Bar Talk

The smoky little bar is hidden away on a side street in a rough edged part of town.  It's a place the locals know but don't much talk about, a place for serious drinkers who drink alone and like to mind their own business. There's no dance floor, no pool table, not even a single video poker machine.  The jukebox in the corner has been silent for years.  At four in the afternoon, there's not much of a crowd and even the bartender - a hefty brunette in a skimpy halter, tight jeans and too much blue eye shadow - looks tired and bored.  She's smoking a lipstick stained cigarette in between smacking her chewing gum and twirling her hair with one pristine manicured fingernail.  She barely spares me a glance. 

I climb onto a ragged leather bar stool with the stuffing leaking out the sides and pull a pack of cigarettes from my jacket pocket.  She slaps a cracked plastic ashtray and a chipped bowl of salted peanuts in front of me, switches the dirty rag of a dishtowel from one bare shoulder to the other and gives me a dull eyed look.

So, she says with another smack of her gum and a deliberate wink, What'll it be.

A dozen or more years ago, before I realized that drinking was a shield and a useful crutch in social situations, I'd have ordered an Amoretto or a glass of the house white wine but I haven't had a drink since.  I start to order my usual diet coke and then for whatever reason, I back pedal.

Disaronno, I tell her, On the rocks.

She narrows her blue eyelids at me and nods although whether in approval or contempt, I can't tell.  I'm a little surprised when I realize I don't care either way.

Several bar stools away, hunched protectively over what I'm sure is his ninth or maybe nineteenth bottle of beer and squinting from the smoke, sits an old and once dear friend of mine, a one time compassionate and promising attorney.   He's sullen, silent and glassy eyed and doesn't see me.  When I think about it, it isn't likely he sees anyone or anything except the half full beer he's clutching. He guzzles it, softly thuds the empty bottle on the bar and the brunette brings him another.  It's like watching for a train wreck that you know is coming and can't stop, can't warn anyone about, can't even get your own self off the tracks.  

Another three or four beers later, she finally shuts him off - out of pity, I suspect - and tells him to leave and go home.  He argues.  She ignores him.  He argues some more and she comes out from behind the bar and gives him a rough shove, toppling him from the bar stool and into a sodden heap on the floor.  He struggles and tries to focus.

I said you're done, you filthy tramp, she tells him coldly, Move your sorry ass outta here.

I turn away as he staggers to his feet and begins to plead for just one more drink.

You're on the other side of that fuckin' door in ten seconds or I call the fuckin' cops, she snaps.  He stumbles toward the door, trips over his own feet and falls heavily.  She stands over him, an empty beer bottle in each hand, prods him with the toe of her boot.

You think I can't handle one broke down, nasty drunk?  she demands and the prod becomes a kick, Carry your fuckin' ass or I'll have it carried for you!

You blue eye shadow whore!  he spits and tries to pull himself to his feet. She swings a beer bottle, catching him on the ear and sending him crashing down again.  He curls up and begins to cry.

Lonnie!  she shouts, Come take out this fuckin' trash!

A mountain size of a man in jeans, a black t shirt and biker chains peers over the swinging doors that lead to the bathrooms.  He steps through with a disgusted look, grips the poor drunk's collar and drags him through the door, kicks him to the curb.

Find yourself somewhere else to get shit-faced, buddy, he says roughly, You ain't drinkin' here no more.

It's quarter after five and the bar traffic is beginning to pick up. I decide the old musician I was supposed to meet isn't going to show so I leave a ten spot on the bar and finish my now watered down drink in one gulp. Lonnie gives me a half-hearted salute as I head for the door.

Sorry 'bout that, he says with a shrug of those massive shoulders, Don't like havin' to show'em the door like that but sometimes........

The blue eye shadow whore just laughs.

It was a sound I could've done without.

  

Doc Roberts and the Lilacs

Of all the doctors we had on the island through the years, I think I remember Doc Roberts the best. He wasn't young, he wasn't broke, he wasn't there to just fill a twelve week residency requirement, he wasn't even Canadian.

Just a month shy of his 52^nd birthday, he sold his restored powder blue T Bird, signed over a thriving practice to his partner, packed two small suitcases and a duffel bag into his snazzy little Triumph Spitfire and walked away from his elegant, high rise Chicago apartment. He left his two black labs, Jack and Jerry Lee, with friends until he could send for them and started driving. Several days of back roads and forgotten highways finally brought him to the Maine coast where one overnight trip on the Bluenose and another six hours of lazy summer driving from Yarmouth brought him to us.

