Dooley the Fiddler

As I've struggled to make some sense of my friend David's fight against liver cancer, a line from an old Tom T. Hall song has been running through my mind - "The Year Clayton Delaney Died" is a country classic about the sad death of a sadder guitar player and the possibility of his music living on.  The line is Could be that the good Lord likes a little pickin' too.  I hope so.

There's no recovery from stage four liver cancer and my friend David is dying, sooner rather than later, most probably.  I search my soul for the right words - any words at all would do if I'm honest about it - and come up empty.  What do you say to a dying man and the wife he will leave behind?  This is a cold, fast moving and very aggressive cancer with no treatment.  It's giving no quarter, showing no mercy, and taking no prisoners and each time I think about visiting, my courage fails.  When I first learned he was ill, he swore to me secrecy and while part of me thought this vastly unfair, another part was grateful for the opportunity to pretend it wasn't happening.  My emotions are jumbled, a mix of cowardice and shame, fear and obligation.  I have the unhappy feeling that if I don't visit, I'll always regret it.

As I sometimes do in times when I need help sorting myself out, I turn to my cousin, a loyal and wise source of wisdom with more than a little experience in loss and tragedy and the adversity of life.  She gently reminds me to celebrate his being alive rather than see him as a death in progress, to ask about his feelings and fears, to listen, to be a witness to his voice.  This makes me smile in spite of myself - Linda's advice is always sound and intuitive - never easy to take but always sound.  Not only do I treasure it, I've been known to try and follow it on rare occasions.  

Up until the very second I knocked I wasn't entirely sure I'd be able to do it but then Jean opened the door and I stepped inside - the little house was so right for them it stunned me - wood floors and simple furniture with clean lines, the smell of peppermint in the air and ceiling fans whirring gently.  Painting, sculpture and signs of music were everywhere, in every room, and it was very still, very quiet.  I felt instantly welcome and at home.
It's devastating to see David lying motionless and so clearly near death with his long hair spread out on pillows and his long fingered, delicate hands lightly clasped on his chest.  I bend over to kiss his pale cheek and his eyelids flutter but don't open.  He's too weak and too ill to speak, what's left of his voice is thin, and nearly
transparent from pain but I sense he knows who I am and if he could, would be glad to see me.

Hey, sunshine, I tell him softly, I've been missing you.

At the food of the bed, Jean stands still as a statue and I can hear her breathing.  I think of the strength and courage this must take, the effort and the loneliness, the inevitability.  I can't imagine surviving it, can't even begin to comprehend her endurance and exhaustion.


I'll see you in a day or two, I tell him although I don't really think I will. 

When I die I'm going to dance first in all the galaxies ...I'm gonna play and dance and sing.
Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

I pray it's so.

Stepping Out of the Comfort Zone

Every now and again I feel the need to take a step away from the dim, smokey bars and blues musicians with their angst and drinking problems and sorrowful lyrics, to take a step toward the lighter side of song and story.
A community dog wash perhaps, or a dance recital.  Or on this most recent evening, a young man with lavender sunglasses and a synthesizer.  He wore billowy clown pants in psychedelic colors, a purple velveteen jacket and a top hat with an oversized plastic daisy on the brim - I had a momentary flashback to the flower children of the 60's - but despite the costume and the fact that he needed a shave, there was something near seductive about him, something charismatic.  Partly youth and energy, partly wide eyed innocence, partly eccentricity but put all together, undeniably charismatic.  I handed over a $5 cover charge without a second thought.

 He spun.
He rapped. 
He pranced.
He jumped.

He twirled a fluorescent hula hoop and handed out homemade musical instruments wrapped like birthday presents.  And midway through, he dropped his clown pants, stepped out of his shoes, and continued on in metallic bronze boxer shorts and slightly dingy socks.

I was startled. 
I was taken.
I was charmed.

His lyrics were about fast food, about saving the planet, about having and using a social conscience, about the rhythm and beat of neighborhoods and community.  Some made sense, others were addictingly repetitive and silly.  All were pretty much irresistible.  The audience listened, cheered, were captivated.  Fingers drummed, toes tapped, heads nodded. 

Later that night, before I began editing photos, I did a little research and learned that he is considered an explorer, that his music is described as experimental and electronic.  I would simply say that it can't be described and must be experienced.

The thing about a comfort zone, I find myself thinking, is that it's not too far from a rut.

Second Sight

Aw, go walk a plank, one of the little boys gathered on Sparrow's porch said to one of the little girls, You ain't big enough to shoot no gun.

Am too! she snapped back with a defiant hitch of her overalls, And better'n you any day of the week!

