Any Port in a Storm

Being, as I am, disinclined to look for or expect the best in people, I wasn't terribly surprised to learn that before her most recent divorce - even before the soon to be ex-husband was out of prison, as it turned out - our little nurse had found her latest new man.  In a matter of weeks all the signs were there - late getting in to work, early to leave, being distracted and sloppy, personal calls taking up her every free minute, generally not carrying her weight.  Like a broken washing machine, the cycle begins, ends, and repeats.

Apart from the fact that this one is twice her age and her children don't like him - a fact that has never given her the slightest pause in the past and doubtless will not now - I know nothing about him except that he's unemployed and will surely prove to be abusive, manipulative, lazy, unfaithful and worthless.  Some women are attracted to tall, dark and handsome.  Some to money.  Some to romantic illusions and some to any port in a storm.  If it's got a broken wing or a pulse then it meets all her requirements and everything else is relegated to second or third class.  Her need overwhelms her and past experience tells me in no uncertain terms that she'll lie, cheat, steal and overlook - if not neglect - her children to satisfy it.  Her work will be set aside without a second thought, her family overlooked and exploited.   Hard as I try to tell myself that this time could be different, the truth is that we've all been down this old road with her before, not once or twice but multiple times, and we all know it's a dead end.

I don't pretend to understand what drives people to invite bad decisions in and probably my own experience makes me less tolerant than I should be but I have an urge to shake her violently, to scream, curse and slap her to her senses.  I settle for telling her no when she asks me to cover for her and when she wants to know why, I tell her I'm not obligated to explain.  She's hurt by this and I immediately feel guilty but then I overhear her asking her sister for $70 in gas money.  

Who needs $70 for gas? her sister demands sharply and turns her down cold.  The atmosphere in the office chills noticeably.

Here we go again.  

Misery is a state of mind that we make for ourselves.  $70 in gas money won't get you out.

The Infamous Umbrella Attack & Other Summer Scandals

Taken in by the stranger's charm and charisma, seduced by his sweet talk and smooth promises, Mrs. McIntyre bought the umbrella display - thirty six bright and colorful umbershoots, as the stranger called them, near to guaranteed to fly off her shelves with the first rain.  She'd been doubtful at first, but he'd won her over with his practiced grin, undeniable air of sincerity and sheer persistence - she was not a woman prone to easily parting with her money but he'd been on the road for years and knew just exactly how much pressure to apply and where - she counted out the bills and laid them in his palm and he smiled, allowing his hand to touch the inside of her wrist for just a fraction of a second too long before he pocketed the money and slipped out the doors.  Her heart, weary and worn from shopkeeping, thirty years of marriage and too much time on her feet, skipped a quick beat.  She set the display by the door, between the spittoon and the rifle rack, where you'd practically trip over to get out the door and with a small sigh, returned to filling orders.  She liked the way it looked amid all the practical soft goods and stacks of canned goods - like a bouquet of flowers in the midst of a drab and dull place, a oasis in a desert landscape.  She even said so to Mr. McIntyre but he just looked at her as if she'd been nipping at the medicinal brandy and shook his head.

The umbrellas didn't sell at $2.99 nor at $2.49 nor at $1.99 and by late August it was clear that not even the $.99 with any purchase! wasn't going to produce any results.  The display was dusty and ragged by then and feeling foolish and taken advantage of, Mrs. McIntyre buried it on the second floor behind the cans of motor oil and the used bedsprings.  Eventually it found its way out the back door and was forgotten until almost all of three dozen umbrellas washed up in one of the coves by Miss Clara's - they were sodden and torn up, sticky with sea salt and strands of kelp - but for the island children playing pirates, they made ideal shields and swords.  A small army of us advanced upon Miss Clara's and frightened her painted pony so badly he bolted and crashed through the corral with a panicky whinny, running all the way to Sparrow's in blind terror.  Our pirate days ended in ignoble defeat - under strict supervision, we repaired the corral and then after a meticulous gathering of all the umbrellas, worked our fingers raw to strip and salvage the fabric, the metal rods, the plastic handles.  The Ladies Sewing Circle then turned the whole sorry collection into kites just in time for the Sunday School Picnic and on a glorious summer afternoon, we filled the skies with primary colors.  Even Mrs. McIntyre was pleased and in time we coaxed Miss Clara into forgiveness and the painted pony into trusting us again - which was far more than anyone could say for the silver tongued salesman who made his return later that same summer to a distinctly cool reception.  Mrs. McIntyre was stony faced and unmoved by his wares or promises, throwing him out on his ear and watching him tumble over his dignity down the wooden storefront steps.  He landed on his backside in a pile of pot holders and leather goods, red faced and spouting protests, just as Miss Hilda arrived.

