The Killer Blinds & Other Household Hazards

The kitten comes round the corner and into the bedroom on two wheels, skitters across the carpet in full attack mode and launches herself enthusiastically onto the footstool, then the chair, and finally with a wild trill, right into the window blinds.  Before I can even turn in my chair, there's a violent thud followed by the clatter of a collapsing window treatment.  When I look, I see her - surprised and indignant - all in a tangle of cords and blinds and chair cover.  The assault has somehow gone terribly wrong but she is undeterred, shaking and pawing herself free in a matter of seconds and darting past me with another high pitched cat song.  In one free spirited high jump, she clears the pet gate to the guestroom and skids into a bookcase.  A lamp shudders briefly then crashes to the ground, a picture tumbles off, a pair of brass giraffes slip and slide their way onto the floor with a metallic grinding noise and two shelves of hardback books spill every which way.  

By the time I reach the guestroom, she has - of course - moved on in search of new worlds to conquer and fresh havoc to wreak.  The black dog is jittery and both the small brown one and the little dachshund have fled under the bed.  I track her by the shambles she leaves in her wake - the dining room candles are knocked ass over tea kettle, the water bowl in the kitchen is still rocking on its rim, another lamp is down in the den.  But there's no sign of the kitten.  I wait.

In a moment, a small heart shaped grey face appears from behind the flat screen and my heart sinks with an image of mangled cable wires and electrical hazards.  I speak softly, sweetly, so as not to alarm her, hoping to coax her out with a minimum of damage.  Then without warning, the black dog sideswipes past me and toward her and in an instant, all hell breaks loose.  Ivy plants fall, stacks of music CD's come down in a veritable avalanche of plastic, and my worst fear materializes as an already precarious situation takes a bad turn and the flat screen begins to sway ominously.  I cross the room like a lightning strike and despite slamming one shin into the corner of the coffee table ( my mind silently shrieks every curse word I've ever learned), I get there in time and the 30" monitor falls safely and harmlessly into my hands.

Fuck a duck, someone mutters - it's my ultra-special, rarely used obscenity, reserved for times of unbearable and extreme stress - and it takes a second to realize that it's in my voice, then I remember I'm holding a very expensive piece of digital technology in my hands and that I should calm down and breathe.  Otherwise, I say out loud, You'll miss your chance to strangle that damn fool kitten.  I ease the flat screen back onto its pedestal, shoo the dog away, pick up the plants and gather the CD's.  No real harm done, I keep repeating like a Hail Mary, Nothing broken or bleeding.

Back in the bedroom, the kitten is at the window, perched innocently on the a/c unit and enjoying a blind-free and unfettered view of the street.  The black dog is beside her, differences forgotten now that the crisis is over, and the two smaller dogs have re-gained the bed, sleeping peacefully side by side in a jumble of pillows.

Madness and mayhem stroll down the street, arm in arm with peace and quiet.  You never know who's going to visit next or how long they'll stay.

Awake, chaos: we have napped ~ ee cummings

Grace

It ain't much to say grace over, Aunt Jenny said apologetically as she filled our plates with beans and ribs and buttered white bread, but it'll have to do.  I ain't got time today for nothin' 'cept mindin' the store.  Wash up proper when yer done.

Ruthie and I ate like our throats had been cut, savoring the mix of sweet, slick ribs and the over-salted green beans, washing it all down with store bought milk and saving a slice of bread to coat with sugar and have as dessert.   We carefully washed, dried and put away each plate and glass in the tiny, cluttered nook of a kitchen then stuffed our pockets with gingersnaps and headed down the dirt road toward The Point, kicking stones and racing each other up and down the dry ditches.  Two little girls in dusty blue jeans and sneakers, each with a nickel apiece for ice cream at The Canteen and all the time in the world - it was only late June and the whole summer was ahead of us - these were idle, sweet days that would not come again.

We passed through the square, deserted except for Mr. McIntyre in his apron and soft cap, sweeping off the steps of his store.  He called a greeting and smiled, his wife waved to us from the window.  

