Rules

I've been dreaming about rules.

In the past week, I've had the same dream three times. It's about living in some kind of 18th century village where there are rules about everything. In order to conform, I carry a matchbook sized notebook with a tiny, nub of a yellow pencil attached. I try and write down each rule as I learn it and record every infraction as it happens but it's impossible to keep up with and at the end of the day, I can't make sense of the notes I've made. I turn out to be a miserable failure and end up hopelessly crying myself to sleep at night while waking each morning convinced it will be the day I'm evicted for my dismally flawed performance.

It's an odd dream, odder still that it keeps repeating and with such clarity.

I throw off the covers wishing I could throw off the dream as easily.

The Roof Hopper

Though still several blocks away, I hear the sirens and can see the flashing lights of a half dozen police cars.


It's just past midnight on a cool February evening and I'm on my way home from the airport when I hear the news that some crazed, possibly drug addled or mentally unstable fool is roof hopping in my part of town. A skinny, young white dude in a baseball cap and no better sense than an potted plant has managed to wake every dog, set every parent's heart to hammering and terrorize an entire neighborhood. He evades the police long enough to cross the park but is cornered and captured not long after. For a potential one man crime wave, it's pretty disappointing but things pick up quickly when a neighborhood alert is posted on social media. In no time, it devolves into a war of words and zip codes. - the righteous, the racists, the honestly concerned citizens all have something to contribute - and no one wastes any time being shy. The next day I read that the poor dimwitted fool is a six time convicted felon and everyone demands to know why he is out and sprinting across roof tops. When his booking photo is inevitably published, the picture is indeed as sad and pathetic as you'd expect. Nonetheless, social media rejoices. The threat is over and if anyone is thinking about tar and feathers or riding him out of town on a rail, they think better of mentioning it.

It's all enough to make me think that not all the crazies are trotting across rooftops.

  

Tar and Feathers

A sudden and wildly violent crash of thunder rocks the walls of my little house and as if ripped apart like a pillow case, the skies open and unleash a fury of rain. From her perch on the bed, the small brown dog looks up and around, decides it's harmless, and goes back to sleep. The little dachshund, however, is unexpectedly restless. He mills around my feet until it passes, giving me anxious looks.

It's just noise, I tell him and scoop him into my lap, Can't hurt you.

The downpour eases up and wears itself out like an exhausted child after a temper tantrum.

Good boy, I say quietly and deposit him on the end of the bed. He looks around uncertainly then decides to trust me and curls up nose to tail although his eyes stay alert and open. The kitten soon joins him, nudging him under his chin and rubbing against his ears and muzzle, one good friend comforting another. She eventually settles in between his paws and he rests his head on her's. They are a portrait of how to get along in this sometimes loud and scary world.

I get to work only to walk in on carnage. The puppy, who has been seriously into stuffing these past couple of weeks, has discovered feather pillows. At first glance, it looks like new carpet had been laid from the landing on up to the bedrooms but a closer inspection (meaning I put on my glasses) reveals the remains of a feather pillow on the floor under the bed, mostly empty. The entire floor is completely layered with feathers, there are some piles that are six inches deep and the wreckage extends into the hall all the way to the top of the stairs. Without thinking, I pick up the mostly empty pillow case and through the cloud of feathers that this small movement creates, I then spy two others on the far side of the bed, not quite as decimated but clearly headed for the same end.

Oh, Jimmy, I tell him helplessly as he trots happily about and feathers fly around like snow, How could you?

He gives me a proud See what I did! look then scrunches up his face comically and sneezes. This causes another flurry of feathers - they hang in the air like dandelions in a mild breeze - then float lazily down. Despite wanting to strangle him, he looks such a combination of bewildered, inquisitive and happy that I don't have the heart to scold him, not that it would do the slightest bit of good. I settle for trying very hard not to laugh.

Four vacuum bags of feathers later, I decide I care more about my aching back than cleaning up. I've reduced the Storm of the Century into just another Nor'easter and not having any hot tar handy, it will just have to do.

Ketchup & Other Condiments

Among my many flaws - at least the ones I'm willing to own up to - is the driving need to make sense of the random unsense that life constantly throws our way. I dislike messiness, clutter and emotional chaos and crave order. Symmetry and neatness comfort me. A crookedly hung picture, an imperfectly aligned bookshelf, even a notepad with a turned up corner or a bent page can be my undoing. I prefer things to work on demand and properly with a minimum of drama or defiance. Sadly, life feels no such obligation to neatness or discipline.

