Push Pins

You'd have thought I was looking for hens teeth.

Push pins, I told the first cashier patiently despite her blank look, They're kind of like thumb tacks.

Push pins, I told the second cashier who looked at me as if I was speaking a foreign language, They're kind of like thumb tacks.

Push pins, I told the third cashier tiredly, They're kind of like.....

Thumb tacks?  she asked and I felt a small thrill.

Yes! I very nearly shouted.

We don't carry them, she said cheerfully, Sorry.

I controlled an urge to reach across the counter and shake her senseless.

Leaving the parking lot, I pass the hardware store and decide to try one last time.  It's a locally-owned store, very upscale and fancy and selling way more than hardware and it tends to be pricey so I rarely make it my first stop.

Push pins?  I ask hopefully.

Right this way, a young man in a carpenter's apron smiles at me.  Seconds later I'm at the checkout with a pack of a dozen metal push pins.

I don't know why I just don't come here first..... I tell the cashier as she rings up the sale and slips the push pins into a small paper bag.

$13.82, she tells me brightly but almost immediately the smile turns to a frown as she realizes the unlikelyhood of the charge.

......but that might be the reason, I say equally brightly, Are you sure?  Thirteen dollars for a dozen push pins?

Mercy! she exclaims with a suspicious look at the cash register, That can't be right!

She fiddles impatiently with the keyboard, wipes out the sale and starts again.

$1.77, she tells with an apologetic smile as I hand over two dollar bills.  I drop the change into the little plastic St. Jude's container and slip the push pins into my pocket.  She wishes me a Happy New Year and I return the favor but as I leave, I notice that she gives the cash register a sharp head slap and mutters something about technology. 

This makes me smile.

Down and Out

The pre-dawn stillness is shattered by the sounds of a catfight on the front lawn and for several minutes it sounds like the end of the world.  It's an ungodly sound, cutting through the darkness like a knife, worse than fingernails on a blackboard.  It unnerves the dogs and sets my teeth on edge til I'm fully awake and trudging to the front door.  The door opening is enough to send them scampering off - I catch a quick glimpse of the Siamese from next door and the tail end of a tabby - a few final spiteful words are exchanged and then the quiet takes over.

It's too late and I'm too awake to go back to bed but more unfortunately, the shingles are also awake and screaming.  Four weeks after the onset, with people regularly asking me how I feel - my instincts are telling me to lie - no one wants to hear that the pain is just as bad as it was three weeks ago, no one wants to hear that I'm not over it, that I'm worried about nerve damage because while I can feel my skin with my fingers, I can't feel my fingers with my skin, no one wants to hear that I wake up each morning feeling that my whole right side is on fire.  No one wants to hear how exhausted I am from the pain, how depressing it is not to be able to see an end to it.  Easier to smile and lie, say Better every day, thanks!  One of these mornings, I tell myself, it's bound to be true.  One of these mornings, it has to be.

An hour or so after taking the morning meds and a supplement of ibuprofen, the pain backs off to where it's bearable.  I shower and dress and get ready to take on the day.  

It strikes me that a fair amount of the time, it's easier to lie.  People may ask how you are but a lot of them don't stick around to hear, especially if you're not getting better.  I have a suspicion that part of it is simple courtesy but that another part is knowing they can't fix it.  I'm convinced that we're all fixers at heart and we don't like being reminded that we're really helpless.

I paint my side with the betadine andI ease into sweats and a loose, light sweatshirt - wince as the fabric touches my skin and sends a quick dagger of pain into my side - I've been in the same clothes for the last week and only got to wash them this past weekend.  Dressing well has not been my first concern lately although to tell the truth, fashion has never been very high on my priority list.  When it doesn't hurt, it itches and I can't scratch because that sets the rash on fire.  Nerve pain, I've discovered, is very different from a headache or a broken ankle or a pulled muscle - it's inaccessible, unpredictable, too deep to reach and too shallow to be relieved.  It's as if a colony of gremlins with hot pokers have taken up residence beneath my skin - they're sleeping more these days but when they wake up, they wake up hungry and bad tempered and mean, chewing on my nerves with nasty little teeth, pulling at them with sharp claws.   The pain only travels so far before it reaches a dead zone, that space between my insides and my outsides, where the nerves are (we hope not permanently ) damaged.  It's that space that makes me want to take a hatchet to my right side and live the rest of my life crooked.

But again, these are not things anyone wants to hear so I put on a happy face, take a deep breath, smile.

Better each day, thanks!  I say brightly.

'Cause nobody loves ya when you're down and out ~ John Lennon

Mean Old World

It's rainy and dark and I almost don't see the old man pushing the overloaded shopping cart when he steps into the street directly in front of me.  I slam on my brakes and he glares at me, shaking one gloved fist in the air and shouting something unintelligible into the wind.  It wasn't close enough to be a near miss but still my heart hammers a little faster until he reaches the other side, navigates the curb and gets swallowed up by the darkness.  

I thank my lucky stars that I wasn't going faster, that the brakes didn't take a sudden notion to  hydroplane, that he didn't step out a second or two later.  It's the what might've beens that give me the most trouble. There are times they seem to be everywhere, chattering like a flock of seagulls, deafening me with their cries.
Their cousins, the what if's are never far behind.  As Marl Young and T Bone Walker wrote, This is a mean, old world to live in all by yourself.

