Hands Off

Most of us trip and stumble through life, never knowing when the ground will gave way and leave us suspended in mid air.  The best we can hope for is to learn from our mistakes, improve our judgement and values, be more careful, and do as little harm as possible.  All the rest is serendipity, happenstance, luck of the draw, if you will - all other words for God, some would say - nature doing her thing, my atheist friends would counter, random, meaningless and as futile and escape-proof as a perfect circle.

I see pain in a friend's eyes but she will not be drawn out and because I love her and this is not something she wants to talk about - she says so clearly but with some effort - I respect her decision and don't press.  And though her worry and sadness lodge in my throat like a rough edged stone, I can't think what to say to her.  I don't understand what it is to be a traditional and loving parent, to have children that will always be a part of you, to willingly want to make their pain your own.  For better or worse, I just don't come from that kind of family.

It's hard to watch a friend hurt and stay hands off but sometimes it's exactly what you need to do.

Cross Talk & Brandywine

Ruthie and I, playing jacks in one end of the sunporch where the linoleum was slick and easy on the knuckles and we weren't in the way, listened closely to the conversation from the other end where my grandmother and her cronies were playing bridge and hotly contesting the most recent bid.

Six spades! Nana had cried in alarm, Damn, Vi, have you been sippin' from the cider barrel again?

We can make it, Alice, Aunt Vi protested but weakly, I've been practicin'!

Aunt Pearl laughed softly at this and Nana snapped off her glasses and gave her a glare.

No cross talk,  Miss Clara admonished them mildly, neatly laying down her hand and reaching for the pitcher of iced coffee, Let's remember, we're all ladies here.  She poured, drank, wrinkled her nose.  

Alice, haven't you got.....

You know where it is, Nana said absently then groaned when Aunt Pearl easily took the first four tricks.  Clara adjusted one errant row of playing cards, earning a distracted slap on the wrist from my grandmother, then briefly left and returned with a slim, half full bottle of Canadian Gold.  She delicately added a capful to her coffee, re-took her seat and leaned back with a contented sigh. 

Traffic was light on The Point that afternoon but each passing car got its full share of attention.  All four ladies turned at the sound of an engine - identifying the vehicle and often adding an editorial comment - then returned to the game.

There goes Lenny Smallwood, Miss Clara remarked as a dusty old pickup chugged its way past, Man doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground but he sure can grow sweet corn.

Heard tell that Lily's expectin' again, Aunt Pearl mused, You'd think that field would be barren by now.

I heard tell it mightn't be Lenny's, Aunt Vi said in a low voice, That's why he's drinkin' again.  

Speakin' of which, she added with a blush that went all the way from her throat to hairline, Gloria Grace is home again.  They say she give it up.

That'd be three, my grandmother said with a bitter smile, You'd think she learn a thing or two.

Walter says he's gon' tie her ankles together if she can't keep her legs closed, Pearl remarked, Just like calf ropin'.

Don't be vulgar, Clara said, That's insultin' the calves.  All four women howled with laughter.

There was a screech of brakes and a rusted, two tone Chevy came round the corner.  For a fraction of a second it was on two wheels - paralyzingly close to the battered guard rail - then it bounced back and straightened out, speeding past in a storm of dust and sprayed gravel.

Those Sullivan boys, Aunt Pearl sighed, Ain't one of 'em don't drive like a bat outta hell.

Gon' miss that turn one of these days, Clara agreed, They'll be scrapin' him off the rocks for days.

Ayuh, Nana said, ain't got the sense God gave a gull.

Aunt Pearl gave a sudden victory whoop and threw down a final card with a flourish that made my grandmother wince.  Thirteen tricks were neatly stacked in front of her.

Grand slam, Alice! she shouted in triumph, Pass that damn brandy!

Aunt Vi cringed in her seat.

So much for your practicin', Viola, Nana snapped, I declare you ought to stick to Parcheesi or Uncle Wiggily!

Clara patted Vi's arm gently and tsk'd in disapproval at my grandmother.  You'll do better next time, dear, she said, It's only a game.  Here, buck up and have some brandy.

Ferry's in, Vi muttered distractedly as a sudden flurry of traffic appeared on the road.  An oil tanker was first off, rumbling past with it's bright red ESSO sign shimmering in the afternoon light.  It was followed by a pick up truck, a renovated station wagon with wooden sides - trailing feathers - a gleaming green Volvo with New York plates, and lastly a low slung and new-ish black Ford with the familiar insignia of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police on the side.