Life is most definitely not tidy.

Standing in the condiment aisle of the grocery store, I wait more or less patiently for the enormous lady in the flowered dress to decide on a brand of ketchup. She picks up a Heinz bottle, squints to read the label and replaces it next to a glass jar of sweet pickles. She doesn't seem to care for the Hunts bottle either. She reads its label, shakes her head and puts it back next to the yellow mustard. I clear my throat, hoping she might notice that her sideways shopping cart is blocking traffic on either side. She glances at me and frowns but makes no effort to accommodate me or the shoppers coming from the opposite direction, reaching instead for the generic ketchup. When this doesn't suit her, she slips it back on the shelf, deliberately inserting it not where it belongs but into a row of Louisiana Hot Sauces.

Excuse me, ma'am, a middle aged gentleman calls politely from behind me, If you could just move your cart....

The woman turns slowly, curling her lip in a unattractive sneer and raising one fist - middle finger extended - in a defiant gesture. There's a collective gasp and then a dead silence.

Go 'round, white bread, she says only it's more of a snarl than a suggestion.

I confess that up until that moment, I'd been thinking in terms of satire and stupidity, planning on how I might write about this little grocery store insurrection. Anarchy In Aisle Seven, I thought I might call it, be it laziness, poor eyesight or mischief, it might make a good story, but the woman in the flowered dress had suddenly changed all that.

That's it, lady, the man behind me announced angrily, I'm calling the manager! 

There's a cop up front, another customer - a well dressed woman with a toddler in tow - called out, This bitch needs to be arrested!

At the mention of the police, the woman in the flowered dress grew even more defiant. She grabbed a can of olives and hurled it at the woman with the child then whirled around and began slamming her grocery cart into the shelves repeatedly. Mustard, ketchup, pickles and several bottles of Newman's Own came crashing down, mayonnaise jars and squeeze containers of barbecue sauce went flying, shoppers were fleeing in a tangle of carts and condiments. I'd backed off a safe distance away but was still having trouble believing what I was seeing and making any sense of it. It was as sorry a moment as I've ever seen.

The manager, a rumpled and overworked 30-something with circles under his eyes arrived, followed seconds later by a city cop. They promptly cleared the aisle of the remaining shoppers and approached the woman in the flowered dress. I watched in disbelief as she maneuvered her cart to block them but they rushed her, pinning her arms behind her back - with no small effort - handcuffing her and leading her away. And still she fought. I was reminded of a bullfight, with the exhausted bull surrounded, panting and glassy-eyed, but not defeated.

Aisle Seven looked as if a minor tornado had passed through and a crowd had gathered by the time I piled catfood and kitty litter into my cart and headed for the cash registers. Store employees took it in stride, as if they'd seen it all before.

I gave up trying to make sense of it. I just wanted as much distance as possible between me and the wreckage because for a neat freak, Aisle Seven was the stuff nightmares are made of.

 Just like a good - and mostly true - story.

Sister Souls: Fools and Fairy Dust

Rebecca's unannounced arrival on the island came as a surprise to most of the village - very few knew that Rowena even had a sister - no one seemed to know she was, to put it delicately, a bit eccentric. When she arrived at the ferry astride her two-seater bicycle with her silverish hair flying in the wind, her long black skirts pegged with clothespins and an umbrella strapped to her back, even Cap and his crew were at a loss for words. They watched open mouthed as she fairly flew down the slip, zigzagging to a precarious, skidding stop just inches from the edge of the scow.

Well, bless my tattered old soul, Linc Patterson finally observed, If it ain't some kinda daredevil Mary Poppins.

She produced a floppy brimmed black hat from the bicycle basket and secured her flyaway hair in a quick, graceful gesture than dismounted spryly and stood with her face to the spray. She was a woman who had clearly seen better days, so the ferry crew thought, but there was still a little mystery about her, a little of the unknown. When Linc approached her to collect the fare, she turned aside modestly and produced a small black change purse from her bosom, laid a crisp $5 bill in his hand and then in a moment of unanticipated magic, tossed a handful of confetti directly into his startled face.

Fairy dust! she cried and laughed sweetly.

The ferry docked, and Rebecca gave the crew a friendly wave - although she blew a kiss to Linc - then determinedly trudged up the slip, mounted her bicycle and careened off in a cloud of dust.

Ol' Linc liked to jump a foot and a half, Cap laughed as he told the story at the canteen later that day, Ain't never seen a man move so fast!