My eyes aren't what they used to be - but then again, what is - so I check both sides of the streets before I drive on.  The State House building is empty but lit up like a Christmas tree, the now defunct hospital is closed and dark, the single three quarters enclosed bus stop is vacant and littered with debris.  There's not much here beyond the local bar, an abandoned corner lot with a shabby For Sale sign, a recording studio that has seen better days and a solitary block of small buildings with vandalized walls and smashed windows facing the ever present and somehow lonely convenience store with its blaring neon lights and self service gas pumps.  The interstate is just a block or two ahead and then you're on the outskirts of downtown, block after block of sad, decaying structures, pot holed streets, dark alleys and fenced off sections of forgotten landscapes.  It feels forlorn and miserable, like a terminal illness.  The homeless and those who prey on and condemn them prowl the filthy streets along with the feral cat colonies, the hookers, the drug dealers and the rats.  At times it feels like the whole city is dying and dying badly, without dignity, without putting up a fight.

Determined to derail this particular train of thought, I pull up to the stop light and crank the Hugh Laurie cd a little louder.  Police Dog Blues by Blind Blake, The King of Ragtime Guitar, fills the car and makes me smile.

It may be that nothing brings on the might've beens and the what if's like sitting at an empty intersection in the rain and the dark, waiting for the light to change and thinking about a homeless old man with a shopping cart, worrying that one day I might become him.

It may be that nothing chases them away so fast as an elegant, well educated Englishman singing an old blues tune by a ragtime guitarist dead since 1934.

It may be that all the might've beens and what if's the world conjures up don't make a damn bit of difference in the what is.

Move along, I tell myself, nothing to see here.

Late at night, when I can't sleep and end up replaying old tapes and old choices and listening to the old voices in my head, I backslide.  I think of opportunities I gave away with both hands, of choices I made on impulse, of roads I took out of restlessness or boredom or mild misery.  I think about the uncertain future.  When you're thirty something, you don't think about being sixty something.  You think you have time, that something better will come along.  You can't imagine being old, sick, miserable, or poor.  And then one day - just like that - you are.

The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls ~ Edgar Allen Poe

A Disturbance in the Force

She is sitting on the external half of the window unit, demurely grooming her white-tipped paws and unaware of - or unconcerned with - the chaos unleashing itself within.  All five inside cats have gathered around the window in a tight little circle of hostility.  Backs are arched, tails are switching, and the language is shocking.
Drawn by the low hissing and growling, the dogs pace back and forth anxiously - they can't see this newest intruder - but they sense a serious disturbance in the force.  The kitten, a pretty little thing, I have to admit with a heart shaped face and tufted ears - startlingly lynx-like - exhibits no interest whatsoever in the domestic drama unfolding on the opposite side of the window.  She finishes her grooming, yawns delicately,
stretches out and prepares to take a nap.

This arrogant complacency is too much for my own little ones.  They can't reach the trespassing kitten so they turn on each other and the result is anarchy - undiluted and nerve-wrackingly loud - a ceramic bowl skids off the table, the blinds come down in a crumpled heap, a chair is overturned.  Scattering and scrambling, the cats fly off in all directions and the dogs, alarmed at the sudden escalation of the situation, turn tail and race for the safety of the bedroom.  It's finally enough of a racket to attract the outside kitten's attention - she rouses slowly, glares at me as if it's my fault - then gracefully and sure-footedly jumps to the wooden fence and strolls away and out of sight.  Of course I can't know for sure, but I have the distinct impression that the whole thing was as carefully planned and executed as a military coup.

I pick up the pieces, separate and scold the cats, find and reassure the dogs, deliver my usual lecture about peaceful coexistence and tolerance.  Because it's November and due to turn bitterly cold, I'm compelled to bring up gratitude and the fact that but for the grace of God, it might be them on the outside looking in.  The cats - entitled creatures and casually immune to my empty threats - listen politely then wander off.  The dogs crawl into my lap and take notes.

With the possible exception of the little dachshund - I know he was rescued from an animal hoarder but don't know details - none of my little ones have ever known real hardship.  They've never gone hungry, never suffered from the shelter-less November wind, never been endangered.  They take their home and its comforts for granted.  They're realists and don't waste their worry on the less fortunate until the less fortunate wind up on the window unit.

Funny, how they remind me of humans. 

Poof!

It's not under the bed or behind the door or stuffed between the cushions of the loveseat.  It's not discreetly hidden beneath the computer desk or the nightstand.  It's not behind the shower curtain or under the bookcase
or tucked away in a crowded corner.  It's not underneath the pillows or secured behind a plant stand.

It must be somewhere, I tell myself reasonably.  Shoes don't simply get up and walk away on their own.

And yet, it hasn't been dragged behind the litter boxes or beneath the furniture.  It's not under the refrigerator or behind the curtains.  It's not waiting behind the tv or buried in the dirty clothes.  It's not in the chiffarobe and it's not behind any of the doors.

 Poof!  A single mesh tennis shoe vanishes without a trace.

 It's like life, I decide, sometimes the search isn't worth the reward.

Shingles

The pain comes from everywhere - jabbing into my hip, my belly, spiraling up my side and between my shoulder blades and under one breast.  My entire right side seems to be in melt down.

Booked up, the ill named patient care coordinator tells me indifferently, Next opening is a week from today.

I protest and plead but I might as well be talking to a wall.

Booked up, she says, unmoved and unmovable.

