Shots Fired: A Tale of the Tax Man

Feeling like a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, I read the tax assessment from the Department of Revenue once, twice, three times.  They weren't saying my 2009 tax return had been faulty or ill prepared, I finally realized, they were accusing me of tax evasion.  For a brief moment, my world went into soft focus and I thought I might swoon (nobody uses that word anymore and it's something of a pity) right onto the kitchen floor.  Reading it for the fourth time I was able to discern the actual figures - I'd reported an income of $23,000 and they were charging me with having earned $50,000.

In my world, a $50,000 income year would've made headlines.  I'd have treasured it, remembered it, treated it gently, dreamed about it.  

DO NOT IGNORE THIS NOTICE! it read at the bottom.

With the fifth reading, I was overcome by a tsunami of righteous indignation and anger.  How dare some backwoods, redneck, illiterate state sponsored official make such a false accusation against me?  Who the hell did they think they were?   In a desperate and not well thought out fury, I dialed the quaintly called "help" number on the form and navigated my way through twenty minutes of voice mail, my rage increasing with each prompt.  By the time I reached an actual person, I was feeling murderous and when I was told they were under no legal obligation to explain their accusation or provide the documentation to justify it - that in fact I should just take their word and pay the fine, a mere $1600 - I exploded, casting aspersions on their parentage and suggesting a number of impossible anatomical procedures they might try.  It didn't win me any friends and tragically, I suspected they'd heard it all before but tax evasion being no small thing, I couldn't bring myself to regret it.

My next stop was the local and well known tax preparation office, where I learned that the offensive and totally inaccurate assessment notice was only one of 2,000 that had been mailed that very week.  They recommended that I locate a copy of my tax return in order to appeal (I could contact the feds in the event that I required a duplicate because the state didn't provide such a service) and they assured me they would be more than happy to help.  I pointed out that all a copy of my return would show was that I'd reported an income of $23,000, a fact that the state and the feds already knew - witness the assessment notice - and would do nothing toward disproving their $50,000 claim.  

If they're not required to prove that I made $50,00, then how do I prove I didn't?  I asked, reasonably enough so I thought, but all this got me was a slightly bewildered look and a shrug.  Not much help here, I realized and began to consider the possibility that they were all in it together.  It was time to move on.

Voice mail at the local IRS number informed me that "telephone support and assistance are not offered at this office" and the recorded message advised me that for taxpayer assistance I could call another number in Baton Rouge.

The Baton Rouge office - perhaps deluged by the number of calls the state's assessment notices had generated or perhaps not wanting to offend taxpayers with another half hour of voice mail instructions - opted for the easy way out and simply chose not to answer.

The following night, just as I was trying to remember who had said I have not yet begun to fight! (I was pretty sure it'd been John Paul Jones from the bridge of a shattered and sinking ship but sometimes I confuse him with Patrick Henry's Give me liberty or give me death!), I learned of the Department of Revenue's apology email:

LDR Issues Response to Assessment Errors

Thursday, July 18, 2013   (0 Comments) 

LDR Issues Response to Assessment Errors

The Louisiana Department of Revenue (LDR) issued the following official response relative to an assessment error on 2009 returns that was initially covered in our Tax Alert of July 15, 2013.

"The Louisiana Department of Revenue (LDR) is working to resolve issues involving 2009 tax notices that were sent to some Louisiana taxpayers. Approximately 2,000 incorrect assessments were made regarding Schedule H and Schedule E data. No action will be taken on any account that is deemed to be in error. All affected taxpayers will receive a written notice clearing their account once a determination of error is made or a liability is reversed.

Any member of the tax practitioner community may provide LDR with all affected account numbers for a reassessment regarding the issues aforementioned.

Please direct all inquiries to David.Stokes@la.gov. We apologize for any inconvenience and regret the error.”

So they "regret the error" and admit the notices were "incorrect" but they stand by them anyway and I'm required to challenge their findings in order to have a "reverse of liability".  In other words, as my mother used to tell me and my brother, You lie and he swears to it.   Or, maybe more precisely,  I know you didn't steal the money and I shouldn't have said you did but you still gotta go to court.

How generous.  How magnanimous.  I'm wrongly accused and they admit it and then graciously give me the opportunity to defend myself.  How laughable.  How just plain wrong.

In the film "Signs", Joaquin Phoenix plays a former baseball player who holds a number of minor league records, mostly good - and one bad - for the most strike outs.  When he's asked about the latter, he looks pensive, a little resigned and almost to himself he quietly says, It felt wrong not to swing.

