The Nose Knows

The nose knows, I remind myself as I watch the little dachshund race out the back door and head straight to the dilapidated old doggie door that leads into the garage. He is convinced that something - cat, possom, raccoon or rat - is in the garage and I know better than to doubt him. Flashlight in hand and garden rake in the other, I follow him, opening the garage doors slowly and carefully so as not to disturb whatever trespassing little creature has taken refuge inside. Better in the garage than under the house tearing up the ductwork, I tell myself. It's little enough shelter from this cold and cruel weather and I'm not necessarily interested in evicting whatever it is.

Tail wagging anxiously and whining softly, the little dachshund goes exploring. He crawls under the boxes of debris, winds his way around and past the stacks of trash, investigates each nook and cranny and eventually manages to climb up a discarded old rug to where he can reach the built in shelves and check all the hidden places. Something out of sight rustles and he freezes, staring intently at a cardboard box sitting high on a pile of filthy old blankets and moth eaten towels. I bravely shine the light directly on it but see nothing and when the rustling stops, I reach out with the rake handle and cautiously lift the lid of the box, expecting I don't know what, something otherworldy to come flying at me or perhaps a pair of luminous eyes peering back at me. But there's nothing, just an old carboard box with a ragged blanket inside, the remains of a bed I had made for a mama cat and her kittens a couple of years before. I swear the little dachshund looks disappointed. He reluctantly climbs down and once back on solid ground, returns to making his way under, over and around every obstacle. After several minutes, he seems to lose interest and I wonder if something has slipped away. It doesn't take much to persuade him to give up the pursuit and coax him back into the house.

This little drama plays out several times a day for several more days but after a week or so, whatever had taken up residence moves on. The little dachshund senses it and one day just abandons the garage without so much as a backward glance, proving once again that the nose always knows and that more often than we'd like to think, things work themselves out with no help or interference from the rest of us. You just have to learn to get out of your own way.

Snuggles

After two days of gray skies, cold temperatures and relentless rain, I'm feeling put upon and anti-social. I bundle up in my longjohns and crawl beneath the comforter with the animals, wondering if I can sleep until spring. I despise this raw weather and monotone sky with a passion. Everything feels pale and neutered and lifeless. My friend, Michael, leaves for Los Angeles in two days and I find myself half hoping his plane crashes over the Great Lakes. I take it back immediately when I remember I would then inherit his four unhousebroken, overfed and hopelessly spoiled dogs. Time to get a grip, I tell myself, it's just miserable weather and it won't last - 60 degrees and sun is forecast for the end of the week - maybe, I muse, I can at least sleep til then.

It is not to be.

Twice in the same day, the little dachshund finds a vulnerability in the lattice work and wanders off under the house and all the way to the street. The first time, I catch up with him in the next yard - cold, wet and muddy all the way to his ears - but loving every minute of this new found freedom. The second time, I discover him trotting across the street through every puddle he can find, hot on the trail on one of the neighborhood cats. By the time I corner him and scoop him up, we are both dirty and dripping and half frozen. Before I shed my wet clothes and toss him in the kitchen sink for a warm bath, I make the rounds of the back yard and finally locate a suspicious space in the latticework, just wide and long enough to accommodate a determined little dog. The next time I let him out, he heads straight for it and finding it blocked, gives me a resentful look.

“Into each life a little rain must fall,” I tell him righteously, “Now get your butt back into this house or it's back to the sink.”

I can tell he doesn't much like it - to make his point, he takes his time wading through the wet leaves and underbrush before coming inside - I towel him off and give him a biscuit and he makes his way into the sun room and curls up on the love seat with the tiny one. We call it a draw and it gives me time to take a hot shower and slip into a fresh set of thermals. Later, he will snuggle up under the comforter with me, press his small body against mine, on his side with his head on my shoulder, and sleep. It makes me feel that despite the miserable weather and the cold, all is right with the world.

The Flag Man

The intersection by the post office and the Circle K is a busy one. There's a clear “No Left Turn” sign at the exit of the post office lot but no one pays much mind to it and the traffic lights, as best I can tell, are there for decoration. It's kind of a risky place to stage a one man protest, but there he was - a shoeless, chubby, middle aged man with a buzz cut, wearing ragged blue jeans and a puffy-sleeved winter coat, carrying a handmade cardboard sign proclaiming “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition”. An oversized American flag was attached to his collar and it flared like a cape every time he spun around to confront an impatient driver with a wave and a toothless grin. He was serenely unmoved by the angry horns and the shouted insults and when the police arrived, he went quietly. Two officers efficiently unattached the flag, folded it and gave it to him to hold, then handcuffed him and bundled him into a patrol car while the intersection returned to its treacherous but normal state. Just another slice of life in a world gone a little mad, I thought, but exactly what he was protesting escaped me. As best I could recall, “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition” had been a World War II song - I vaguely remembered my daddy having a version by Kay Kyser somewhere along the way - but aside from the obvious patriotic (warmongering?) theme, it's relevance to a dangerous intersection in a small southern city didn't make much sense except as mischief or possibly some mild mental illness.

