Practice Makes Perfect

Moments after the old hound dog had had enough of his ears being unkindly pulled and twisted, he took a harmless nip at his abuser.  My younger brother, his vaguely mongoloid features locked in an angry snarl and cursing a blue streak, picked up a good sized rock and flung it, hitting the old dog squarely on the muzzle.  He was reaching for a second rock when a hand snatched his collar, lifted him clean off his feet, and tossed him unceremoniously off the veranda.  He staggered to his feet, lowered his head with a grunt and charged at Sparrow but the old pirate was quicker and caught him directly under his chin with the toe of his boot, sending him sprawling into the dirt for a second time and very nearly breaking his jaw.  In a rare display of common sense - or more likely resorting to the routine cowardice of a bully - my brother screamed a half dozen nasty but impotent threats and obscenities, then turned tail and ran.

Boy ain't the brightest light in the harbor, is he, Sparrow muttered as he gently doctored the dog, Reckon it's time he understood that he ain't welcome here no more.

Remembering the last rock throwing incident - we'd been skipping stones into the waves and unaccountably Ruthie had been struck in the back of the head, not by a flat stone but by a chunk of rock as big as her fist and my brother was the only one behind her - I didn't imagine much would come of it.  He'd denied he'd thrown it and gotten no punishment although Ruthie's scalp was badly lacerated and had bled as Nana said, Like a sum bitch.  The current young doctor had put in six stitches and Ruthie had headaches all the rest of the summer.

He says he wasn't the one who threw it, my mother insisted stubbornly.

Child might've been killed!  Nana had snapped furiously, And there weren't nobody else!  You 'spose there's a goddam rock fairy down on that beach?

He says he wasn't the one, my mother repeated, her face dark, sullen, defensive.

Boy's mean as a goddam snake, Jan, my grandmother warned her, and you're the only one who don't see it!

The decidedly chilly atmosphere worsened after supper when Sparrow came calling.  The women listened - my mother with cold detachment and denial, my grandmother with clear sympathy - while my brother stood silent and white faced with rage.  Nothing I knew of this troubled, middle child was good and I was sure he was already planning his revenge for being caught.  Several days later, John Sullivan's bait shack was broken into and a portion of his trawl lines cut.  That same day, Sparrow's old hound dog, who never ventured far from the veranda and never, ever off the property had a sudden bout of coughing blood and came frighteningly close to choking to death.  It took Sparrow and John together to subdue him and they pulled two baited fish hooks from his throat.  

Jeanette, Sparrow told my mother through the screen door, I ain't gonna say this but once.  If your boy comes within fifty feet of me or my dog again, I swear to Christ I'll fill his sorry ass with buckshot and be glad of the chance.  You rein him in or else, you hear?

Too shocked for words, my mother slammed the door and stumbled to the liquor cabinet.  It was Nana who climbed the stairs, locked my brother in his room, and hid the key.  I'd been hoping she'd beat him within an inch of his life but I settled for a week of solitary confinement.

He came out angry, unrepentant and unchanged.

My grandmother sat him down and after telling him to wipe the smirk off his face, laid down one single new rule.  The next time, she told him coldly, she'd ship his sorry ass home - she'd put him on the plane herself - and he would never be allowed back.  There was no doubt, even to him, that she meant every word.  When my mother protested, Nana silenced her with a look and a few carefully chosen words.

This is my house, Jan, she said flatly, and I'll decide who's welcome and who's not.  Includin' you.  Mind me, 'cause I ain't gonna say it again.

What was left of the summer turned fragile.  Mother and daughter reached a frail but mostly preservable truce and my brother, shaken up at long last, was smart enough to keep his head down and stay out of everyone's way.  By the time my daddy arrived for the the first half of his one week vacation, we had pretty much restored the pretense of an intact family.

Practice, as the saying goes, makes perfect.

Broke Down Days

Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles.

Charlie Chaplin

Sitting in a bar listening to a fast set of bluegrass, I instinctively tap my fingers and toes.  That's the first time I notice that my left foot doesn't cooperate.  I think "tap" but it doesn't respond.  A day or so later, after several unexpected near trips and almost falls, I realize I'm dragging it slightly when I walk - not hugely noticeable but enough to feel awkward - it's nothing I can put my finger on, but my gait feels off and out of sync.  Pinched nerve, I decide, maybe drop foot.  There's no tingling, no numbness, no pain but I can't bend my toes upward.  When the word stroke comes creeping around the edges of my mind, I give it a violent shove and send its sorry ass flying.  I may have my old, creaky and broke down days, but I'm not going there.  Uh-huh, not none of me, I tell myself as if I could will it away.