Ain't neither of you shootin' no guns whilst I'm here, Sparrow said mildy, And that's a natch'l fact.  Reckon I'm a damn fool for even listenin' to the idea.  And it ain't polite to tell someone to walk a plank, Tommy.

Oh, hellfire, she's a girl! Tommy protested but without much conviction.

 Ain't polite to cuss either, the old man frowned, 'Specially to a girl.

We all laughed and Sparrow leaned back in his old rocking chair, one hand resting lightly on the stock of his shotgun, the other pulling his battered cap over his eyes.  At his feet, his ancient hound dog gave a weary sigh and shifted his position slightly, his cloudy eyes seemed to wince at the sunlight, his old bones seemed to creak.

One day, Sparrow mused, I reckon you'll be some glad she's a girl.

Well, it ain't today, Tommy snickered and stretched out next to the old dog.

'Pears not, Sparrow said softly and gave Ivy Lee a surreptitious wink, 'Pears not, but one day ain't you gonna be surprised.  The little girl blushed and smiled confidently back at him.  Even then she was one of the prettiest children the island had produced, dark eyes and hair that fell in ringlets all the way to the middle of her back, high cheekbones, fair skin, and a slightly upturned nose.  Prettier than a china doll, people liked to say of her, Best of the lot.  And had never had eyes for anyone except Tommy the whole of her young life.  We knew this in the way children have of knowing things - without words - in a way that grownups never would've understood, except for Sparrow who had, we often suspected, a finer, more refined awareness of childhood and the confusion that went with it.  It was what drew to us to him, this gruff and impatient one legged old ex-pirate who always made room and time for us. 

It took a few years but Tommy eventually stumbled over his feelings - what Ivy Lee had so singlemindedly wished and hoped for - and what I think Sparrow saw coming, actually came to be.  The scornful little boy with no use for girls turned into a handsome young man with a serious yen for the  young woman with the china doll looks and they exchanged vows on a sunset-lit late afternoon with the entire village as witnesses.   

If we could know the future, I now and again wonder, would it help or harm us?  Would we embrace it or try to change the outcome?  Would it ever be enough?  Would the wonder of it all still be there?  Would we do better? 

Island folk, even the most down to earth and practical minded among us, grudgingly made room for the possibility of second sight although none wished for or actively sought it.  To some it was a gift, to others a curse but either way, all were glad that whatever Sparrow saw - if he saw anything - he mostly kept to himself.
In a world where so much is unknown, fate and free will are best left to their own devices.  Destiny goes her own way and carries us along, giving us choices along the way but always with a blueprint close by her side.

Ain't meant to be fer a man to know too much, Sparrow said, Ain't right a'tall.  Even the good Lord's got a right to His secrets.

Wait & See

Just before the storm hit, the ocean turned gray, cold and angry.  Nana's newly hung wash began to blow violently and wrap itself around the clothes line in tightly twisted knots and the dogs, roused by the sudden upsurge of wind, whined pitifully at the back door.  Once inside, they curled up next to each other by the old cast iron stove and slept restlessly.  My grandmother added wood to the fire and began to methodically check the windows, keeping one cautious eye on the sky and listening for the sure-to-come rain.  The mid-morning darkness enveloped us slowly but surely, shutting out the sun and with one crack of lightning, the lights went out and the house sunk into eerie shadows.  There was a sudden, explosive crash of thunder - the dogs began to pace and howl - and then the rain came, sideways and furious.  It shook the windows and pounded on the roof with the force of hail.  

It's just noise, my grandmother told me with a serene smile, Can't get in, can't hurt you and it'll blow itself out, wait and see.

Wait and see.  It was one of her most often used phrases, easily adapted and applied to most any situation from What's for supper to Can Ruthie spend the night to Can we stop for ice cream.  She was trying to teach me about patience, I suppose, about not being afraid of the dark, about not losing the ability to be surprised and, long before Mick Jagger thought of it, the simple truth that you don't always get what you want.  She was a fairly new widow then, still getting used to the label and the reality of life without my grandfather.  If she missed him, she never said and sometimes I would remember his funeral, the church packed to capacity and the women all in black. Never one to pass up an opportunity for attention, my mother had broken down and sobbed uncontrollably during the service while Nana had sat, dry eyed and stoic, almost unmoved.  I was too young to fully comprehend death and I'd never cared for the man anyway but I did sense he'd had an undeniable impact on the family and the community.  Now, waiting out the storm in my grandmother's lap and not feeling in the slightest bit brave, I was glad he was gone.  I had the not very clear idea that he'd have thought she was coddling me and would've put a stop to it.