I go back to the massive doses of ibuprofen, not caring in the least whether they produce stress ulcers or internal bleeding - by the third day, they're all that's keeping me sane.  Just to be safe, I look up the symptoms of appendicitis.  That leads nowhere and as unlikely as it seems, I'm back to gas pains.  I hunt around and find a cache of laxatives, contraindicated if you're in pain but I'm willing to take the risk.  The laxative works as predicted but the pain doesn't ease.  At my wits end, I take more ibuprofen and crawl miserably into bed, managing to sleep an hour or two at a time, getting up only to take more.  By Sunday, things have leveled out and as long as I take the ibuprofen every couple of hours, the pain is close to manageable.

Monday morning, having woken to a rash on my side and back and on my way to work or the ER - I haven't quite decided - I pass a family clinic.

Accepting New Patients, a billboard sign proclaims, Sick Today, Seen Today.

Feeling like I have nothing to lose, I pull in.

Amazingly, I've seen within a half hour.  The nurse practitioner takes one look at the rash and reaches for his prescription pad.

Shingles, he says sympathetically.

That's what I thought, I say with a wince, But the rest of the pain?  My back, my hip, my shoulder, my belly?

All shingles, he assures me, It's a bitch.

I explain how I can't quite comprehend that a rash on my side - a rash I didn't even know was there until a few hours before and that isn't particularly bothersome - could be causing such pain in so many unrelated areas.  He explains that shingles is about nerves going a little wild, warns me that it's likely to be worse before it's better, prescribes pain meds and antivirals, tells me to take it one day at a time.  Two days later, I'm still miserable but feeling lucky - the rash, prickly, uncomfortable and painful if I move wrong, doesn't progress to the weeping stage and while the pain is relentless and exhausting, it never gets to excruciating - all in all, it could've been much, much worse.

After the first week, the internal pain recedes but the rash flares and at times seems to set itself on fire.  I dutifully take the regimen of medications, adding ibuprofen when it becomes unbearable.  It takes everything I have just to lie still on the loveseat and try to sleep, anything requiring any more effort is out of the question.
Shingles or not, however, there are cats to be fed, litter boxes to be changed, and dogs to be tended.  I spend a lot of time wishing I had the energy to die.

On the eighth morning, I wake up and make my way to the kitchen to tend the animals and swallow the morning meds.  For the first time in over a week, the pain is manageable.  I can stand straight, think clearly and walk as if I'm not going to break.  For the first time in a week, I don't think about giving up because it's too hard.  I can see the possibility of tomorrow.

Adversity, Albert Einstein wrote, introduces a man to himself.

Maybe so, but having met myself, I don't think I care to know me just now.

Whine & Twine & Eggnog

I wake just before 4am, stumble to the back door to let the dogs out - it's dark and moonless, freezing cold - and they trot bravely out while the cats begin the breakfast dance, twining around my ankles, always hungry, always in a hurry.  They don't care that it's 4am, surely an uncivilized time if ever there was one, or that it's winter.  The dogs are pawing at the back door and whining to come in before I've gotten the first package of Friskies poured.  I think about going back to bed but once morning has broken, even if it's in the the dead of night, there's no retreat.  I turn up the heat, light a cigarette, and pour a glass of eggnog from the glass bottle I bought on a whim last week.  Coffee would make more sense but I don't drink coffee and there's no hot chocolate and even if there was, I'm not functioning well enough to make it.  Eggnog will have to do.

Nana kept a carton of Hood's Eggnog in the fridge every week from Thanksgiving to New Year's.  Uncle Eddie liked to make his own, adding liberal doses of whiskey and paprika and serving it warm in small silver cups, but I liked store bought, ice cold and thick like syrup, so sweet it made my teeth ache.  There were dozens of brands to choose from but for Nana and I, only Hood's would do.  They were (and still are) a Massachusetts company that had doing business since the mid 1800's.  I doubt my grandmother much cared about the shop local trend - Hood's simply made the best dairy products and she was a fan - we drank Hood milk, used Hood cream and butter, and in the summer the freezer was packed with Hood ice cream and Hoodsie cups.  Nana would probably be distressed to know that I'm drinking non-Hood eggnog but probably pleased that it isn't up to her standards or mine.  She liked being right.

Being partial to Elsie the Cow, my mother was a Borden loyalist.  On more than one occasion, she would surreptitiously remove the Hood milk  (or cream or butter or eggnog or ice cream) and replace it with Borden's. Nana would fairly light up with rage at this dairy travesty - it was a sacrilege to move anything in the neatly organized refrigerator and not replace it exactly as you'd found it - and the ensuing feud could last for days.

You're fighting over dairy products?  my daddy had once asked incredulously,  The world is going to hell and you're fighting over milk?  Have you both lost your minds?

My house, Nana had snapped defiantly, My refrigerator!

Borden's is better! my mother had snarled back sullenly, and I paid for it!

THAT'S ENOUGH! my daddy had roared and both women had taken a startled step backwards, IT'S CHRISTMAS, GODDAM IT AND THAT'S ENOUGH!

 I don't care who bought it, he said tightly, and I don't care whose refrigerator it is!  It's Christmas and we're going to have some peace on earth around here if I have to drag it out of each of you so I recommend you get over it and get over it right now!

The women, sulking and glaring with indignation, got gone.

Milk, my daddy - a man who prized peace and quiet and diplomacy above everything - sighed and sank tiredly into a kitchen chair, I lost my temper over milk.

Sitting at my own kitchen table a lifetime later, the memory still makes me smile.  It doesn't warm me but it does make me smile.

The cats twine, the dogs whine and the eggnog is just another dairy product.