At the top of the hill, we saw Aunt Vi on her front porch with Uncle Mel who was sitting quietly in a kitchen chair, covered from the neck down with a snowy white sheet, reading the paper while Vi cut his hair.  Brenda Lee sang faintly in the background.

We were halfway to the ballfield when we saw Miss Hilda - looking remarkably like a straightlaced and overly tucked in Mary Poppins - coming directly at us on her new bicycle.  Without even thinking about it, we both froze in our tracks and stood rigidly at attention while she passed.  Something about Miss Hilda, even on a bicycle, inspired a military, hold-your-breath kind of response.  

Good show, young gentlewomen, she called and gave us a curt nod, Carry on!

We reached the top of the hill where we could see the near end of The Point laid out like a picture postcard, bright, sunny and framed by the ocean.  Except for the ferry making its way across the passage and the gulls, it was quiet.  A solitary dragger was cruising leisurely toward Peter's Island, otherwise this end of the village might've been sleeping.  Ruthie and I joined hands and ran, practically flying, down the dusty old road, feeling as if the whole world had been put there for us.  And to some extent - provided you were a child in a tiny village on a small island and it was summer - it had been.

Aunt Jenny had been wrong.  It was a lot to say grace over.

Gravity & Good Manners

Boy, Cap said as loud and clear as a church bell to my brother, You dull witted?  Step off that net 'fore you fall in and drown!  Do as I tell ya, boy!

The men on the wharf shuffled their feet uncomfortably and found other places to look in the silence that followed and my brother's face twisted and darkened with anger as he stepped away and back from the hauling nets.  Although barely ten, his eyes filled with hate at being publicly shamed.

I'm smarter than you, you old son of a whore! he yelled back and shook one small fist impotently, I'm smarter than all of you!

John Sullivan stepped out of the shadows, silent as a cat and moving with uncommon speed.  He delivered one sharp cuff to the side of my brother's head and sent him reeling back against the crowd of fishermen.

No, you ain't, boy, he said calmly, And somebody oughta wash yer mouth out with soap.

My brother, now thoroughly humiliated and white faced with rage, stumbled to his feet, took a few shaky steps toward the fisherman and spit.  Long John sighed and reached out one hand, snatched him up by his collar and held him out over the open water.  He dangled and struggled, let loose a stream of profanity and threats, and then in one unforgettable moment, John let go and I watched in unadulterated shock and glee as my brother fell - no, plummeted - in the ocean below.

For a shattering second or two, no one spoke.  No one moved.  Then Long John's brother stepped forward, cast a cursory glance over one of the pitch stained pilings, straightened up and shrugged.

Gravity, Jacob Sullivan said dryly, Ain't she a bitch.

Can he swim?  Cap called up.

Like an eel! I yelled back, remembering those classes at the YWCA but still halfway hoping he might drown.

My mother didn't speak to John Sullivan for a week and we were all forbidden to set another foot on the breakwater for the rest of the summer but the very next morning Nana made a fresh blackberry cobbler and slipped me a fifty cent piece to discreetly deliver it to the Sullivan brothers.  She winked at me and said she wished she'd been there.

The Pick 'Em Up Wind

The storm had threatened all day with grey-ish, anemic looking skies and what I remember my grandmother used to call a " pick'em up wind", warm but with an undertone of damp - sluggish but steady - a warning of rough weather ahead.  There was a melancholy yellow tinge in the air and it was a sad sack kind of day.

It was late evening when the rains finally came.  I watched from the safety and comfort of a bar stool while listening to an old friend from Arkansas sing of lost love and changing the world.  Hard driving and angry, the rain sleeted down the windows and set the traffic lights to swaying.  It hit the ground with a fierceness, welling up on the sides of the streets and running down the sides of the overpass.  A lone pedestrian walked past the bar, head bent into the wind, both hands clutching uselessly at an overwhelmed umbrella.  As I watched, it gave up the battle, collapsed inside out and was carried away on a gust of wind.  For just a moment it drifted ghost-like in the distorted, yellow haze of the streetlamp then was overpowered and took a suicidal dive over the railing and onto the interstate below.  The forlorn pedestrian continued on without it, each waterlogged step taking him deeper into the gloom until, in bits and pieces, he vanished like a windblown Cheshire Cat.  Watching him fade away, it wasn't hard to imagine the "pick'em up wind" snatching him right off his feet and sending him sailing over the overpass.  I hoped he hadn't much more to go.