I hoped the police would be kind, maybe even find him some shoes and some hot coffee. I hoped they would let him keep his flag. When the weather changed the following day to raw, cold and wet, I began hoping he wasn't homeless or one of the many veterans we've forgotten about.

I got home, slipped into a second layer of thermals and extra socks, burrowed under a blanket with the dogs and gave thanks for what I have and don't always appreciate.

Vivaldi & The Infamous Pickle Sisters

Long before the trio of elderly ladies in the immaculately maintained old Model A had slowly and gingerly navigated boarding the ferry, word of their arrival had already reached as far as The Point, courtesy of Ms. Elsie and her switchboard. Mercy, Margaret and Carrie Mae Dill - they had already been dubbed The Pickle Sisters - had inherited Florrie Crocker's little gingerbreaded cottage off the square and had driven all the way from Cape Breton to take possession. The entire island was curious and anxious to meet the newcomers although truth to tell, it was the polished and lovingly cared for old Ford with the golden wheels that stirred the most interest.

“I'll be double damned,” Cap confessed as Ms. Mercy delicately steered the 30 year old classic contraption down the slip, “I ain't seen one of those in a hunnert years! And by God, don't she run some sweet!”

Ms. Mercy blushed all the way to her roots, though whether at the ferryman's language or his nearness as he collected the fifty cent fare, was never quite clear. She slid two quarters into his hand and gave him a shy smile when he tipped his cap and thanked her.

“Welcome to Long Island, ladies,” he said with a grin, “Fine day for travelin', wouldn't you say.”

Yes, indeed, the sisters had agreed, it was that.

“You ladies visitin' or just sight seein'?” Cap pressed innocently and that was how the island grapevine kicked into gear. In the less than five minute crossing, Cap had learned it all and as news traveled the 12 miles to The Point and to Ms. Elsie with the speed of light, it was passed on and dispersed to the entire village nearly before the old Ford pulled away from the breakwater and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Ms. Mercy was the eldest, we learned, tall for a woman at 5'9, on the thin side and like both her sisters, single her entire life. She was, as Ms. Clara approvingly put it, “Book Learned” and had spent all of her working years as a much loved school teacher. When her trunks arrived some weeks later, they were full of books, everything from The Bobbsey Twins to Jane Austen to Shakespeare. She modestly admitted to having read or taught from every single one and while reserved with those her own age, she clearly loved and blossomed with children. We loved her at first sight.

Ms. Margaret, whose trunks were filled with frilly, starched dresses and high button shoes, was a cheerfully plump and good natured soul with a cloud of untamed white hair and blue eyes that were always smiling. She was fond of costume jewelry, wore several rings on each fluttery hand and had a particular affection for - and a substantial collection of – cameos. There was a sense of innocence and goodness about her that was immediately endearing. “What you see with Margaret,” my grandmother remarked not unkindly, “is exactly what you get.” It was years before anyone realized she was smart as a whip and had managed a small but highly profitable flower shop for decades, at first supplementing then easily surpassing Mercy's teaching salary and allowing the sisters to live quietly but comfortably with themselves and each other.

The third sister was the mystery, everyone agreed. She was the youngest and despite the best efforts of the best island snoops, precious little could be found out about her. To no one's real surprise, this lack of information frustrated the gossips and triggered a tidal wave of speculation.

It was said she was a mute, that she wrote poetry and preferred cats over people, that she had been born with a club foot, that she was illegitimate and/or adopted. Some even raised the ugly possibiility that she was Mercy or Margaret's daughter and not their sister. This last proved to be too much for Ms. Clara.

“Seen it with my own eyes,” Uncle Willie allowed, “Clara called the damn fool woman out right there in the post office and when she tried to argue 'bout it, ol' Clara jist slapped her right across the mouth, in front of God and everyone. Ayuh, it was a sight to be seen.”