Well done, Elizabeth, she remarked mildly and tapped her riding crop against her boot, I'll just send this bit of clutter on his way, shall I?

The salesman paled, scrambled to his feet and made a run for his car, leaving the pot holders and leather goods - A well deserved bonus! Miss Hilda declared - behind in a trail of dust.  The two women, both usually stern, proper, and with very little in common, rocked with laughter then walked arm in arm into the general store.  A new friendship, based on umbrellas and kites and an honest day's work had been formed.  It would last for years.

That same summer, when the news about the youngest Patterson girl being "in trouble" was all anyone was talking about - she stubbornly refused to name the father despite the wave of righteous indignation and parental threats - it was Mrs. McIntyre and Miss Hilda who took the fourteen year old in, saw her all the way through, stayed with her during the birth, arranged the adoption and cared for her afterward while the family  
fumed and denied her.  She was young and strong and recovered quickly although there would always be a faint aura of sadness about her and when Miss Hilda offered her a position as companion and housekeeper with room and board and her own room, she accepted at once, grateful for the shelter, the solitude, and the second chance.

This unlikely pair of women knew something some of us never learn - you don't have to be young and stupid to make a mistake.  And sometimes it takes more than an umbrella to weather a storm.

Every 3,000 Miles

Funny, how sometimes it takes a lifetime to understand the simplest things.

All that we see, hear, say or feel is color filtered through our own experience - we interpret and then act on what we perceive to be real - molding and shaping our reactions to fit our expectations.  We don't leave much room for the possibility of distortion or misunderstanding.  We hear and see things that aren't real, aren't meant to hurt, aren't said out of malice.  Sadly, we like to be very certain about it and are rarely if ever inclined to back down.  We anticipate people will be carelessly and passively cruel and we practically invite them to do us harm - until and unless we come to recognize that we're filtering. 

I wasn't thought much of as a child.  Much like the adult I became, I was naturally shy, had a stubborn streak, no special talents and liked being a loner.  I loved animals, thought people were impossible to please, and tended to have my nose buried in a book more often than not.  I spent a great deal of time trying to stay out of the way and invisible whenever possible - there was safety in being overlooked - and until I was old enough to fight back, I was happy not to be noticed.  I spoke if called on, made good but not spectacular grades, played sports when forced to, learned piano to please my daddy.  But I never outgrew my mother's voice, never managed to shake off her drunken tirades and resentments and softly insinuating criticisms.  There was always that voice in my head suggesting that I would never be good enough, smart enough, pretty enough or anything enough - I heard it long after she was dead and I was out of range, sometimes I hear it still - because even today I filter through it.  As angry as it makes me, it's very nearly a reflex to look for a hidden meaning behind a compliment or wonder why someone would do something nice for me.  I catch myself at this and even though it doesn't usually help much, I make it a point to deliver a withering scolding to my self esteem.  I don't generally listen but it's good practice.

The really hard part is remembering that other folks have their own filters, in different strengths and assorted colors, but still seeing my actions and hearing my words accordingly.   


Check your filters and replace them as needed.
Don't let dust obscure your vision.
Rotate your tires and change your oil as recommended.
Don't skip the 3,000 mile checkup.

We all run better with regular maintenance.
  

Hit & Run

In the early morning dark there is a sudden scrabble of paws and nails on the hardwood floor, a jingle of dog tags and the sound of flight - a blur of cat moves past me, just a whisker ahead of the black dog - and both come to a screeching halt at the double doors to the sunroom.  It's a minor altercation, over and done with before I'm forced to intervene, no doubt a passing hit and run on the part of the cat or an imagined slight on the part of the dog or both.  These disputes are fairly common - they flare up and die out, the cat escapes, the dog sulks, and all is forgotten.  

In her younger days, the black dog was faster and far more deadly.  Never a sweet natured animal, she favored a hair trigger temper and a highly suspicious nature and was more than willing to act on both.  Now, with a considerable amount of gray in her muzzle and far less spring in her back legs, she's been forced to slow down somewhat.  She hasn't mellowed (far too strong a word) but she has learned to pick her battles and conserve her energy, at least to a small degree and the cats, once terrorized by the slightest flick of an ear or the start of a growl, have become emboldened.  Being cats, they're discreet and approach her with caution rather than wild abandon but they do approach her and are not driven off by empty threats - they appraise and measure her mood, no longer as impressed with the curled lip and bared teeth - it's taken thirteen years but they've learned that she can be outrun and outmaneuvered.  As grateful as I am for this small respite, it also makes me sad to see her on the downside of her life.  I may not like her very much but I love her dearly - it's one of those odd ironies of life, I shouldn't wonder, to love the unlovable. 