It was well after midnight - on a school night, no less - and still downpouring when I got home.  The dogs, initially anxious and excited to go outside, made it as far as the back door before presenting a united front of their most reluctant and pitiful faces.  I coaxed/persuaded/manipulated and finally forced them out but felt badly about it and was ready with treats and clean towels when they returned.  It wasn't enough, of course, I could see the resentment in their eyes and feeling far too guilty to kennel them, I slept what was left of the night away with the distinctive scent of Eau de Damp Dog permeating the bedroom.  

Morning came and while the storm had mostly passed, the sky was still dark in places and the clouds looked to be feeling the after effects.  They hung wearily and low as if they could barely contain the weight of the rain and might rip over at any moment.  The "pick'em up wind" was still asleep but I sensed it was restless and would wake sooner rather then later and maybe even feel the way I did - ill rested, bad tempered, exhausted - but having no choice except to do what was required.

Standing barefoot on the back deck, smoking, drinking orange juice and waiting for the dogs to finish morning rounds, I thought again of my grandmother and wondered if I were to shower and dress and in her words, Be quick about it, could I get to work ahead of the next outburst.

You can't outrun storms or the pick'em up wind, she liked to tell me, but Lord willin' and the creek don't rise, you'll have another day to try.

Combat Pay

In the middle of a Monday morning that had already been mostly derailed, there was a blood curdling howl from one of the exam rooms - a long drawn out wail that resonated with operatic fullness all the way to the waiting room - several patients looked up in nervous concern, one hastily put down a copy the AARP monthly magazine and made a discreet but hurried exit.  

In a few seconds, it came again - only lengthier and considerably more amplified - The Call of the Wild meets The Hound of the Baskervilles, I thought uncharitably as one of the nurses hurried past me.  With the third, fourth and fifth mournful aria, the waiting room begins to sound like a flock of chattering chickens. I can hear the low hum of voices trying to calm, quiet and reassure the poor patient but it's pretty much a lost cause and after several more minutes, the doctor and nurses emerge - a little shaken and literally a little bloody - but victorious.  

Well, the doctor says resignedly as the nurses bandage his wrist and get him ice for an arm that is certain to bruise, that was unexpected.

Next time, the little nurse tells him, I'm putting in for combat pay.

You and me both, he says and grins.

Nobody Does Contempt Like A Cat

I haven't heard a sound, not a car door or a voice or a cat's call outside the window, but out of nowhere the small brown dog begins to howl and whine and dance frantically on the bed behind me.  It takes only seconds for the black dog to join in and then the little dachshund is anxiously snatching at my cuffs and pulling, gently but insistently.

Outside? I ask and all three immediately head for the back door in a whirl of wiggling little butts and jangling dog tags.  The kitten raises her head, judges it's nothing that merits her attention, and curls back up on her new sleeping loft, the one that doubles as dog steps.  Whatever the dogs have heard, she hasn't, or she just doesn't care - I rather suspect the latter - and since if you've seen one dog frenzy, you've seen 'em all, none of the other cats display the slightest interest in all the commotion.  If it doesn't involve a bluejay in the crepe myrtle, a squirrel chattering from atop one of the fence posts, or a trespassing stray cat in the front yard, the sunshine on the window sill is as close as they want to be to the outside world.  They are cats, after all, and they have an image to maintain.  It most assuredly does not involve begging for attention or treats, following the crowd, or behaving as if their home was in a tree.  They leave the mania of dog-dom to what I'm sure they see as their empty headed canine counterparts.