So when they come after you - whoever they may be - straighten up and swing away.  

Pigs & Politicians

When I was a little girl on the farm, my uncle kept pigs.  Each morning and evening, he would fill a slop bucket and trudge up the hill to the pig sty where the pigs would erupt in a riot of greed and gluttony, loudly and ferociously shoving each other into the mud, climbing and trampling over each other in an effort to be first at the trough. They were smarter, better mannered, better bred and had more integrity than the current crop of politicians. They didn't pretend to be concerned with anything but the contents of the slop bucket.  They were openly and exclusively dedicated to self interest and self preservation, indifferent to and contemptuous of the rest of the farm, caring only for their own swollen bellies.  They were fat, lazy, dirty, and they smelled but they didn't pretend to be anything but pigs - and therein is the difference between pigs and politicians in this country today - that, and of course the fact that all the pigs eventually came to a bad end while the politicians thrive and prosper on sex scandals, racism, abuse of power and public corruption.  We piss and moan all the way to the ballot box to re-elect them, hoping that what....?  A little of the swill will trickle down?  As a British lady I once knew said, Not bloody likely.

And to be democratic about it, it's not just swine.  Consider the following quote from Sybil Fawlty:

I have seen more intelligent creatures than you lying on their backs at the bottom of ponds! I've seen better organized creatures than you running 'round farm yards with their heads cut off!

When it comes to what is charitably called "public service", horses have better instincts, cows are far more community minded, and chickens....well, chickens don't really care one way or another as long as they get their feed, another requirement for the I've got mine mentality of those elected to serve.  

How is it possible, I find myself wondering on a daily basis, to be an elected representative of the people and discard them because they're female, not white, not rich, under twelve or just don't see things your way?  Congress doesn't have sponsors or contributors, they have owners, just like professional sports teams.  We are not participants, we are spectators and every game is fixed.  And under the I've got mine philosophy, that's how things will stay.  It's nauseating.

Sybil Fawlty wasn't talking about politicians or an apathetic, indifferent electorate.    

But she could've been.

My apologies to the pigs.

Second Floor, Front

She'd arrived with one worn suitcase, a Bible, a wind up alarm clock and a $50 dollar bill her daddy had slipped into her pocket when he hugged her and told her goodbye at the ferry.  And now she lived in a small room in a neglected boarding house - second floor, front - with a view of Main Street that stretched all the way to the breakwater.   Sometimes in the evenings, she would sit by the window and look out at the ocean, dreaming and imagining and wondering where it had all gone wrong.

There was a single bed with a flowered coverlet, one comfortable chair, a scarred old table with two somewhat rickety chairs, a tiny dressing table with a free standing, cloudy old mirror, a bathroom with a broken door. She had saved for weeks to buy the unpainted shelves where she kept her books and her make up and her little radio.  The icebox, scavenged for the bargain price of $5 at a sad, sidewalk sale, hummed and squeaked pretty much non stop but covered with a slightly tattered piece of chintz she'd recovered from the boarding house trash, it made a suitable place to keep her one set of dinnerware and silver.  She kept a green soda bottle on the battered old table and every few afternoons would add a new bunch of daisies, change the water, and just as her mother had taught her, drop in a single aspirin to keep them fresh.  When it was all simply too depressing and drab, she would cut pictures out of the travel magazines her landlady threw away and tack them to the walls - she liked for the first thing she saw each morning to be a faraway place where she could almost hear a waterfall and feel a warm breeze.

She was, she liked to remind herself, very lucky to have gotten this particular room - second floor, front - it's previous tenant had died the very day she'd come looking for a place to stay, otherwise she'd no doubt have been given something on the back side of the boarding house, someplace with no light and a view of the alley.
Here at least she could see the ocean, wave to the townspeople as they passed under her window, breathe the salty air and feel the warm breeze.  She was nineteen and alone, independence hadn't turned out quite the way she'd imagined and she missed everything about home but couldn't bring herself to give up, not yet anyway. She wanted so much more than the life she'd left behind, she'd confessed to her motherly landlady during a moment of weakness, more than marrying a local boy, more than a houseful of children and a factory job, more than an ordinary, dull life.  

Mrs. Lasseigne had given her a kindly smile and and an encouraging hug then offered to cut her weekly rent for help at mealtime.