Still, it's never a good idea to underestimate her.  She may not be able to jump up on the bed even with a running start and she may not be as proficient as cat catching as she once was - but she's still a handful, as jealous and frantic and loud as ever and with the proper provocation, just as willing to take your hand off at the wrist and be pleased to do it.  She's not been an easy dog to raise or live with or even love.  She's snappish and bad tempered, unpredictable and willful, obstinate, aggressive, hyperactive and untrusting.  She's also smart as a whip, fearless, as loyal as the day is long and uncommonly beautiful.


At least once in our lives, we should love the difficult and maybe even the unrequited.  

Lavender & Pearls

Under usual circumstances I would prefer root canal to having to shoot a wedding but my across the street neighbors have set up a child's birthday party on their front lawn - both sides of the street are so lined with cars that it's impassable, the screaming has been non stop for the last two hours, and the children are running around like mindless little chickens.  The black dog is three quarters out of her mind with the commotion and noise and I feel a little traitorous as I pack my camera bag and prepare to slip out the front door.  I agreed to do this over a year ago (a careless moment undoubtedly brought on by flattery, who imagined they would actually get married) but here it is - a sunny May afternoon with the temperature already in the 90's and a long and stressful evening ahead of me - it's a fine time to remember all the reasons I avoid working weddings.

The bride is a sweet young thing I used to work with and the groom a gifted young singer/songwriter, they've been together for years and I console myself with the notion that apart from her dress, there isn't likely to be much traditional about this wedding.  Seeing them together has always restored my faith in the idea of living on love - they're young, devoted to each other and only mildly starry eyed - a sweet couple whom I have every confidence will have a long and happy life together.  They both love kids, music, life and each other.

The wedding goes without a hitch - the weather is near perfect, the bride magnificent, the groom all smiles. There's champagne and singing, the families gather and celebrate, everything is lavender and pearls and soft light.  As there should be at all weddings, there's a little magic in the air.

It won't be that way forever - magic comes and goes - but sometimes you get a feeling it'll never be very far away.

The Old Flies & Honey Routine

Not IT.

Not the software.

Not the internet speed.

Just a simple matter of an anti virus program that took a slow system to a dead stop.  Our in house IT guy arrived, uninstalled it, and after a week and a half of rage and misery and useless input from useless people, the system returned to normal instantly.  Eight days of hearing hoof beats had produced no zebras, just a wayward old horse.

Following the doctor's instructions, I called the people who had installed the program and explained that they had nearly wrecked us, compromised the practice, inconvenienced countless patients, made it impossible to do our jobs with any degree of efficiency and severely damaged my own mental and emotional health.  A reputable tech support company would've known the risk of the Norton software, I continued, and if they didn't, they should have.  Lastly, I suggested that the doctor be given some consideration on the bill and that we be given an apology.  

They explained to me that effective immediately, they would no longer be offering us technical support as we refused to maintain a basic level of compliance.

In hindsight, I might not have been as diplomatic as I could've been.  I might even, as I admitted to the doctor, been a tiny bit hostile.  He once again suggested that I need to learn to hold my temper with stupidity and arrogance and practice a little tact - the old flies and honey thing, a skill I seem to have quite intentionally  discarded with age - I admit it's more effective if you want to catch flies, but then all you have is live flies and  no sense of satisfaction.  I prefer to swat, sweep them up, and walk away with (at least in my own mind) a certain sense of vindication.

Basic level of compliance, my ass.

Misfits, Morons & Buck Passers

The crisp, clean, cheerful little Medicare card arrived, reminding me I'm now officially a senior citizen and eligible for government health insurance at the bargain price of $1200 a year.  Exactly where this money is going to come from the government doesn't know or care - Not our department!  Social Security tells me with 
a self satisfied, civil servant smirk - and that's when I notice that they've misspelled my name.

I point out that it's their error and I think they should fix it and send me a new card.

They point out that they don't fix their errors and it's up to me to make the time to go to their office, fill out corrected paperwork, request a new card.

