Cat,Rat, Possom, Coon

Once again, something has taken up residence in the garage. The little dachshund is frantic to find it and show me but so far, his efforts have produced nothing. He eases though the dog door and almost immediately begins a Hallelujah Chorus of barking but by the time I get there with my trusty flashlight, whatever he has seen has taken refuge out of sight and out of reach. We've been here before and I don't doubt him. Some creature - rat, cat, possom, coon – has taken shelter within the ramshackle walls and I suppose it's up to me to make sure it isn't injured or sick or inviting in the entire neighborhood.

The garage is a combination hoarder's heaven and landfill. I've never gotten around to having it properly cleaned out and over the years, it's taken on a life of its own. It's crammed with old carpet and leftover paint cans, plastic bags of clothing I meant to donate, bits of fencing and moldy cardboard boxes, motheaten blankets, empty detergent bottles and assorted trash and debris from the previous owners - in other words, a perfect refuge for whatever stray creatures wander by.

After work, when the light is better, the little dachshund and I and steal stealthily into the chaos to recconnoiter and see what we can find. He is fearless, crawling and climbing through, under, over and around all obstacles into every nook and cranny and hidden place he can find. I am more cautious, exquisitely aware of the unknown and tense with anxiety that something could suddenly fly at me from the shadows. We search for the better part of 10 minutes but come up with nothing. Whatever was there that morning has, apparently, moved on, at least for now. The little dachshund is dispirited but stubborn and it takes several more minutes to convince him to give up the hunt. I am profoundly relieved not to have found a litter of kittens or some ill tempered, unpredictable wild creature with teeth and talons and after another uneventful few days, interest in the garage fades. It's re-ignited on a warm, rainy Sunday morning right after Christmas when I trudge out with a basketful of laundry and am confronted by a surprised and none too friendly, red eyed squirrel. He does not appreciate my intrusion any more than I appreciate his presence and for a few unpleasant moments we are caught in a standoff. Then the little dachshund arrives to save the day - he comes tearing in, barking furiously and ready to take on an army and the squirrel retreats quickly, ducking under the clutter and disappearing behind a row of paint cans. The little dachshund tries to follow but the mountain of debris is more than he can manage. He has to settle for the partial victory of scaring off the intruder and letting loose a stream of verbal abuse, all delivered in true hound fashion, deep and raspy and unmistakenly, unconditionally hostile. When it comes to trespassers, there can be no question of his authority or responsibility. I scoop up all 10 pounds of him, tell him what a good boy he is, and carry him back into the yard. The little Yorkie, who has watched all this from the safe neutrality of the deck - without feeling the need to get involved, I might say - erupts in a flurry of yapping and frantic congratulations and both dogs trot proudly off toward the back fence. Just to be sure that the squirrel isn't planning a comeback, I suppose, or maybe they just need to pee. At any rate, we are all safe and secure for another day.

The Man in the Gray Fedora

The man in the gray fedora climbs the steps of the bus carefully, one white knuckled hand gripping the handrail, the other holding his walking stick. He deposits a handful of coins into the machine and then navigates to a seat directly across from me, flares his ankle length yellow slicker with an enthusiastic shake and sends a spray of rainwater in every direction. Across the aisle, he meets my eyes and gives me a wicked, deliberate wink. I don't intend to smile back but it's a reflex and I've done it without thinking. He adjusts the fedora, tucks his beard inside the collar of his slicker and laughs outloud. The woman next to him lowers her eyes and slides discreetly a little away from him. I'm sure she's thinking what I am - he looks harmless enough but these are strange times and you have to be careful - Lord only knows what might be hidden beneath the drover style raincoat or behind those innocently twinkling brown eyes.

By the time we cross the line into Cambridge, the rain has turned to snow and for Christmas Eve, there's barely any traffic. It's still light when we reach Harvard Square, not exactly deserted but looking a lot like an early Sunday morning. A handful of last minute shoppers are still leaving the Coop and the pretzel man is still hawking his wares by the entrance to the subway. A snow covered quartet of street musicians is caroling “O Come All Ye Faithful” on the corner and you can hear church bells from the Harvard Yard. A lone Salvation Army Santa stands next to the newspaper stand, looking more than ready to call it a day. The banks of the river are pristine with fresh, undisturbed snow and on Cambridge Common, the nativity scene glows in a soft light. There are even live reindeer peacefully grazing and the whole scene has a postcard feel to it. It's what my daddy would call sleigh ride weather.