Rowena, who had stopped in for a cold lunch, overheard the conversation and paused with a thoughtful look on her face.

She threw confetti, Cap? And she were riding a bicycle? A two seater?

Ayuh, that it were, Ro, the old seaman said agreeably enough, 'cept I don't recollect sayin' so. How is it you know'd that?

Rowena gave him a quick kiss on the cheek - he blushed a most alarming shade of red and suddenly took to stammering - then she laughed, snatched up her box lunch and fairly flew for the door.

I ain't never know'd my sister to travel anywhere 'ceptin' on that ol' two seater, Cap, she called over her shoulder, And she don't never, ever go anyplace without confetti! Sometimes glitter!
The sisters met - well, more like collided - at the blind corner by Curt's musty little store. Rowena, her arms so full of packages and flowers that her vision was partially impaired, never saw Rebecca who was speeding like a blind bat out of hell from the opposite direction. Both women let out loud screechy wails just before the crash - packages, flowers, bicycle baskets and confetti went flying everywheres - and then the sisters were tangled up and flat on their backs on the gravely dirt road, and laughing like hyenas. When the dust settled, they helped each other up and hugged, gathered their belongings and arm in arm began walking toward the cove, chattering like chickens.

The sisters were rarely apart the rest of that summer. Linc Patterson repaired the two seater, straightening the front frame and reattaching the baskets - it was, he said, a minor fix and he refused to take any money for it - so Rebecca hugged him and as soon as he turned his back, sprinkled him with a generous helping of glitter.

Fairy dust! she cried, For good luck and long life!

Sweet sufferin' jaysus, woman, Linc growled, quit yer foolishness and be off! 

The two women traveled the length of the island on the two seater. Confetti and fairy dust followed them wherever they went and you could hear them laughing, singing - sometimes shrieking - at every corner and turn. I remember watching them come down the hill one wildly sunny day, missing our driveway by a mile and ending up ass over tea kettle in the strawberry patch like a pair of old rag dolls. When a yoke of placid but determined oxen wouldn't yield them room to pass, they put on speed and weaved around them, landing squarely in the ditch, inches away from the guard rail. Mishaps, like the confetti and glitter they left behind, seemed to trail after them.

Pure miracle one of 'em ain't broke their damn fool neck, Cap remarked wryly the day after the sisters skidded off the breakwater and soared across the sky for a brief second before dropping like a stone into the incoming tide, Dunno how much more that ol' two seater contraption kin take.

Reckon the Good Lord really does watch over fools, my grandmother reminded him.

Ayuh, he shrugged, Else it's that damn fairy dust.

Rebecca stayed for the rest of the summer, bringing her mishaps and magic to the village with each passing day and whether by happenstance or design, a little joy to us all.

The Art of the Lie

Good liars - storytellers, for instance - know that a proper lie should be simple, plausible, easy to remember and efficient. If you let it change colors, sprout wings and develop a life of its own, it'll make your listeners suspicious. Worse, you'll get caught and have to tell another to cover up.

Working with someone who lies about what he had for breakfast is mystifying and bewildering. I understand lying for the sake of a good story, to elevate your own importance, to shift the spotlight, to reinforce your sketchy self esteem, get away with something or play the big dog. But lying for the sheer hell of it - especially when it's so pitifully easy to expose - makes no sense to me. It seems to be second nature, even pathological, I sometimes think, and I'm a little awestruck.

It's mostly so trivial that it's hardly worth the effort it would take to confront so I usually just nod and smile and continue what I'm doing. It's harmless, I tell myself, a little sad and a little delusional maybe, but harmless. Curiosity, though, is a beast with sharp teeth and it nags and gnaws at me. It wants me to question, challenge, and demand to know why. I'm only saved by my own fear of a scene.

We all live in fantasy at times. Who am I to say that his story telling is less worthy than mine.

Patchouli

She's a tiny woman, comes barely to my chin, but persistent. Her makeup is powdery and has flaked like snow over the collar of her neat navy blue suit jacket. There's a near perfect quarter shaped circle of rouge on each crepe-ish cheek but her lipstick is crooked and her mascara is smudged. She's clutching a glass a wine - clearly not her first- in one pudgy fist and she reeks of patchouli, a fragrance that always reminds me of bug spray. She's noticed my old Nikon and wants her picture taken. I nod and smile and climb off my barstool and she takes my hand and leads me to her husband, a wispy, white haired older man who looks desperately frail and more than a little confused by the smoke and noise of this dimly lit, smoky bar.