I tell them there's nothing wrong with the old paperwork that a course in literacy wouldn't cure, that it was their mistake and that they should fix it and send me a new card.

They tell me that's outside their area and not their policy.

I share my opinion that they are obstructionist, inept, mindless pencil pushers  who would screw up a one car funeral.

We're the government, they reply, Have a nice day.

I am drowning in a sea of misfits, morons and buck passers.

If I Had a Hammer

Technology and blame shifting will be the death of me, I'm sure of it.

After three hours of clicking the mouse and waiting 5,10, even 15 seconds for some kind of reaction from the screen, I'm incoherent with frustration.  I send my third email of the morning to our software rep, demanding to know what's going on.  She finally responds and tells me it's an IT issue.  When the IT guy calls, he assures me it's a problem with our internet speed.  I'm not the least bit surprised when our internet provider smugly tells me it's a software problem.  Technology has become a game of Round Robin and I'm beginning to think that none of the players know their asses from a hole in the ground.  When I share this sentiment with all three of them, things get frosty but they don't get better.  No one will take any responsibility, no one offers a solution, and things gradually grind to a halt.  If I had a hammer, I think to myself and trudge back to his office to give the doctor a no progress report. 

Finger pointing has become a national pastime.  The buck no longer stops anywhere, it just breezes by on its way to the next desk.

It takes 22 keystrokes to reschedule an appointment.  Not to be offensive, but short of a circle jerk, 22 strokes for anything is just plain ludicrous.

I've lost count of the number of times the screen suddenly freezes and then shuts down on any given day.  It needs no provocation.  

I'm asked to write a brief critique of the software application.  You don't have enough pages and I don't have enough time, I write back.

It'll save you time, they said.
It'll save you paper, they said.
It'll save you labor, they said.

Let me tell you about this bridge I have for sale.

Shallow Graves

Sitting in the padded armchair by the window with her ankles primly crossed and one elegantly ringed hand shading her eyes, my Aunt Helen made a minute adjustment to her sweater clip and sniffed delicately.

Really, Alice, she began stiffly, I hardly think.....

Exactly! Nana interrupted briskly, Precisely why no one's asked for your opinion, Helen, dear. More tea?

Thank you, no, Aunt Helen sighed, I certainly don't wish to intrude but....

Then don't!  Uncle Eddie announced from the doorway, Have some tea and shut up for once, old girl.

Poor Helen flinched all the way to her meticulously plucked and arched eyebrows, assuming an injured expression and dabbing helplessly at her eyes.  Predictably, this familiar and wearying routine tried my grandmother's patience and she glared at her sister-in-law without the first glimmer of sympathy, unwilling to spread the slightest bit of oil on the troubled waters.  The sad truth was that no one could abide Aunt Helen with her headmistress manners and inflated sense of self and that we tolerated her only in deference to Uncle Eddie.  My grandmother's brother, a chubby and good natured little man with a hearty laugh, was often the first to mock his self-elevated wife for her high toned speech and tea party mannerisms - he saw something in her the rest of us missed and rarely took offense at her patronizing ways - he seemed to be, in his humble and down to earth way, grateful that she'd agreed to marry him despite his background which she liked to remind him, bordered on the unfortunate.  At best, the family agreed, it was an odd pairing - Uncle Eddie so content and light hearted, Aunt Helen so upwardly mobile and socially motivated.

The current squabble was over me and it didn't seem to be going well - I'd refused to wear the pink hair ribbons Helen had produced for the morning's trip to the mainland and seriously offended her by calling the matching dress something only a sissy would wear.  Undeterred, she'd produced white ankle socks with pink flowers and a pair of glossy black Maryjanes and told me if I wouldn't wear them, then I couldn't go.  I hadn't intended to throw the shoes at her, I assured Nana, it'd just happened.  My grandmother sighed mightily, told me I was a great trial to her, then dug out my usual overalls and sneakers and told me to get dressed while she went to assuage her sister-in-law's hurt feelings.  Aunt Helen, however, was in no mood to be placated - it was hard to tell whether the flying Maryjanes or my stubbornness had wounded her pride more and Nana's patience, always thin when dealing with what she considered Helen's snooty interference, had run out.

Not to be indelicate, Alice, dear, I heard Helen say, But I simply will not be seen in the company of a child who resembles and behaves like a street urchin.

As a street urchin, my grandmother corrected her icily, and if that's the case, then you will stay here.  

Alice, I simply meant.....Helen began but Nana would have none of it.