Nobody ever knew how exactly he managed to bypass all the rules and red tape but bypass them he did – or he didn't and we were so grateful to have him that nobody ever told – but there he was, moving into the doctor's house across from the Baptist chuch on a sunny June afternoon as if he owned the place. He parked the little Spitfire so that those MD plates were clearly visible and by sundown, the whole village was talking – discreetly, of course – about the latest arrival.

Where was he from, how had he come to be here, how long would he stay, was there a wife to follow, how fast could that little car really go.

James and Lily introduced him at Sunday services - the day before he arrived, they had thought to stock up the house with coffee and other necessities – and they'd been anxiously watching for him. With the pastor's endorsement, a charge account at the general store and a wallet full of travelers checks, the new doctor was ready to go.

He spent a good many days porch sitting with Jack and Jerry Lee, smoking his pipe and watching our very small world pass by. He had a passion for lilacs and dedicated a good deal of his idle time planting, raising and watching over them as well. Then in one frantic week, he got called out a half dozen times. Nora Tibert's first child had not made a peaceful or routine entrance into the world. Uncle Shad with his failing eyesight had liked to slice off two fingers fileting a haddock, treated it his own self and developed blood poisoning. Uncle Len had his first heart attack, Frank Thibodeau his last. Mr. Melanson's tractor snagged a downed power line and damn near electrocuted the old farmer and in an explosion that was heard all the way to Westport, a still on the far side of the island caught fire and then - as Bill Albright so elegantly put it – Goddam, if she didn't blow to hell and back! The general consensus was in just that one week, Doc Roberts had pretty much earned his keep.

Twenty some odd years later, Doc died and - despite the health laws and the fact that the cemetery was just across the road – was buried, just as he'd asked, beneath his beloved lilacs, along with Jack and Jerry Lee. The pastor, always the very soul of discretion, arranged for Ms Clara to dig up the lilacs beforehand and replant them after a very quiet remembrance service.

As Doc had been a lifelong bachelor and had no family that anyone knew of, James reported the death but not the details and as he expected, the province was too busy with other things to concern itself with the passing of one not quite government regulated doctor on an isolated island. A succession of traveling nurses came and went through the years that followed until at long last the province provided funds for a year round nurse practitioner position.

Doc Roberts was the last full time physician the islanders were ever to know. Folks still smile at his memory, the house still stands, and his lilacs still bloom with every spring.

The Game Is On

The game is on.

It's a damp and warm-ish morning and there are a dozen places I'd rather be than on my hands and knees in the dirt trying to coax the little dachshund out from under the house. He peers at me from the other side of the latticework, knowing I can't reach him, and not about to give up on his adventure. When I discover the opening he's patiently and persistently dug over the course of several days, it confirms my theory that he's part badger and maybe even part mole. Just before he turns tails and trots off into the darkness, he grins at me and I can see by his eyes that he's more than a little proud of himself.

I track him by the jingle of his tags and am waiting when he emerges on the other side but the second he sees me, he dodges and darts back under the house.

This time, however, I have a secret weapon. I go back inside, rummage around in the corner where he keeps his toys, and come up with his beloved Lambchop. It seems a low trick but all's fair in love and dachshunds.

It only takes one squeak.

Gotcha.

By the Light of the Moon

We figured it like this:  The moon would be full and it'd be risky to try and walk all the way around the square and up to Lovers Lane.  We'd be discovered, sure as shootin'.  So Ruthie and I packed ourselves box lunches and went around The Point, past Old Hat's, over and through the tidepools, all the way to Beautiful Cove then down Lovers Lane from the opposite direction.  Remy's old farmhouse was the last on the right, almost directly across from the Baptist Church and his old barn overlooked the small island cemetery.  It was a Saturday night and most folks would be gathered in and around the square, waiting for the show to start or for the dance hall to open.  Even so, island eyes were sharp, so inch by silent inch, we crawled across the barnyard on our bellies, slipped through the double doors of the barn past the sleepy cows, and one creaky rung at a time, climbed the ladder to the dusty hayloft.  It made us both a little dizzy to be up so high and we jumped every time the barn owl ruffled his feathers but it was Ruthie's muffled sneezes we worried about the most. If we were heard, we'd be discovered and it'd be the woodshed for sure but then Ruthie remembered she'd brought a bandanna.  She wound it over her nose and mouth and tied it in the back - like a Jimmy Cagney bank robber, we giggled - and we stretched out to look at the stars, watch the clouds drift across the moon, and wait.

