Eight Feet of Snow in Ithaca

The man from Ithaca steps on stage and opens with a sweet love song and a smile.  His shirt needs pressing, his jeans are slightly tattered and his hair hasn't seen a comb this day.  Eight feet of snow in Ithaca, he tells us with a grin, but he's made it.  We are very glad to have him.  His songs and stories make us all smile.

The one that stays with me - and I suspect many in the audience - is a ballad about his grandfather, a Navy Seabee who helped build the runways on Tinian Island.  There's a heartbreaking simplicity to the song, an almost painful authenticity.  The lyrics send shivers up and down my spine, they are sad and powerful, grim because they're so true.  The applause is lengthy.  A man who will dig out from eight feet of snow in Ithaca to travel to Louisiana to sing his songs and tell his stories is worth listening to.

In the pre-snow blower days of my growing up in New England, winter often meant waking to the raspy sound of a snow shovel - scrape, heave, scrape, heave - my daddy, so bundled up he could barely move, would be out and at it sometimes as early as 5am.  There were times - rare but memorable - when the drifts were so high he was forced to climb out a window and clear the weight of the snow from the storm door before he could even begin.  My brothers and I were usually charged with making a path from the back door to accommodate the dogs who took a dim view of it all.  We were fortunate to live on a primary roadway - Lake Street was a straight shot from Massachusetts Avenue all the way to Route 2 - we got early attention from the plows and could almost always hear the sand and salt trucks rumbling behind them.  Friends and neighbors on secondary streets and side roads weren't near as lucky, often times it was noon before the snow was cleared, but we all had to deal with the tragic and infuriating habit of the snow plows not lifting their blades as they passed the newly shoveled driveways.

Once the shoveling was done and the plows and trucks had moved on, there was an eerie stillness to those work-less, school-less mornings.  Gray skies or blue, the world was silenced and insulated and stuck.  Like the aftermath of a bomb, I sometimes thought, when I imagined the sound was sucked away and not even a breath of wind dared to stir.  

No More To Be Done

You can't find peace, Virginia Woolf wrote, by avoiding life.

On a warm spring afternoon in March, my friend Hutch connected a hose to the exhaust pipe of his old pick up truck and fed the other end into the front seat.  I don't like to think about what he was thinking or how long it took him to die. I don't like to think about the fact that he was 51 years old and couldn't see a way through.  I don't like to think about how terribly sad it's making me feel.  Most of all, I don't like to think how close I am to understanding why anyone would do such a hateful, needless thing.

I haven't felt it often but there have been times - all recent - that I find myself wondering what the point is, as if there isn't anything more to be accomplished, as if there's no particular reason to try.  All the things I've worked and sacrificed and struggled for are done and the truth is that from here on in, it isn't likely that life is going to get any easier or any better.  It's not a bad thing, of course, I have a roof over my head, my little ones are happy and well and I have most of my health.  I can still work and write and take pictures, I haven't run out of money - yet - the little car still starts every morning and more often than not, I manage to fight off the future and its dread.  I still have friends that I treasure and music I haven't heard.  It ought to be enough but at night when I can't sleep and my mind strays to the dark and uncertain places and dredges up every fear I have and every disaster that might happen, then I wonder.

I'm far too encumbered to commit suicide, this I know as surely as I know anything, but the thoughts come anyway and they're wrapped in shame and guilt that I would even allow this mindset.  Life is precious, I tell myself, life is short.  And so it is.  But it's also finite.  After a certain point, what more is there to be done?

Hutch's obituary is tragically short - it gives the day of his birth and the day of his death and tells the city where he lived when he died.  There is nothing else, as if nothing in between even mattered or made the smallest difference and when we gather to mourn him, I realize that all any of us have is bits and pieces. 
There were two marriages but the details are sketchy.  There was a daughter, estranged for most of her life.
He was a landscaper, a handyman, a builder of rock gardens.  He favored old country music and played the guitar right handed.  He loved dogs, smoked like a chimney, occasionally drank more than he should've and danced with his eyes closed.   He had a brilliant and infectious smile.  It's not much to know about a friend.

How much we hide from those who care.

Road of No Return

The kitten, now a grown up little lady of 14 months, scales the back of the couch, reaches the top and flings herself on the unsuspecting small brown dog.  There's a wail of terror just before chaos breaks out - cats flee wildly, the little dachshund immediately alerts - and the small brown dog leaps all a tremble into my lap, her eyes wide with fright, her ears laid back in fear.  She isn't harmed but her timid nature has her shaking like a leaf and I can feel her heart pounding.  I hold her tightly, speaking softly and stroking her while the little dachshund looks on worriedly but it still takes several minutes before she's calm and willing to crawl back into her nest of pillows.  She curls ups, nose to tail, still wary, still listening, her eyes darting for signs of a second assault.  It takes a full half hour before she's sure enough to sleep again.

Not for the first time do I find myself wondering where it all went wrong and how I lost control.  I keep going back to marrying a dog person.