Twelve rooms and all of them taken, Margaret, dear, she'd said cheerfully, If you've a mind to lend a hand, I can certainly give you one free week a month!

She'd jumped at the offer, thinking it uncommonly generous and quietly glad for the distraction after a full day of housekeeping duties at the big hotel.  She and Mrs. Lasseigne partnered easily and the arrangement suited them both admirably well.

Many hands make light the work! the landlady commented often and Margaret would smile and nod.

The rest came about by an accident when the widow landlady descended the stairs one Monday washday with a basketful of linens, tripped and took an undignified tumble down and onto the landing.  The laundry cushioned her fall and probably saved her life but still she wound up in hospital with a broken hip and a badly dislocated shoulder.  

Spit and tarnation, Margaret, dear, she was said to have announced from her hospital bed, It's up to you now.

And so evolved a partnership.  Margaret hired a two of the hotel girls, one to help cook and one to help clean, quit her own job and took over the running of the boarding house as if she'd been born to it.  Mrs. Lasseigne taught her how to collect the rents and keep the books, how to negotiate with the tradesmen, when and who to call when something went amiss.  Not a single boarder was lost and by the time the widow landlady was able to return, the boarding house was newly painted, gently organized and prosperous.  The partnership was legalized and made permanent and with Mrs. Lasseigne's death many years later, the boarding house passed solely to Margaret, who ran it quietly and well for the remainder of her life.

Her second floor, front room was rented in no time and she left it for the three room apartment on the top floor and a better view.  It wasn't exactly a dream come true, she admitted, but it became her own.

Filling the Spaces

I was eighteen and it was my first ever A+.

My professor, a Cambridge English Literature graduate we were fortunate to have and who still favored the tweed jackets and thick walking boots of her London hunting and hounds days, distributed our final term papers with her usual brisk efficiency.  When she got to my desk, she looked down and paused and just as I realized I was holding my breath, she laid the neatly bound, plastic covered pages down with a quick and ruthless gesture.

“Fine work.” she said and moved on.  I didn’t dare to think I might’ve seen the trace of a smile until I looked down and saw a bright red A+ in the upper right hand corner,  boldly printed and underlined so hard that the page had curled up.  “Displays an excellent way with language” she’d added in the side margin, “Enviable clarity of thought and a fiery imagination.  Do keep it up.”

  

I stared at that A+ every day that summer, always a little afraid that the small but thick blaze of color might catch fire or disappear with a touch.  It was the very first validation of a dream that I might one day become the writer I longed to be though of course, at eighteen, validation is fleeting and it certainly wouldn’t pay the following year’s tuition.  I loved writing, loved language and books, the idea of stringing words together like popcorn and having it all make sense was seductive and satisfying.  I was a shy and withdrawn student, a loner who used writing to express the things I couldn’t bring myself to say openly or freely.  I suspected it might prove a good way to detoxify and vent and tell a story all at the same time and the approval of a British born intellectual meant that I might not be entirely mistaken.

College ended, however, and wanting and doing turned out to be quite different animals.  I continued to write and fill journals which eventually filled cardboard cartons that I kept hidden in my closet.  I wrote love stories and sleazy romances, tried my hand at poetry which was tragically bad even though the words came effortlessly enough, drafted outlines for mystery stories and sea tales, wrote portraits of my family and coming of age essays.   I took creative writing courses, searching, I suppose, for another A+ and another validation.  But the few submission attempts I made proved futile and while it didn’t seem fair to be denied something I wanted so desperately,  rejection is undermining and painful.  Eventually, one perfect autumn day, I transferred all the cartons now faded and filled with yellowing pages that no one would ever read, to the leaf pile.  It was time to reconcile and move on and even my beloved A+ paper went up in the October wood smoke.

Decades passed.  Pen and paper became typewriters, typewriters became computer keyboards and all I wrote were letters home until my cousin introduced me to blogging.  What began as a simple on line journal of random thoughts and memories was suddenly a collection of mostly true stories, mostly from childhood and mostly written for my own benefit.  I began to get positive feedback from friends who passed on the stories to other friends and soon, with the continuing support and encouragement from my cousin, I began to write regularly, not the glossy, tabloid crap I had once imagined would bring me fame and fortune, just simple stories about growing up with alcoholism, about finding your way, about the life and the people of a small fishing village in Nova Scotia, about my grandmother.

  

I write for myself, saying the things I need to say, not what I think others might want to hear.  I decorate stories when I feel I need to, when my memory of dialogue fails, I fill in the empty spaces with what I know someone would’ve said or what they did say another time.