When, after a decent interval, it gets no better and only marginally worse, I give in and decide to see the doctor.  I opt for the podiatrist, partially because it's an optimistic decision, partly because all my instincts tell me that it's where my regular doctor would end up sending me anyway - at least that's what I hope/pray/believe -  partly because I want to put as much distance as possible between me and the dreaded "S" word.  A few days later I'm cooling my heels in an opulent, uptown office with all the trimmings , a wretched excess of the fanciest, newest medical equipment and computer gadgets, and a staff of thirteen.  The doctor, heavier than I remember and now silver haired, is thriving - still married to the same woman and doing well enough to have taken on a partner and bought his own building - he remembers me from my days at the photo store which we both agree seems like a lifetime ago.

He examines my recalcitrant foot, puts pressure here and there, has me push against his hand from a dozen different directions and diagnoses a compromised peroneal nerve.  He advises a nerve conductivity toxicity test to pinpoint the source and asks how I'd feel about a brace.

You'd walk without having to remember to lift your foot and you wouldn't trip, he says and that's good enough for me.

No stroke?  I ask.

No stroke, he tells me firmly.

Optimism will out.  I knew it all the time. 

Kittens & Little Disappointments

Rain is tapping like a crow on the windows when I let the dogs out and the little dachshund makes straight for the dilapidated garage.  He hesitates at the old doggie door, cocking his head as if listening, then darts through.  I hear him padding around and exploring and then he begins to bark, steady but not panicky.  I imagine he's cornered a mouse or a wayward squirrel and don't pay much attention but he doesn't stop and suddenly the barking gives way to a series of yelps and a howl of pain.  With no idea what's wrong, I nearly break my neck to reach him - he's half in and half out from under an old church bench I've been meaning to do something with for the last decade and a half - back to barking and wagging his tail frantically.  It's only then that it occurs to me that this can only mean kittens.

After making sure he's intact and not bleeding anywhere, I manage a mild scolding and shoo him out then hunt around for a flashlight.  The garage is a repository for ten years of junk and debris, not to overstate it but it's a hoarders heaven, and it takes some doing and more agility than I have to climb over and under and around the bench, the extension ladder, the abandoned washing machine, the paint cans and trash, the bags of old clothes I'd meant to take to Goodwill, the leaf blower I'd forgotten I even had.  I have no idea which stray, homeless cat I'm going to find but I do know she will have found the most inaccessible place possible.  I creep, crawl and make my way under the workbench and through a haze of cobwebs and shine the flashlight and finally, there she is - it's the pastel tortoiseshell, a familiar face that's been roaming the neighborhood for years - a street smart old girl who's evaded all attempts at capture, not quite feral but close.  Like Blanche Dubois, she has always depended on the kindness of strangers.  Pressed tightly against her belly are two tiny kittens, one orange and one tawny. Their eyes aren't yet open, they haven't been long in this world.

I've always tried hard not to feed the neighborhood strays but rules are made to be broken and this is a nursing mother who's not had an easy life.  I bring her a bowl of water and a dish of food, place them within her reach and back away.  She watches intently, protective and not quite trusting but not openly hostile.  She's a wise old lady and she's been here before so I leave her to tend her babies.  It's time to have a facts of life talk with the little dachshund - I imagine it's come as a quite a shock to him that not all cats are like his cats - some would actually rather not be chased, humped, pulled around like a chew toy or have their food stolen. I hate to be the one to disillusion him.

It's a one sided conversation, as they always are, but he listens patiently, head alertly cocked, soulful eyes never looking away.

Sometimes, I tell him soothingly, things just aren't meant to be.

He looks at me expectantly and whines. 

Exactly, I say, So we - and by we I mean you - are going to give her some space with her kittens, meaning the garage is off limits for now.  She needs her rest and you're a disruption.  Don't take it personally, ok?

He lays his shaggy-faced head on my knee and sighs.

I know, I tell him, but life is full of kittens and little disappointments.  