By the middle of June, Florrie's house which had been shuttered and vacant since the previous October, had been brought back to life. Under Mercy's supervision, it was swept and polished clean from top to bottom with a fresh coat of bright yellow paint and new curtains at the windows. Florrie's classic, conservative furnishings were replaced with an eclectically modern mix of chintz and shag rugs and splashes of color here and there with clean lines replacing clutter. Margaret attacked the yard and the flower beds with an impressive ferocity, the wrap around veranda was soon a riot of assorted clay pots and colors and a trio of newly painted rocking chairs. Window boxes of daisies and ivy appeared at every window and a small army of garden gnomes (the first we had ever seen) seemed to watch over it all. It began to feel just a little magical but the real magic was yet to come. It arrived on a sunny July afternoon in a small moving van with a crew of five.

“A piano?” Cap asked doubtfully, “We ain't never..........how the hell does a piano fit in that?”

“In pieces,” the driver informed him mildly, “And wrapped up tighter'n a tick. Look, we made it from Halifax to Cape Breton and then all the way here. I reckon we kin make it across a mile of calm water.”

Cap considered then shrugged. “Your piano,” he said diffidently, “Reckon we can give her a try.”

And so a grand piano was delivered to the magical little house off the square and piece by piece, unpacked and unwrapped with great care then carried into the front parlor and re-assembled.

It took the rest of the day and well into the evening and the movers had to be put up for the night. Mercy offered them rooms, “Not fancy, mind you, but they'll serve and they come with a meal,” but although they accepted the meal, they elected to sleep in the van and were long gone by the time the factory whistle blew in the morning.

From then on, music - some of which some of us had never even known existed - poured forth from the square. You were as likely to hear a raucous Little Richard tune as Vivaldi or a Joplin rag followed by a Mozart overture. Carrie Mae Dill, who had never had a music lesson in her entire life, had been a genuine prodigy from the time she could sit at a piano without being held and a concert pianist by the age of six.

From books to flowers to music, the Pickle Sisters had arrived and brought their own enchantments with them.

Lady Claire

Most of my mother's friends were short, dumpy, unattractive women, heavy smokers and overly fond of canasta and their afternoon Icebox Manhattans. Claire was the exception – tall, not thin but perfectly proportioned, with ivory skin and a mane of fiery red hair – always manicured with impeccable make up and dressed to the nines, right down to her designer shoes. Her easy, elegant ladylike-ness scared the daylights out of me, made me feel like a grubby-faced street urchin in need of a hot bath and a good meal. I was never quite sure why, but I wanted desperately to dislike her. No one should have that much self confidence, I thought resentfully.

Her husband, Stan, a great bear of a man who favored trenchcoats and fedoras and always reminded me of Robert Mitchum, was as brash and loud as she was understated and soft-spoken.

He smoked like a chimney, drank his whiskey straight and wasn't afraid of an off color joke as long as there were no ladies present. He held her chair, opened doors for her, always helped her on with her coat. They seemed superficially mismatched but you couldn't argue with the fact that they made a good looking, attention grabbing couple.

On the cold, snowy Christmas Eve that I'm remembering, they arrived shortly after supper. Stan was in a tuxedo and Claire wore a floor length emerald green gown that matched her eyes.

They were on their way to a party and couldn't stay, they explained, but they'd brought us an early Christmas present. Stan reached into his trenchcoat pocket and produced a fawn colored boxer puppy, no more than 8 weeks old, with floppy ears and huge doe eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Jan,” he said gruffly and placed the pup into my stunned mother's lap. For a moment there was silence, then the little bundle whined softly and I watched my mother cradle it gently before she dissolved into helpless tears. My daddy arrived with Fritz, our beloved dachshund at his heels, and made the proper introductions. It was love at first sight.

It had all been pre-arranged, of course. My mother had fallen hopelessly in love with the puppy the week before at one of the canasta games held at Claire's house and hadn't been able to help herself and it hadn't taken much to win over my daddy. He was always for anything that might distract her from her drinking and her own misery and the responsibility of a new puppy seemed ideal. Surprisingly enough, it worked pretty well. Lady Claire, as she was immediately named, was a handful as a puppy but she grew into a sweet tempered, beautiful dog as delicate and fine as the lady for whom she was named. Stan and Claire visited often in those days, watched her progress and saw her grow up. The more I saw of them, the harder it was to try and dislike Claire and eventually I stopped trying.

Look Heah ...............

Here's a tip: Conversations that begin with “Look heah.....” just aren't going to go well.