Needful & Needed

The reason we get so little done, my friend Michael tells me as he snatches at his disaster of a desk, sending papers and discarded boxes and unpaid bills and cologne bottles awry, is that we spend half the time looking for things I've lost!

Clutter borders on chaos in his small office and I can't find it in my heart to contradict him.

What is it now? I ask with a sigh.

My wallet! he snaps impatiently, I've looked everywhere!

I doubt this - he has what I can only describe as a violent flair for the dramatic - but I also know that until the missing wallet is found, he will rant and rave himself into hysterics.  I step over the dogs, clear one of the leather chairs of magazines and unread mail, a cashmere sweater, an empty cigarette carton, several plastic covered binders, a retractable leash and several yards of credit card tape.

When, I ask him, dodging a flurry of flying bank statements and nearly tripping over the smallest dog as she runs for cover, is the last time you remember having it?

Out in the yard, he says and throws up his hands in frustration, It was trying to come out of my pocket.

There's no sense in telling him to calm down or take a breath.  It's best to let him storm it out.

Tell me, I persist firmly, exactly what you did when you came in from the yard.

He sinks into a chair and jams his hands into his sweatshirt pouch.  Sulking, I've learned, is the first step on the road from flying objects rage to simple exasperation.

I don't remember, he mutters.  Sharp. Stubborn. Petulant. Defiant.

Yes, you do, I tell him patiently, just tell me what you did after you came in.

He's sullen, angry at himself, disgusted with his own carelessness and it's like pulling teeth but he lets me lead him through it.  He remembers coming in, going upstairs to change and watch tv.

Where did you change?  I ask, What did you do with your yard clothes?  What were you watching?

It takes another twenty minutes and he snaps and snarls like a wounded cur dog, curses colorfully, hating every minute of it and being ashamed that he brought it on himself.  He's irritable with the dogs, flailing at me and trying to change the subject with every other breath.  Luckily, I can be as equally obstinate.

When you empty your pockets, where do you normally leave things?  Did you do laundry?  Did you go back out? Did anyone come by?  

The answers aren't all that helpful - his habit is to leave clothes wherever he happens to shed them, the contents of his pockets on whatever's handy - the wallet could be sunk in the mud of the flower beds or buried under a half ton of leaves, in the trash or under the bed and half eaten by dogs.  He is the most thoroughly disorganized, most easily distracted person I've ever known.  There's not an iota of neatness in him, not the first hint of a predictable routine or pattern or need for order.  Scatterbrained, my grandmother would've said, but I know better - he's overwhelmed by his own flaws, his tendency to hoard, his lack of focus.

Drink your coffee, I suggest, and take your meds.  I'm going to look upstairs.

On the second floor, the first thing I see is the faded red hooded sweatshirt.  It's out of place somehow, tossed thoughtlessly onto the stair railing and hanging there, mud stained and disreputable.  Not a single other item of clothing is within ten feet of it and I have an immediate sense that the crisis is about to be over.  When I pick it up, it jingles and when I slip my hand into the front pocket, I discover a wad of crumpled bills, a front door key, a handful of coins, and of course, the missing wallet.  Everything is thrown together but intact.

Looked everywhere, I mutter to myself, Yeah, sure you did.

But, to paraphrase Arlo Guthrie, I didn't come to talk to you about a lost wallet.  I came to talk about the dynamics of relationships.

We could hardly be more different, Michael and I, or more alike.  We have many of the same flaws, many of the same virtues, a few of the same vices.  We clash as often as we agree but in the end, he needs someone to look after him just as I need someone to look after.  It seems to work more often than it doesn't and maybe that's how life is designed, like a grand, ambitious jigsaw puzzle with a thousand pieces.  With a little skill, a little more luck, and the patience of a couple of dozen saints, everything eventually fits.







  

  

Mittens & Mufflers

Snow is such a rare event - praise Jesus! - in my part of the country, that just the threat of it is enough to unravel us.  The probability of it sends us scurrying for mittens, mufflers and cover.  An actual dusting is downright paralyzing and a flurry might as well be a blizzard.  For someone who lived in New England for as long as I did, all this fuss seems overdone and useless - a tiny molehill made into an entire mountain range - but when the flakes begin to fall, I still stare like an open mouthed tourist.  I suppose it calls up childhood memories of snowmen, snow angels, snow days, snow shoveling.  These are not treasured memories but more the stuff of nightmares - frostbitten-feeling toes, slush in my boots, fingers frozen and numb - oh, the first snowfall is pretty enough, I'll give you that, especially on a blue-ish moonlit night when you're watching from a snug second story bedroom window with a cup of hot chocolate at your side and Christmas carols playing in the background.  You don't think about what it will be like in the morning and for many mornings after.

If there's a constant in my life - aside from the anger on which so much of me is built - I suppose it's being cold.  They go together somehow.

The house I grew up in was cold but my tiny room had a good sized heating vent - at night in winter I would open it up as far as it would go and the heat would roar in - by morning, it was so hot and stuffy that I had to open a window.

My grandmother's house was cold - sterile, obsessively neat - and my room at the top of the stairs was monstrous large and sparsely furnished.  I piled on blankets and quilts and slept in thermals.

There was the nasty little two room apartment on Gainsborough Street in downtown Boston where the heat was controlled by the landlord's whim - rarely on before November or past March.  Then a series of other apartments, each a little nicer with a little more space but never warm.  And there were workplaces where my fingers would stiffen with cold.

A small house in Maine with snowdrifts that reached the windows.  A cabin in New Hampshire with a wood stove that was blindingly hot and stole your breath but still icy if you wandered too far from it.

