Among Friends

When faced with being the center of attention, I have two rules - the first is to run.  The second is to run faster.  Giving in gracefully is not something I do well and so it was that I found myself on the way to a gathering of musicians giving their time and money to support me and say a very public thank you for my photography.  Since it was organized in my honor, I couldn't very well skip it - and I needed the money - but I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that there would be nowhere to hide except behind my camera lens. I hesitated at the doorway, suddenly and alarmingly aware that it wasn't much of a shield and wishing urgently for a partner to run interference.  I was still working up my nerve when the door was thrown open, someone called my name, and deserving or not - ready or not - I was suddenly among friends.  It was too late to run. I muttered a small prayer of thanks for my old Nikon, manufactured a hasty smile and forced my feet to move.

I'm never sure how many people understand just how exactly shy I am, but my friend Charli is one of them.  Despite the fact that these people had come together to celebrate my work, she was careful that attention was only secondarily focused on me - she made sure that the music got the spotlight and when I had no choice but to talk to someone, it was one on one, the only thing I do passably well.  My camera and I were left free to listen and photograph, to be as invisible as possible and it made the afternoon if not joyful, at least some place I was glad and grateful to be.

I can't remember a time when I wasn't hide-in-a-corner bashful, not even as a child.  Crowds suffocate me, parties are to be avoided at all costs, small talk paralyzes me.  Were it not for my love of music and photography, I can easily imagine never leaving my little house except to go to and from work - some of my best nights are spent in the company of cats and dogs, not people - and yet I covet my extrovert friends and their easy, careless chatter.  They are so comfortable, so confident, so un-selfconscious and at home -I can't help but wonder where they learned.

It ought to be less of a struggle among friends, I think to myself as the afternoon wears on and all the familiar and smiling faces come and go.  Hugs and kisses and warm wishes are plentiful and I sense that I will very pleased with my day's work of photographs.   It's always a good thing to survive people being nice to you.

Premonition Gate

We came across it by accident, Ruthie and I, a neglected and overgrown foot path nearly completely concealed in the deepening afternoon shadows on the road to Miss Clara's.  It was thick with brambles and thorny brush, nearly impassable in places what with fallen and twisted branches laying at awkward angles but we were curious and agile children and the day was still young - so we hiked and climbed and hacked our way through, imagining our pocket knives as machetes and the terrain as a jungle trail.  Uncle Bernie had recently read us a Tarzan story about white hunters and the elephant's graveyard and our imaginations were in high gear - we turned the nearby ocean into the Amazon and the wildlife into exotic creatures.  Well fed and unusually tame, we decided, just to be safe.

About a half mile in as we worked our way through the tall grass, we discovered the remains of a wooden fence.  It seemed out of place so far into the woods, out of place and weirdly out of time, and after a bit we decided to change course and follow it.  We walked for another hour or so but there were no other signs of habitation, no remnants of foundations, no leftover stone chimneys - the woods had reclaimed the land, digested it, and then naturally hidden the evidence.  But fences, we knew, were built to either keep things in or keep things out.  Someone had labored long and well here, measured distances, dug post holes, nailed up boards.  Something had been protected and maintained in these woods but we found no signs of what it might've been until much later in the afternoon when the fence finally came to a sudden end in a very small clearing.   By then, it was coming on sunset, the factory whistle was blowing in the distance and we knew it was time to go so we backtracked all the way to the path and then followed the cove road to the coast and the coast to Miss Clara's.  We agreed on two things - to return the next day and not to mention our exploration to the grownups.  Miss Clara sent us both home astride the painted pony.

A fogbank rolled in that night and it was several days before we got back to the woods and this time we took the dogs.  It was quiet that day and we found the path easily, followed it to the fence and finally to the clearing.  Both dogs seemed slightly anxious, we thought, they stayed close to us despite the temptations of the woods, sometimes whining but hardly ever barking, content to follow but not lead.  When we reached the clearing, we almost had to coax them through - their hesitation made us both nervous and we wondered if they sensed something we couldn't see or hear.  

We reached a second clearing just after lunch.  Here there were more old fence parts and scattered boards and rusted nails.  And here the dogs would not cross nor come when they were called.  They sat on the near side, restless and unhappy when we left them behind, barking in protest and pacing.  Ruthie and I had both been raised to respect and trust an animal's instinct and while there was no danger that we could imagine, both dogs were clearly sensing something out of the ordinary and possibly even menacing.  We turned back and that was when Ruthie stepped on the rusty nail - she yelped in surprise and pain and dropped to her knees in a patch of dry, discolored grass - the nail had pierced her sneaker and embedded itself just under her toes.  The dogs suddenly began to howl, an eerie and unexpected sound that gave both of us what Nana would've called the willies.  When we pulled out the nail, it was attached to a piece of wire which in turn was attached to a thin piece of metal, much like a license plate but covered with rust and dried mud and jagged at the edges.  Ruthie carefully turned it over in her hands and we both realized that it was a sign - not like the village signs, usually rough hewn and wooden and hand lettered.  No, this was metal with clearly stenciled black lettering. 
We shook off the dirt, scraped off the mud and sawed through the dried, splintery twines of attached grass.
Premonition Gate, we read outloud.  The dogs gave another spine chilling howl and Ruthie made a disgusted, choking sound and flung the nasty thing back into the weeds.  Without another word, injured foot and all, we were up and running as if the devil himself was on our heels.  

