Angela

It seemed so simple.

We'd run a total of $637 through the credit card machine and somehow the bank had only been sent $437. I dreaded calling the merchants services people and wisely took a pre-emptive aspirin, telling myself it was really a patience pill.

I explained it once, then twice, then a third time. The young woman, Angela, wasn't inspiring much confidence in me.

“We ran three cards,” I heard myself saying wearily for the 4^th time, “One for $200, one for $237, and then another for $200. I'm looking at the report and it says we ran a total of $637 but there was only $437 sent to the bank. All I want to know is where the $200 has gone.”

“Which $200 does the bank not have?” Angela wanted to know.

I paused to let what she was asking me sink in thoroughly then exploded.

“Are you dim?” I shouted at her, “How the hell do I know which $200 the bank doesn't have!”

I took a breath and counted to 10 (twice).

“Look,” I said tightly, “We ran three transactions.....”

“Oh, I see that,” she assured me brightly, “They're all here.”

“Okay, good, they're all there. Making grand progress, aren't we.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

I've stumbled into a dead zone, I thought to myself and for a long moment, language and speech deserted me. All I could think was that we're doomed, overrun and overwhelmed by stupidity.

There's no cure.

“Angela.” I finally said calmly while every fiber of me wanted to crawl through the telephone and strangle the life out of her. Slowly.

“Angela,” I said again, “ Maybe I wasn't quite clear. Let me put this another way. We ran $637 in credit cards and sent it to you so you could send it to the bank. The bank only got $437 which is a $200 shortage. In other words, Angela, WHERE'S THE F**KING MONEY?”

Whether it was the obscenity or the decibel level or the combination of the two, I may never know but Angela finally seemed to realize that some sort of action on her part was required. She apologized for the trouble and promised me she would do everything in her power to resolve it. Could I send her a copy of our transaction tape and give her 24 hours to investigate, she asked.

Yes, I told her, I could do that.

True to her word, a day later she had tracked down the missing money and re-directed it and the bank confirmed it. I never learned where it had gone or why and by that time, I didn't really give a damn. I had a very faint twinge at guilt at losing my temper but it passed.

The Call of Christmas

It's not often that I break my own rules, especially for holidays when I most like to hibernate and wish the world away, but sometimes the call of friendship is strong and the demand is slight. It will be small gathering of good friends and music so I nod and smile and say yes, I'd love to. I dislike hurting anyone's feelings and besides, it's close enough to true to get by.

My dislike of holidays is a mixture of memories. The family I grew up with was disconnected and emotionally sterile. Nothing grew there except a reserved contempt and the only Christmas drama was wondering how long it would take my mother to drink herself into a hazy kind of oblivion. The family I married into was effusive, fairly spilling over with manufactured cheer and a smothering determination to prove how happy, healthy and intact they were. Funny, how distance and closeness coming from such different places can have the same effect. Funny, how long it takes to grow out of it.

When I get there, the house is a wonderland, decorated to the nines inside and out. Each room practically glows and everything smells of spices. Doorways are draped with greenery, every shelf and mantle is covered up with delicate crystal candles, the floor to ceiling tree takes up an entire corner. It's meticulously trimmed and glittery with tiny white lights and strands of silvery tinsel all faintly dusted with snow. This, I think, is a woman who takes Christmas seriously and I can't even begin to wrap my mind around how much time it all must have taken. There is eggnog and ginger beer and four different dips, a platter of vegetables and cheeses and a basket of still warm dinner rolls. It's laid out so prettily that no one wants to be the first to eat.

There's something hopeful in this house, something built on faith and real family, gratitude and love. The music and the decorations are just extra touches.

Dogs, Dads, and Dreams

The little dachshund nudges my knee, no more than a feather's touch, and without opening my eyes, I throw back the blanket and he crawls up and into the L shaped space between my knees and my shoulders. He sighs, gives me a quick kiss on my chin, then presses tightly up against me and goes to sleep. I tuck my free arm over his sleek little body and under his belly and hold him close to me. The small brown dog is snoozing behind my neck and there are cats scattered here and there, wrapped around my ankles, comfortably asleep on my shoulder and perched in front of the the window. It's one of those “life doesn't get much better than this” moments and I try to hold onto it. I'm afraid they may be much more of a rarity come the new year.

I have tried and tried to find some light in the coming darkness, tried and tried to work through the despair and fear that is crushing me. I tell myself he's all talk, it won't be as bad as he promised, we will not cement ourselves as a country of the racist, the rednecks and the rich. It's just that I can't find any evidence to support what I tell myself. Every new obscene appointment is worse than the last and the country is being swallowed whole by greed and profiteering, led by the sorriest excuse for a human being ever born. The fact that he can't even spell or speak coherently doesn't trouble me near as much as the fact that he prefers the entire country follow his example. I've missed educated people for years, missed people with integrity even longer and now it seems that both will be ground up and spit out on the ashes of health care, diplomacy, equality, free speech, and civil rights There will be flat out brutality for anyone who doesn't agree and resistance will be trampled by white sheeted cowards masquerading as bankers and politicians and cost cutting CEO's whose souls are ruled by profit and loss reports.