The next time I let him out, he rushes straight for the garage and I have to take a sharp tone when I tell him no.  He gives me a sorrowful look and reluctantly changes direction, trotting off toward the back fence as if it were his own idea.  

As it turns out, I've misspent my time and energy because the tortoiseshell thinks better of her little refuge and a day or later moves herself and her litter to parts unknown. Despite a hard target search, the little dachshund comes up empty several times and finally loses interest - out of sight, out of mind - and we turn another page in this book of life.

A Joyful Noise

It's still light when I get to the bar and the music is in progress. There's a surprisingly good crowd for so early in the evening - I see a host of familiar faces and get more than a dozen hugs on my way to a quiet corner - a friend takes my camera bag, pulls out my chair for me and like magic, an ashtray and a diet Coke appear at my elbow.  There are several more hugs before I get set up then like more magic, people smile and back off, giving me space to work.  They will drop by all evening but none will stay long.  These are mostly folks I've photographed for years and they know me well.  It's not a surprise that each time I finish a diet Coke, another appears.  I kind of like being watched over but not interfered with.

We are all there to remember, honor and pay tribute to our friend Hutch.  His death rocked our small world and although no one mentions suicide, I know it's on all our minds.  There are those among us who have come too close for comfort to be casual about it.  Some of the music is dark and introspective but most is raucus, bluesy and loud, just the way Hutch played.  Everyone has a story and they tell it with riffs and harmonies and lyrics.  It goes on well past midnight this blend of old friends and old memories - it's bittersweet and a little hard - everyone says how much he'd have loved it, how they're sure he's smiling down at us.  I hope so.

Driving home in a light rain, I think about him.  Tall, thin, ruggedly handsome with a mane of silver hair past his shoulders, he was a delight to photograph.  Generous to a fault with young, struggling musicians, sharing the stage and his talent, teaching them new tricks.  Almost always smiling despite battling a slow moving cancer for years, despite a troubled life and a troubled marriage, despite a desperately troubled mind.  He wasn't a perfect man, not a perfect musician or even friend and in the end he wasn't able to find his way back. But he was here and he will be remembered and missed.

We celebrated his life and his music because while he was here, he made a joyful noise.

Temper, Temper

Despite being told - in writing - exactly where the audition was to be, what to bring, what to expect, that there would be no cost or obligation and first and foremost that the gates would not open until 3:55, the calls start coming at 3:30.

How do I get through the gates?

I'm at MacDonald's, can you give me directions?

Where am I supposed to come?

Am I supposed to bring a picture?

Is this gonna cost anything?

Michael is feeling wretched with flu-like symptoms, regretting that he didn't follow his impulse to cancel the session entirely.  He's sweating his makeup off and bad tempered.  The dogs are agitated and barking restlessly and without letup.  The yard crew arrives in the middle of it all and brings their own special brand of chaos. I'm headachy and out of patience.

Four of the seven wannbe actors/models who confirmed actually show up.  Only one brings a picture as instructed.  One brings her entire tribe - a collection of scruffy, unshaved, smirky and tragically dressed young men who slouch into chairs with a distinct air of contempt - another can barely walk for the heavy weight of makeup. One wants to know if there's food.  Of the two parents who have chosen to accompany their underage offspring, one spends the entire time on his cell phone and the other appears to be in a drug-induced stupor. She actually nods off halfway through filling out the paperwork.  It's a dismal and uninspiring assemblage and while I am feeling edgy, irritable and not encouraged, Michael is nearly ready to flee.

I gather up paperwork, completely un-surprised at the number of blank spaces on the forms - from the look of them I'm not convinced that they can all read or write - and Michael composes himself and begins his pitch. He's a half hour in when the front door opens and a late arrival strolls casually in, carrying a paper Taco Bell bag and a drink.  I prepare myself for the worst and although there's a fraction of a second when I think Michael might marginally keep it together, I then see his fists clenching and unclenching and I know we're in for it.

If you can't manage to be on time, he says in a voice that could freeze hell over, You may leave.

There's a shocked silence and all I can hear is my own breath.  The teenager in the doorway hesitates, takes a tentative step toward the group, tries to put together a smile.

THIS IS HOW YOU TAKE DIRECTION???  Michael shouts, OUT! NOW!  AND DON'T COME BACK!