Meanwhile in the back yard, the chorus has begun.  The pack of coyotes on the other side of the fence are howling up a storm.  I can see their long, lean bodies running along the fence line, pacing anxiously and pawing at the boards while their owner screeches out a routine stream of exasperated warnings, some at the very top of her lungs as if there isn't already ample noise.

 MAX! BINGO! FRED! I hear and cringe. SHUT THE HELL UP! FRITZ! GET YOUR SCRAWNY, SORRY ASS IN THIS HOUSE!  REBEL, GET AWAY FROM THAT DAMN FENCE! 

The Maltese next door adds his voice, a high pitched and ear splitting yelp.

The doberman two doors down puts in his two cents, a sharp and if you didn't know him better, ferocious sound, unnerving and large.

The two mutts across the street protest in unison, throwing themselves against the chain link fence that confines them.

DON'T MAKE ME COME OUT THERE!  I hear my neighbor shout, I'LL SWAT YOU ALL INTO NEXT WEEK!

My own dogs, answering each and every call in voices I can distinguish without even trying, seem pleased with what they've started and obediently trot back when I summon them.  The mayhem eventually recedes with even the yapping little Maltese settling down and the last word left to Bob, the broken down old Basset Hound from down the street with the Dumbo ears and the bloodshot eyes.  He gives a final, mournful, drawn out woof, it echos like a yodel in the late afternoon air, and then dies.

Law and order is restored.

The streets are peaceful and quiet again.

And only the cats are left to shake their heads and wonder at this foolish expenditure of energy, this extravagant waste of voice.  Like untrained, awkward little ballerinas, the dogs dance around me begging for a reward while the cats look on - faintly amused but reserved, detached but slightly scornful - in a word, unimpressed.

Nobody does contempt like a cat.

My House, My Rules

My grandmother, a normally staid and reserved widow who usually held her emotions as closely in as her whalebone corset held her midsection, was mounting the stairs in a fury. 

Great Day in the Morning! I heard her bellow - there really was no other word for it, shout or scream didn't begin to cover her tone or volume - Who in the name of holy hell set the goddamn lampshade on fire?

I heard the door to my brothers' room abruptly slam shut and the dogs ran for cover as Nana arrived at my room and stood in the doorway, a scorched and blackened lampshade in one white knuckled fist, a rolled up newspaper in the other.  The wrath of God was all over her face and I instinctively clutched at the bed covers and tried to flatten myself against the headboard.  It'd have been comical except for her rage.

I'll have an answer to this or know the reason why! she shouted at me.

I whimpered innocence, she narrowed her eyes and appraised me, then marched down the hall to the boys' room, a terrifying whirlwind of a woman, too angry to listen.  The tiny glass chimes on the lampshade tinkled with every furious step she took and I buried my head in my pillow to drown it out.

You have three seconds to open this door, you filthy urchins!  I heard her yell, Otherwise I'll be setting fire to your bare naked butts!

There were panicky footsteps, then the rusty sound of a key in the lock and the soft creak of an opening door.
I could hear her breathing, panting like an old plow horse.  There was a short scuffle, the unpleasant sound of glass breaking, then crying.  I jumped off the bed and ducked under it, curling myself up as small as possible and cradling myself against the dogs, hoping for invisibility, willing to settle for safety.  As expected, both boys were willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that they'd had nothing to do with anything, had in fact spent the entire day playing with toy soldiers in their room, and that clearly I was the guilty one.  This came as no great surprise to me - two against one was a popular family game - but Nana wasn't having it.

Is that a fact? she demanded mercilessly, Well, in that case, you'll have no objections to turning out your pockets, now will you?  

There was a brief and very leaden silence.  She repeated the order sharply, then changed tones and spoke in a quiet, deadly calm voice that made my belly flutter and clench uncomfortably.

I have no problem whatsoever if neither of you leave this room for the remainder of the summer, she said icily, So I'd advise you to tell the truth for once in your goddamn lives!

The youngest broke first, with a gasping, torrent of tears and a sobbing confession of stolen cigarettes and a stash of kitchen matches.

Tattletale! the older snarled at him, Stupid little snitch!