My daddy would undoubtedly tell me I'm getting carried away with doom and gloom. He would give me a sad, tolerant smile and tell me to stop being melodramatic. He would assure me we live in a better world with better people, that my fears are groundless, that the country is stronger, wiser, and more even tempered than the lunatic fringe. He would laugh and tease me about being a fatalist and too young to see things clearly. Maybe he'd even believe it or maybe he'd just want me not to worry so much. Or maybe, just maybe, he'd suspect I was right but not want to say so.

The little dachshund sleeps on, dreaming and occasionally twitching, pressing closer against me. My breath stirs the dappled fly away fur on his ears and every now and again, one small paw gives one small kick at whatever he's chasing in his dreams.  

Kittens in the Spring

The Sunday before Christmas is bitter cold and icy bright. I can see frost all over the front yard and yesterday's wet leaves are frozen in place like sculptures. The dogs are curled up together on the bed behind me and the cats are strategically draped over the heating vents. I'm in long johns and three layers, worrying uselessly about the water pipes and the neighborhood cats and grateful to have a roof over my head. I jack the thermostat up to 76 - thinking with a grim kind of satisfaction that my mother would turn over in her grave - and drag out an extra throw blanket. I detest and despise cold and am none too wild about Christmas. This year more so than others, the prospect of a new year is not just joyless, but frightening. I feel as if the very planet is in peril. Like the cold itself, it's impossible to shake off, cast out or ignore what I fear the new year will bring.

Hope is a two-faced hypocrite, seducing you with promises of better days or snaring you into a pit of unrealistic expectations. You can wait and be trusting that good will overcome evil or you can join the resistance and fight. Either way, it won't amount to much.

And yet.

Yesterday, knowing the cold was coming, I re-made the workbench in the garage with shelters for the stray cats - plastic tubs with fresh straw for insulation, thick cardboard boxes lined with fleece blankets and old pillows – not perfect by any means but dry and out of the wind for those that find it. And judging from the dogs newfound interest in the dilapidated dog door that leads into the garage, they've already found it.

And yet.

I sign the petitions, I make the calls to congress, I support those who still believe the country can survive. I don't know why except that it's better than doing nothing at all and sometimes it helps me sleep at night.

There will still be kittens in the spring, I tell myself.

“No winter lasts forever and no spring skips its turn.” ~ Hal Borland

Nana's Kitchen

Thirty years of widowhood had not dimmed my grandmother's Christmas spirit. It took the better part of a day to empty the Christmas Closet and set up the fireplace village with its cottonball snow, tiny white plastic fences and miniature lights. We hung huge ribbon'd wreaths on the front and back doors, lined the mantle with greenery and candles and attached mistletoe to every overhead lighting fixture we could reach. By the time we hung the stockings and finished the tree the following day, the usually gray, sterile and charmless house sparkled and everything smelled of fir trees and cinnamon. The vintage stand up radio in the foyer, 4 feet tall if an inch, was set to public radio and played nothing but Christmas music. Nana, I discovered, knew every verse of every carol ever written, and as she did not naturally possess a happy or effusive nature, it delighted me to see her so filled with Christmas spirit, all smiles and singing along. It was then I knew the transformation was complete. It was a happy time of year.

Come Christmas Eve Day, the house was warm and trimmed and ready for company but the kitchen was organized chaos. Nana's to do list was tacked to the side wall by the sink so she could refer to it often and easily. She wore a tiny gold pencil on a chain around her neck and would methodically check off each item with the finished list seeming to give her enormous satisfaction. I don't have a gold pencil but I am an inveterate list maker and I know exactly how she felt.

As Christmas Eve drew nearer, the kitchen grew more and more off limits.

“Best you have serious business or be just passin' through,” Nana warned us, “ I don't take to trespassers while I'm cookin'.”

“What can I do to help?” my daddy asked when he arrived and gave her a playful kiss on the cheek.

She returned the gesture by swatting at him with a slotted spoon and then tried to hide a smile.

“There's somethin' under the tree you can open early,” she told him gruffly, “Ain't much but it'll be useful tomorrow. Now git and don't be trackin' mud on my clean floor.”

He grinned and set off for the living room, presently returning with a shiny new electric carving knife set.

“You do know the way to a man's heart, Alice,” he announced happily and catching her unawares gave her an quick hug. She resisted and blushed slightly but I could tell she was pleased that he was pleased. In our family, emotions were kept on a tight rein and it would never have done to make a major production of a Christmas gift. We tended to thrive on practicality and an understated, almost puritanical sense of self-control. My husband's family, I reflected, practiced a shameless sort of gratitude that turned the holiday into performance art and made me acutely uncomfortable. If a gift could actually reduce someone to tears, it was considered a grand success. Needless to say, I wasn't wild about either approach. Both made me feel like a stranger and undoubtably contributed to my current dislike of all gift giving, holiday or not.