Island life, where rumors sprouted like weeds, could be idle and sleepy on nights like this and looking back, I don't suppose we really expected to see much of anything - least of all, two ragged old women dancing on the graves - but we were children and we hoped.  Then I think we must've both nodded off because I woke to the barn owl hooting softly but persistently.  I heard him rustle his wings and then felt a gentle rush of wind on my face as he swooped down from the dark eaves and flew directly over our heads and out into the night. I was breathing hard and wondering if you really could die of fright when Ruthie gave me a sharp poke in the ribs.

Look down! she hissed in my ear, Listen!

Still a little worried about the wicked thudding in my chest, I brushed a handful of straw away from my face and peered out at the cemetery,

It's Hattie!  Ruthie whispered wonderingly, and oh, my Jesus, there's Aunt Glad!

Aw, you're seein' things......I started to say but then I looked again, more closely.  

Oh, kee-rist, I heard myself say - a pale echo of my grandmother - it's true!

It was a sight to behold.  Both women were dressed in their usual long, dark skirts and high button shoes and were prancing around the graves like deranged witches.  Hattie wore her usual battered top hat on her mane of white hair and carried her shotgun tucked under one scrawny arm.  Aunt Glad seemed to be singing and clutching a jug as she two-stepped around the headstones.  Ruthie and I watched in fascination and horror as they linked arms and crookedly hop-scotched between the graves then Old Hat produced a penny whistle from her skirt pocket, perched herself on one of the gravestones and began to play.  The sound was dreadful and eerie and it made us shiver.

Think God's watching this? Ruthie asked.

More likely the devil! I said sharply, Let's get out of here 'fore they wake up the minister!

We scrambled down the ladder, past the cows and out into the empty barnyard just as the lights in the parsonage went on.  A door slammed ferociously and we could hear - as could the whole island, I imagined - the minister shouting.

HATTIE!  GLAD! he thundered, HOW MANY TIMES MUST I TELL YOU I WON'T HAVE THIS PAGAN NONSENSE IN MY CHURCH YARD!  I'M TIRED OF PRAYING FOR YOUR DAMN SOULS!  OUT WITH YOU!  OUT, I SAY!

Crouched and trembling behind one wheel of Remy's hay wagon, Ruthie and I shut our eyes, frozen with fear and wishing that for just once, we'd had better sense.  When the lights came on in the farmhouse behind us and we heard Remy gruffly calling out to the minister, we ran as if the devil himself was at our heels.  Remy was cussing, the minister was still shouting and suddenly neither the moonlight or the woodshed seemed so risky.  We flew down Lovers Lane like wild things, on fire with terror and panic and didn't slow down a single step until we reached the quiet and sanity of Beautiful Cove.

What's pagan? Ruthie asked as we sat watching the moonlight on the ocean.

How in hell do I know, I snapped, Don't make no difference 'cause even if'n we could tell, which we can't, ain't nobody gon' believe us.

'Spose so, she shrugged, a shame, that.

You reckon it's a sin for a pastor to cuss?  I wondered out loud.

'Damn' ain't much of cuss word, Ruthie said a little impatiently, I bet he knows a bunch worse bein' as much as he reads the Bible every day.  Mama says the Bible's jist full up with cuss words.

Nana often said the very same thing after reading her Bible, I reflected.  It was reasonable but not much comfort.  I'd once repeated something I'd read in the Good Book and gotten my mouth thoroughly washed out with soap.

You'll not take the name of the Lord in vain under my roof, my girl!  she'd said and drug me by my hair to the kitchen sink.  The memory still gave a chill.

Tide's comin' in, I told Ruthie, We best be gettin' on home. 

We started back toward The Point, picking our way along the path in the moonlight then carefully navigating across Cow Ledge until the breakwater and Old Hat's shack were in sight.