Come, Nana said cheerfully, we'll light candles and scare off the ghosts.

The dogs trailed after us, panting nervously, their nails tapping on the linoleum floor and their tails tucked in.
We lit candles, melted little pools of wax in flat dishes to hold them straight and secure, set them about the house.  

What you need to remember, my grandmother told me as the rain sheeted down the windows and the candles burned small but bright, is ain't nothing there in the dark that ain't there in the light.

By morning, the storm had moved on, the skies cleared and the sea calmed.  There was some damage to the wharf and the drying tables in Aunt Lizzie's field had been blown away.  Several boats had come loose from their moorings and had to be retrieved and a light pole at the ferry slip had crashed through the roof of John Sullivan's bait shack.  Old Hat's fences had been beaten down and there were goats randomly wandering all the way to The Old Road but no one was hurt and none of the damage was severe enough to worry anyone. 

I waited, I saw, and everything was all right.

Grassfires

It was the kind of night you'd have written home about.

The moon was full and yellow, high in the sky and surrounded by sparkling stars against a clear and deeply dark sky.  The night air was summery with just the right hint of coolness breezing softly off the ocean.  We could hear the tide, diminished and gentle, as it washed up against the breakwater pilings.  At rest in the cove, the fishing boats glimmered in the light from the moon, their illuminated reflections barely moving in the nearly glass surface of the water.  We walked slowly and unhurriedly, trying to be light with our footsteps and not disturb the night, trying to make it last.  We rounded The Old Road and came in sight of The Point, starkly lit in the moonlight, so still and serene that it seemed staged, so calm and quiet that every step seemed like trespassing.  I will remember this night, I thought, will remember how this feels for always - the wildflowers in the field, the blackberry patch, the lights of Westport, the look of home in the moonlight - and the tall young man with the dark red hair holding my hand.  This, I thought, is what it feels like to be young and in love and unafraid.  This is what we're all looking for, a place with quiet waters and a touch of magic in the salt air.  But
even for a hopeless romantic - I'm pleased to say I was and still am one - such nights are not meant to last.  By the time the church bells began ringing in the morning, the rough and tumble ocean was back to its old self and the moonlight was gone.  

Apart from the two people involved, no one took these summer romances terribly seriously.  Island boys and girls from away coupled each June and uncoupled just as easily each September.  In between, they might burn like grassfires - bright and quick to start but doomed to transience - they did no real lasting damage and if hearts were broken on Labor Day, they were patched by Halloween.  A grassfire can't be restarted on burnt ground so none were ever repeated, a reality no one questioned or even found passing strange.  Like the changing of the seasons, friends became lovers and lovers became friends and the world kept turning.  Your fella might trail after you if he'd a mind to make some extra cash by picking apples in the Maine orchards but all it really meant was putting off the inevitable.  No summer romance ever got a decent foothold past Labor Day and that was, as we all knew, exactly how it was supposed to be.  There was summer...and there was real life...they might mingle but they did not marry.

Still, if you were sweet sixteen and walking home from the dance in the company of the moonlight and a whispering ocean, none of that mattered in the slightest.  Everyone has nights they wouldn't trade for all the world's gold and this was one of mine.

I didn't write home about it.  I couldn't find the words.













  

The Red Dog in the Woodshed

There's a red dog in the woodshed, my little brother was telling me in my dream, Come and see.

I could hear the seagulls circling over the slatted drying tables where the men in their boots and heavy aprons were laying out strips of salt fish to dry in the sun.  I could hear the tide coming in and the steady chug of the ferry making its crossing.  I could even hear the tinny sound of my grandmother's little radio broadcasting the morning farm report from St. John and the comforting kitchen clatter of breakfast in the making, all warm and welcoming sounds of island life.  

Go 'way, I muttered to the boy in my dream and turned my face into the pillow, not wanting to leave the soft place between not quite awake and no longer fully asleep.

There's a red dog in the woodshed, he insisted, Come and see.

And then he pinched me.

I opened my eyes at this outrage and saw my little brother standing beside my bed, his buzz cut, cowlicky hair that seemed to grow only at angles and his blue eyes, so exactly like my daddy's, were alarmingly close.  He nudged me with one small hand.

How old are you?  I growled at him.

Six! he said proudly and held up four right fingers and two left ones.

You want to see seven?  I asked and swatted at him, Go 'way.

But there's a red dog, he repeated patiently, In the woodshed.  Come and see.

I sighed, yawned, sighed again and finally gave in.  

Allright, allright, I told him, Five more minutes.