Caution to the Wind, Knickers to the Floor

The bridge game had gotten off to a late start - Nana had been loathe to turn off the Red Sox game until she was confident of the outcome - and the ladies were restless and anxious to get under way.  It was 1967, the year of "The Impossible Dream" for the Boston club, and my grandmother was a die hard fan.

Keep your knickers on, girls, she told them mildly, It's already middle of the 7th.

7th what? Aunt Pearl muttered and helped herself to a second icebox manhattan.

Inning, you nitwit! Miss Clara snapped, 7th inning!

They're like those quarter things in football, Aunt Vi added, Only there's twice as many.

Miss Clara sighed audibly. You're thinking of ice hockey, Vi, dear, she said impatiently but Aunt Vi, who had led something of a sheltered life, missed the sarcasm entirely.  

Thank you, Clara, she said with a hesitant smile, I declare I don't know how you keep up with all these things.

ALICE!  Aunt Pearl bellowed desperately and so suddenly that poor Aunt Vi jumped and dropped her manhattan glass.

Exasperated, my grandmother snapped off the radio and stalked into the sunroom, took her seat and gave all three women a glare.  Deal the damn cards, she ordered abruptly and the game commenced but the women were distracted - Nana by the game she was missing, and the rest by Aunt Vi's conservative bidding.

One spade, she offered tentatively and across the table from her Miss Clara growled.

That's right, Vi, Clara said irritably, Caution to the wind and knickers to the floor!

Aunt Vi paled and tried to steady her trembling hands.

I don't know why we can't play canasta, she protested weakly, Clara is always so mean to me at bridge!

Three hearts, Aunt Pearl said confidently and Vi shuddered.

The outcome was predictable, with Nana and Aunt Pearl winning by a landslide, Clara scowling like a bitter
thundercloud and poor Aunt Vi on the verge of tears.  

Boston beat Detroit - 11 to 1, a real pitchers duel, Curt Gowdy announced sarcastically - and after cream cake and a second pitcher of icebox manhattans  (by unspoken agreement, it was always referred to as spiced iced tea once the bridge game was concluded), cards were forgotten and play forgiven.  The ladies chattered amiably about the latest gossip, then embraced like long lost friends and said their temporary goodbyes. 

Clara, I heard Aunt Vi ask timidly, What exactly is a pitcher's duel?

Miss Clara laughed until she cried, linked her arm with Vi's and gave her a hug.

It's like a sword fight, Vi, dear, she said briskly, Only with baseballs.  I'll explain it to you next week.

Caution to the wind, knickers to the floor.  That's how friendship happens.

Back Decks & Balance Sheets

On for what is in Louisiana, an uncommonly cool July morning, I let the dogs out and follow behind them to spend a few early minutes on the deck.  They trot happily off to investigate the mysteries of the grass, the fence, the weeds - and I sit and listen to the bird songs - it's the third day of a holiday weekend and we are having a spell of truly unseasonable weather.  It makes me think of all the places I've lived over the years, all the mornings on all the back decks in all the different states and all the time that's gone by.  Life is what happens when you're making other plans, John Lennon wrote.  And then one day, here you are, caught off guard by the ridiculously surprising notion that you have more to look back on than look forward to - as if you didn't know it would happen.  

Except of course that there's always the chance that some of your best days haven't happened yet.

It may be no more than wishful thinking, but I wonder if we aren't driven by hope more than any other emotion.  Hope for a long and happy life with a peaceful passing.  For being remembered and missed.  For making a difference in some small way.  For transition and reclamation, the possibility that there's more than darkness and nothingness and - if there is - that our good deeds will outnumber and matter more than our sins.  I'm not exactly expecting an afterlife but I'm hoping for one with the blues in the background and a reuniting with the animals I've loved and lost.  If expectation is the root of all heartache, then surely hope is good soil and new seeds.  

And then in the midst of this early morning, back deck reflection with only the bird songs for a backdrop, the stillness is shattered by the choppy, unwelcome first breath of a lawn mover.  My next door neighbor, an early riser and a dedicated amateur landscaper, is up and about and there will be no letup.  He will mow, trim, and edge himself into a frenzy before this day is done.

So much for philosophy and deep thoughts.

Hope is a good thing, a constant thing, but it can't compete with the song of a riding lawn mower on a summer morning.  It can, however, outgrow the grass.