Mounties! the ladies exclaimed almost in unison, the bridge game immediately forgotten as all four gathered at the windows like a gaggle of chattering birds.  They watched anxiously as the cruiser went slowly by and rather than take the curve and head up island, continued onto The Old Road toward the cove.  At the same time the telephone rang - as telephones would be ringing all over the village - Elsie's old switchboard lit up like a Christmas tree whenever the law arrived.  It was, Sparrow liked to say, the maritime equivalent of Paul Revere's ride, a veritable network of islanders banding together to warn the bootleggers and the unlicensed drivers of a possible intrusion.  Stills would be shutting down all over the island and the young boys in their boosted up, makeshift hot rods would be pulling into the nearest driveways.   Nothing bound the village so much as a little illegality.

Alright, girls, Nana announced, Elsie says it's just a routine visit.  Where were we?

We were cleanin' your clock, Alice, Aunt Pearl crowed, I don't wonder that you've forgotten!

Pearl, my grandmother said testily, just deal the damn cards.  Daylight's burnin'.

And it was.  The sky over Brier Island was deepening and beginning to turn pastel as we watched the ferry making its return trip.  The bridge game continued until supper was on the stove and the brandy bottle was dry.

Know Your Enemy

Until he lied and threw me to the wolves to cover his own ass, I'd never really thought of him as an enemy. Eccentric and a little weird, yes.  Sometimes bizarre, yes.  Arrogant, temperamental, hot headed and about some things not too bright, yes.  A bully and a two faced coward who turned hostile and mocking when he didn't get his way, yes.  Always prepared to evade responsibility, yes.  A clown but not an enemy.

In retrospect, I should've seen it coming and been better prepared but the lie was big, bold, convincingly told and effective.  It was, I realized too late, a well planned and perfectly executed set up.  The enemy - a far slicker bastard than I'd ever imagined - was elevated to hero and I cursed my own stupidity for my part in it. So be it, I told myself, at least now I know what I'm dealing with and I can make sure it doesn't happen again. 

I've met my quota of forgive and forget. 

Noise With Dirt On It

After six hours of punk rock and metal, I'm so far outside my comfort zone that I doubt ground seeking radar and a trail of breadcrumbs could bring me home.  I'm still not sure of the point of the music, aside from the volume which is deafening and the lyrics which are raunchy, but what strikes me the hardest is the age and demeanor of the young musicians and their fans.  They slouch around between sets, chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes, guzzling Red Bull and raving about the music - every other word is a familiar obscenity and it soon becomes faded and harmless - just another overworked old adjective, as if there were no others in the English language.  On the dance floor, they scream and wail and chant and body slam into each other like freight trains.  At some point, it strikes me that these are just children - acned, extravagantly tattooed and pierced, ragged and rebellious - but still just children.  Oh, my God, I think with sudden and despair laden shock, I'm turning into my mother!  The realization hits me like a slap in the face and clutching my camera like a shield, I scramble outside to the parking lot to breathe and come to my senses.  Think of the passion and energy you're seeing, I remind myself harshly, You were eighteen once too!

It almost works until I recall being eighteen - Nehru jackets, love beads, a hint of weed, a forgotten war - and protest songs by the likes of Phil Ochs and Arlo Guthrie and Tom Paxton.  We were wating for the revolution and we not only sang the songs, some of us tried to live them.  I can't reconcile the protest music I knew and loved (still do) with the angry, illogical, hysterically loud cacophony shattering my eardrums.  That was satire and activism - this is the definition I read recently of a boy - noise with dirt on it.

But, I tell myself, the world is an offering and I'm here because I don't want to be stuck in a musical box and I surely don't want to see my mother's face when I look in the mirror.

Banging and body slamming is not my kind of music and while I'd prefer to simply shut it out, there's nothing worse than a locked up mind.  These are children - smoking, cussing, inked and pierced children - looking for their places, for self expression, for a sound that speaks to them.  When I was their age, I'm pretty sure I was doing the very same thing.

Tolerance is not really a lived virtue; it's more of a cerebral ascent ~ Krista Tippett

Oh, my wounded ears.  I hope so.



  

Not in My Neighborhood

The gunfire is uncomfortably close.