You have to come now!  he insisted stubbornly and with one quick hit and run gesture, pulled the covers off and was gone in a flash.  Fully awake now and playing scenarios of how best to dispose of a body through my mind, I got up and pulled on a clean tee shirt, denim overalls and my sneakers and crept down the stairs, out the side porch door to bypass my grandmother, up the path and around to the back of the house.  Nothing out of the ordinary here - as always, the old Lincoln sat with its tailfins barely inside the garage, the swing set was silent and still - and my little brother was waiting by the woodshed door, impatient and jittery with excitement.   He had to stand on tiptoes to reach the crossbar latch but when he did, the door swung open easily.   Remembering that little brothers can be pranksters and not knowing exactly what to expect, I walked through the wet grass slowly and a little cautiously, determined not to scream if some wild-eyed, ax wielding teenager (it would be one of the Sullivan boys, I had no doubt) should come leaping out at me from the dim interior but I worried for nothing.  All that looked back at me was row upon row of precisely stacked firewood, sweet smelling and shadowy in the single shaft of light coming through the window. 

Well....that and the fully grown, clearly full blooded Irish Setter sitting expectantly among the wood chips and looking at me with a blend of curiosity and hope.

I'm keeping him, my little brother announced defiantly, I found him and I'm keeping him.  I'm calling him Rags.

The red dog barked softly and politely.  Calmly, I thought.  He was dusty and thin but when he stood and walked toward me, favoring a front paw slightly, he was regal.  He came to the very edge of the doorway and sat, head cocked and tail wagging.  My little brother hugged his neck ferociously and was rewarded with an enthusiastic, wet kiss.

Told you so, he said indignantly.

Well! came a gentle voice from behind us, And who might this be?

We all three jumped in surprise as my daddy rounded the corner with an armful of wood and broke into a grin at the sight of the dog.  The setter immediately stepped down and trotted to him and out in the sunlight his red coat shone like feathers on fire, his whole body seemed to quiver in anticipation.

C'mere, boy, my daddy said quietly, Let me have a look at that paw.  The dog laid down on the grass and obediently offered up his injured paw, making no protest as my daddy gently examined it and removed a nasty talon-like fishhook buried deep between his pads as my brother and I looked on anxiously.  Good dog, my daddy said casually, Now the question is where do you belong.

No, Daddy! my brother wailed, I found him in the woodshed!  He's mine!

Well, son, my daddy said kindly, We do live on an island.  He didn't fall from the sky.  This brought bucketfuls of fresh tears and after several futile attempts at reason, he relented just a little, getting my brother to agree that if we couldn't find the dog's home, we could talk about keeping him.  It was a delaying tactic and it should have worked save for the fact that we couldn't find the dog's home.   Over the next week, we went from one end of the village to the other and then from one end of the island to the other.  The second week we crossed the passage and went from one end of Westport to the other.  We checked with all the summer families and the ferrymen, even made a trip to the mainland with stops at Little River, Sandy Cove, East Ferry, Centreville.

The setter made friends with everyone he met and while several folks offered to take him in, no one claimed him.

Who knows, Guy, my grandmother said tartly at the end of the second week, Maybe he did fall from the sky. 

Not helpful, Alice, my daddy sighed, Decidedly not helpful.

By then, of course, in the way of dogs and little boys, my brother and the red dog were inseparable.  The setter was healthy, full of energy, agreeably sweet natured, well behaved and loyal.  They were together every minute of every summer day and night and my daddy, too tender hearted to face splitting them up, was racked with guilt and apprehension at the prospect.  And then, as if answer to a prayer, the cargo ship Prince John arrived on her twice monthly run.  When her whistle blew, the red dog went into full alert - when it blew a second time, he was off the old cot on the porch, through the screen door and down the front path - Hell bent for leather, as Nana said and running like the wind for the wharf with my little brother following, looking as if his heart would break.  She and my daddy exchanged glances as if they knew a secret and had just realized it.

Reckon you'd better get down there, Guy, my grandmother said, sounding sad, Got me a feelin' Rags is gonna be leavin' us directly and that boy's gonna need some comfortin'.