The girl clutches her Taco Bell bag in a death grip, her eyes fill with humiliated tears, she runs.

Michael takes several deep breaths, runs a distracted hand through his hair then straightens his shoulders, tugs at the hem of his sports coat, sighs and turns to face the stunned but now very attentive faces before him.

If you can't be on time for an audition here, he says with a deadly calm, Then what would make me think you'd be on time for a job if I were to send you?  if you can't take direction, you have no business being here and you're more than free to leave.

Several heads nod but no one says a word.

This, he continues, is like a job interview. And even if this were not my home as well as my business,  YOU DO NOT BRING NACHOS.  Have I made my point?

There is just the smallest hint of a smile or two as the shock wears off.  He looks into each face directly, I suspect judging their reactions, and after a moment or two more, he shakes his head and regains his equilibrium.

Now. Where was I? he inquires.

And a small voice says, Talking about the hazards of the business?

It's enough to break the tension and make everyone laugh.  Though it takes a little effort, even Michael manages a smile.  Later he will rant and rave about stupidity and entitlements and literacy and feel badly about his outburst - although not too badly - and he'll get over it.  It's only his sense of how the world should be that's offended.

Temper is a weapon we hold by the blade ~ James M. Barrie

Scar Tissue

In one of his rare serious moments, my friend Michael tells me his theory that we are different people at different times in our lives.  This, he says, helps explain some of the decisions we make, especially the bad ones.

I consider this and quickly decide he's most likely right - I am certainly not the person I was at twenty or thirty or even a year ago and neither is he nor most of the people I know.  

It's a process, I think to myself, inevitable and inescapable.  We move forward, we move backward and sometimes we stall and move sideways but we move.  Hoping for progress and growth, defining our strengths and clarifying our flaws.  We spend the years hurting and healing and learning to forgive ourselves.  Most of us let go of some grudges and nurture others, building layer upon layer of wisdom and scar tissue each in our own way.  

The downside is that we're too late smart all too often.  As the old saying goes - if only I knew then what I know now.

Maybe we need to be all those different people to come to our genuine selves.

Time, Marty Rubin wrote, doesn't pass.  Time continues.













  

The Reluctant Librarian

Being a man of few needs and less wants, it wasn't surprising that Cap was as confirmed a bachelor as you were likely to find in the small village. 

He'd been island born and raised, fought in France when he was barely eighteen, joined the merchant marines for a number of years, and then came home just in time to take over the ferry between Brier and Long Islands. He was a short, stocky man with salt and pepper hair, a neatly trimmed beard and a gift for silence.  When he did speak, his directness could be disarming - the reticent old sailor didn't have the patience to mince words or waste time - and even though it took some years, the island women eventually realized that he was likely to be a lost cause for even their concentrated matchmaking.

He took up residence in a two room vacation cottage overlooking the cove - had winterized it himself his second summer home - adding a hot plate kitchenette and a tiny deck where he could sit in his rocking chair and look out to sea in the evenings, two old hound dogs and a tinny sounding portable radio his only company.
He liked to read and count the stars, he told Miss Clara who came once every two weeks to clean.

Although I can't see why, she confided to my grandmother, I declare the man keeps the cleanest house I've ever seen, why, it's fair military neat!  Ain't gon' surprise one little bit if them dogs salute one of these days!

Sometimes, he told her, they's things that kin use a woman's touch.  Though I ain't one of 'em.

So every other Saturday, Clara rode her paint pony to the small cottage and spent her morning polishing the already polished and dusting the already dusted while Cap smoked his pipe and read on the little front porch or slipped into his navy jacket and took the dogs for a long haul walk.  They fell into an easy though pretty much wordless routine - Clara would always tell him good morning and Cap would always nod - anything more was like pulling teeth.  She left promptly with the noon whistle.

Good lookin' pony, he'd once said and startled her out of a year's growth.

And when the boxes of books started arriving, See somethin' you like, ma'am, just take 'er with you.  Don't reckon I'll live long enough to read 'em all.

More words'n he's said in a month, Clara told Nana cheerfully, That man's a pure readin' fool.