Miss Clara disinfected and bandaged Ruthie's wound, served us warm gingersnaps and cold milk, gave each of the dogs a bone, and mercifully asked no questions until she'd left us alone long enough for us to come up with a story.  Presently she slipped into her old rocking chair with a ball of yarn and her ancient tomcat in her lap.

Wolf, Ruthie said.

Come out of nowhere, I added. 


Wolf, she repeated doubtfully, studying us in the fading light with one eyebrow raised slightly, Come out of nowhere.  

Yes'm, we said together but not daring to meet her eyes.

Ayuh, she shrugged her thin shoulders and looked out over the ocean and the pastel sky, I reckon it could've happened just that way.  Or....she paused, Couple of curious girls could've come across some old, forgotten graveyard that nobody talks about.  Mebbe from a shipwreck nobody wants to recollect, a ship that might've been carryin' human cargo and just happened to dock at the wrong port.  Could be that somebody set fire to that ship 'fore she could leave again and that there were bodies to be set free and bodies to be buried.  Could be those bodies are still there but if that's so......well, I 'spect it be best to leave'em lie.  No need to raise old ghosts.  Got me a premonition about that, don't you know.

Ruthie and I sat, still and silent, too spellbound to answer while Miss Clara rocked serenely on.

Don't see many wolves this side of the island, she remarked after a time, I'd be a mite more careful of them woods if I was you.  Got me a premonition about that too, and here she paused and gave us a direct look, full of meaning and expectation, or maybe it's a prediction, sometimes I can't recollect the difference.  But I don't reckon we'll be seeing many more of them.  Wolves, I mean.

Curious children, generally speaking, are smart children and as Miss Clara knew well, smart children know when to concede.  The thing was that island story tellers were so skillful at blending fact and fiction, so polished at weaving a tall tale convincingly, that it was often not possible to distinguish truth from yarn.  And in the spirit of telling these stories and keeping the legends alive, if one lied then another would swear to it.
Might there have been a slave ship?  Could she have made port with her frightful cargo and never left?  Was there an abandoned graveyard called Premonition Gate deep in the woods?   It wasn't likely, Ruthie and I knew, but we couldn't discount it entirely - even as children, we'd lived long enough with the island's peculiar magic to know that our world was sometimes strange and wonderful and a little mystic.  The painted pony took us home a second time and if anyone questioned our encounter with a wolf in the woods, they were discreet enough not to say.


  

Mud Dreams

The little dachshund, moving so fast he's not much more than a dappled blur, leaps off the back deck and races for the back fence, short little legs pumping like pistons and ears flying.  It's pretty impressive until he reaches the mudflats - then I watch as he slowly, sorrowfully sinks, all the way to his belly in the soft, reddish clay and gets stuck in the sucking mud's relentless, gravitational pull.  The look he gives me is comical, bewildered, a little indignant and a lot frustrated.

I'm coming, I call to him and make my way across what used to be solid ground - not landscaped or manicured or even regularly mowed but at least solid - and pull him from the quicksand-like ooze.  He doesn't struggle as I carry him to a different part of the yard and set him down, doesn't protest when I take his face in both hands and patiently re-explain about the mud.  Stay on this side of it, I tell him, Stay on the hard side.  But of course as soon as I release him, he bolts back, circles around to the edge of the fence and promptly sinks all over again.  This time he gives one of his patented hound howls, a plaintive and forlorn sound that brings an immediate choral response from the other side of the fence and suddenly the entire neighborhood is in an

uproar.  I remember once reading that a single dog barking sets off a chain reaction that eventually goes 'round the whole world - it seemed unlikely but I didn't have a dachshund at the time and now I realize that pretty much anything is possible.  I trek to the fence, pull him free again, and carry him back to the deck where the other two dogs wait impatiently, each wearing that familiar, long suffering expression that smart dogs reserve for not-so-smart ones.

Mind your manners, I tell them tartly, I don't see the Rhodes Scholarship people coming for either of you.