We'd spent every summer of our brief lives on the island without knowing the first sense of loss or heartache but that was a dark day.   Rags was frantic, barking non-stop and running mindlessly back and forth beside the  rusty, old vessel as the captain steered her in and the crew came ashore.  A young officer, tanned and trim in a white shirt and navy jacket, leaned over the railing, shaded his eyes, then caught side of the dog - his face broke out in a huge grin and he was suddenly in motion, moving smartly down the gangplank and onto the breakwater - we could all hear him yelling Skipper! Skipper! Here, boy!   At the sound of his voice, the setter whipped around and ran for all he was worth, nearly knocking him off his feet but oh, so joyfully.  You'd have had to have been blind or sheer stone hearted not to realize it was a reunion and beside me, my little brother gave up his brave face and began to cry while my daddy looked on helplessly.  After several minutes, the officer and Rags approached us, shared the story of the dog's misadventure and how they hadn't realized he wasn't aboard until they'd sailed, how they'd been desperately looking for him ever since, how the boat was so hollow and empty without him.

Raised him from a pup, the officer told my little brother, and you sure took real good care of him, son.  I appreciate it. 

He's my best friend, my brother managed to say through his tears.

The young officer got down on one knee and ruffled the little boy's spiky hair.

I know, he said softly, Mine, too.

It was a kind thing to say but it couldn't mend a six year old heart and watching the Prince John depart with Rags aboard was more than we could bear.  We walked home slowly, desolately, too disheartened for words.

The magic of summer had sailed with the boat and the red dog and would never be back.

But then, we hadn't counted upon the young officer's gratitude or understanding of the bond between a little boy and his dog.  Two weeks later, the Prince John was back and my brother was reluctantly persuaded to be at the breakwater to see Rags one more time.  The setter bounded down the gangplank with the young officer following, carefully carrying a cardboard box in his arms and smiling.  He and my daddy exchanged one of those secret looks and my daddy nodded.  Boy and dog were gleeful, hugging and kissing and laughing and with the captain and entire crew watching from the deck, the young officer put down the box and lifted out a miniature version of Rags - a feathery, red bundle of puppy with bright eyes and a sleek coat - a near exact replica of the grown dog only in a ten week size.  For an instant, I thought my brother had been turned to stone, his eyes grew saucer big, he looked from my daddy to the young officer, to the wriggling and warm puppy and I was sure he was about to cry.  

He's mine?   The words came out in a whisper as the pup was placed into his arms and he buried his face in its fur and accepted enthusiastic puppy kisses.

He needs a name, my daddy said a little gruffly,

And a boy to take care of him, the young officer added.

And so, Rags Two came into our lives, a little boy's broken heart was made whole again, and the magic that was island living was restored, all due to there being a red dog in the woodshed one bright, summer morning.

Never discount your dreams and always pay attention if you find a red dog in the woodshed.

Lost in the Novel

The new Stephen King novel, all 800 plus pages of it, sits on the nightstand and softly, discreetly, insistently whispers my name.  It takes every ounce of will power I have to resist this seductive siren call - the battle was on the moment I saw the package in the mailbox - I might as well try to ration my breathing as expect to be able to put it down once I start.

The dust jacket is slick on top, the title and author's name in black against a crimson background, but the bottom section is matte finished in muted colors, a representation of a newspaper clipping from the day Kennedy was shot.  It includes the famous picture of the unprotected limousine with the president and the first lady smiling at the crowd, a picture that is etched in the mind of everyone my age or older.  "JKF SLAIN IN DALLAS" the headline reads, 'LBJ TAKES OATH".

The premise of the novel though, is that time travel can change history, so the back cover headline reads "JFK ESCAPES ASSASSINATION, FIRST LADY ALSO OK!"

If only it had happened that way, I think, running my fingers across the cover.  Where might be all be if Kennedy had lived.  What would the current world be like.  I've never been able to let go of the idea that things would be infinitely different and better.

The idea of time travel, of changing the future by altering the past has always intrigued me and bewildered my senses ever since my first sci-fi novel.  Trying to comprehend what happens to the future - which is the present - if the past becomes the present and is modified has always made me fuzzy headed.  For example, if I were to go back in time and somehow prevent my parents from marrying ....well, I'd never have been born so how could I have traveled back?  And where does the future go while I'm off changing the past?  If I want to return from the land of then to the land of now, do I even exist if I was never born?  Great stuff for a novel and nobody does it better than Stephen King but still a little muddling for my simple mind.

50 pages, I think.  I could read 50 pages and put it down until tomorrow.

But... no.  50 pages would lead to 75 which would lead to 100 which would lead to a long and sleepless night and maybe even calling in sick in the morning so I could finish.  50 pages would be just the first step to a lovely seduction and it's a work week.  When it comes to the novels of Stephen King, time is my best friend and worst enemy.  Resolutely - but still fluttering from anticipation - I set the book aside.  A few minutes later I move it to the end table in the sunroom where I imagine it's safely out of sight and out of reach.  I promise myself I'll wait for the weekend.  I can do 800 pages on a weekend without even half trying.