This is Jack, she tells me and pats his hand affectionately, He was a staff photographer for the newspaper for years. And I'm Marilyn. We're so pleased to meet you!

At the mention of the newspaper, my heart sinks a little. It's too late to regret having giving her the business card she asked for, my best hope is that neither of them will be able to read it in the bad light, but it's not to be. He adjusts his trifocals and peers at it then at me.

Are you related to....he begins and I dredge up another smile.

Used to be, I say, hoping to nip this in the bud, but it was a long time ago.

Why, Marilyn, he says, look who this is!

The tiny woman produces a pocket flashlight from her purse and squints at the card.

How were you related, dear? she chirps, We knew the entire family.

Yes, indeed, Jack adds, I could've worked for National Geographic but.....

Would you like a drink, dear? Marilyn interrupts and shines the little flashlight in my direction, What a small world it is! Jack, she's going to take our picture! Where would you like us, dear?

You're fine where you are, I assure her, wondering if I'll ever get away, Just give me your best smile.
I focus and snap the shutter - once and once more - and Marilyn thanks me with a girlish, suddenly shy giggle then wine glass in hand, snatches at my elbow until I show her the screen.

Oh! she cries, It looks like we're in love! Will you send us a copy, dear?

After I turned down National Geographic.....Jack begins but she tweaks his cheek and tells him to hush, Just write down our address for her, honey, and finish your drink. She downs the remainder of her wine, orders another, then turns to me with a cartoonish smile. Now, tell me, dear, is your ex-husband still living? Did you get any of his money?

Over her shoulder I can see an old guitar playing friend at the bar and I shoot him a pleading look, praying he will understand and come to my rescue. A moment later, a hand descends onto my shoulder and a gruff old baritone drawls 'Scuse me, ya'll, but it's time for our photographer to earn her keep. He slides one arm around my waist and steers me firmly away while Jack and Marilyn raise their glasses and wave bewildered goodbyes. I'm so grateful I could kiss him.

It isn't that I mind these little flashbacks to a former life. A small number of people know I married into a prominent, wealthy, newspaper owning family - just as they know I left it - but my musician friends don't think it's important and it isn't something we talk about. They accept me for who I am now, not who I was or who I happened to marry in a prior life. It's just that for most of that first marriage, I kept to the shadows after we moved to the south, making and treasuring only one or two dear friends, content to be a decoration and a good wife, much like a well dressed pocket watch. I didn't care for the spotlight then and I don't care for it now so with apologies to the occasional Jacks and Marilyns, I find a barely accessible corner by the stage where I can shoot the music and those making it in peace and quiet. And maybe escape the haze of patchouli that latches onto me the way a cat will find the only person in the room who isn't a cat lover. The insecticide aroma makes my eyes water and my throat want to close.

Some memories do exactly the same thing.

Empires of Mice

Apart from being scared out of my wits, the things I remember most clearly about our adventure at the old Hatfield place are Ruthie’s allergy attack and the mice.

The grass was waist high and smelled of chaff dust and the narrow overgrown path was a tangle of hardened weeds and cindery branches. Every step we took seemed to crackle beneath our feet like a warning – it was a wonder, we thought when it was over, that neither of us had broken an ankle or worse – but we’d gotten through with just skinned knees and bruised elbows.  We weren’t more than a third of the way in when Ruthie’s hay fever surfaced violently and she began to sneeze loud enough and often enough to wake the dead. Her eyes and nose were running like faucets and her voice was so thick I could barely understand her but she was no quitter, my friend, Ruthie. She hacked away at the stubborn undergrowth, sneezed, hacked some more, sneezed some more and still kept up a steady, shocking stream of cussing. Later we would think it had a comical edge but at the time it just seemed like a really bad idea. Just as I was wondering if hay fever could kill you, we reached the clearing and came in sight of the old abandoned house. The upper story stain glass windows – all save one which was jagged and smashed - were still intact, the wraparound veranda still stood although it had crumbled in some places. The stable was in ruins but the wishing well was only a little worse for wear – it sat at the edge of a stone circled salt water pond – made fish-less by time and loneliness but still clear and cold. Ruthie immediately shed her shoes and overalls, scrambled over the fence and waded in clear to the deepest part, took a deep breath and went under. She came up a minute later, coughing and sputtering and looking like a drowned cat but less red-eyed and at least for the moment, sneeze-free. We sat quietly in the noon sun until she’d dried off.