Hold up! she whispered suddenly, stopping abruptly and so unexpectedly that I ran smack into her, lost my footing and came within an inch of knocking us both down.  Dammit, Ruthie! I protested, You might give me a little warning the next time...but I never finished the thought because by then she'd whirled around and was frantically shushing me.  You hear that? she demanded.  I took a breath, held it and listened, at first hearing nothing but the crickets and the tide.  And then the music, the scratchy sound of a penny whistle - faint but unmistakable - followed by a high pitched, cackling screech of witchy, drunken laughter.  Without another word, we flattened ourselves and crawled off the path and over the ledge like a pair of awkward crabs.  From behind the relative safety of the rocks, we could see the dilapidated shack's porch, the two old rocking chairs in their usual places, and Hattie and Aunt Glad, shrieking and quarreling like two foul-mouthed old sailors.

We couldn't make out the words but Hattie had Aunt Glad pinned up by her hair against the door of the shack and was shaking her like a ragdoll.  Aunt Glad flailed and pummeled back, finally delivering one well placed, strategic kick and sending Hattie sprawling down the steps and onto the grass.  Hattie sprang up like a jack in the box, let out an unearthly howl and charged headfirst back up the steps but Aunt Glad saw it coming and dodged at the last minute.  Hattie hit the door with a crash, picked herself up, reached for the barrel end of her shotgun and swung it like a club.  Aunt Glad ducked and threw herself at Hattie's ankles and both women went down in a tangle of skirts, dusty shoes and a fine spray of dirt and gravel but then both came up snarling and cussing like spitfires.  All I could think of was the way stray cats hissed and yowled and bared their teeth before tearing into each other.  Ruthie said it reminded her roosters she'd seen fighting in a barnyard.

Move yer ass 'fore she thinks 'bout snatchin' up that old scattergun right side up! she snapped and gave me a rude shove.

I didn't have to be told twice.  Trapped between the incoming tide and Hattie's shotgun, we hunched over and made a run for the wharf, climbed up the seaweed slicked pilings and came out safe and sound on the other side.  We emerged well past Hattie and Aunt Glad and their shared madness, well past the shotgun and the ominous music.

Nothing solidifies childhood friendships like high adventure, narrow escapes, and secrets.  Once we were up and running, out of range of the sisters and their demented antics, we laughed all the way home.

Go In Peace

The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk inside our own souls.

Edgar Allen Poe

They pulled a body from the bayou this morning.

It was all over the news, of course, complete with interviews with her roommate and friends and the police. There were pictures of the neatly kept little brick house in the well maintained subdivision where she'd gone missing two days ago. The reporters spoke with shocked neighbors,

the investigators said foul play was not suspected but they'd know more after the autopsy and the toxicology tests. When I realized it was someone I knew - not well, but she'd been a music fan and an aspiring photographer and we'd traveled in many of the same circles – I was stunned. When she was sober, she was a bright and cheerful soul, optimistic and honest and a tiny bit grandmotherly in her muted sweater sets and pearls. Tragically, she hadn't been sober that often.

When she was sober, there were happy social media postings about gratitude and detachment and faith. Friends replied with encouragement and well wishes. Her pictures showed her clear eyed and smiling, positive about the future and determined to stay well. But when she was off the wagon, there was nothing but silence, a worrisome and fearful silence that we all knew too well. When she was off the wagon, she looked for and found the darkness.

I wish her peace.

Weather and The Worries

Everyone's talking about the approaching weather - the storms have already turned the skies gray with a jaundiced undercoat of yellow - and there's a unhealthy feel to the warm breeze.  Like a warning.  There'll be no escaping this one, I think dismally, this one's going to hit hard.  This one's going to scare the birds out of the trees.

Fierce weather scares me more than it used to.  I worry about flooding, about lightning strikes, about tornadoes and the possibility of a tree crashing through the roof.  I worry about fallen power lines and those patches of disabling high water and the drains backing up, about losing electricity.  I worry about the neighborhood cats finding shelter and the outside dogs being brought in.  As useless as it is, if it even might happen, if it even could happen, I worry about it.

Worry doesn't accomplish anything and it devours happiness, I remember being told as a child.  It goes hand in hand with being afraid.  

By mid afternoon, the sky looks even more unhealthy and when I let the dogs out, I can't help but notice how it's deathly still and beginning to get dark.  I can hear thunder in the distance and can feel the start of the rain. 