There were novels and biographies, books of poetry and crossword puzzles, historical accounts of sea battles and textbooks on philosophy and religion.  There were books about art and music and architecture and travel. The mail car brought a new box every month, carefully taped and packaged, and Cap walked to the post office and back, carrying them as if they were gold.  He wrote each and every title on an index card and filed the cards in shoe boxes.  After the first year, there were so many books he was obliged to build bookshelves to accommodate them.  After the second, he had to add a room.  On specially clear and starry nights, he would sometimes bring out his old squeeze box and play snatches of sea shantys.  The music drifted lightly like smoke across the water, reaching as far away as the village square and bringing a smile to anyone who heard.  There was something distantly romantic and dark about it, much like the man himself, we thought, a mystery made of books and music and foreign-ness.  His solitariness was quietly lonely and reclusive.

Do that man a world of good to open a library, Clara observed one afternoon, There's a sight more to life than books.

The casual remark was overheard by the schoolteacher, a dedicated young man always in search of new and inventive ways to interest his restless students, and in record time he was at Cap's door.  It took some gentle persuasion but my summer's end, the lending library was in full swing and parents and children all over the island began individual journeys of discovery.

The library was open to all but Cap remained a mystery and a bachelor.

This Side of the Hill

It's late in the afternoon when the storm rushes through.  There's a rumble of thunder and the skies open with a fury, rattling the azaleas and crashing through the crepe myrtles.  In a matter of minutes, the gutters are running with pollen colored water and for a little while the air is clean and fresh, the heat momentarily broken.  It's a passing spring storm and neither it nor the relief it brings lasts long.

The little dachshund - freshly bathed, groomed and manicured - crawls into my lap with a sigh and is almost instantly fast asleep.  The kitten is only a few seconds behind, snuggling against him with a self satisfied expression and kneading his belly.  Their friendship is a constant surprise to me.  They share their space easily, sleeping together and grooming each other and when they play, they play hard and enthusiastically, chasing each other through the house with wild abandon and joy.  The other animals, particularly the cats, watch cautiously and usually from a safe distance.  Now, as the rain echos on the roof and sheets against the windows, the little ones find corners to curl up in and nap.  The wind picks up and howls briefly, the crepe myrtle shivers.

The next morning, Easter Sunday, the sky is grim.  It's chilly and gray and not long before I hear the start of another rainstorm.  I wake feeling creaky and old, my joints aching when I move.  This will be the year I began to feel my age, I think to myself.  Nothing major, just the dismal realization that I'm not nineteen anymore, that things are not as easy as they used to be.  If I sit for too long, my muscles protest when I get up.
Kneeling to put away the catfood means I have to pull myself up.  Just unloading the groceries gives me a feeling of fatigue in my lower back.  My upper arms tire holding my camera and without my glasses I might as well be seeing the world through the bottom of a Coke bottle.  After tending the animals, I ease back into the warm bed and pull the covers up to my nose.  The little dachshund snuggles close, I can feel his breath on my hair and the small brown dog settles down on the pillow above my head.  I can't move my legs for the weight of the cats but I don't mind so much.  When I shift sides and burrow deeper, my shoulders and knees ache with the effort.  I remind myself that it could be worse.  Very much worse.  Age clarifies our design flaws in a way I find disagreeable and unpleasant.  It's a gradual slowing down process, a reminder that I should've been kinder to this broken down old body.  After a nap, I throw the covers aside and get to my feet.  Gently.  Slowly. Not easily. 

As the day wears on though, the stiffness eases some and I begin to feel less constricted and achy - not nineteen, sadly - but at least still on this side of the hill.  The rain stops in midday and I notice just how green everything seems to be.  The azaleas are in full bloom and the air damp with scent, the leaves on the backyard trees are beginning to obscure the sky.  It's full spring, a season of renewal and even though my weary, old bones may not completely agree, a season of hope.

There is always a storm.  There is always rain.  Some experience it.  Some live through it.  And others are made from it.

Shannon L. Alder

Living With Grace

It's hard to put the feel of my friend Jean's house into words.  It's the warmest and most welcoming place I know, overflowing with faith and kindness, art and music.  Her grief, still raw, carries on the scented air like potpourri.  David is gone but still everywhere and it comforts me to be here.  His widow lives with grace. 

She smiles.  She makes tea.  She talks about missing him each and every day.  I think, as I have thought many times before, that if ever there had been two people destined for each other, true and eternal soulmates, it was these two.  I suspect she's integrated her grief until it's become a part of her being and a part of me envies that part of her.  I can't think of anyone I've loved that much - no husband or lover has ever left a hole in my soul - although some of my animals have taken some of me with them.