Two sinkfuls of warm water and a quarter cup of oatmeal shampoo later, I wring him out and wrap him up, towel dry him and begin to brush out his coat.  He likes this part even less than the suds but he's a fine, little dog and he tolerates it with a dignified and only slightly wiggle-worm air of resignation.  The process takes some time but as the one and only attempt at blow drying ended in utter panic and a most severely and lengthily held grudge, I know we must do this by hand or not at all.  Finally finished, I re-attach his collar and tags, give him a well deserved biscuit and set him free - he leaps away, all fluff and soft fur, and instantly chases the first cat he sees into the next room.  Predictably, the pursuit reverses itself only seconds later and
he comes running back at full speed with the cat nipping at his heels.

He may not be the sharpest tool in the shed and I've known babies to be conceived and born in less time then it took to housebreak him, but I've never known a sweeter natured or more loving animal.  He's a curious mix of gentleness, timidity, playfulness and affection - a warm bundle of love with sweet eyes and an endearing face who will run at the first sign of drama or confrontation and who is totally undone by a raised voice.  He curls up beside me, falling into an untroubled sleep with his head resting on my hip and I rest my hand on his side, feeling his even, steady breathing and wondering about his dreams.

Mystery in a Cashmere Shawl

She was, everyone agreed, nothing less than stunning and wickedly out of place.

Long red hair coiled at the base of her neck, cameo earrings on thin gold wires hung from her ears and a rust colored cashmere shawl carelessly covered one shoulder.  She was standing alone, leaning over the ferry railing with the sun side lighting her.  When one of the crew approached her for the fare, she pulled a $5 bill from a sequined purse and waved away the change with a shy smile - the ferryman stood awkwardly, not sure what to do next with this unexpected good fortune - and the woman in the shawl laughed, a sweet, light sound not at all unkind, and then firmly folded his hand over the dollar bills and turned back to the railing.

I declare, Nana remarked as she pulled a Kent 100 from its pack and struck a match, That's not something you see everyday.

I wonder who she is, my mother said aloud, lowering her sun glasses for a better look, Surely can't be local.

I expect we'll know by the time we get home, my grandmother said mildly, And don't stare, Jeanette, it's not polite.

She looks like a movie star, I said hopefully.

My mother shrugged diffidently and reached for her Parliaments.

I watched her as we made the crossing.  She was undeterred by the salt spray or the wind that tried so hard to
un-tether her hair.  She just stood, holding the railing and watching the water, glancing occasionally at the opposite shore with a faraway look that I recognized.  She smiled when we passed the lighthouse at Boar's Head and although I didn't know who she was, I was sure my mother and grandmother were wrong - she was local, I was certain - and she was coming home.  It was all over her face.

We docked at Tiverton and and Cap emerged from the wheelhouse to offer her his arm and lead her up the slip.  They made an odd pair, Cap in his patched work pants and boots, flannel shirt rolled to the elbows over his longjohns and the pretty young woman with her hair and shawl dancing in the breeze.

Well, I never!  my mother exclaimed at this unprecedented turn of events and Nana looked on wide eyed with surprise.  

If he bows to her, I swear I'll run the old the old coot down, my grandmother said gruffly as she turned the key in the ignition and the Lincoln came to life with a rumble of engine and exhaust.   The ferryman motioned us forward and up we went, slow and steady, Nana wincing slightly when the back end grated and bounced on the chain link covered slip as it always did.   By the time we reached the top, there was no sign of Cap or the pretty young passenger and we drove slowly off the wharf and onto the dirt road, picking up speed and leaving a cloud of dust as we headed for home.

Peter's Light

At precisely eight o'clock each summer evening, the beacon in the lighthouse on Peter's Island turned red.  It signaled bedtime and my grandmother rounded us up and sent us up the steep, narrow stairs to our rooms, one step closer to September and leaving.

It was a small light, barely enough to send a ripple out over the calm water of the passage but it shone bright and steady all the way to morning.  Sometimes when I couldn't sleep, I would crawl out of my bed and push aside the curtains just to make certain I could still see it.  It seemed to tell me that all was right with the world, that I would sleep and dream peacefully and safely, that there would be another perfect day.  I dreaded seeing the light come on, never wanted to let go of a single hour spent on the island especially with the risk of waking to the steady, sheep-like bleating of the foghorn and a day blanketed with dense, dripping fog.  All you could see was gray, like a cocoon, and Nana would keep us in.  It might last for a day or a week and I could feel this precious time slipping away second by second.  Then one morning it would magically clear - I could smell the sunshine and the grass and the salt fish and would practically trip over myself to get outside and see the ocean and Westport and The Old Road again.  The lighthouse on Peter's Island stood just as I remembered it, bright and clear in the morning sun, reassuring and promising and as unchanged as a picture postcard.