By midnight it's been raining hard and steady for ten hours.  There hasn't been much thunder or lightning but when I slip into rain gear to take the dogs out, I can already see the damage and even hear rushing water.  By morning there's no change and no change is forecast.  We're due for at least another three days just like this one.  The park near the house is now a lake - a thirty foot deep drainage ditch (now looking more like a raging river) has massively overflowed and spilled into the street - schools are closed on both sides of the river, roads are littered with stalled cars and fallen tree limbs, high water barricades have been erected all through the neighborhood.  Two parishes have been declared disaster areas and mandatory evacuations are in progress.

On the fourth day, I start to see the inevitable, biblical posts about how the weather has been sent from God to punish the transgressors who support gay rights, abortions, open borders, raising the minimum wage, Muslims and Democrats as a whole.  Pray for Louisiana memes begin to show up in my news feed and worry gradually turns to disgust.

If the best we have to offer is plagues and prayers, I believe I'll put my faith in sandbags.

On the fifth day, the rivers, canals and bayous, some as much as ten feet over flood stage finally stabilize and start to recede. More rain is still expected but there is cautious hope that the worst may be over. The damage done and the costs of the physical clean up will likely be in the millions. It's impossible to even begin to calculate the emotional price tag.

It's a good time to remember that all the worry in the world wouldn't have done even the smallest amount of good.

Here comes the sun.

Some Whisper, Some Shout

The summer after my first year in college, I got a call from my grandmother asking if I would go with her to spend a few days in Scituate with my Aunt Maddie.  Uncle Jim was having surgery for his gall bladder, she explained, and he didn't like leaving Maddie alone.  Scituate, being a lovely and well-to-do seaside town and it being summer, I immediately said yes even though I didn't know Maddie and Jim well.

They lived in a sweet little bungalow - white picket fence, roses in the yard and a pair of Siamese cats - with a spectacular view of the harbor, where it seemed to me that every sailboat on the South Shore was docked. The lighthouse was in walking distance and everything reminded me of Nova Scotia so I felt right at home.

Aunt Maddie - petite, silver haired and bright eyed, a tidy little woman with delicate features - was about my grandmother's age, I imagined.  They were longtime friends, Eastern Star sisters and proud members of the First Baptist Church of Cambridge until Jim and Maddie had retired to the South Shore.  Maddie welcomed us with open arms, hugs all around and a lunch of cold fried chicken, freshly made potato salad and iced coffee. The little house smelled of vanilla and spices, Maddie laughed often, and the two cats - well bred and well behaved - watched over it all.  With not much to do except keep this elf-like little lady company and explore the village, it was going to be a fine few days I thought.

After we'd finished lunch and been shown our room, Maddie took us to her workshop, a cluttered back room off the kitchen where she worked on her various craft projects and refinished furniture.  Compared to the rest of the house, this was something of a disaster, a jumble of sawdust and paint and tools in no clear order.  There wasn't the slightest hint of neatness here and it reeked of turpentine and old rags.  In the very center of the room, a white gingerbread-ish vanity table sat on spread out newspapers.  It was drawer-less and its built in mirror was cracked with age and abuse.

Can't see it, can you?  Maddie asked cheerfully, What she'll be when I finish her, I mean.

No, m'am,  I told her honestly enough, I sure can't.

I didn't think so, she said with a kindly smile, You can't know what any of them will be til they tell you and not everybody hears when they speak.

I must have looked bewildered because she laughed, a fairy dust kind of sound, light and airy.

Didn't you know that everything has a voice, child? she asked, Some whisper and some shout but......

Madelyn.....I heard my grandmother say warningly and when I turned I saw that she was frowning.

Ah, well, Aunt Maddie said and gave me a wink, Your nana doesn't believe, I'm afraid, never has.  But all things, living or not, have a voice, sweetie.  I just give them names and a way to be heard.  If we don't talk to each other, how would we ever learn anything?

This was such a gentle and generous thought and made so much sense that for a moment I forgot we were talking about furniture and dismissed the idea that my Aunt Maddie might be just the slightest bit off her rocker.  Sheltered, I thought, perhaps a little fanciful, maybe even a tiny bit out of touch with reality but surely not nuts.  She reminded me of the White Queen in Alice in Wonderland, I realized - at least before she had turned into a sheep - an eccentric but simple soul with a kind heart.  So what if she talked to furniture, I decided, we all have our little quirks.  And so what if she thought the furniture talked back, I reasoned, it was harmless.