 Anticipation lulls me to sleep.

Sleep

Sleep.

Just out of reach and teasing me with the possibilities.  It comes creeping up the stairs and peers around the corner with a catch-me-if-you-can look but just as I nearly grab it by the throat, it vanishes like smoke and it's three am.  And I'm awake again.  The cats glance my way then sensibly curl up and close their eyes but the dogs are restless.  Thanking my lucky stars for a fenced yard (my friend Kathryn is routinely forced to leave her bed and walk her dogs through the sleeping neighborhood at this and other ungodly hours), I let them out and stand at the back door waiting.  The summer air is heavy and the darkness thick with random streaks of moonlight weaving through the trees.  It's a somehow sad time and I can almost sense time passing as I wait. The dogs come in, beg for a biscuit, then trot back into the bedroom to resume sleeping, a most reasonable idea to my mind, but not one I get to share.  My personal Mr. Sandman has come and gone this night - the 4th time in the last 6 days - and I'm weary with frustration and tiredness, anxious to find a way around this latest episode of insomnia and go back to dreamland if only for another hour or two.  Being annoyed at not being able to shut off my mind only makes it worse, I know, but as is so often the case, it's out of my control.

Sleep.

I listen to the air conditioner hum steadily, to the small brown dog breathing, to the occasional creaks and moans every old house has, to the whispery rotations of the floor fan in the sun room.  About 4, my next door neighbor leaves for work and I hear the slam of a car door then the start of an engine.  The black dog growls softly, sleepily, but lets it pass.  The little dachshund shifts in his basket, paws briefly at his pillows, sighs.  A train whistle blows from far away, a lonely and muted sound.  A cat screeches briefly outside the window. A siren wails and the little alarm clock on the nightstand ticks relentlessly.  A breeze - or possibly a squirrel, it could be either - stirs the leaves of the crepe myrtle against the windows.  The night and the night noise go on.

Sleep.

By dawn, I can hear traffic noises and birds.  The clouds are tinged with blue - as if filled to capacity with much needed and over due rain - I think what a joy and a relief a downpour would be to this poor, dried up, cracked earth with its brown grass and nearly scorched flower beds.  I think maybe the ground longs for water as I long for sleep.

Maybe tonight.

Return of the Cat

Oh, my paws and whiskers, I say with surprise as the Cat Who Used To Live in the Garage and who I haven't seen in months, strolls casually out from under my car, takes up a position near the front steps and begins to groom herself.  She gives me an over the shoulder glance - indifferent and possibly a little bored - and I notice that except for a newly notched ear, she looks reasonably cared for and healthy.  She makes some remark to the tabby who is half asleep on the air conditioning unit but except for a slight flicker of one ear, the younger cat doesn't reply.  Taking my concern as their due, neither acknowledges my presence in the least and as I pull out of the driveway, they both go wandering off, important cat things to do, I'm sure.  I've been ignored by better than the likes of you, I call to them cheerfully but they pay no mind.

I've always been intrigued and attracted by the independence and naturally scornful nature of cats, envious even of their casually cultivated indifference.  When people discover that in addition to three dogs, I also have four cats, they tend to look surprised before asking the inevitable And they all get along?  After so many years with a houseful of animals, I've become accustomed to the question and will generally answer with a smile and a More or less but it's complicated.  If I sense genuine interest, I may elaborate on my theory of attrition and how it's not working as well as I'd imagined (so don't even think of asking if I want one more!) but usually I just end the conversation by saying One for every day of the week, you see.....and move on.  Serious animal lovers tend to nod and smile back with that peculiar empathy that we have for one another, but more often I get glazed eyes and an expression that seems to indicate pity.  All that's missing is a sympathetic tsk, tsk.

It's no secret that I've always preferred most animals to most people - anyone with a lick of sense would feel the same - after all, it's the only reasonable approach to actually living with people since we are all, to one degree or another, mad as hatters.  I find sanity and simplicity in the way animals cope with life.  They're not concerned with politics or skin color or jury verdicts or education or health care or civil rights or jobs.  They're isolationists.  They don't worry about being seen in church or whether the police are their friends.  They don't carry guns.  Their problem solving usually means a nap.  Their dependence on me gives me meaning and a reason to get up in the morning and there are times when I strongly suspect I need them more than they need me.

Even so, I think to myself as I try to get all seven fed without screaming, one or two would've been sufficient.
I really had no intention of allowing myself to be overrun for so many years but overrun I am - and despite the looks I sometimes I get - I'd still rather have them than a whole host of well behaved husbands, docile roommates or well mannered children.