And finally there is Louisiana - the best of a bad lot, I sometimes think - in the summer the heat is paralyzing but come winter when the temperature drops into the 30's and 40's, it feels like the rest of my life.  

Classrooms and restaurants and hospitals and department stores.  Subways and commuter trains and college bookstores.  Doctors offices and banks and grocery stores.  Not always intolerably cold but cold enough to be uncomfortably aware of being cold.

I feel it everywhere.  I always have.  Underneath the long underwear and the flannel shirts and the sweats I pile on until it's awkward to move, there's a draft, a chill, a shiver. 

Not all of it comes from the outside.

The Hay Loft

If only I hadn't sneezed.

The morning after I ran away, I woke up in the hay loft with only Randall, the barn owl, for company.  Once my eyes adjusted to the patchwork-like mixture of light and shadow in the eaves, I could see him plainly, perched on a beam and seamlessly rustling his feathers.  Most likely asleep, I told myself, remembering that Uncle Bryon had told me owls were nocturnal, flying only at night and only dangerous if you happened to be a mouse.  

Randall fluttered, spread  his wings slightly, shook himself.  Yellow eyes and a curved beak swiveled slowly in my direction.  The hay loft suddenly didn't seem as snug and cozy as it had a few moments before.

"Best hunters you've ever seen," I belatedly remembered Uncle Byron had also said, "Fast, accurate, deadly."

I was close enough to see those hazy yellow eyes blink slowly, as if he were considering the situation from all angles.  One wickedly talon-ed foot flexed lazily then sunk back into the soft wood.  He hooted, an eerie sound that carried a low, pretty much spooky kind of echo and sent a mild chill up my backbone.  Then he seemed to settle, wrapping his wings around his small body like a cape.  It was then I heard the cowbell and sneezed.   A moment later, Uncle Byron was calling my name and Randall took flight, soaring even higher up in the eaves and making one graceful circle before landing silently somewhere out of sight.  

"Old owl don't take much to trespassers in his barn," my bachelor uncle called to me, "You might oughta be comin' down 'fore he changes his mind."

I heard the metallic clanking of the milk buckets as they hit the floor, the sound of the milking stool being dragged into the first stall.  I knew if I crawled to the edge I'd see my uncle in his faded flannel shirt and longjohns, suspenders hanging loose over worn out denim overalls, an older-than-dirt feed cap set on his wispy hair.  He'd have been pulling on his muck boots and speaking softly to the cows, his long-ish and somehow melancholy face reddened from the sun and patchy with remnants of the skin cancer he'd fought and beaten long before he'd even told anyone about it.  He'd have given me a crooked grin with tobacco stained teeth and this early in the morning he'd have needed a shave.  He was firstborn of ten, the only one who had chosen to stay at home and an old fashioned farmer to his very core.

"Easy, Rosie," I heard him say softly to the cows in between splashes of milk hitting the metal buckets, "Easy does it."

The cows shifted in their stalls and answered with long, drawn out, plaintive moos.  Next door in the stable, the old plow horse whinnied and stamped his feet impatiently.

"If you've a mind to," I heard my uncle call, "I could use a hand.  Providin' you don't have anythin' else to do. Buck's hungry and breakfast's waitin' once we're done here.  I b'lieve your Nana's making bacon and blueberry pancakes."

"Am I in trouble?" I called back, brushing straw and hayseeds from my hair and making my way toward the ladder while keeping a wary eye out for Randall.

"Ain't likely," my uncle said good naturedly, "Less you wake that ol' owl up."

I wasn't sure if it was hunger or the thought of of some old yellow-eyed owl carrying me off with those claw like talons, but I scrambled down the ladder in a hurry, missed the last rung and landed on my tailbone with an awkward, painful thump.  Uncle Byron gave me a casual, over-the-shoulder glance, determined I wasn't hurt, and nodded toward the horse stall.

"Oats in the bin," he said mildly, "I'll finish the milkin' and we'll head for the house."

And so we did with Buck lazily clip-clopping ahead of us and Rosie - her brass cowbell clanking with every other step - and her sisters spread out and trailing behind us like a troop of dusty, disorganized soldiers.  My daddy was in the yard, tossing feed from an oversized and discolored aluminum pan to Nana's chickens while the nameless old tomcat watched from his perch on the woodpile with an indelicate and greedy gaze.

It made me think of Randall and I was glad not to be a mouse.

Wet Noise

On Sunday - with Thursday's rain still coming down in sheets - I feel the beginning of a black mood coming on.
It's been a little less cold these past few days but I'm worn down by the relentless storm.  It seems to have parked itself directly overhead and show no signs of moving on.  A stationary front, the news calls it and shows images of rainclouds for the whole of next week.  Enough! I feel like shouting.  I hear it thudding on the roof, battering the deck, slapping against the windows and running in rivers down the street.  I'm tired of the dark skies and muddy yards and wet noise.  That it's Thanksgiving Week doesn't help.

The first Thanksgiving we ate out, my grandmother had made reservations at an upscale and quietly elegant Cambridge restaurant on Pleasant Street.  We all dressed in our Sunday clothes and were on our best behavior but I hated the discreet waiters and waitresses and the dimly lit atmosphere and the cardboard food.  My mother and grandmother were thoroughly thrilled at not having to cook or clean up and it only took the one meal for a new tradition to be born.  After my grandmother's death, the holiday was moved to a family-style restaurant midway between Massachusetts and Maine.  Sunday clothes gave way to pressed jeans and button down shirts, plastic tablecloths and a serve yourself, all-you-can-eat buffet.  It was no improvement except that it was over sooner.