It's a Sunday night and the shots ring out with an eerie and unfamiliar clarity, followed by an unpleasant screech of brakes and the sound of a gunning engine.  Firecrackers, I think to myself, but instinctively I know better although I don't know how I know.  I haven't heard gunfire since I was a child and don't think I've ever heard pistol shots except once a very long time ago, but still I know.  In a matter of minutes, less time than it takes to dial 911 almost, the neighborhood is filled with sirens, flashing lights and fear.  Uncharacteristically, the dogs are indifferent to the commotion, they barely raise their heads even when a police car slowly cruises by, its searchlight carefully trained on the front of each house.  It turns out to be a drive by shooting in the next block, a mere two houses and two yards away, and while there's some property damage, no one is injured and the shooters make a clean getaway.   The neighborhood will likely not recover quite so quickly and there are bound to be aftershocks in the neat little rows of houses so close to my own. I've never felt unsafe before, I realize, and sleep is longer than usual in coming this night.  Gunfire, I discover, will do that to you.

The thought that it might have been targeted is unnerving but the thought that it might have been random is even worse.

The following morning's social media postings report that it was an isolated incident, possibly a case of mistaken identity.  The police investigation is on going, the assailants will surely be apprehended, we are encouraged to not overreact.  It makes for good press, I suppose, but I find no reassurance in the statements.
The idea that a carful of gun-toting thugs would invade and shoot up a quiet little street that decorates and puts up Christmas trees on the sidewalks each holiday season unsettles me.  

If they'd shot at my house, the little nurse tells me with a smile I don't quite like, they'd never have gotten out alive.

Somehow not the answer I was hoping for.

A Clint Eastwood Moment

He is tawny - a lusciously cream colored coat with rich brown points on his face and tail and Paul Newman blue eyes - he's also enormous for a Siamese and he lays into the equally large orange tabby like a threshing machine.  They are wrapped up together on the front lawn - shrieking and wailing like the last two survivors of the end of the world - they snarl and tumble and roll around, not even noticing me as I come down the front steps.  I shout at them to break it up but it's all flailing claws and gnashing teeth and obscenities and neither pays me any attention.  Reluctantly I reach for the water hose, give the faucet an extended twist, and advance upon them with steely determination.  

Fair warning!  I shout but they are too intertwined to hear.  Dirt and fur are flying and I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.  I step even closer, press my thumb into the end of the hose and douse them both with an icy spray of water.  The tabby breaks free and makes a mad dash through the crepe myrtle, slashing through the latticework and diving under the house.  The Siamese gives a final, defiant yowl, turns on me with his back arched and hisses nastily.  I, however, am in the midst of a Clint Eastwood moment.  I wave the hose like a deadly weapon and meet his eyes without the first flinch.

Are you feelin' lucky, punk?  I ask and take a step toward him.  Apparently he's not - he gives a last growl and then turns tail - running through the scrubs and into the yard next door but still somehow maintaining his dignity.  Again, I'm struck by his size, which is considerably larger than our average neighborhood cat, and his gracefulness which is tiger-like.   I've never seen him before but I have a suspicion that he's only just begun.

There's a new sheriff in town, I tell the orange tabby who has taken a tentative step out from under the house and is watchfully sitting among the branches of the crepe myrtle, You'd better be watching your back.  He blinks but says nothing, casually lifting one paw to groom his whiskers and pointedly not looking to his left where some distance away the Siamese is sitting like a statue.

I love cats.  They're all about attitude and spirit and independence, things I admire greatly, but sometimes a cold shower is the only reasonable solution.





  

  

Take A Number

We passed through Centreville on a sunny late spring morning with the tide at its highest point and the fields of wildflowers in full bloom.  Gulls soared overhead, shrieking a welcome and the ocean rippled with white capped waves.  In the tiny harbor, the fishing boats were at rest, rocking silently with the motion of the ocean and secure in their moorings.  Like so many villages, it was picture postcard perfect.

Gus's Good Eats sat at the end of the breakwater - a landmark of sorts - dilapidated and in sore need of paint and carpentry but still churning out breakfast, lunch and dinner every day of the week save Sunday, even in the harshest of winter storms.  The poor old building sagged in places, the roof leaked, and nobody but Gus could manage the ancient wood stove but business thrived, especially in summer.  Tourists lined up for cardboard containers of lobster salad, scallops swimming in real butter, homemade chowders, sweet corn grilled in its husks and still warm bread.  There was no menu except for breakfast when you could have the No 1 (bacon and eggs) or the No 2 (ham and eggs), both served with or without toast.  Gus's only rule was that you had to take a number from the rusty old check machine which sat prominently under a hand lettered sign that read TAKE A NUMBER.  Sitting at one of the worn out old picnic tables, Nana and I watched as a family of tourists approached the counter, waited patiently for several minutes - they could clearly see Gus through the smeary glass as he could them - and then commenced to knock on the window, softly at first then a little more loudly.  Then a little impatiently.