 





  

Even Witches Lose Their Way

Now and again, a day at work will try and break my heart.

It started with the usual suspects - arriving anywhere from an hour and a half early to two hours late and being totally unconcerned either way - some are at the mercy of Medicaid transportation and are powerless to be punctual, some depend on resentful relatives and are lucky to get there at all, and some feel entitled and simply don't care one way or another.  By mid-morning we have three new patients petulantly filling out the required paperwork - two are stumped by the "Marital Status?" box and one sits glassy eyed, unable to figure out which end of the pencil to use.  It's then that the first call comes in from The Lost Woman.

She is breathless, testy, clearly aggravated and speaks only Walmart so it takes several minutes before I can calm her down enough to determine where she is.  She interrupts my every sentence but doesn't know what street she's on or which direction she's headed so I throw courtesy and patience out the window and sharply tell her to pull over.

WHERE AT? she screeches.

IT DOESN'T MATTER!  I screech back, JUST PULL OVER AND STOP!

Another few minutes pass and finally she comes back to the telephone, cussing a blue streak and not knowing or caring that I can hear her every word.

Now, I say deliberately, Just tell me what you see.

Credit union, she mutters, some kinda restaurant with a stupid name, one a dem Holiday Inns and a bank.

You're across the road from us, I tell her with a sigh, Just drive across the street and park in front of the building.  Come in under the covered walkway.

Another curse and an abrupt dial tone.

Some twenty minutes later she makes her second call, if anything louder and more irritated.  We repeat our little variation of Where's Waldo until I realize that somehow she's managed to put several miles - in the wrong direction - between us.  Twenty minutes after that there's a third call, this time she's in full melt down and profoundly incoherent - I can only understand every third word or so and none them would pass for polite conversation - so I pass the receiver to an unsuspecting nurse.  It takes another hour but finally she comes crashing through the door - a two ton Tessie of a woman in hot pink stretch pants, a bulging, black tank top and a bright green, sweat stained Hello, Kitty bandana tied across her forehead.  She's breathing so heavily I wonder if cardiac arrest can be far behind and for the 100th or time, I try and remember why exactly I left retail.  

She thunder-steps to the window and glares at me, the nurses, the entire waiting room.

Dis be da place?  she demands.

All I can think of is Evillene from "The Wiz", flouncing down the aisle between her slave workers and singing a lusty, gravel-voiced rendition of "Don't Nobody Bring Me No Bad News". (Google it if you missed the movie....)

Somehow, I manage to keep a straight face but I can't resist just a little sass.

Oh, yeah, I tell her, Dis be da place!

The last patient of the morning is a quiet, withdrawn, and failing fast gentlemen we've seen for years.  On this day, he's unshaven and in serious need of a haircut, his clothes hang on him like a scarecrow, his hands shake as he signs in and he's distressed that he can't remember his telephone number or what day it is.  His son has dropped him off but after his appointment he forgets to ask us to call him and nobody notices him slip out the door.  We discover him on our way to lunch, standing in the suffocating heat, disheveled and confused and a little lost.  The nurses lead him gently back inside while I call his son and we wait with him, making cheerful, useless conversation and trying to pretend that everything is fine.  It's not - we know it, and worse, so does he.

It strikes me that old age is a sad, wasted place to be - a fragile place with thin walls where lonely, old men carry heavy burdens while dementia sucks their minds dry, a place where even witches in Hello, Kitty bandanas sometimes lose their way.

Summer Sounds

Don't get into a fight with a pig.
You both get dirty and the pig likes it.

My daddy and I were walking the back pasture on the farm just as the sun was going down.  We were headed toward the tree line, where on quiet afternoons, you could hear the river running on the other side and sometimes when it came dark, the loons would call to each other.  It was a sweet, melancholy sound and it carried softly yet clearly on the evening air.  There were other sounds - the cows were coming in, almost aimless in their wanderings and I could hear the slow ringing of their bells.  There was the sound of an axe hitting with steady regularity as my uncle chopped wood and my grandmother's voice as she called the chickens.  And beneath it all, almost but not entirely drowned out, there was the sound of crying.  My mother had said something cruel and thoughtless to one of her sister in laws and the family had closed ranks against her.  She'd turned to my daddy, expecting him to defend her, but along with the rest of them, he'd simply gotten up and sadly, silently left the table.  Not even the gentlest of my aunts and uncles had remained.