I don't stay long since she's been ill recently and looks tired but we do make tentative plans for a music evening the following week. 

The night comes and the cozy little house rings with music and laughter - two guitars, a banjo, and of course Jean's accordion - the harmonies are sweet and the smile on her face is sweeter.  There are sad songs and silly songs and country songs.  We eat fried chicken and dirty rice and drink sweet tea in between.

Music softens the grief and sharpens the memories.

Long Nights

After yet another cold, gray sky'd all day rain.
I think one more sleepless night might push me over the edge so a little after eleven I swallow a sleeping pill and say a small prayer.  By midnight I've counted the same sheep a hundred times over.  I've tried to clear my mind of the swirling, angry thoughts.  I've tried to force my body to relax and let go, to give in to the exhaustion.  By one, I'm sensing a repeat of last night - not quite four hours sleep and not together - by two, I'm in tears of sheer frustration and by three, I push the covers aside and give up.

The house is cold.  I slip into long underwear, jeans and a sweatshirt and curl up on the couch under a blanket.
After several minutes I get back up to put the space heater and the tv on then prop myself up against a pillow. I'm tired beyond words, angry, and just flat out miserable.  And in some of the ugliest, most prolonged, weather I've ever seen, it's still raining.  Being up is almost as bad as being in bed - I can't get comfortable or warm - I'm short tempered with the animals when they want to share my space, I toss, turn, twist.  With the blanket over me I can feel the cold sweat on the back of my neck.  Without it, I'm cold down to my bones.

Seven o'clock eventually comes.  Outside the rain is still coming down hard and steady and mercilessly. I feed the animals, make up the bed, change litter boxes.  I've lost track of the rain days but I'd be willing to guess it's somewhere around 17 or 18 of the last 22.  I do remember two days last week when it was in the 70's and the sun was actually out.  I remember feeling better.

I've never felt emotionally affected by weather before, never so fiercely hated the rain or treasured the sun.
Just looking out the window is dismal as hell.  On the rare occasions that I've forced myself out from behind the walls of this little house, I've seen and heard the same thing from friends.  We are depressed, worn down, 
sick, weary.  The smallest thing makes us flare up.  And still the rains come, day after day after dark day. 

I lean back and close my eyes.  The central heat chuffs along and the space heater hums softly.  Rain pounds on the roof, the deck, the driveway.  I can hear it running in the gutters and washing over the saturated dead ground.  There's no let up.

On Sunday, I say to hell with it, run the thermostat up to 80, light the fireplace and put on both space heaters.
By late afternoon I'm in several layers, under a blanket, and catnapping.  At midnight, I turn down the heat and shut everything off except the bedroom heater, crawl into bed and sleep if not like a stone, at least like a good sized pebble.  It's just coming on light when I wake and by seven, the sun is actually shining and the house is tolerably comfortable.  I have no idea what's changed except for the weather and I almost don't care.

After a few days of sunshine I begin to feel my spirits lift despite the still chilly nights and mornings.  I still can't shake the urge to stay in at night and on weekends, can't manage to revive any interest in taking pictures or listening to music.  It worries me but only distantly - it would take a cartload of bricks to break through my denial system - but finally after a long conversation with a friend, I listen to myself and the following day I drag myself to the doctor and pour it all out, the cold, the depression, the loss of interest, the insomnia, the night sweats and even what scares me the most to admit, the unexplained weight loss, 40 pounds in a year and a half.

He listens, asks questions, takes notes, examines me and orders tests.  Everything comes back normal and I'm torn between being relieved and annoyed.  I ask to go back on antidepressants and he agrees.  We decide to give the medication a little time and then reevaluate, he gives me a fierce hug and sends me on my way.

That night I lie in bed listening to the steady ticking of the small alarm clock, the quiet breathing of the dogs,
a truck gearing up on the interstate.  My mind churns and tumbles like a blender, practically cremating my thoughts until they all run together.  Sleep isn't even in the neighborhood and in time I stop waiting for it, getting up and trudging into the sun room and onto the love seat, catnapping to an old Montgomery Clift movie and thinking about time and age and the uncertain future.

The older I get, the longer the nights seem to be.