Between the yapping dogs and screaming infants in the background, I can barely make out a word the caller says but in the fullness of time, I'm able to discern that someone in her family wants to be a model. I tell her she needs to register on our website and she immediately wants to know what website. This has become a common question and it's not encouraging. You would think if they'd made their way to our telephone number, they might know who they were calling. You'd be wrong. No, I tell her gently but firmly, you cannot axe me a question, fill out a form on the website and we'll get back to you if we're interested.

Not five minutes later, she's back, wanting to know if I've seen the registration form. I tell her I check each morning and I've already checked today. She offers to stop by on the way to pick up her food stamps. No, I say, a little more roughly, we don't see anyone here, only at auditions.

But look heah................she protests.

Fill out a form and if we're interested, you'll be invited to an audition, I tell her, that's how this works, thank you very much for calling.

Racist! she spits at me.

And that's all I can take. Look, lady, I snap at her, I don't know you and I damn sure don't care what color you are but I can sure as hell can tell we're not going to get along so no hard feelings but we're done. Buy the kid a pony or give her dance lessons, I don't care, but you're not welcome here.

She's still cussing when I hang up the phone and reach for the aspirin bottle. By the end of the day - if not within the next hour - there's certain to be a negative post about my attitude on our social media page but I can't bring myself to care. Peace of mind comes when you figure out what to ignore.

Reaching the Bottom

“im in a spot, I've been living in a tent in the woods for a week but it's flooded in. Is there any way I could crash with you for the night?”

It was the morning after and reading the message made my heart stutter. Guilt that I hadn't seen it sooner collided with relief that I hadn't seen it sooner and left me very nearly tied up in knots. I replied carefully, reminding him again where the shelters were and encouraging him to get help and stay on his meds but having been to this rodeo several times, I wasn't optimistic I didn't expect and didn't get an answer.

“God watches over fools and drunks,” my grandmother used to say. Maybe so, but He rarely interferes and the least I can do is follow His example. I have lived with the effects of addiction all my life and it took years to understand the perils of enabling. My heart hurts for this boy, but my mind knows that a couch at my house, even if I had one to offer, is not the solution. I can't afford the inevitable damage he would cause. And I will not be the one who gets between him and his reaching the bottom. Bottom is his only hope.

Hoofbeats

The night was uncommonly serene and quiet. Even the tide washing up on the shore seemed to be whispering and I imagined the path of moonlight stretching across the passage was so still it might've been solid enough to walk across. There wasn't even a hint of a breeze and I couldn't hear a single nightbird or cricket. It felt like being under a spell and I was afraid to move for fear I'd disturb something so I just lay motionless in my bed, content to smell the salt air that drifted in through the open window, content to listen and think about how much I loved the ocean and how lucky I was to have it so close. I was on the verge of falling back to sleep when I heard the hoofbeats. They were very near and ringing out like metal on metal, clear and sharp and so cleanly defined they made me think of tap dancing. I threw off the bedclothes in a rush and ran to the window. I could see the ocean, the lights of Westport, the ribbon of moonlight, the dark factory and the fishing shacks. I could see all the way to the Old Road on the left, all the way to the last breakwater on the right and everything in between. There was not the first sign of a horse and no sound of hoofbeats.

“A horse?” Nana asked at breakfast the next morning, “In the middle of the night, you say?”

“Yes'm “ I told her, “Heard it clear as day.”

She smiled and delivered a gentle cuff to the back of my head, “More'n likely you was dreamin', child,” she said gruffly, “Ain't no horses runnin' round at night here or anywheres else on this island.”

“But....”

“Eat your breakfast, child,” she said firmly, “And give that imagination of your'n a rest.”

“A horse?” Uncle Shad and Uncle Willie said in unison. They exchanged a skeptical glance then each gave me a pat on the head and the kind of smile that adults reserve for children with runaway imaginations.

“Ain't no horses on The Point,” Uncle Willie said reasonably.

“Ain't nobody missin' one up island neither, else we'd of heard tell,” Uncle Shad added, “I 'spect you was dreamin'.”

“Ayuh,” Uncle Willie nodded, “Somethin' you et, mebbe.”

“There was a horse!” I said stubbornly, “And it weren't no dream!”

Sparrow gave me a long, thoughtful look, his leathery face still and serious as he filled his pipe and lit it with a kitchen match, fillling the air with sulphur.

“I reckon I've heard crazier things,” he said slowly, “Reckon we all have.”

Being believed is a powerful thing for a child. I stopped holding my breath, let my shoulders drop with relief and he grinned at me and blew a whole series of perfect smoke rings.