Even so, there are times when I do miss Nana's kitchen.  Not much and not often, just enough to make me smile.

Miz Loretta's Ghost

My grandmother's summer schedule was as close to inviolate as you could get.

Monday was Wash Day. Tuesday she shopped and Wednesday she baked. Thursday was Visiting Day and each Friday was reserved for a trip to the mainland. Saturday was kept open for various alternating monthly chores - floor waxin' and window washin' and the like - and on Sundays, she put her feet up.

On Thursdays, we always stopped at Miz Loretta's last on account of Miz Loretta had been keepin' company with a ghost for 40 years and it kinda got on Nana's nerves to be in the same house with him. Miz Loretta never had gotten around to marryin' him seein' as he was kilt in the war but she stayed faithful all the same.

“Ain't never met a ghost,” my cousin Gilda who was staying with us for all of July announced - Gilda always went straight to the practical side of things - “What's his name?”

“Eugene,” I told her.

“Mr. Eugene,” Nana promptly corrected me, “And I expect you both to be respectful.”

Gilda didn't exactly specialize in respectful but she knew better than to risk my grandmother's temper. We obediently carried in the plastic containers of fresh bread, vegetables and sliced ham, the box of glossy magazines Nana had collected, a shabby but freshly laundered rag doll with blonde braids, and the second hand quilt she'd found at a jumble sale. Miz Loretta welcomed us with open arms but before we got to peek inside the cheerfully painted little bungalow, Nana had relieved us of our burdens and sent us off to gather kindling and fill the woodbox. That done, we got to go inside where an afternoon tea was neatly laid out in on a small table in front of the old stone fireplace.

“They's five places,” Gilda whispered to me, “We gon' have tea with a ghost!”

Nana shot her a dark look but Miz Loretta just poured tea and passed cream cakes.

“I always set a place for Eugene,” she whispered back with a conspiratorial wink, “but you know, he's so shy-minded 'bout company, he almost never comes.”

My grandmother sighed.

Gilda and I made short work of the cream cakes while Miz Loretta chattered on about the many facets and merits of various tea blends and how much sugar was necessary for a decent cookie.

“Eugene has such a sweet tooth,” she confessed, “I declare it's a wonder he can still wear his uniform.”

She asked after my mother and the state of the my grandfather's health, said next time we should bring the dogs with us (“Eugene does have such a way with animals!”), commented on how much she liked the new doctor and how she'd enjoyed the last Sunday sermon, and finally mentioned that she was learning bridge.

“I'll expect you to ask me to one of your card parties soon, Alice,” she said nonchalantly, “It's a mercy that Eugene is such a good teacher.”

Nana nodded and managed a weary smile.

“Time we was goin', Loretta,” she announced, “Help with the tea things, girls.”

Miz Loretta shook her head and waved the offer away.

“No need, no need,” she told us cheerfully, “I wash and Eugene dries. We get it done in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”

Gilda was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride home and I couldn't help but think she was plotting some mischief. Knowing my irrepressibly reckless cousin, the thought made my stomach flutter some. Her silence didn't escape Nana's sharp eyes but even when pressed, all she would admit to was being disappointed at not having actually met a ghost. The conversation about it dried up until later at supper.

“You do know, Gilda,” my grandmother pointed out kindly, “They's no such thing as ghosts. Miz Loretta jist ain't never got over losin' Eugene.”

“Oh, yes'm,” Gilda agreed without hesitation, “I reckon she's jist got bats in her belfry.”

“Well, I 'spose that's one way of puttin' it,” Nana said and frowned, “But mebbe you might oughta look for a kinder way of sayin' so.”

This was such a mild rebuke that Gilda was barely ruffled and my grandmother's frown deepened.

“Sometimes,” she said thoughtfully, “Madness is more'n jist a misery. Sometimes it's the only way a body can go on.”

Much later that night as Gilda and I were lying in the big double bed with the moonlight sifting through the clouds and fiddle music from John Sullivan's drydocked boat playing in the background, Nana came in to hear our prayers and say goodnight. She sat on the edge of the bed and told us about Loretta and Eugene, about how they had been childhood sweethearts from the age of five, inseparable through their teenage years, and betrothed by their twenties. They'd been young and in love, more so than any couple anyone could remember, and full of happy plans. And then the war came and suddenly Eugene was gone and Loretta was alone except for a baby daughter who had been born far too early.

“She didn't survive,” Nana said gently, “and Eugene didn't come home. It was too much for Loretta. Memories was all she had left so she made up ghosts and she's lived with'em her whole life. So there'll be no more talk about it and no mischief. Do you understand?”

It was the first and only time I heard my cousin Gilda cry.