The Hatfield sisters, Elizabeth, Emily and Eloise, had lived well in this once grand house on the other side of Brier Island. Heiresses to the family’s fish canning factory, all had grown up in a time of privilege and piano lessons. Eloise – the youngest and the only pretty one, some of the crueler tongues did say - was the only one to have married and leave the island. She returned after a year or so, divorced and childless and except for the usual village gossip, no one ever spoke of her time away. All three sisters lived as if she’d never left and they were in their seventies by the time the canning factory shut down. Much like the house itself, deprived of maintenance and care, they began to fall into disrepair.

Emily went first, Nana had told us, Had her a stroke, she did, and was stone dead by the time they got her to the ferry. Couple years later, Lizbeth took to wandering’ round after dark in nothin’ but her nightclothes. Hired man found her washed up in the cove jist after Labor Day.

And Eloise? Ruthie and I had asked breathlessly.

Nana frowned.

I don’t recollect how Eloise died, she’d said shortly, Go wash up for supper.

It was her no-more-questions tone and we knew better than to persist but that didn’t mean we were going to give up. After supper, we decided to walk to Sparrow’s.

Eloise Hatfield? the old man muttered as he filled his pipe and spilled a little tobacco onto his lap in the process. He brushed it off impatiently and gave us a dark look. Long time ago, he finally said, Leave it lie.

Is it a mystery, Sparrow? Ruthie said and gave him her best smile, Did she die of a broken heart?

Tell us, Sparrow! I begged.

In the match flare, the old man’s face was a blue-ish mask, not smiling but not scowling. There was the acrid smell of sulphur in the air and he leaned back in the rocking chair, his expression unreadable. Eager as I’d been, I suddenly wasn’t quite so curious.

Eloise Hatfield, he said thoughtfully, Ain’t thought of her in a dog’s age. Killed herself, so’s they say, jumped from a second story window and broke her fool neck. The sweet pipe smoke hung in the air like late evening fog but it didn’t conceal Ruthie’s disappointment.

Is that all? She asked suspiciously.

Ain’t it enough? Sparrow said a trifle snappishly but I noticed he wasn’t meeting her eyes.

My grandmother wouldn’t have dodged a suicide, I was sure of it.

Sparrow, I said quietly, trying to sound grown up and only mildly interested, What’s the rest?

The old man shifted in his chair, fussed with his pipe, finally sighed.

I reckon, he said reluctantly, there’s some who think she might’ve had some help outta that window.

Ruthie’s face lit up and I moved a little closer.

Now mind me, he continued, it weren’t nothin’ but talk but I ‘member there was a lot of it after Cap done told about the stranger come over on the ferry that afternoon. There were those that said it was Eloise’s old husband but the fact is there weren’t a soul who knew for positive and sure as shootin’ he was long gone by the time they found Eloise. 

You never interrupted Sparrow in the middle of a story so Ruthie and I waited. After another few minutes, he made a point of re-lighting his pipe, clenched it between his teeth and rocked silently.

It weren’t too long afore some folks was seein’ and hearin’ things at the Hatfield place, he resumed and before we could ask added, Lights and the like, a woman walkin’ when the moon was special bright. Screams and breakin’ glass sometimes. Ghost stories jist to keep the kids away from the place, I reckon. Most folks didn’t talk much about it bein’ afeared of soundin’ a mite crazy and then some cousin come from St. John or Grand Pre or somewheres and had the whole durn place fenced in and them No Trespassin’ signs put up. Ain’t likely anybody’s been there since and I ‘spect one of these days a good blizzard’ll bring the whole works down.

And that, hay fever or not, was the story that had brought Ruthie and I to the old Hatfield Place on a perfect late summer day. We wanted to hear or see a ghost in the worst way.

With the sun at our backs, we cautiously climbed the rickety veranda steps and peered into the mud-caked windows, hoping for Lord knew what and seeing only the forgotten furnishings covered with sheets and cobwebs. The front door, its lock rusted half-open from disuse, gave way easily and swung inward, its hinges giving a raspy but mild creak of protest. Everything was thickly layered with dust and smelled of mold and mildew. When a slight breeze followed us in, the crystal chandelier tinkled gently and showered us with a cloud of dirt and dead insects – we both cringed and very nearly panicked until we realized what had happened – then we laughed shakily and brushed ourselves off. It gave us a fresh dose of bravery and we slowly made our way toward the once elegant parlor. The double doors that led down to the ocean hung crookedly – we could almost see through the heavy but now ragged and sagging drapes – and the room was streaky with sunlight. An enormous and awkward shape in the corner proved to be a grand piano. While we stood speechless, a sudden scrabbling, scratchy noise came from it. Ruthie grabbed my hand so I wouldn’t run and a corner of the discolored old sheet moved revealing a small mouse. For a moment it watched us – I remember clearly its bright eyes and twitching whiskers – then it wiggled its way through and ran across the keys in a small puff of dust.