It was nearly dark when we got back, the loons seemed louder then, their cries more lonely, and the crying had stopped.  My mother was alone on the veranda - she didn't acknowledge us - and the rest of the family was inside, gathered around the dining room table as if nothing had happened.  As the evening wore on, one by one they said their goodnights but no one spoke to my mother and early the next morning, she quietly packed a bag and drove away, back to the island.

It wasn't the first divide in the family and it certainly wouldn't be the last.  No one ever expected that the only child of relatively well off parents would ever grasp the reality of a farm family of eleven struggling to make a living off the land.  One took refuge in drink, one in in religion and hard work and the breach was reinforced with every passing summer.   Coming from two such diametrically opposed backgrounds made me unsure where I belonged and even though the actual words were never said outloud, I was acutely aware that to please one side would mean displeasing the other.  There was no neutral space, no comfortable compromise, no best of both.  Other than deny them, we were not families who knew what to do with our emotions.

They're all in their graves now, of course, resting peacefully, I hope.

But in my memory, the loons still call to each other through the trees and across the quiet water.  I still hear them in my dreams.   The back and forth of their muted voices fill the silent spaces where words were meant to be.  

The Cabin on Powder River

Between the planning, design, and actual building, the cabin on Powder River had been ten years in the making.  The tiny town of Elliot Falls, Maine had never seen such a labor of love.

Lucas had done most of the work himself - cutting and hauling the logs, selecting each stone for the open fireplace, laying each shingle on the roof and each flagstone on the path.  He built the window boxes and planted the flowers, hung the shutters, stained the deck.  A circular staircase led to a sleeping loft which extended and overlooked the width of the house and at night you could see the stars through the skylight.
The river flowed quietly through the trees - in summer, Lucas said he could hear singing - and his final chore was a simple, rough hewn foot bridge.  It curved sturdily and gracefully from one bank to the other and was perfect for fishing.  A multitude of wild birds fed at one side where he had erected a number of feeders and deer came to the salt lick on the opposite bank.  Lucas watched it all from his place on the shaded front porch, watched and was content.  He tolerated the occasional visitors, provided they didn't outstay their welcome, but mostly he preferred to be commune with nature alone.  He had always been a private man, a gentle soul and a pacifist with a tender heart who treasured wildlife and practiced a live and let live philosophy.  Even sleepy little Elliot with its country ways and natural Yankee reticence had been too social for him - the village knew this and respected him for it - but for Mrs. Hudson, a quiet and efficient widow woman who never carried tales and came once a week to cook and clean, no one saw him regularly.  

It could've gone on that way for years except for the hunters who arrived the second November after the cabin was complete.  They were a brutish bunch, loud and arrogant and determined to take home trophies at any cost.  They didn't concern themselves with private property overmuch, confident that all of Maine was on their side, but they hadn't counted on Lucas.  When he discovered them at the footbridge, he ordered them off his land - they argued, he shouldered his 10 gauge, they retreated - but without much dignity.  Mrs. Hudson came upon the badly wounded doe the following morning, hidden in the brush and waiting to die with an arrow through her flank and a mangled back leg.  The normally sedate and close mouthed widow dropped her basket and ran like a mad woman across the footbridge and up the flagstone path, startling Lucas who was in the middle of shaving into cutting himself badly before he snatched up his flannel shirt and ran barefoot and bleeding back toward the injured animal.

Call Doc Lee!  he yelled over his shoulder, his face dark with rage, and Chief Greer!  Do it now!

The deer, half dead with stress, shock and blood loss, was too weak to protest when Lucas picked her up and carried her back to the cabin.  He laid her on the rug in front of the fire and covered her with wool blankets, stroked her heaving side and spoke softly.  

A doe!  Mrs. Hudson spat, as she packed the wound with dish towels and applied as much pressure as she dared, They shot a doe!  Bastards!

The deer's survival was, as Doc Lee allowed later, nothing less than a miracle.   She was transported to the wildlife rehabilitation center at Durham but the damage was severe and while she recovered, she was never whole again.  No one was surprised when Lucas built an enclosure and a miniature barn and took her in, crippled back leg and all, and cared for her the rest of her life.  Despite Chief Greer's best efforts, the hunters were gone by first light the next morning and across the border by breakfast.  They weren't apprehended but each name was given to the game wardens and posted with Inland Fisheries and Wildlife and they at least had the wisdom to never return.

Just as well, Chief Greer was heard to say, a little regretfully perhaps, Sure as shootin' Lucas'd gone after 'em and I can't say I'd have had the heart to stop him.

The doe lived out her life next to the cabin on Powder River.  On warm summer evenings when the moon hung low and the stars were very bright, she and Lucas kept each other company and listened to the river sing.