Helen Morrell, you are an insufferable, self righteous, condescending and tight assed witch and I'll thank you to remember that you're a guest in this house and stop this damnable interfering!  Otherwise you can leave this very minute!

ALICE!  poor Aunt Helen had paled and one anxious hand had flown to clutch at her perfect pearls.

And that's the end of it, Helen, Nana finished, One more word and as God is my witness, I'll slap your dried up, Beacon Hill affected, hifalutin' carcass all the way out the door!

And then, except for Aunt Helen's sobs and my grandmother's fading footsteps, there was a deadly silence.  I sat frozen, too scared and confused to move, sure that somehow it was my fault and that there would be a high price to pay.   I started to cry and my Uncle Eddie noticed me - he glanced at his loudly weeping wife, back at me, back at her.  And then he took my hand and led me out the back door and around to the old whitewashed side porch, sat me down, and produced a large, white, monogrammed handkerchief.  It smelled like pipe tobacco and Old Spice.  I expected a "You'll understand when you're older" lecture and to be sent to my room - instead, he wiped my tears, put one arm around my shoulders, and began to talk to me - it was a long, rambling speech about two women under one roof and jealousy and grownups behaving badly and something he called control.  I didn't understand most of it but I knew he was being kind, just as I suspected he was being disloyal to Aunt Helen and probably not winning any points with my grandmother.  But he didn't seem to mind.

It's all just noise, he told me gently, and it can't hurt you.

We made the trip to the mainland - without Helen, her name was never even mentioned - had a grand, grown up lunch at The Pines, returned just in time to make the last ferry.  And as sometimes happens in families who don't know how to love each other, the ugly scene on the sunporch passed into the realm of forgive and forget.   

At least so we all pretended.  Because memories are all too often buried in shallow graves.

Once We Were Children

Once we were children.

We were protected and cherished, celebrated and loved.  We were taught to trust, listen, tell the truth and respect others.  We were safe and sheltered, provided and cared for.  Or, we were in the way, a bad decision and a burden, resented and even abused. If you come from the former, it can be hard to comprehend the latter but.... whatever we learned, we carried with us into adulthood and kept with us at all times, not knowing how to tell it or let it go, not understanding that the fault wasn't our's.

My friend, Charli, recently wrote very publicly about the sexual abuse she suffered as a child.  It was painful to read and must've been excruciating to write but shame and secrets will only take you so far before you expose it or die trying.  Toxic families forfeit the right to be protected or loved the very moment they side with the abuser, the very moment they take a child's innocence and shatter his or her soul.  If you enable harm to come to your child, you are as guilty as those who inflict it.

The therapists and counselors and self help books will talk to you about forgiveness and healing and moving on, about finding your inner child and making peace with your demons.  They'll warn about how unhealthy hate is, how anger only hurts you, they'll imprint the Serenity Prayer on your forehead and gently, gently remind you that you can control no one but your own self.  All wise and hard won advice, useful if you have a forgiving nature but worthless put against the need to strike back and be vindicated.

Once we were children, kept quiet and kept in line with secrets and shame, alone and afraid.  There were no locks strong enough to keep the predators out and those that should've provided a safe harbor sided against us.  Some still do.  Some always will.  They count on our vulnerability and lack of resistance and most of all, they count on our silence, knowing we've been tricked into thinking that it's our fault.  They're confident and they're safe, certain that we won't tell and risk being labeled or judged or denied or disbelieved.  Violate and betray a child and you create a victim but here's the thing - victims grow up, sometimes as risk takers with a strong sense of self and a need to heal.  We don't just tell, we tell publicly.  We find allies and like souls, we write songs with lyrics that are hard to hear, we find roads to recovery and strength.  We confront, we tell the truth, we don't hide, we don't stay sick and we leave the toxicity of our families behind.

So here, take my hand.  We are children no more.  And in the end, we will win.

Abusers control, manipulate and make you feel like you're the one with the problem.
Stand up, speak out, and take back your life.
You are not to blame ~ Shatter the Silence of Sexual Violence














  






 











 

Rock Bottom

My friend, Kirk, safely in the bosom of his family - not left unsupervised for a single second, fed three meals and two AA meetings a day - finds himself growing stronger and more grateful every day.  The desert air is good for him, he writes, he is happier and more confident than ever before, has finally changed his life and is working on changing his outlook and finding some peace.  He posts a blurry picture of his 30 day sobriety chip and it makes me smile.  There's no place quite like rock bottom to build a foundation, I think to myself - after all his losses, a heart attack and an episode of alcohol poisoning that nearly took his life, after losing his friends, his music and the woman he adored - there came a moment when he finally realized it was do or die and he chose, at long last, to do.  It's been a long and terrifying road for him and I pray daily that he'll be one of the lucky ones to grow old, sober, and content.