The last thought I spend any time on is the news that my old and dear friend, Henry, is now in a psychiatric hospital for a 15 day day stay after threatening to kill a fellow resident of the nursing home where he's lived for the past several years and where in all likelihood, he'll die - alone, miserable, abandoned, half paralyzed -
his mind and soul as atrophied as the left side of his body.  I think of visiting.  I think of taking the little dachshund and sitting in the shade for a half hour, talking and catching up.  But there's nothing to catch up on, his life has only become more lonely and more grim since the stroke and while I hate the thought, it still edges cautiously around the corners of my mind - it might've been more merciful if he'd died - and if I visit, he will try and drag me in again.  He has a wife and a daughter, I remind myself, he is their burden.

Not even the riding lawn mover can drown out the guilt and shame at this thought.  I will myself to hope that it will pass.

Lunch Date

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fast moving yellow blur and instinctively slammed on my brakes to avoid hitting it - a good sized yellow dog, mostly lab I thought to myself and without the slightest street sense, darted in front of me and skittered past an oncoming trash truck - making it to safety by a whisker.  I was already running late but there really wasn't much choice and cursing under my breath, I pulled into the next driveway and turned back.  He came easily enough when I coaxed, jumping into the front seat and making himself at home.  Leather collar but no tags, I saw without much surprise, friendly but a little skittish.  I drove back home and wrangled him into the back yard, gave him water and distracted him long enough to close the gate before heading back to work.  This was a problem for later, I decided, I would deal with him when I was done work if he hadn't broken free - a young, very strong, unaltered male dog easily weighing three quarters of my own weight made a poor lunch date.

He hadn't broken free.  I'd stopped for a tether - leaving him in the back yard wasn't an option on account of my own little ones - and despite the killing heat and humidity, I managed to get him leashed to the railing,
fed and watered, and then took his picture to post.  He was fine - I was exhausted and half blind with sweat - and not long after, his owner saw his picture and called, reclaiming him while it was still light.  It took the rest of the night to quiet and reassure my own dogs and by nine, I'd collapsed.  All in all, it'd been a good day's work, I told myself, but it'd nearly killed me.  Watching man and dog leave together, I said a small thank you prayer that my dogs are small, reasonably well behaved, and familiar with the word "no".  I didn't envy the lab mix's owner - the dog was powerful, willful, inordinately stubborn and totally untrained - the first time he'd jumped up and thrown all his weight against me he'd knocked me off my feet but on the second I'd kneed him sharply and sent him sprawling but unhurt.  Each time I'd tried to go back inside the house, he'd lunged at the door and forced himself past me, refusing to back off and though I blocked him, pushed and pulled with every bit of strength I had, it was like trying to move an 80 pound boulder with my fingernails.  He'd never been taught any better, I realized, and sadly, dogs have been owner-surrendered for a lot less.  So I watched him go, fighting the leash and struggling against his owner with every step - I was relieved but not happy at this reunion - dogs are like children in some ways, they need love and care and consistency as well as structure and discipline.  Hard headed, badly behaved dogs are made not born.

The pickup drove off and I decided I needed a cold shower, a change of clothes, and the company of my own dogs.  The lab mix and his owner were on their own.

40 Years of Widowhood

After a brief and tragic marriage in her early teens - he had run off with a perfume salesgirl from Halifax not two months after the ceremony - Aunt Tess had placed the usual "Having left my bed and board..." ad in the mainland paper and gone about her business.  In time, she came to be known as a widow and widowhood being less a subject for gossip than divorce, she allowed the minor misunderstanding to stand.  

She could've remarried, of course, she was young and strong, well kept and not bad to look at with a neat little house and five acres of land in her name.  There were plenty of young island men who took notice, several tried to court her over the years, but she kept them all at an amicable distance - now and again she would accompany one to the show or the dance, sometimes even go for Sunday drive or a lazy summer picnic - and while there might be a chaste kiss at the end of the evening, she always crossed the dark threshold alone.  It was somewhat remarkable that the island women, who might justifiably have viewed her as a rival if they were being kind or as a potential threat if they were not, were untroubled by her presence.  She maintained her friendships with them as easily as she maintained her solitude - with a smile and a kind word, a willingness to listen and help, a steady hand when needed.  She sat for the children, quilted with the sewing circle, sang in the choir, nursed the sick and the elderly and took in stray animals.  She didn't speak of the past or the future, as if one hadn't happened and the other might never come and when people wondered or mused if she was happy, she would give them a smile and a faraway look and say she was distracted and content.  This often made them frown but pressing her was futile.