On our second night - after a fine supper of clams, fresh cold slaw and hand cut french fries - we played a spirited game of hearts and listened to Mozart.  I fell asleep with one of the cats tucked comfortably under my chin and the other curled up behind my knees and the next thing I knew the ship's clock on the mantle was striking twelve.  I sleepily thought again of Nova Scotia where our own ship's clock had kept such perfect time because my grandmother wound it every single morning without fail and then the cats stirred, stretched and hopped down to go in search of whatever cats go in search of in the middle of the night. I was still making up my mind about how badly I needed to pee when I heard a sort of low hum and a soft, fairy dust kind of laugh coming from beyond the kitchen.  There was enough light coming through the kitchen window that I could see the cats, sitting side by side just in front of the partially open workshop door and for a frivolous second or two, I had the notion that they were.......well, listening.  Then, so unexpectedly that it made me jump, the one on the left gave a sudden, sharp meow and I heard Aunt Maddie's voice.

Door's open, Simon, she called, Don't just sit there like a bump on a log.  Bring Jimmy John.

Both cats casually strolled toward the door, elegantly sidestepped around it and disappeared. 

Once I was sure I wasn't dreaming - it wasn't much of a battle, curiosity looked discretion square in the eye and easily won - I slipped out of my sneakers and padded across the room to the kitchen.  The hum was louder now and the voices were becoming more clear. 

I think so too, I heard Maddie say brightly, You''ll be more at home in the antique store and  I'm sure you'll get a place in the window.  There was a pause, followed by a meow, and then a tinkly  little laugh.  

Indeed she will, Simon, Aunt Maddie said, I think she'll fetch a very pretty price.  From the right people, of course.

I took a deep breath and slowly, ever so slowly, pushed on the door.

Maddie, in overalls and a red flannel shirt, was sitting cross legged on the floor in front of the white vanity table.  Her silver hair was flecked with sawdust and tied back in a braid and her glasses were filmy with dust. She was meticulously polishing a brass drawer handle and when she looked up at me, she smiled.

Simon told me you were awake, sweetie, she said, Come on in.

I heard voices, Aunt Maddie, I said hesitantly, Who are you talking to?

Why, to the cats, of course, and Alberta, here, she nodded at the white vanity table, We've been discussing her future.  She lowered her voice and gave me a conspiratorial wink.  Between you and me and the fence post, she's had some self-esteem issues.  Comes from being neglected, you know, but we've been working on it.  She comes from England, you see, stiff upper lip and all that.  I don't mind telling you, breaking through that famous British reserve took some doing.

I glanced at the vanity table, half expecting it to nod in agreement, then abruptly remembered it was a vanity table.

This isn't just quirky, I recall thinking, this is a train wreck. She's completely taken leave of her senses.  Mad as a hatter.

Aunt Maddie saw it on my face and sighed.

Tell me, she said, Do you have a cat or dog at home?

I nodded.

Do you talk to them?

I nodded again.

Do you pretend they answer?

Well, yes..... I admitted a little unwillingly, but it's pretend.

Of course, she said reasonably, a great many conversations are.  But if you think about it, pretending is just another way of wishing.  If you give an animal a voice, you make the wish come true. Once I knew how Simon and Jimmy John would sound, I could hear them plain as day.  It was only logical that if they had their own voices, then so did everything else.

I wanted to argue this but didn't know how so I settled for asking what Simon and Jimmy John sounded like.

Aunt Maddie fluttered one hand and laughed.

Simon is soft spoken and quite courteous for a Siamese, she said airily, But I'm afraid Jimmy John is something of a Back Bay waterfront thug.  They're not related, of course. 

It was past midnight and I was having a nonsensical conversation with a mad woman only it didn't feel that way.  It felt rational, sane, and as normal as apple pie and ice cream.  It felt profound and more than a little inspiring.

So what do cats and furniture talk about, Aunt Maddie, I asked as we sat in the kitchen and drank lemonade with sugar cookies in the yellow light of the streetlamp.