It's a paradox that much as I detested and dreaded family holidays and the fragile pretense they demanded we all slip into, I still missed the anxiety and that sense of never knowing when they might explode.  We were all far too self-conscious and too well behaved to make a scene in a restaurant - well, not much of one anyway - there were moments when my mother, well fortified and a little dazed by her morning martinis, might drop a lit cigarette into her  creamy mashed potatoes or sway slightly in her chair after flirting with the waiter but my daddy or one of my brothers would rush to her rescue and we would all pretend not to notice.  We might not have been a Norman Rockwell painting, but we had cover up down to a science.  All it takes is practice and an unwavering dedication to keeping up appearances.  Without the studio audience, things had a tendency to run their natural course - and often explode - small snipes led to quarrels and quarrels to border skirmishes and border skirmishes to all out wars.  It's unsettling to realize how at home you are in the middle of a vicious family fight.  You cheer for whichever side you happen to be on and hope for victory but win or lose, it's the wet noise that draws you in.  If it isn't loud and abusive, if someone doesn't finally break down in tears or denial, if it doesn't turn hateful and really scary, then you're doing it wrong.  

All the drama I learned at home came into play during my second marriage and touches of it stay with me even today.  Sometimes I wonder if I don't turn down holiday invitations for fear I'll be bored.

No Love Lost

It was, preacher was overheard to say after the service, a most disagreeable day for a funeral.

Nana had it on the very best authority that he and his wife had been forced to find paid mourners - fortunately the scallop fleet was still casting their nets and the disreputable scroungers were always ready and willing to make a quick buck so James and Lily hadn't had to look very far - and Nana insisted on attending despite her swollen ankles and arthritic joints.  


Even a woman like Odessa deserves to be seen off, my grandmother said a little resentfully, mebbe especially a woman like Odessa on account of who knows which direction she'll be aheadin'.

So she eased into her black dress and forced her feet into her best black shoes, added a single strand of pearls and a pair of clip on pearl earrings, set her tasteful little black veiled hat on her silver hair, and handed me the keys to the old Lincoln.  I'd never driven except under the strictest supervision and even then only to the post office and back and was taken aback at the thought of this particular errand but Nana was decided and grim.


It's to the church and back again, she said briskly, ain't no hill for a climber and I reckon you kin stay in the car for the service. I 'spect parkin' won't be a problem.

The day was overcast with a residue of fog clinging to the edges of the island and nothing but cold dampness in the forecast, as if even the weather felt no loss.  The old Lincoln warmed up quickly, sending a blast of hot air into the front seat with a roar.  Nana frowned, adjusted the vents, winced with the effort, and then gave me an encouraging nod.  I took a deep breath and eased the old car backwards and then slowly up the gravel drive to the dirt road.

It's a straight shot, my grandmother reminded me, Just keep'er between the ditches and you'll do fine.

The service was brief and the small church near to empty.  James had slipped each of the hired mourners a five dollar bill - graveside would've been extra and Lily had respectfully but firmly quashed that idea with a single glance - so only my grandmother and my aunts Pearl and Vi and Miss Clara who tended the graves were left to see Odessa lowered into the ground.  James read a short prayer just before it began to rain and it was over.  It was a funny little group, I thought as I watched from the car, four women all in black and James, standing in the rain and looking like silhouettes against the pale sky, doing what they saw as their duty.  I was thinking of the stories I'd heard about Dorothea Odessa Mills - how she'd raised her daughter with a Bible in one hand and a hefty switch in the other - Child was always a mess o' bruises and broken bones, Aunt Pearl had said.  Aunt Vi remembered her being caught stealing from the church collection plate and Clara reminded everyone about the cattle poisonings up island - 'Course they never proved it was Odessa, she admitted, but we all knew.  Then there'd been the fire at the post office, the break in at McIntyre's, the vandalism at the school.  Someone had tried to kill a half dozen dogs one particularly violently hit and run summer and the old timers still talked about the morning that the lobster boats in the cove had been cut free of their moorings and been found washed up on Peter's Island with their traps slashed to ribbons.  Like to cost them lobstermen a whole season of feedin' theys young uns, Sparrow said bitterly, Done outta pure meanness that were, like when she poured gasoline on the flower beds in the Memory Garden.  Killed ever'thin' that did and contaminated the ground for years.

On the whole, the village thought, the death wasn't much to be mourned.  There'd been no word from the family but a week or so later, James received a letter with a new hundred dollar bill enclosed and a harsh note.

Reimbursement for the funeral and burial of Dorothea Odessa Mills, it read, She didn't deserve your kindness.

It was postmarked from Dartmouth, the last place anyone knew Odessa's daughter, a practical nurse so it was thought, had lived but there was no signature and no return address.  James and Lily put the money toward the church's long term renovation fund, labeling it an anonymous gift from a former member and in time - unlike Odessa who lived on through gossip and mean spirited but mostly true stories - it was put to good use and forgotten.

Reckon if even a little good comes from bad, we ought to be grateful, James said.

The village, not wanting to disagree with their preacher, said absolutely nothing.

.

A Pretty Thought

All I need, my friend Daniel writes in his post, is love and prayers, nothing else.

Well, no, I ache to respond, it's a pretty thought but if love and prayer could cure addiction and make people well, there'd be no alcoholics or junkies.  One of my favorite recovery quotes - and the one it took me the longest to learn and accept is that Love isn't the answer.  Love isn't even the issue.