Thief! my grandmother shouted, Liar!  She slapped him so hard it sent him careening into the wall and the impact knocked a picture on my side clean off it's hook.  Nasty little firebug! she finished and I heard her steps retreat.  The door shut with a vicious crack and I heard the key tumbler in the lock grate and click.

The youngest got a week's grounding, the oldest a week for stealing and an additional week for lying and both gave up a month's worth of allowance to replace the lampshade.  When my mother protested, Nana wouldn't budge.

My house, Jan, she said evenly, My rules.  Jesus H Christ, they could've burned the house down!  The only way those boys are leaving that room is if you pack up and go home.  I'll be goddamned if I'll have thieves and liars living unpunished under my roof.  If you won't teach your children consequences, then I sure as hell will.  Take it or leave it.

That particular fight lasted almost three days.

It wasn't our finest hour as a family but there were lessons to be learned.  Life is rarely fair, truth comes at a price, violence breeds violence and anyone can be pushed too far, even a generally kind and non-interfering grandmother.  No combination of aprons, sensible shoes, silver hair and whalebone corsets make a saint.

Let Us Be Clear

A late night pass through one of the fast food restaurants reminds me I'd resolved to learn to speak Walmart this year and that I'd better get started.  Most of those who are fluent in it are waaaay ahead of me, not only do they speak it, they write it eloquently.

You have to admire a language with so much flexibility and so many shortcuts - no complicated sentence structures, no rigid rules, no grammatical pitfalls - just a kind of mush mouthed, all purpose dialect with a natural flow.  It's a language that doesn't trouble itself with the need for punctuation.  It has backbone, refusing to be limited by the demands of clarity or demeaned by the ability to spell.  It encourages a sort of familial intimacy - you have to lean in and pay strict attention to understand - this creates a sense of closeness between speaker and listener.  And best of all, it's becoming universal.

Dis gurl be lookin fo a job, I read on the scrap of paper left under our door at lunch, Are yo gots one?

The paper is a page from a .39 spiral pocket notebook and has been torn out sloppily.  The name - more like an illegible scrawl and smeared with some foreign substance that I don't want to think about - is followed by a telephone number.

Absolutely, I mutter to myself, Definitely management material.  I'll get right on that.

Is this a joke? the doctor wants to know when I leave the note on his desk and I shrug.

Louisiana - where we see the separation of church and state as more of a suggested guideline and are still fighting tooth and nail to teach creationism (and Christianity with a capital C) in parish schools - doesn't waste many of its precious resources on education so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at this assault on literacy. As a language, Walmart is easier to learn and you can pick it up on any street corner and refine it any way you please. Not for nothing did we rate 10th in the top ten most miserable states to live in and that there are nine states more miserable is not much overall comfort.  

The mysterious job applicant surfaces later that afternoon, squeezing her astonishing bulk through the door and waddling - there's simply no other word to describe her side-to-side rolling gait and I can't bear to think how raw her thighs must be - across the waiting room to the window.  She arrives, panting and a little glassy eyed, slides her gum - or possibly chewing tobacco - to one side of her mouth and says something totally unintelligible but pretty close to Ya'll hirin'?  I'm offended by her smell, by her grimy little hands clenched into fists, by her blackened teeth and her too-close-together, squinched up little eyes.  But most of all, I'm offended by what passes for speech.

Against my better judgement, I hand her an application form - she snatches it, jams it into her overflowing cleavage and adjusts both bra straps - then with enormous effort, exits the waiting room.  I'm reminded of watching a tidal wave recede.

Seen me a walrus once, one of the patients remarks, Looked a lot like that 'ceptin' he had these horn things.

Tusks, another patient adds helpfully, Dey call 'em tusks.

That be a low rent walkin' heart attack, his wife scolds, Ain't no need to be ugly 'bout it.

She's absolutely right, I think to myself.  It's already ugly enough.

Walmart.  The language of the people.  More and more people speak it, write it, act it, and look it every day.
Jim Stafford called used cars the curse of the common man.  He never lived here.