Ruthie and I went round The Old Road, up through the pastures of wild flowers and down again towards the dance hall and the square.  We picked and ate berries on the way, played tag with the dogs and waded through the tide as it came in, collected a day's worth of shells and watched for empty pop bottles to redeem.  We didn't speak it out loud, but we were careful to avoid her her daddy's store and risk being pulled in to the dark backroom with its sacks of grain and flour and sugar - it was his idea of a perfect play area, dim and musty, hard to breathe and right under his thumb - but we wanted to play in the light and the blue green water of Peter's Island.  

I suppose I've romanticized those childhood summers somewhat, gilded the memories to a degree and made the people more than they were.  They were days when anything was possible, when second chances were limitless and kindness was defined by community.  The lighthouse on Peter's Island still stands and its beacon still sends children to bed and brings the rest of us safely home.

From the Pit

News that my friend Kirk has landed in charity hospital with a heart attack reaches me late Friday afternoon.  My emotions are as jumbled as a junk drawer - I'm torn between relief that he's in a safe place where he'll get the care he needs, hope that those he's hurt so badly will forgive and show support, optimism that this might be a wake up call, and of course sadness that it had to happen at all.  The thing that's missing is surprise.  He's been deeply troubled and in a self destructive downward spiral for several months, severely depressed and angry, viciously and hurtfully lashing out at anyone who suggests he stop blaming others for his mostly self inflicted misfortunes.  Fate, it would seem, has struck back.  Karma has stopped him in his tracks and while there is certainly no joy in this, I find myself hoping that some self awareness and good might come from it.

Sadly, the absolute bottom of the barrel is not the same for addicts.  For most of us, a heart attack would get our attention, force us to take a second look at our lives and consider making some changes.  For most of us, losing everything that mattered would provoke, at the very least, an inward - if passing - glance.  But for addicts, there is always the comfortable pit of denial to fall back into.  Someone or something else is always to blame for even the most horrifying and near death circumstances.  Kirk will recover from this brutal assault on his heart and be released but will he change course?  Or simply add this to the long list of crimes against him? I don't know but based on experience and his prior behavior, I'm not optimistic.   

Here's the thing:  Just not drinking isn't the same thing as getting well.  And a lie of omission is still a lie even if you only tell it to yourself. 

An addict will use any means to maintain his safety net - tears, promises, threats of self harm, despair, loss of temper followed by the most sincere and heartfelt apologies.  He'll play on guilt and emotions to distract you, use love to sidestep any issue, try to scare, intimidate and manipulate you.   Challenge him and he'll get furious, accuse you of persecution and abandonment and lack of trust.  Push him and he'll make it your fault.
Tragically, a heart attack makes for some pretty strong ammunition.

Still, there's life and where there's life, there's hope, I tell myself.  

I'm not in hell, he wrote in our last conversation, But I can see it from my window.

Then change windows, I wrote back, Find another view.

Easy for you to say, he snapped back.

No. No, it isn't.

Rain Songs

We started with forty patients on the books and by the end of the day had seen just over twenty - the balance being frightened into staying home because of the rain.  Disagreeable weather has that effect on our elderly patients - they're dependent upon family members or government run vans for transportation, both tend to be reliably unreliable in the best of times and a good rain sends them all into hiding.  With time on our hands in between patients, we were restless and the doctor took on his bear persona - muttering and grumbling under his breath, hovering over us, interrupting and interfering and generally getting in the way.  The call from one patient's granddaughter broke the tension..... Can I bring her next week, Ms B?  She be so slow walkin' I's a feared she might drown.

Absolutely, I said, trying hard to be quick and not break out laughing, Next week will be fine.

The rain continued all the rest of the day, into the night and the next morning.  Gutters overflowed, streets flooded and the level of water in the drainage ditches reached alarming levels.  And still it came.  Driving home in the near dark every innocent puddle produced a blinding, torrential spray - I thought of Dylan singing If it keeps on rainin', the levee's gonna break.  And still it came, steady, strong, unrelenting and unstoppable.
The thought of spring flowers didn't bring much comfort and once home, the battle with the dogs made me short tempered and irritable - standing in water up to my ankles with a broken umbrella and waiting for them to pee brewed resentment on both sides.

She be so slow walkin', I's a feared she might drown, I remembered and smiled in spite of it all as an image of Gene Kelly from Singin' in the Rain came into my mind, a legendary song and dance man with his collar turned up and his umbrella at his side, singing and dancing his way from one side of the street to the other, landing victoriously in every available patch of water.  And smiling.  I vaguely remembered reading somewhere that it had taken two to three days to shoot that particular bit of film, that he'd been cold, sick with fever, drenched to the skin, likely exhausted.  And that his wool suit had shrunk during the process.  But still he was smiling.

The dogs return to the deck - the little dachshund wet and muddy all the way to his belly - and they scramble for the door and the warmth and dryness of the kitchen.  I follow, dry them off and reward each with a biscuit and a "Good Dog!".  It seems wiser not to remind them that there will have to be one more outing before bed.