Does Daniel need to hear this?

Probably.

Will he listen?

Probably not.

It's easier to ask for love and prayer from others instead of help for yourself.  When you fail, it'll be their lack and not yours.  Drunks and junkies always need someone or something to blame other than themselves.

It's never a question of love.

Mary Margaret's Letter

Mary Margaret was what islanders called a sturdy woman, big boned and husky with muscular forearms and an overall build more suited to driving rails than delicacy.  She could out drink, out curse, and out fight almost any man in the village - and often did on summer Saturday nights - when the week's work was over and done. She kept a store of homebrew in the root cellar just for the occasion.

After her common law husband had tripped and fallen down those very dimly lit steps one chilly winter night and died of a broken neck - he'd been a mean drunk and a sorry son of a bitch by most accounts - Mary Margaret planted him and moved on, raising four sons on hard work, whiskey, and a small government pension.

Hell raisers all, so folks said but never to her face or their's as the boys tended to travel in a loud, defiant pack, ragged and poor and ill tempered, and their mother - who stood just over  six foot in her stocking feet - made impressive figures.

Gawddam, if those boys aren't bigger'n most houses, Uncle Shad remarked to my grandmother.

Come to a bad end, they will, Nana agreed sourly, Jist like they's daddy.

Uncle Shad snapped a kitchen match with one practiced, toughened thumbnail and it burst into flame with a bright, sulphury-y hiss.

There be some still say he didn't fall, he said mildly and exhaled a stream of silvery smoke.

Reckon so, my grandmother nodded, But sayin' and provin' ain't even related.

Don't 'spose, Shad allowed, but gawddam, ain't those boys big as trees.

On the morning the sturdy woman came to our back door, looking like the wrath of God and blotting out the sun with her sheer size, I liked to swallow my gum in fear.  Nana gave me a brisk clap on the back before chasing me off with a Shut yer mouth, child, you'll catch flies low growl.

Got me an errand in Digby, Missus, Mary Margaret muttered, Heard tell you was goin' come Sat'day.  Wondrin' if you'd oblige me.

It was a common enough request as anyone making a trip to the mainland always traveled with a list of places to stop or things to pick up for others in the village - liquor from the province-run liquor store mostly - but also fabrics or small machine parts, veterinary drugs or packages too big for the mail car.  Once Uncle Willie and Uncle Shad had loaded a second hand pump organ for the Baptist church into the back of a pickup truck and worried it all the way back.  And once they'd transported a carefully wrapped grave marker from Jayne's Funeral Home, coaxing John Sullivan to ride in the back and keep watch over it.

Ain't gon' do that a second time, Long John had told Nana with a curiously fragile shudder, Give me the fidgets somethin' fierce to ride sixty miles with a tombstone.

So Nana smiled and nodded and took down her little notebook from its hook by the back door, neatly wrote Mary Margaret's name and looked up expectantly.  The sturdy woman shifted from one foot to the other, big hamhock hands jammed into the pockets of her overalls,  eyes looking everywhere but at my grandmother.  It was an odd stand off and Nana waited patiently.

Prob'ly wants her to pick up a body, my little brother hissed in my ear, surprising me into a muffled shriek and earning us one of Nana's patented, narrow-eyed warning glances.  Mary Margaret didn't seem to notice.

Mary?  Nana asked encouragingly, What is it you need?

Got me a letter, Mary Margaret said finally, producing a folded over and dirt stained envelope from her back pocket, It's private like.  Don't rightly trust the mail.  She handed it over hesitantly and Nana took it.  For a moment it hung there, half in my grandmother's well cared for hands, half in Mary Margaret's overworked ones.
Then, as if it might bite, Mary Margaret let go.

I'm obliged to you, Missus, she said in a softer tone and then the screen door slammed and she was gone.

Burning with curiosity, my brother and I descended on Nana like locusts - we'd seen her eyes widen when she looked at the grimy envelope and read the address - but she'd have none of it.  She waved us off and tucked the envelope into her apron pocket.

Not your business, she said tartly, not your burden.  Go before I decide to take you both to the woodshed for listenin' at keyholes!

This being no idle threat, we went.

By Saturday we'd all but forgotten about Mary Margaret's mysterious letter.  Nana made no mention of it as we all piled into the old Lincoln and nothing out of the ordinary happened until we were on our way home and without a word of explanation, made an unscheduled stop of the headquarters of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.  

I'll be back directly, she said, pulling into a vacant space, Stay put and behave.

But Nana.......we started to protest and she silenced us with a fierce glare.

Curiosity killed the cat, she told us abruptly, slung her purse over her elbow and marched toward the official looking and slightly intimidating building.

Somebody's in trouble now!  my little brother whooped and gave me a sharp dig in the ribs.  I shoved back and called him a nasty name and my mother turned in her seat and clapped her palms together sharply.

That's enough! my mother snapped angrily and clapped her palms together, They have special cells for children who don't do as they're told!

I was old enough to recognize that this was a tactic but my little brother cowered at once, curling himself into a ball against the passenger door, white faced and looking close to tears.  Feeling guilty, I shook my head at him and patted his shoulder, mouthing No, they don't.  He shivered and uncertainly reached for my hand. The ride home was quieter than usual and although nothing was said, I sensed trouble brewing between my mother and grandmother and was sure it had to do with Mary Margaret and the letter but it would be another few days before the trouble bubbled to the surface and spilled over like an unwatched pot.