I spent a lot of sleepless nights waiting to hear the hoofbeats again, so many that I almost began to believe I had been dreaming. And then, just about a month later on a night so like the first time, I heard them again, bright edged, unmistakable and moving fast. I was already at the window, propped up in one of Nana's old armchairs on the sunporch with a perfectly clear view of the road. The moon was full and the tide was coming in as the horse rounded the turn and thundered past the house, mane and tail flying, head held high and breathing hard but gliding and graceful as a dancer. I could see every detail and coordinated movement, could hear each lathering breath. And then like smoke, he was gone, swallowed up at the end of the road and out of sight. The hoofbeats faded and the night went back to being still and ordinary and I climbed the stairs and went to bed, understanding that no one would believe me except maybe Sparrow and that it didn't matter. I also knew without a shadow of a doubt that real or not, I would never see the horse again.

Stage Fright

Worry, I swear, will put me into an early grave.

Apart from letting the dogs in and out and changing the litter boxes, I spend all of Labor Day weekend - all of it, every single minute - curled up on the love seat in retreat and listening to rather than actually watching tv. I think about all the things I could/should and have been planning to do for months but nothing seems worth the effort and I end up sleeping away hour after hour for three straight days. It seems dull and pointless to do anything else. A part of me know this is unhealthy but a larger part doesn't care.

“Do you ever think about hurting yourself?” I remember the doctor asking just a few days ago.

“Not in the way you mean,” I'd said maybe a little too quickly, “I lean toward it but I have two dogs and four cats to think of. Although I have come to think that there are worse things than dying.”

Although I was trying to be honest, It wasn't quite true. The fact is that I do think about suicide more often than I want to admit but generally as something down the road. For the present time, the love of and responsibility to my animals keeps me grounded. They matter more to me than anything is this life and leaving them is unthinkable.

Three weeks of anti depressants later, the darkest thoughts and worries have eased somewhat but the anxiety remains, coming and going randomly and often leaving me with a fluttery, stage fright kind of feeling - as if I've done something very wrong and am just waiting to get caught. I feel irrationally scared and nervous but I can't seem to pin it down to anything specific, it's everything and nothing at the same time.

It's hard to fight things in the dark.

Talk To Each Other

It was supposed to be simple.

“Just be here at 8:30” the x ray tech told me, “We'll have you in and out in ten minutes, you don't even need to sign in at the front desk, just at the lab.”

More fool that I am, I believed her.

I obediently signed in at the lab.

They sent me to the front desk.

The front desk sent me back to the lab.

The lab sent me back to the front desk.

The front desk sent me back to the lab.

“No,” I told the front desk, “I'm done playing ping pong. Either you straighten this out or I'm leaving and you can explain to the doctor why there's no chest x ray. Don't you people talk to each other?”

She bristled. And glared at me.

I bristled back. And stood my ground.

“The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.”

George Bernard Shaw

First Things First

The new doctor is young, with masses of dark curly hair that fall well past her slender shoulders and a ready smile. I like and am comfortable with her from the very first moment but still it's a struggle to articulate my feelings of depression and the anxiety that accompanies them. I don't want to sound like I'm whining or looking for a quick fix and I'm reassured when she listens intently, meeting my eyes unwaveringly and nodding with comprehension when I manage a coherence I don't fully feel.

She frowns at my smoking but is gentle about it, writing a prescription for an anti depressant and saying “First things first. We get you to feeling better than maybe we'll talk about your smoking.”

My weight earns another frown, as unexplained weight gain or loss often does. Without changing a thing, mine has been up and down like a roller coaster these past few years, going from 147 to 105 to 125 to 118 to today's 1o3.

“Might be your emotional state,” she says carefully, “But we'll look at everything again just to be sure.” Another smile, this one just a shade more cautious. “Though I would prefer you didn't lose any more.”

She orders blood work and a chest x ray, mentions that I might want to be taking an aspirin every day - I already am, have been for years - praises my blood pressure and recommends leaving the cyst on the back of my neck alone unless it starts to bother me.

We agree, just as my former doctor and I always did, that all things considered, I'm in fine shape for the shape I'm in. I think I've chosen well.

Just Geography

“It's 96 in the shade,” my friend Jen protests when she puts aside her guitar and takes a break,

“How do you stand it?”

“I try never to complain about the heat,” I tell her serenely, “It'll be gone soon enough.”

“Are we talking about the weather?” she frowns.

“Maybe,” I say with a shrug, “And maybe not.”