Once you got used to the idea, a houseful of cats was mostly manageable.  One led to two and two led to three and so forth and so on.  There was always a perfectly good reason to say yes to a new kitten.  I hadn't had dogs since being a kid - far more trouble and responsibility - but husband number two was clever enough to understand that while I could turn down a dog I hadn't seen, discovering one on my doorstep was quite another matter.  Not that I didn't come to love each and every one but the fact is that they turned my life more upside down then the husband did.  I had every intention of seeing them through their lives and then returning to a houseful of cats - worry-free, independent, self-sufficient cats - but it was too late and I'd been compromised. It was a road of no return.

People frequently ask if they all get along and I always say More or less.  It's as good an answer as any.

For Hutch

I find it difficult to write about a friend's suicide.

A relatively young man, a musician, husband, father and child of God.  Found himself in the darkest of all places and saw no way out.  Life is so precious, so short.  We all need more time in the light.

Water Everywhere

The rain has an endless quality to it.  There's a sense that it may never end and after six days it's all anyone can talk about.

Flash flood watches are issued, streets are closed, stranded motorists are rescued and put on the news.  The park down the street is underwater, some sections of the city are impassable.  Sirens can be heard night and day - police, fire, emergency vehicles - all rushing from one disaster to the next.  The weather channel puts together a slide show of high water pictures, everything from flooded out intersections to bayous overflowing their banks to collapsed roads.  There's water everywhere.  Everywhere.  The ground is so saturated it bubbles up under my feet.  It's like walking on wet sponges.  Ark jokes are popping up on social media sites and rumor is that the city ran out of "High Water" signs.

It's depressing, wearying, hard to take and for some, a little hopeless.  There's been no sunshine in over a week.  Lost in the wet and the dark, the light at the end of the tunnel flickers and then goes out.  It's no longer just good sleeping weather.  We reach our limits without the light and my insomnia kicks into high gear, my mood darkens, worry and stress take hold.  All the things I manage to not think about when the sun is shining gather forces and seep into my soul.  I'm feeling cold again and hating the very sound of the rain.  On the seventh morning, I feel like a damp mop left to dry in a cold wash bucket.  A hot shower and a change of clothes helps - only a little - and then I realize I hear birds singing.  With my heart in my throat I check the forecast - 66 with a 20% chance of rain, 70 and sun tomorrow - then four more days of rain.   

I try my best to focus on the bird songs.

Happenchance

Ain't no sense lookin' back and wishin' you'd done different,  Sparrow told my grandmother with a slightly sorrowful grin, it's all happenchance anyways.

You talk too much, you old fool, Nana scolded, Now shut up and take the damn medicine.

It don't agree with me, Alice! he protested.

Not half as much as I'll disagree with you if'n you don't! she warned.

Sparrow sighed heavily, stuck the handful of pills in his mouth and washed them down with water.  Even I knew he didn't look well - his skin was grayish and cold looking, his hands shook even when still - the medicine clouded his mind, made him short tempered and forgetful and as my grandmother liked to remind him, ungrateful.  She navigated his old wooden wheelchair into the sunlight, covered his lap with an afghan, slid a pillow behind his head.  His old tomcat watched from the railing - soon Sparrow's lap would become more than he could resist and he would jump with a casual, agile leap into it - Nana would disapprove and fuss but not chase him off.  If it was a good afternoon, both might soon nod off.  If not, the new, fresh faced young resident doctor and his magic morphine were not far off.  Ol' Man Death wasn't on the veranda that summer afternoon, although I sensed his presence.  Watching from a distance, I thought, watching and waiting, in no particular hurry.  Other business to be tended to before he headed our way.  Other stops to make.  Might be he'd be distracted all summer long.

I didn't say any of these things, a course, just inched a little closer to my grandmother.  I could hear her knitting needles clacking steadily, just as if nothing in the world could be wrong or out of place.

Nana, I whispered, Is he gon' die?

Before she could answer, there was a rumble from Sparrow's wheelchair and a small meow of protest from the cat.

Not today, missy!  the old man snapped and gave a harsh laugh.

I jumped so fiercely I tumbled over backwards and slammed my elbow into the door post, giving a howl of pain and feeling my heart miss a beat.  Nana didn't laugh but I could see she wanted to.  Sparrow breathed a little raggedly, coughed, then settled back down, one blue-veined old hand resting lightly on the cat's back.  A thin trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth and my grandmother set her knitting down, reached for her handkerchief and gently wiped it away.

It's all happenchance, he muttered, Ever' thing between gettin' borned and dyin', just happenchance.  Man cain't even die in his own time.  What in the name of all that's holy is the point.

Fetch me a glass of sugar water and a straw, Nana told me briskly, Damn fool's tryin' to talk hisself into his grave.

Sparrow balked, growling that whiskey'd do a damn sight more good than her blasted sugar water but Nana ignored him.