You play the hand you're dealt, she would say and change the subject, It's all illusion anyway.

After 40 years of widowhood, you can get - as Nana put it - some set in your ways so it rocked the village when Tess announced she was to marry a retired fishing boat captain from Sandy Cove, a man we all knew by name but few had met, a man known to have the habit of drink, a card player and a womanizer.  

Lost her mind, she has, Aunt Pearl judged.

Too many years living alone, Aunt Vi agreed.

But Tess brushed the criticism and concern aside and married anyway.  In the space of a week, she'd sold the neat little house and five acres and gone to live on the mainland with her new husband, who it turned out,
drank nothing stronger than sweetened tea, played cribbage three times a week with his former shipmates, and had never womanized a day in his life.  A year or so later, he built her a small addition with a glassed in porch overlooking the ocean and she opened a small gift and collectible shop - the tourists passing through to the island and back again flocked to it - she served tea and sugar cookies in the afternoons and welcomed all who stopped while the captain smoked his pipe and entertained the children with stories of whales and great storms and little known equatorial islands with blue lagoons, coconut trees and friendly dragons - mostly made up, Tess would admit if she was pressed, the man was born to spin yarns and tell stories.

A match made in heaven, Aunt Pearl declared.

What a perfect ending, Aunt Vi agreed.

Every illusion has its real side and every real side its illusion.

Peace Keeping, Island Style

Jesus wept! Sparrow yelped and rose from the old porch rocking chair so quickly it turned over with a crash and startled the old dog within an inch of his life.  What the hell was that?

Ruthie and I, playing cards and drinking lemonade on the rickety porch, looked up just in time to see a couple of the Sullivan boys come flying around the bend of the ledge, hell bent for leather as the islanders liked to say, with Old Hat, a pack of dogs and her trusty shotgun close behind.  They were running like the wind but the dogs outpaced and outmaneuvered them easily - in a matter of seconds the pack had closed off their escape route and steered them down the length of the breakwater where it was either into the choppy, icy water or up the navigation light ladder - they chose the ladder, scrambling like monkeys with the dogs nipping and baying at their heels.   Breathless but still managing a string of unintelligible curses, Hattie stormed the wharf and positioned herself at the foot of the ladder, the shotgun resting on one heaving shoulder.  She took aim and fired and Eli Sullivan's dusty old hat went flying off his head.  Her second shot might well have taken off his head but by then Sparrow had tackled the ragged old woman - she fought like a mountain cat, hissing and clawing and spitting - and it took a half dozen of the factory men to subdue and disarm her.

Stole my cabbages, they did! she shrieked, Sumbitches stole my cabbages!

Jesus wept! How many damn guns you got, old woman, Sparrow demanded irritably and pitched it into the passage, I swear this is the third one I done taken off you!

Cabbage stealers! Hattie wailed, Sumbitch Sullivans ain't nothin' but thieves and no accounts!  Stole my cabbages, they did!


Hattie, Sparrow said with a mighty sigh, How many times I tell you, you cain't rightly shoot'em for rustlin'
vegetables!  It ain't legal!

Stealin' and trespassin' ain't legal, you old fool, Hattie snarled back, I got a right to protect what's mine!

Sparrow tilted his head back and looked up at the two boys clinging precariously to the metal ladder.  He knew as we all did, that of all the island clans, the Sullivans were the most loyal, the most stubborn, the most united and the least likely to admit to wrongdoing.  On the other hand, we could almost hear him thinking, the ladder did offer considerable leverage.

Eli! he called mildly enough, You and brother steal Hattie's cabbages?

No, Sir! came the emphatic reply, in unison, with just the right touch of injured pride.

Reckon you'd better open your jacket then, Sparrow called back and winked at Ruthie and I.  Might want to take cover, little ones, he advised us, Got me an an idea it's gonna be rainin' cabbages any minute now.

And after a slight delay, it did.  Eli opened his jacket and cabbages came tumbling down like meteors, hitting the old breakwater with dull splats!  A clump of carrots flew by, narrowly missing Ruthie and I, then what looked like sweet potatoes, and finally a half dozen or so radishes.  Beside herself at this vegetable storm, Hattie screeched like the brakes on a subway car and struggled with the fury of hell against the men holding her.  One wild kick of her boot caught Jacob Sullivan squarely in the crotch and he went down in a moaning heap - another connected with a solid crunch against his brother's knee and John gave a surprised yelp of pain.