I often suspect that I have more than the average number of friends in recovery - a blessing - and a good way to stay in a grateful frame of mind.  The image of my second husband leaving the courtroom on the day our divorce was made final is still with me.  He was so painfully thin and gaunt looking that I barely recognized him  and I felt a tremendous sense of loss as we passed each other in the corridor.  We made the briefest eye contact and then he was gone, a stranger hurrying on his way to the next stop.  I didn't know it at the time but there was a third wife in the waiting although the marriage would not survive the domestic violence to follow and after one or two incarcerations, there was a third divorce before he finally packed his things and moved back to the hills of Kentucky, to of all people, his first wife.  It might well have broken my heart but for the still seething hatred I hadn't been able to relinquish - despite years of Alanon and everything I knew about addiction, I still blamed the man and not the disease - it was, I suppose, my own rock bottom. 

When you can literally see the pain - a missing limb or a slashed artery - it's easy not to blame the victim.  But when the symptoms are endless lies, vicious verbal attacks and broken promises, manipulation and violence...
well, we're easily distracted and defensive.  We can't always see through the veil of alcohol and drugs to the true self loathing and the sickness.  We brew our hate and rage slowly and are too often overcome by our own misery and defeat, accusing, resenting, blaming and suffering.  It's a hopeless, agonizing painful existence and it's not until we hit a solid rock bottom that we see the difference between surrendering and giving up.

Rock bottom is where you decide to fight the odds.  We all need to get there at least once.

A Truck Full of Angels

In retrospect, I should've seen it coming.  All except for the angels part, of course.

The morning - frantic by nine and creeping toward chaos by ten thanks to a late running and ill tempered doctor, a waiting room full of anxious patients, and the absence of two nurses - exploded into a perfect storm just after eleven when the credit card machine crashed mid swipe.  Apparently I was disagreeable with the tech support staff - when they implied I should've called earlier, I growled at them that nothing had been wrong earlier - when they offered to send a new terminal, I snarled that the current one had been new in November, that it was barely March, and that in my day, things were actually built to last - and when they transferred me to a different department and left me on hold for a full ten minutes before walking me through an agonizing, twenty-five minute, key by key repair process, I was furious and made no attempt to hide it.

An abacus would be more efficient!  I snapped when we were finally done and when the young woman on the other end of the line asked A what? I suggested, not kindly, that she look it up and slammed the receiver down in disgust.  Lunchtime came and I fled.  And it might've ended there.  I might easily have made the drive home, spent fifteen or twenty minutes with the dogs and returned with my perspective and good humor restored.  It might've been just an ordinary workday.  All except for the angels part, of course.

At the intersection, I pulled up one lane over and a car length behind a pickup truck full of angels - they were made of poster board, like Christmas decorations, with white mesh wings and gold halos.  Some held glittery trumpets and all were stacked like cordwood in the truck bed.  I hadn't had time to finish wondering where a truck full of Christmas angels might be headed on a windy March day when an old, VW van, badly in need of a paint job and some serious body work, came from out of nowhere and slammed into the rear of the waiting pickup - there was a grinding crunch of metal on metal and suddenly there were angels everywhere - they flew upwards and backwards and sideways, some landed back in the truck bed while others bounced off hoods of cars.  They floated to the sidewalks and the median, the bottom layer spilled pitifully out into the street between the two vehicles, one snagged itself on a car antenna and hung there in midair.  The two drivers, both trying hard to be angry, no easy task when it's raining angels, exchanged information and took names of witnesses while others left their vehicles and began collecting the poster board figures.  Someone on a cell phone called the police and as the damage to the van and pick up had been slight, traffic soon resumed.  As for the angels, some were dirty and dented, a few would need wing work and the one who had been snagged on the antenna had lost her halo but there were no fatalities.  I still had no idea where they were headed or why but it didn't seem important - I was sure there must be a deeper meaning to this odd celestial encounter, a message of some kind.  I pondered this as I drove the rest of the way home but all I could think of was that it's best not to travel with unsecured angels in the back of a pickup truck. 

Later I decided it might just be a reminder to me to lighten up, chill out, and breathe - and that angels are everywhere.