Gus looked up, shrugged, put down the cast iron skillet and walked deliberately to the counter, slid open the glass window.

Take a number, he advised them and walked back to the stove.

The tourists looked around, nodded to Nana and me, looked around again.  The wife frowned, gave her confused looking husband an encouragingly sharp jab in the ribs.

We're the only ones here! the husband protested against the glass but not before giving his wife a narrow eyed glare, We'd like a menu!

A scowling Gus put down the skillet a second time, wiped his hands on his grease stained apron, and walked slowly back to the counter.  My grandmother began to snicker, trying unsuccessfully to disguise it by holding her paper napkin over her mouth and manufacturing a cough.  Gus slid open the window, leaned out on his elbows, twisted his face into something like a grin.

Ain't no menu, he snapped, And ain't no service less'n you take a number.  The glass window slammed shut, leaving the tourists looking a little dazed.

But we're the only ones here.....the husband repeated helplessly.

The wife, a substantial woman in a loud sundress and a fiery looking sunburn, roughly elbowed her thin and slightly frail looking husband aside and adjusted her matching tote over her shoulder with a jerk.  She planted her sneakered feet and with one tightly fisted hand, rapped so sharply on the window that the glass rattled and a small shower of paint flecks mixed with dust randomly flew about.  

And there, my grandmother muttered with a profound sigh, goes domestic tranquility.

What followed was, as Nana liked to emphasize in the frequent re-telling, an impressive display of speed, agility, and elegance.  Gus closed the distance between the back of the kitchen and the front door in two seconds flat, pausing only to exchange his apron for a double barreled shotgun, and roaring out into the open like a wounded bear.  The startled tourists flew in every direction, reminding me of a flock of geese out of formation and squawking protests.  The tourist wife and husband collided and she lost her grip on her garish tote - it slid off her ample shoulder and fell to the ground - makeup, a wire hairbrush, a family sized plastic bottle of aspirin, a handful of coins and several crumpled Nova Scotia maps spilled everywhere.  Gus took aim and with one ear splitting blast blew the forlorn bag and its entire contents to smithereens.  It was hard to tell whether it was the tourist wife - diving for cover and considerably less than dignified - or the gulls that shrieked the loudest. 

I ain't gonna tell ya again, Gus said calmly as he waved away dirt and dust and little pieces of paper floating in the smoky air, Ya hafta take a number.



  

All Things Being Relative

You don't appreciate what you have til it's gone.

For the two days that the kitten is at the vet's to be spayed, the house is eerily quiet and composed.  The sense of watchfulness that we have all become accustomed to is missing and the silence is unnerving.   It's peaceful and calm but it's not right, not exactly in balance with that one small element of chaos absent.  I leave early to pick her up, anxious to have her back home, and the moment I free her from the carrier and her little feet hit the floor, mayhem breaks out.  As expected, the adult cats spit and snarl and swat at her but the dogs go wild, landing on her in an ecstasy of welcome and excitement.  Hello, chaos, welcome home.  Since she's only been gone 48 hours, domestic relations are re-established shortly after supper and by the time everyone gathers on the bed, there's relative harmony.  I stretch out among this collection of cast offs, trying to find enough room to be comfortable without causing any undue disturbance.  Cats curl up behind my knees and perch on my hip, dogs lay claim to all the pillows.  The kitten is the last to arrive - she launches her small self with a distinct little mew - landing with a soft thud directly on top of the little dachshund.  He stretches, yawns, and shifts his position to make a place for her and both are asleep in a matter of minutes, her head resting on his paws and his on my shoulder.  

The thought comes to me that all things being relative, love and chaos are somehow linked, that on some level, you can't have one without the other.

There's more than a little madness in sharing life with three dogs and five cats.  I think in terms of animal care - how long can I leave them alone, is there enough dry food left, did I lock the back door - and of course the ever popular, oh, Good Lord, another vet bill.  And I confess, there are mornings when I envy those friends who are not at the mercy of such thoughts.  They have clean houses and nice things and get to come and go at will.  They shop for actual groceries at the grocery store.  I doubt they make weekly resolutions about cat hair on the curtains and dog art on the windows.  It's unlikely they replace vacuum cleaners every few months (knock on wood) or worry overly much about carpet stains, shredded furniture, or broken venetian blinds. They know what it's like to sleep in on a Saturday and come home at the end of the day to a mayhem-free house.
I, on the other hand, make it a point to dust and scrub and polish without my glasses.  If I don't see the dust bunnies, they can't call my name.

Love and chaos.  That's relativity.