like Mr. Monopoly - emerges with an ear to ear grin.

Put the kettle on, Alice! he shouts, We have arrived!   My Aunt Helen sits primly in the passenger seat, giving one last pat of powder to her nose and waiting expectantly for her car door to be opened as she considers it unladylike to do it herself.  She is very nearly forgotten in the rush of people and dogs and luggage and is forced to clear her throat - twice - before anyone notices and my uncle obediently returns to the Caddy, opens her door and offers her his hand.  She steps out, wrinkling her nose at the dust and gravel and clutching a delicate, lace edged handkerchief with her initials prominently embroidered in the corner in one pale hand and a Gucci purse in the other.  

Take my arm, old girl, Uncle Eddie says with an extravagant bow, I'll see you through this foreign land.

Alice, dear, she tells my grandmother, I'm simply done in by this primitive travel.  I could simply die for a cup of tea.

I'm sure, Helen, dear, Nana replies with her best company smile, Go right in.  

My least favorite aunt walks a little unsteadily across the uneven gravel drive and through the grass, each step in her polished low heeled pumps and nylon clad legs a challenge.  

What is that vile smell, Edgecomb?  she demands halfway to the back door.

Salt fish, old girl, he tells her cheerfully, Nothing like it on a grand summer afternoon!

Aunt Helen shivers with distaste and my grandmother, several steps behind, can only shake her head.

Only woman I know still wears seamed stockings, she mutters dismally, How did I get myself into this?

Lunch is a stilted and uncomfortable affair.  In hushed tones and only when my grandmother and mother leave the table,  Helen finds the chowder too salty, the bread overdone, the butter too soft.  

Apple or blueberry?  my mother inquires in a saccharine sweet semi-growl.

How agreeable it must be not to have to worry about one's figure, my aunt comments, shaking her head when passed a slice of blueberry pie smothered in real whip cream.  My mother's hand pauses, the dessert plate trembles and tips ever so slightly toward Helen's lap until Uncle Eddie smoothly slips a hand beneath it.

I'll take one of each, Jan, he says heartily and winks - my mother surrenders the dessert with obvious reluctance - and Helen obliviously continues to prattle on about the menace of sugar and improper nutrition while my grandmother does her best to hide a slightly sly smile.  

More coffee, Helen, dear? she asks so sweetly it almost makes my teeth hurt.

Oh, I think not, Alice, Aunt Helen says airily, I've had quite enough. 

You have no idea, I think to myself.

It is then that Nana quite calmly pulls out a pack of Kent 100's from her apron pocket and offers one to each of my brothers.  A few seconds of stunned silence ensue then the boys regroup, exchange glances, and put on their misunderstood, wrongly accused faces, each trying - not very convincingly- to appear bewildered. My grandmother smiles but there's no humor in it.  

Oh, but I insist, she says firmly when they shake their heads in unison and try to back away.  They look desperately to my mother but there's no help there - she just shrugs indifferently - meanwhile, Nana takes a second pack from her pocket and places one each in front of each brother along with a book of matches.  Light up, she says encouragingly, We all know you know how.

The boys scuffle and look away but by then Uncle Eddie is standing behind them, hands gripping the backs of their chairs and holding them in place.  Aunt Helen is staring open mouthed and quite prepared to faint, I suspect but Nana ignores her and deliberately lights two cigarettes and hands them across the table.  Finally grasping that there's no escape, my brothers take them with badly shaking hands and very pale faces - the older inhales and blows smoke with a defiant smirk, the younger hesitantly follows suit but without the bravado - and Nana nods with a kind of grim satisfaction.  When both cigarettes are smoked to the filter, she hands them each other.

Good, she says and now there is absolute malice in her tone and ice in her eyes, One down, nineteen to go. 
Smoke'em if you got'em, boys.  Let's see how grown up you really are.

She never gave an inch, not when their eyes began to water, not when they coughed, not when both were greenish and sick and begging.  My mother left the table, Aunt Helen and Uncle Eddie excused themselves to unpack and change clothes, I slipped away unnoticed, but Nana sat quietly until both cigarette packs were empty and my brothers were nearly comatose with nicotine.  Harsh as it was, the lesson was short lived, but for the remainder of that summer at least, no more Kent 100's went missing.  

Well, Alice, Aunt Helen remarked, I suppose you think they'll never smoke after that little debacle.

Don't be an idiot, Helen, Uncle Eddie said mildly, It was never about smoking.

Helen blinked in surprise and he patted her cashmere'd shoulder gently.  Then what? she asked in genuine bewilderment.

Uncle Eddie gave my grandmother a knowing grin.  It was about taking things that aren't yours, he said kindly, It was about stealing, wouldn't you say, Alice?

But Nana just smiled and reached for her knitting.

Spare Me Your Tears

Not for the first time, I read an online post from a "grief stricken" cat owner, only this time - perhaps because of the presence of a new kitten in the house, one who would surely have died without intervention - I found myself unable to shrug and move past it.  Of the 17 cats who I've shared my life with, only two died prematurely and neither from lack of care or love.  So if you choose to put your cat in harm's way and it's crushed under the wheels of an SUV, then please spare me your heartbreak.  What exactly did you think was likely to happen?

I have friends who have dogs as well as cats and most would never dream of violating the leash law and letting their dogs run free and at risk.  They are responsible owners for the most part - they keep up to date on vaccinations and veterinary care and provide safe, loving homes.  And yet a fair number see nothing whatever wrong with letting their cats roam at will - to be neighborhood nuisances, to be stolen, to go missing, to be mauled by dogs or other cats, to be trapped, to breed, to be struck and killed by a car on a busy city street. I can't reconcile their grief with their casual neglect or the easy replacements they seem to immediately take in. I won't accept their arguments that cats were meant to be outside or that to deny them the feel of the sun or their faces is cruel nor that they have some special immunity that dogs lack.  If you choose not to do all in your power to keep them safe, then please spare me your anguish when they're killed.  What exactly did you think was likely to happen?

These friends will, I have no doubt, come at me with tales of their 18 year old tabbies who have never wandered an inch off their property and wonderful, happy stories of cats who live in the country, far removed from the hazards of city life.  They will protest the idea of confinement as cruel and unusual and assure me that a cat's natural instinct is to prowl.  I'll hear about tough-minded, independent and street-wise cats who have lived long and well being free  to come and go at their leisure.  Their cats would never dream of killing someone's beloved songbirds or trespassing and destroying a flower garden.  Their cats would never seek shelter in a car engine or fall into a storm drain.  Their cats can take care of themselves - they know the limits of their yards and respect the boundaries - they'll never be snakebit or drink antifreeze or tangle with hostile wildlife or cruel children with rocks and worse.

Good for you, I'll tell them, I'm happy for you.  You and your cat have been lucky.  But it doesn't change the fact that an average outside cat's life expectancy is three years.  So if you choose to put your cat at risk, spare me your regret when something horrific - or worse, unknown - befalls them.  What exactly did you think was likely to happen?

Cats are not indestructible or disposable or self-sufficient.  They can't outrun traffic or predators and they don't sit around longing for the outside world.  Find them a window sill or a sun spot, build them an enclosure or get a dog.  If you love them, then keep them safe or spare me your tears.