Reckon you kin drink it, she told him flatly, Or I kin pour it down your gullet.

She'd mixed a packet of white powder into it and he drank, not willingly, but he drank.  It wasn't too long before his watery old eyes closed and his chin fell to his chest.  He slept, more or less peacefully, and after giving my elbow a cursory look, Nana pronounced me unhurt and returned to her knitting.  The boats came in,
unloaded their catches, washed down their decks and moored in the calm water.  Several of the fishermen stopped by the old house, visited briefly, and then began the walk home.  The sun set over Brier Island and turned the clouds pink and blue and amber and glorious.  And Sparrow didn't die that afternoon.

The Marmalade Tree

At one time another, every island child had gone searching for the marmalade tree.  

It was, I suppose, as close to a rite of passage as any of us were likely to get and the adults smiled tolerantly at these small journeys, remembering their own experiences perhaps or just unwilling to spoil the game.  To believe in the marmalade tree was a given - it was said to grow out of sheer rock  although no one knew where - and to bloom alone but year 'round.  Part of the mystery was that it could be found only by moonlight and only by children.  Part of the magic was that if you found it, you couldn't tell where.  It was said that when someone did find it, the wind took over and pulled it up roots and all, replanting it as easily as falling off a log.  'Course since no one ever told, we never really knew.

It didn't promise fame or riches or eternal youth.  You didn't get three wishes or even your heart's desire.  It didn't make you wise beyond your years or grant magic powers.  It was nothing special really, just a tree that grew out of rock with leaves that smelled like mint but were the color of fire all year 'round.

So why look at all?  my eminently reasonable cousin Gilda wanted to know, Who cares about a silly old tree?

Gilda, a distant cousin on her first visit to the island, wasn't fitting in and had already very nearly worn out her welcome with my grandmother.  She wore pinafores and hair ribbons and shiny Mary Janes, disliked dogs, and found the smell of fish distinctly lower class.

Ain't nothin' says you got to go along, Nana remarked a little testily.

My mother says "ain't" isn't a proper word, Gilda replied primly and my jaw dropped and hung open while Nana's eyes flashed warning signs.  Sass was never, ever a wise response to my grandmother and even I knew better than to correct my elders.

And I'd like apple juice, please, Grandmother Alice, my cousin added, delicately pushing aside her glass of orange juice, Citrus doesn't agree with me.

I heard tell, Nana said with a sweetish smile but a cold tone, that people in hell want ice water.  She leaned back in her chair and regarded Gilda the way I'd once seen Uncle Shad double down on a snake in the cow barn. I'd crossed the road running for all I was worth and was halfway across the strawberry field when I'd heard the shotgun blast but Ruthie'd said there weren't enough left to pick up and throw away.  

Reckon it took two days to catch all them cows, Shad had said with a kind of satisfied resignation, But I ain't seen no more snakes.

At the moment Gilda asked for apple juice, I was kind of glad Nana was unarmed.

Full moon tonight, she said to Ruthie and I without so much as a sideways glance at my sulking cousin. Reckon I kin make you a care package to take along.

What's a care package?  Gilda asked immediately.

Flashlights, Nana said thoughtfully but clearly just thinking out loud and not in answer to the question, Matches and sandwiches, walkie talkies if'n I can put my hands on 'em, an extra sweater for each, bandaids and iodine mebbe.

Couple bottles of pop?  Ruthie asked with a hopeful grin.

I 'spect so, Nana agreed, I reckon I could hunt up a spare church key.

What's a church key?  Gilda wanted to know.

We left right after supper when the sun was just beginning to go down and the sky over Westport looked like a huge pastel paint spill.  At the last minute, my grandmother had slipped her antique gold watch off her wrist and into my pocket with a reminder that marmalade tree or no marmalade tree, we were expected home by midnight.

By the lord Harry, she warned, If'n I have to send out a search party, you'll neither sit for a week! 

Knowing my grandmother didn't make idle threats, Ruthie and I nodded a little anxiously, gave our word to be careful, kissed her powdery cheek and set off down the old dirt road.  We could see Gilda watching from the sunporch, a small and defiant little figure framed against the windows, but she didn't acknowledge us, didn't even return our wave.  In another few steps, the glare on the windows turned into a flashy reflection of the sunset and Ruthie and I took hands and began to run - past the canteen, past John Sullivan's boat dock, past the ferry slip and the breakwater where the road ended - and somewhere after we left the path to make our own trail, Gilda was forgotten.  We walked, we climbed, we scrambled over rocks and downed fences, past the ancient logging paths and the whiskey stills and the abandoned fishing shacks, through the shadowy woods to the other side.  I remember the moonlight shimmering on the water and the sound of the tide, the warm night air as it whistled so softly through the trees.  I remember the random caches of driftwood and kelp at the tideline and hearing the owls calling.  I remember the stars and the night birds and how peaceful it all was.

We were home by midnight, tired and well satisfied with the journey, content to have the marmalade tree keep its secrets.