It's late August here in the south and while the heat is merely suffocating, the humidity is a heavy, water-soaked blanket settled over us all. It blots out the sun and makes it hard to breathe. We are encased in it. Rivers of sweat pour over into our eyes and down our necks, eye glasses and camera lenses fog up. Hairlines turn sauna-wet and dripping and faces glisten. The patio is covered and there are strategically placed industrial strength fans at every corner but still it feels like a blast furnace. Jen downs a glass of ice water, towels off, and returns to the stage. Hoping for just one clean shot, I pick up my trusty Nikon and aim it in her direction but some nights it just isn't there and I settle for listening to the music.

I think a lot about the weather these days. How unpredictable it is, how completely out of our control it is, how it can be almost impossible to prepare for and how it can change in the mere blink of an eye. Just when you get used to a certain season, it's gone overnight. The heat will fade soon enough, we will slip into a too short autumn and then a long and drawn out winter. It's not something I look forward to.

It's funny to me how friends are surprised at how much I mind the cold.

“But you're from New England,” they say, “You grew up with it.”

“And left it the first chance I had,” I point out, “Although in hindsight, I wonder if I shouldn't have kept going until I got to an ocean.”

Then again, maybe it's all just geography.

Rat Central

“I've got it cornered!” Michael shouts at me through the door, “Don't let the dogs in!”

Brandishing a broom in one hand and clutching a metal dustpan in front of him like a shield, Michael is half standing, half crouching in the kitchen, confronting the third rat. Sensing a threat, the dogs begin to jump and paw at the door, howling like banshees and barking non stop.

“Is it dead?” I shout as I navigate through what I expect will turn into a stampede at any moment.

“God-dayum if I know!” he shouts back.

One by one, I drag the dogs away by their collars and shut them in the front room then open the door just a crack. “Poke it,” I tell him impatiently, “See how fast it moves.”

He glares at me, takes a deep breath and stretches out the broom, jabbing at the unfortunate rodent and flinching quickly back.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, “It's alive. Barely. Should I smash it over the head?”

The very idea makes me queasy.

“No,” I tell him, swallowing hard and hoping I won't be sick, “Just sweep it up and put in the trash.”

A couple of days later, I notice that the little pit mix is obsessed with something in the yard and when I investigate, I find a dead rat. That makes four.

And then came yesterday.

“Something smells in the kitchen,” Michael tells me, “Can you hang around while I move the stove and see if there's anything there?”

I would prefer, I think, to be in hell with a broken back, but I agree. We lock the dogs out, I arm myself with the broom, and he drags the stove away from the wall. I see the tail immediately and it takes all I have not to retch. The rat is very dead but he's also wedged in, snagged on some piece of stove underworks and we can't dislodge him. When Michael moves the stove, the corpse moves with it and the smell is revolting.

“Enough,” I finally say, “I'm calling the exterminator.” And for once, Michael doesn't argue.

Denver, our trusted, dog-loving and invariably cheerful pest control guy, arrives later that day and between the two of them, they manage to retrieve, remove and dispose of the 5^th rat and spread a generous helping of poison in its wake.

The battle is won. The outcome of the war is yet to be determined.

How Did We Get Here?

It's obscenely depressing to watch everything good and decent and fair in this country being stripped away. The crushing weight I've felt since the morning after the November election is heavier and more oppressive every day and I've never felt so grateful to not have children.

How will we justify the world we're leaving them? How will we explain that we chose it?

I am grateful that:

I will not have to explain to my children or their's why they have no health insurance and may die for lack of care.

Nor why the cities are black with pollution and choked with smog.

Nor why there is no clean water or safe air.

Nor why there are no national parks to visit.

Nor why they are not protected from predatory bankers.

Nor why the oceans are poisoned.

Nor why they can be arrested if their skin color is darker than mine.

Nor why they are not free to marry regardless of gender.

Nor why, should they be female, they are considered second class citizens, if they are considered citizens at all.

Nor why they've heard stories of immigrant children living in cages.

Nor why there are no decent jobs or decent schools.

Nor why the churches preach hate and the politicians preach to the rich.

Nor why there are no more elephants or leopards or giraffes or pandas or rhinos.

Nor where their social security has gone or why a prescription drug is more than a house note.

Nor how and why this country self-destructed into war against its own for profit.

I won't live to see all the consequences of the decisions being made for and against us. I won't see the final solutions of a government run wild with corruption and greed, monstrous stupidity and contempt for every living thing that isn't white, male and wealthy. I'm only sorry for those who will.