Ruthie and I were in the playhouse, serving imaginary tea to the dogs and a collection of imaginary guests, when the official RCMP sedan came cruising slowly down the gravel driveway.  We watched breathlessly as two officers in their familiar traditional uniforms - red shirts with brass buttons, dark trousers, shiny boots and stiff-brimmed hats - knocked politely at the back door and were ushered inside.  Half an hour or so later, we watched them leave, heading further down The Point, and in our best stealth mode, we crept through the tall grass and across Aunt Lizzie's back pasture to a vantage point just beyond the barn.  The sedan pulled slowly into Mary Margaret's rutted driveway, raising a small cloud of dust and sending a flock of scavenging chickens scattering in all directions.  Their indignant protesting was loud but not loud enough to drown out Ruthie's sudden sneeze and one of the mounties casually looked our way before calling out a dry humored Gesundheit! 
A well trained and polite child, she immediately called back Thank you! and then covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wide with shock at what she'd done.   

Oh, hellfire and cracker crap! she gasped, They know we're here!

Run! I yelled, barely conscious of the mounties laughing in the background.  We took hands and ran for all we were worth, plowing through the high grass blindly and fully expecting to be chased and apprehended.

I can't be arrested!  Ruthie cried with big tears running down her pale cheeks, I'll get a whippin' if I ain't home for supper! 

For whatever childish reason, this made perfect sense to me.

Just run! I hollered back, Make for the woodshed!

We hid out with the kindling, the spiders and the woodbugs the rest of the afternoon and when the factory whistle blew at four, crept out and made our way through the back pasture to Uncle Shad's, across Uncle Willie's strawberry field to the Old Road and finally to the square.  Two little girls in tattered and dusty overalls with their faces smeared from dirt and wood shavings might've raised questions if the entire village hadn't been so scandalized by the news that the mounties had discovered no trace of Mary Margaret or her four big-as-trees sons, that the house was cold, dirty, and empty. Not a solitary soul would admit to having seen them since Saturday.

There's only one way off this island, the mounties had allegedly told Cap, They had to cross, wouldn't you say.

Ay-uh, the ferry boat captain had nodded, Be hard to miss'em, I reckon.  Them boys be as big as gawddam brick sh....big as trees, they be.  But they ain't crossed on my boat and that's a God given fact.

Maybe they swam, one of the mounties suggested with a slight sneer.

Mebbe they did, Cap allowed impassively, Reckon you gon' drag the passage?  Current's mighty strong this time of year, even for a sturdy woman like Mary Margaret.

The mounties left empty handed and the scandal, unfed, thirty years in the past and nowhere to go, died down by Labor Day.  The rumor that Mary Margaret's letter had been a confession to the killing of a mean drunk and a sorry son of a bitch stayed a rumor.  No one mentioned the second rumor, that four young boys who hadn't always been the size of trees might've had enough of their daddy's abuse and done a little housecleaning on their own.  

The truth, J. K. Rowling wrote, is a beautiful and terrible thing.  It should be treated with caution.




  

Uncertainty Ahead

The streets are glistening after a three day rain.  Both the front and back yards are slick with dead leaves and the remains of broken branches.  The weather is conflicted, not able to make up its mind whether to be muggy and unpleasantly still or sullen and cold and November-ish.  At times I know exactly how it feels - we are soul mates one moment and the bitterest of enemies the next - change, as some famous  Greek philosopher wrote, is the only constant.  All we ever really know is that there is uncertainty ahead.

Don't weary, my daddy used to tell me but he did and I do, sometimes about silly, foolish things and always about things I can't control.  It's an inherited trait I really could do without but if I have nothing to worry over,
I can invent something in a flash.

According to the evening news, my friend Daniel is currently lying in charity hospital with life threatening injuries, namely a gunshot wound to the chest.  After a marathon night of music and alcohol, he staggered home - to the wrong house - and when his key didn't work, he tried to break in and was summarily shot multiple times by the homeowner.  No charges have been filed.

Lucky it was a handgun and not a sawed off, Daniel writes on social media.  I suppose I could be glad that he hasn't lost his dry wit but truthfully the humor escapes me.  His 30th birthday is still ahead of him, he has a wife, a three year old child and a three week old baby.  He's alive by no small miracle and the medical bills will be astronomical.  I'm glad he can still smile but what of the nightmare his family and friends have been put through, what of the homeowner who pulled the trigger?  

He freely admits to being an alcoholic, of having black outs from time to time.  He apologizes publicly but makes no mention of getting help.  It hurts my heart to see his friends compliment him on what will be his new and impressive street cred.  The social media debate that breaks out after the shooting devolves quickly and battle lines are clearly drawn.  His defenders post impassioned pleas for understanding and forgiveness, his detractors are ready and willing to lock him up and throw away the key.  He's an irresponsible drunk or a troubled young man who made a tragic mistake.  He got what he deserved or he's a victim.  I read over a hundred comments and there's not a mention - not a single, solitary mention - of the fact that alcoholism is a disease.  Plenty of sympathy, boatloads of support.  Lots of cruelty and truly hateful rhetoric.  Gun nuts bragging that he'd if it had been their house, he'd would be dead.  Self righteous condemnations of his poor choices.  Reminders that everyone makes mistakes and too many get well wishes to count.  Prayers for his family, prayers for the shooter.

It stuns and saddens me that amid all this very public airing of very private dirty laundry, not one line is written about the truth.

God protects fools and drunks, my daddy used to tell me.

He never said who protects us from each other.