Oh, the usual small talk, mostly, she shrugged, what's for dinner, how did you sleep, did you see the sparrow outside the window this morning, their families and their dreams, that kind of thing. Religion and politics are strictly off limits and they're not much for current events so we try to keep it simple.

I laughed out loud and gave her a fierce hug.  She looked a little surprised but hugged me right back, this sweet, generous, patient, free-spirited and open-hearted little woman that I was so glad to have in my life.

She taught me about the things you don't see or hear in life and the undercurrents that swirl all around us even when we don't know it.  She confirmed a theory I was just beginning to see clearly, that no matter whether we shout or whisper, we all deserve for someone to listen.

  

 

A Man, A Tree and A Milk Carton

It had everything - nudity, obscenity, violence - it was a story that cried out to be told.

Somewhere during the morning commute, a naked man in a tree at a well known intersection of our historic neighborhood began screaming incoherent insults at passers by and throwing things at passing cars. Needless to say, this severely distressed the tide of car pooling mothers, well dressed businessmen, dog walkers and early morning cyclists. Such appalling behavior was unexpected on this genteel, tree lined avenue, Quite intolerable, one of the witnesses was reported to say as she snatched her binoculars to get a closer look. It didn't take long for some concerned soul to call the fire department - who got him down - and the police department - who hauled him away - he was dispatched, arrested, and packed off to a padded cell without incident.

His motivation aside - drugs, mental illness, an urge to live free or pitch for the Cubs, who knows - it didn't bring out any great excess of sympathy from the neighborhood.

It's an election year though. I wonder there aren't more of us in trees pitching discarded milk cartons and trash at any target we can find.

A Life Well Played

The very second I laid eyes on him crossing the park and heading for the stage with those long, graceful strides and his shaggy hair blowing about his face - well before he'd played as much as a single note - I went dry throated and weak in the knees. I'd never seen as good looking a man in my whole life.

He was taller than I'd expected, solidly built, mustached and bearded with a shock of thick, long-ish silver hair and wire rimmed glasses. When I came to, I introduced myself and he gave me a grin - authentic, genuine, and over the top sexy - shook my hand and thanked me for coming. When he took his seat at the keyboard and started to play, I was lost in the first chords. I soon learned that he was a gracious and good man, a remarkably gifted and dedicated musician, an old soul, and an absolutely class act. But at the time, it was all chemistry, charisma and raw sex appeal.

I feel very fortunate that I got to hear him play a half dozen or so times, always with my camera close at hand.

Now that the cancer is stealing his life, I wish it had been more often. I wish I'd had the time to get to know him better or longer.

He's quoted as believing in an afterlife and being sure he has a place waiting in it. I have absolutely no doubt that he's right - it will be a better place for his presence - but I'd still rather he got a miracle. Because he's one of those rare people who deserve to stay a little longer.

I'll never forget my first sight of him and it's how I'll always remember him - a sexy, charming lion of a man full of life, love, laughter and music - he'll be leaving us far too soon but not even cancer will be able to take take his music, his spirit, or his legacy.

Peace and love, piano player. You done good.

Unguarded Moments

By nature, I think we are all private people - some far more than others - so when I finally work up the courage to confront a guitar player friend and tell him I've had the sense that something was troubling him for the past few months, I know it's a risk. To my surprise and relief, he doesn't wave me off but welcomes me in to his pain. He tells me that like my photographs of him, I've caught him in an unguarded moment and he spills it all, the short term memory loss, the unshakable depression, the anger and the fear, all the past mistakes that have come to haunt him. He asks if I think my photography gives me a special kind of sense about such things.

I tell him no, it's just that I'm a worrier.

I grew up in an alcoholic home and my daddy taught me to worry, I tell him, There are some lessons you just never unlearn.

He smiles - a little sorrowfully - and hugs me.

Little by slow, dear heart, I remind him, as so many friends have so often reminded me, Little by slow.

When I was growing up, I learned to guard my private emotional territory and as a general rule, I don't take kindly to trespassers. I try to extend the same courtesy to others but there's a little bit of a fixer in all of us and sometimes it's more than I can do to rein it in. It's taken me most of my life to learn that there are times when people don't want or need band aids or even sympathy. They just want someone to listen and know they're not alone.

There's a danger in unguarded moments but I suspect we are all at our most genuine in them.