Accidents Happen

The basement, often a place of refuge for my daddy, smelled not unpleasantly of sawdust and cigarette smoke. The furnace rumbled on and off, producing a sweetish oil scented outpouring of heat that nicely countered the natural chill of the sterile brick walls and in the background, sometimes drowned out by hammering or the steady whine of a saw, WGBH broadcast the evening jazz shows my daddy so loved and rarely missed. Bix Beiderbecke was playing the night my brother had his tantrum and tumbled down the stairs, screaming obscenities and clutching a baseball bat.

“Foul mouthed little bastard!” I heard my mother yell from the top of the stairs, “I'll give you something to cry about!”

And with that, the door slammed with a shudder and even over the noise and mayhem, I heard the key turn.

“You'll learn some manners or I'll know the reason why!” my mother shouted hoarsely through the door, “Vicious little son of a bitch!”

How he wasn't killed - and I confess, I was hoping desperately - was a mystery. He did have a badly broken arm, one leg was shattered in a couple of places, and both cheekbones were fractured but he survived. When my mother refused to unlock the door, my daddy was forced to carry him out, blessedly unconscious, through the back cellar door to the old station wagon and then to the ER where we spent the rest of the night. My daddy, pale and anxious, spent most of the time pacing, avoiding the eyes of the ER staff, and arranging with my grandmother for her to pick up my other brother and then come and get me. Everyone accepted the explanation of an accidental fall down the cellar stairs without question. It was 1958 and if the doctors were suspicious, they kept it to themselves. I thought there was an excellent chance that he'd been pushed but I was a well trained child when it came to keeping family secrets and besides I was already regretting he hadn't been pushed harder.

After a week or two, he was sent home and while I don't remember how long he was bedridden, it was a long time and he was held back a year in school. My mother waited on him hand and foot all that late fall and winter, never showing the first sign of either hostility or remorse, and certainly never admitting it hadn't been an accident. There was never any proof and he never accused her so it became just one more thing we didn't talk about.

“Accidents happen,” my grandmother said on one of her visits, “Boy's lucky enough to be alive and it don't make no sense to dwell on how it happened.”

That was when I knew my daddy had told her about what we'd heard my mother shouting in the seconds before the fall. More, I understood that it was not to be brought up again and never shared outside the family. Just like that, silence became conspiracy and conspiracy became cover up.

Accidents happen. Sometimes they have a little help. Sometimes they don't have quite enough.

The Second Rat

I can hardly believe my eyes. There's a second rat.

I've gotten to Michael's to feed and let the dogs out but I'm nowhere over the trauma of the first rat so I enter the kitchen cautiously. I'm reaching for the latch to open the gate that divides the room - the back door is on the other side - when I see it, lying squarely in the middle of the floor and not moving. The dogs see it at the same time and chaos erupts as they try to storm the gate. It's sudden and deafening and the rat doesn't react but I learned a little something from the first one and I suspect it's a ruse. I drag each of the dogs out, kicking and screaming, and reach for my trusty broom. It only takes one tentative prod and the creature comes to life, jumping into the air, whirling around, and slithering into a corner where Michael keeps the kennels and a veritable forest of half dead plants. My heart is once again hammering in my chest as I back away but I keep a death grip on the broom. Then I realize that the dogfood is on the rat's side of the gate.

As slowly and as quietly as I can, I open the gate, keeping my eyes fixed on the plants and managing to retrieve four containers of Ceasar's. I feed the dogs outside, re-fill and move their water bowls to the office and close the kitchen door. Despite my earlier vow never to use poison again, I consider it but dismiss the idea at once and decide to leave things as they are. The thing is likely half poisoned already, I tell myself, maybe it will die on its own.

To my surprise and shock, that seems to be exactly what happens. When I go back at midnight, the rat has crawled into one of the kennels and is lying there motionless but whether it's asleep or dead, I can't tell. I take careful note of its precise position then use the broom to close and lock the cage door. It still doesn't stir and the next morning, it appears to be exactly where it was. Fully prepared to run at the first sign of life no matter how feeble, I prod it with the broom, gently at first then more roughly, until I'm convinced that it's dead. In the words of the Munchkin coroner, not merely dead but most sincerely dead.

Thinking that Michael will be less than thrilled to come home to a dead rat in the dog kennel,

I gather my courage, fight off the nausea and sweep it into the dustpan, dump it in the trash, and take the trash to the outside barrel.

I refuse to allow myself to think about the possibility of a third rat.