Might oughta throw all three of 'em over and drown 'em, Sparrow, he muttered.

Not a half bad idea, Sparrow said with a glare at the old woman, Leastways we might get some peace 'round here.  But reckon one of us'd hafta fish 'em out just to keep things legal, so here's what we gonna do.....

Hattie agreed not to shoot them.  The Sullivan boys agreed to a full day's work to repair the garden.  Jacob and John Sullivan agreed to an apology.

It's that or over the side, Sparrow decreed, knowing full well that none of them could swim a lick.

Island justice - a moderate but strictly enforced blend of common sense, binding arbitration and when necessary, a gentle hint of blackmail - prevailed.  Without a jail or a court or a paid peace keeper, it fell to the elders to mediate disputes and uphold the law.  They judged and juried as fairly as possible, in simple terms and using whatever means were at hand.  There were no appeals, no long, drawn out legal battles, no moral quagmires or ethical dilemmas.  You violated a basic community principle, you paid, you moved on.

Blessed be the peacemakers and those who keep them busy.

Leash Your Children

It appears that if I lay down on my side on the loveseat in the sunroom,  the area between my shoulders and knees becomes a designated little dachshund space.  No matter where he may in the house, he comes trotting out to claim it.  The small brown dog, usually asleep on the pillow in the adjoining bedroom and with a fully unobstructed view so it's not like she doesn't know where I am, inevitably follows and curls up above my head. The black dog is the last to arrive, taking her place in the big chair with the window view but not before she runs a thorough threat assessment, determining that the street is quiet and the house safe.  Even so, she will sleep lightly, always seconds from full intruder alert, say my next door neighbor coming or going, suspicious squirrel activity or (saints protect us) the dreaded, unauthorized car door slam - by far, the most serious offense except for fireworks.

Come the 4th of July, the nasty little urchins two doors down ramp up their neighborhood offensive.  It isn't enough to dart into the street after a stray volleyball and then stand defiantly in the path of oncoming traffic.
It isn't enough to throw their manhandled, trashy toys at passing motorists or scream abuse at neighbors.  It isn't enough to hide in the bushes and jump out at unsuspecting dogs and their walkers.  Come the 4th of July, they like to set off firecrackers up and down the street - trespassing and violating as they go, frightening the dogs, disturbing the peace and leaving a trail of debris everywhere except on their own property.  They are vile little creatures, backyard bred and raised like savages, should've been drowned at birth and both parents sterilized.  More than one driver on his/her weary way home has considered not slowing down when passing their house - I myself have often yearned for just one clear, vehicular hit and run shot at their abandoned bicycles, left so carelessly and disrespectfully in the street and begging to be run over.

It's not that I dislike children - there are exceptions to every rule - but I object to those being raised as trash, by trash, with the promise of more trash to come.  When they came to my house trying to sell their tacky, half melted chocolate bars with their greedy, grubby little hands, I made no effort to restrain the black dog.  She made her position regarding peddler children abundantly clear and they haven't been back since.

Small wonder if will be if one of these Independence Days she doesn't break free and celebrate her own freedom with a bite or two out of their ragged little street urchin asses.

The Other Side of Good

 It was September.

Back to school was in full swing and the bookstore was swarming with students and professors, all chattering and positioning for the next space at the counter, all in an anxious, academic hurry to buy their books and make their escape.  There were dorm rooms to claim, classes to be registered for, roommates to meet and appraise.  I was doing my best to oversee and contain all this marginally well organized chaos when I felt the pain.  It was sudden and shocking, extending like a stocking seam from the back of my thigh all the way to my lower calf and in an instant, I found myself on the cold, dirty, cement floor, in tears and having trouble breathing.

Lynn, my assistant manager, was at my side in moments.  "What is it?" she demanded urgently.

"Some kind of charley horse," I panted back, thinking that the wrenching agony would surely pass, "Give me a minute."

"Can you stand up?" she asked, and as it turned out, I couldn't.  It seemed as if the muscles in my leg had turned themselves inside out, gathered together and reversed in a clawlike spasm. Lynn signaled to two of the young student workers and as they lifted and carried me to the office -  just before the pain began to subside slightly -   an image of being drawn and quartered flashed through my mind.  The next morning, as the two volunteer firemen tramped up our narrow stairway and strapped me to a backboard for the ambulance ride and the demerol daze that was to follow, this would strike me as comical.