Jist a mouse, Ruthie reassured me with a tight squeeze of my hand, And he ain’t got much talent for music.

I wanted to laugh at this but found I could barely breathe. That was when we heard a rustling from the mantle and without any warning, a dove suddenly took flight and soared over our heads, through the arched entryway and up the curving staircase. For a second or two I was dead certain my heart would hammer its way out of my chest or worse, just stop altogether. Another mouse darted from behind a moldy drape and ran over my sneakered foot. I shrieked like a banshee.

Reckon they don’t get much company, Ruthie laughed although it sounded a little forced, C’mon, let’s see where she went!

I thought following the dove was a bad idea, a stupendously bad idea come to think of it, a death-defying, horrific idea that couldn’t help but end badly. I said so – loudly so that any lurking ghost would be sure to hear – but Ruthie was determined. She pushed, pulled, shoved and hauled me to the foot of the stairs and finally threatened to leave me if I didn’t follow. That idea was even worse and somehow I managed to overcome my paralysis, take a death grip on the slick bannister and with my heart in my throat, take one shaky step after another.

Keep up! Ruthie ordered when we reached the landing and she caught me looking over my shoulder, And don’t look back!

I didn’t dare ask why. I was too terrified I might see a band of mice on the stairs behind me.

Another few steps and we were on the second floor. I could hear doves cooing from the bedrooms and fancied if there had been two mice downstairs, there were likely to be entire mice families up here – legions of mice, I thought, maybe even empires of mice just like The Pied Piper of Hamlin – and where there were mice, there were owls. Just the thought brought a vision of being carried off by some monstrous winged thing with razor-sharp talons and yellow eyes.

Can we go now? I whispered to Ruthie and she hushed me with an exasperated look.

I want to see the window, she said stubbornly, then we’ll go. Stay here if you’re too scairt.
The prospect of being alone on the landing sent chills down my back – who knew if an owl might not carry off Ruthie – so cold with fear, but not willing to lose sight of her, I trailed after.

There wasn’t much left of the window Eloise had jumped from – or been pushed out of, I reminded myself grimly - and once we tore down the thumb tacked plastic sheet it was mostly dust-covered shards of broken glass and a long drop down. We could see the ocean through the trees and smell the salt air and as Ruthie propped her hands on the window frame and leaned out to get a better view, I was thinking it was eerily peaceful – for a crime scene – when there was a sudden chittering from behind me. I was prepared to see a mouse or a squirrel or a dove. I was not prepared to see a small fox with a plumed tail and bared teeth crouching in the doorway. I let out a small screech and it turned tail and quick as a flash was gone so fast I almost thought I imagined it.

A fox? Ruthie said doubtfully as she pulled from back from the shattered window, You sure?

Dammit to hell, ‘course I’m sure! I snapped at her, Reckon I know a fox when I see one! Now can we just go home?
To my relief, she nodded. We were halfway down the grand staircase when we heard the howl – long and plaintive like a wolf – then the unmistakable sound of a door slamming and finally a few discordant notes from the piano. It was – so some would later say when word got out – a defining moment in our childhood. Well, maybe so, but all’s I know is that Ruthie and I defined the fire out it and ran as if we could feel the devil’s own hot breath on our backs. We didn’t look back - I don't know what she was thinking but I was sure there would be a militia of mice lined up on the veranda - we didn’t stop ‘til we got to the already departing ferry and without a second of hesitation raced down the mesh coated slip and jumped for it. It earned us one of Cap’s sternest lectures about ferry safety and a warning that if ever we tried it again, he’d put us both over the side in no time flat.

And I might or might not have a mind to fish you out, he muttered, oughta know that seaweed's slick as gull shit, damn fool kids.

Somehow or other we managed to look repentant and he cuffed each of us – gently – and sent us into the tug for hot chocolate. We crossed the passage against the tide but were still home before the factory whistle blew. Sparrow, still in his rocking chair watching the world go by, gave us a smile and a quick salute.

Thinkin’ bout gettin’ me a cat, he hollered as we passed, Got me a passle of mice ‘round the place.

We cringed but only a little.