A Rat in Residence

For the last couple of weeks, my friend Michael has been making claims about a rat living in the kitchen. I didn't exactly doubt him - the small pit has been hunting something in the kitchen for several days now - but knowing Michael's penchant for exaggeration, I did suspect it was more likely a small house mouse and certainly nothing to be alarmed about. All that came to a screeching halt last night.

At first, when I saw it lying motionless almost within reach of the dogs' water bowl (rat poison, Michael has informed me, causes excessive thirst in its victims), it took a couple of seconds to process what I was looking at. The little pit was standing over it, delicately sniffing and kind of wrinkling his nose but the word “rat” simply didn't want to surface in my brain. When it did, my second thought was that it was dead - surely no self-respecting rat would tolerate the nearness of a curious dog, I told myself - it must be dead. But before I could even call to the dog, the rat suddenly twitched, I shrieked, and the dog seized the wretched thing by its tail and flung it fiercely in the general direction of the back door. Trapped squarely between terror and disgust, I shrieked a second time and somehow managed to fight off the desperate urge to turn tail and run like hell. I dimly remember thinking, this is what a heart attack feels like. I don't know how, but I snatched at the little dog and dragged him out of the kitchen then slammed the connecting door so hard it rattled the glass panes. Breathe, I told myself, don't panic, just breathe.

It might've worked too except for the fact that I slowly began to realize I couldn't avoid the kitchen for the next four days. I was going to have to initiate a search for what I hoped would be a corpse. But I wasn't going unprepared or unarmed or alone. I would send the dogs in as scouts, I decided, then approach with extreme caution. After all, a rat who would allow itself to be flung by its tail by a dog couldn't be all that dangerous. It must have ingested some of the poison Michael had been putting down, surely enough to slow it down.

I opened the door, called the dogs to go outside and followed them into the kitchen. The little pit showed considerable interest in the areas behind the sink and the refrigerator but I saw or heard nothing. No scrabbling, no rat corpse, no blood. My initial relief didn't last. No corpse meant the thing hadn't been killed by its encounter with the dog. I wanted to believe it had been mortally wounded and crawled out of sight to die miserably but I couldn't quite convince myself. It was, after all, a rat, not a harmless little house mouse. Who knew what it was capable of or what disease it might be carrying. The idea was unnerving and I hastily called the dogs back in, moved their water bowls to the office and securely shut the door to the kitchen.

Apart from the occasional cockroach and a one time massacre of a fire ant mound, I couldn't remember ever having actually killed anything but I was prepared to make an exception for the rat. I drove directly to the feed store and bought a box of industrial poison, broke off several chunks of the vile stuff, generously baited the kitchen. I've always been a live and let live kind of person but there's something about sharing space with a rat that I can't get around for love or money.

The following morning, I enter the house - cautious but no longer terrorized - and approach the kitchen with a hopeful heart. I immediately see the rat on the other side of the door, hunkered down by the water bowl but not moving. When he sees me, he hobbles awkwardly away and vanishes behind the stove but his slow, stiff motion causes my conscience to unexpectedly twinge. Get a grip, I tell myself impatiently, It's a rat, a filthy, disease spreading, sharp toothed, nasty looking rodent and it's ridiculous to feel sorry for him. Don't be an idiot.

The third sighting is encouraging. I can see him, still by the water bowl, but now lying on his side with his little feet up in the air. I rap on the glass and watch for several minutes but he doesn't move and though I'm almost entirely sure he's dead, I decide to give him a few more hours. I come back at suppertime and to my dismay, he's revived and is now stretched out just a couple of feet on the other side of the door. He doesn't move when I rap on the glass, doesn't move when I crack open the door but when I prod him with the broom, he comes to, turns around and staggers toward the back of the stove, walking crookedly and falling over once or twice in the process. I watch him right himself, stunned and in awe of his will to live.

“I'll be damned,” I tell the anxiously watching dogs, “What's it gonna take to kill this thing?”

Here's the thing. The following morning he was still holding on although as close to comatose as a creature could be. He didn't look like a filthy, disease-spreading, sharp toothed, nasty rodent anymore but more like a sad, suffering, helpless and pitifully frail creature who deserved mercy I had no means to give. When I was totally sure he was too far gone to resist, I swallowed my fear and pity and disgust and somehow managed to sweep his nearly lifeless body into the dustpan, dump the dustpan into the trash and take the trash to the curb. I'd have set him free but with the poison in his system, it would've put any animal that found him at risk. I truly hope the shock finally killed him.

I'm left with a sense of not having handled this well and a nagging feeling of guilt about the use of poison. It was, I think - even for a rat - a cruel solution and not one I'll ever use again.