"It's sciatica," the young and harried emergency room doctor diagnosed confidently, "And you've neglected it, haven't you."  There was no question here, I realized, just a flat statement of fact.  "Bed rest, heat, and something for pain.  It's likely to be worse before it's better.  Do you know a reputable chiropractor?"

And so began the road to recovery.

The chiropractor - a sandy haired, chubby little man named Rosen - had blue eyes that radiated kindness.  I liked him immediately, even when he sat me on the cold, metal examining table, grasped my heel and started to lift it. I grabbed the edge of the table with both hands, pure reflex in anticipation of pain, and he smiled broadly.

"Good for you!" he said with an approving nod, "That settles the question of your malingering!"  He gave me an encouraging pat on my knee.  "Now, let's talk about The Plan To Make You Better.  What do you do for a living and how long can they do without you?"

I started to explain about back to school, about how I managed a college bookstore and was essential to its operation, how I was needed and relied upon, how this was the height of our season.  He listened calmly and impassively, now and again making a note on his clipboard and tsk tsking.

"Yes, I see, I certainly do see," he said finally, as if I'd never spoken, "Most impressive.  But my dear child, this is going to take some time.  I imagine three to four months should do it.  Your bookstore must learn to do without you."

"You don't understand....." I protested, "I can't possibly.....three to four months?"

It began with two visits each day for a week - heat therapy, electrical muscle stimulation, spinal adjustments.

Since I couldn't walk, my husband picked me up in a fireman's carry and delivered me each time.  The second and third week it was one visit a day and by the fourth week, it was every other day, mostly under my own steam.  Terrified and convinced I'd lose my job, I'd made the telephone call to my district manager, filled out the disability paperwork and lay back to wait for the inevitable.  I read, I slept, I watched old movies and I panicked at the thought of being unemployed.  The pain came and went, a constant reminder to worry.  Some days I could almost get comfortable, others the ache stayed for hours and reduced me to tears and grimly realistic nightmares.  In October, Dr. Rosen produced a shiny, curve handled cane with instructions to begin a walking regimen.  

"Around the block," he advised, "Once a day, no more.  Slowly and at your own pace."

November came and the weather turned overnight.  Our little corner lot was littered with red and orange leaves and the skies seemed to be perpetually gray with woodsmoke.  I was now walking twice a day, alone or with one of the dogs who had been my constant companions since that miserable September day.  The disability checks came with depressing regularity and every couple of weeks there was a call from the corporate office, upbeat and encouraging and reassuring - I was missed, I was wanted back, I was not to worry, everything was going to be just fine.  My manager job was now in the hands of someone else but I wasn't going to be abandoned, not by a long shot.  I was to continue getting well and not concern myself with the trivial details of where I might end up.

"Try driving, " Dr. Rosen suggested one day, "Just a short trip to get the feel of it back."

In December, with the first real snow on the ground, an early Christmas gift - I was released, cleared to go back to work, mended and pronounced healed.  The last corporate call came and a meeting was arranged to discuss my future.  My district manager, perky and handsome in a flashy New York kind of way, met me at his office in Boston, a modern and somewhat elegant suite overlooking the harbor.

"There are no manager openings at the present time," he began and my heart took a misstep. "So we've created a job, something we've thought about for a long time.  A liaison position between us and the local stores.   Salary increase, of course, and a mileage allowance plus expenses.  You'll be a floater."  I was so startled I said the first thing that came into my mind.

"A floater?  Like they find in the East River?"

He smoothed his tie and smiled.  "Exactly!  Except that you'll be very much alive and reporting directly to me.  Maybe we can think up a slightly less colorful title though."  He leaned forward, refilled my coffee cup and offered me a sugar covered doughnut from a white china plate.  "Your first assignment is Salem State and it starts on Monday.  What do you think?"

I floated for the next three years, traveling around New England from Maine to Rhode Island - small schools,

big schools, and everything in between.  It was carefree and diverse and best of all, I thought, like minding someone else's kids - you always got to give them back at the end of the day.  In time, an assistant manager position opened at an university and it was offered to me.  Ready to settle down once again and start the next chapter, I accepted and fell in love immediately with Maine, its people, its scenery, its ocean.  But for a nasty bout of sciatica, I realized, none of it would've happened. 

Until then I'd always thought that the other side of good was bad, that I was what I did, that life was work and work was it's own reward.  What I learned is that the other side of good is better, that more often than not, good things come out of long, lonely times and that with patience and trust, bitter can be turned to sweet.