The bus skids and sways into its designated area and the driver expertly shifts gears and comes to a stop. The passengers are already out of their seats and in line to depart as he pulls a lever and with a gentle whoosh, the doors open.

“Watch your step, please,” he calls out as they pass, “Use the handrails and watch your step, please!”

“Merry Christmas!” some call back as they make their way out and he nods and smiles.

It's then I notice that the man in the gray fedora is not only not in line but also not in his seat nor, for that matter, anywhere on the bus. It's bewildering because we had been only a few feet apart and he couldn't possibly have gotten off without my seeing yet the fact is, he isn't here. I collect my umbrella and packages, rewind my scarf around my neck, pull my gloves back on,

and slowly leave the bus. It's almost full dark by now and still snowing and there's no sign of a man in a yellow slicker and gray fedora. I stop at the newstand long enough to buy an evening paper and a cup of hot chocolate then cross the street to the Common to catch the Pleasant Street bus which will take me very nearly to my grandmother's doorstep. According to the clock atop the subway entrance, I'm already fashionably late so I shrug off the mystery of the man in the gray fedora and concentrate on avoiding the icy patches of sidewalk in front of me.

The Common is ablaze with colored Christmas lights, strung through the fence, twined on the street lamps and hung on every tree and shrub. I can hear the chorus of “Unto Us A Child Is Born” coming from the old church and someone is kindly feeding the reindeer, someone in a yellow rain slicker and a gray fedora. Imagination, I tell myself instantly, I'll close my eyes and when I open them it'll be just some overworked and good hearted volunteer from the Humane Society. But when I open my eyes, all I see are the reindeer, milling around the nativity scene in two's and three's, pawing at the snow and looking a little like magical creatures from a Christmas story.

Maybe they were.

A Guest of the Hotel

The first time I saw him, he was half asleep in a metal chair outside the hotel, sitting quietly in the late morning sunshine, a cap pulled over his eyes and a wooden cane resting against his leg. I know a photograph when I see one but I was late and trying to manage an armful of camera, notebooks, clipboards and purse so I didn't stop. He wasn't the corporate type and likely didn't have a half pressing appointments - if I was really lucky, he'd still be there when I left - so I hurried past.

An hour or so later, as I was just sitting and waiting for the meeting to break up, I saw him again. He came through the automatic doors, moving slowly and carefully, exchanged a few words with the uniformed staff at the door, then made his way through the lobby and all the way to the restroom. Several minutes later, he was back in the lobby. He sank into a chair across from the registration counter and settled himself. He was clearly not a hotel guest, I realized, and though I suspected he might be wearing everything he owned, he was not a pan handler either. He simply say quietly in the shadows, still and silent. None of the hotel staff approached or bothered him, the guests passed him without a second glance, he might as well have been part of the décor and I couldn't stand it any longer – I shouldered my Nikon and crossed the lobby. It's not something I do all the time but sometimes the draw of a particular face is more temptation than I can stand. I rely on my instincts in these situations – whether and how to ask, whether and how to offer money – I trust my senses and try always to be respectful.

“Hello,” I said and sat down across from him, “You have such a great face. Would it be alright if I took your picture?”

He didn't speak but he did nod ever so slightly and when I smiled and said thank you, he gave me a look that was part surprised, part flattered, and part mischief. He was 73, he told me, healthy as a horse except for his macular degeneration and a touch of arthritis. Not all the hotels were as kind as this one, he confided - some took a dim view of his using their mensrooms or lobbies and would chase you away - but the Hilton folks were always kind to him. He almost smiled as he said this, as if we were sharing a secret.

“Long as you don't make any trouble,” he added in a stage whisper.

“Thank you,” I said, “You take care of yourself.”

“You do the same,” he told me and tipped his cap, "Merry Christmas."

I hope I see him again.

Gifts and Gratitude

The Christmas tree is decorated and lighted, the stockings are hung, the cat has been re-homed to a new family that will love and care for her. The girls have begun the long and excruciating process of going through their mother's things – a monumental task and one that will take months and every ounce of their combined courage and strength – and ever so slowly, I am getting used to the reality that one of my dearest friends is gone. It keeps surprising me and I retreat from the idea, a little numb from the loss and a little guilty that I didn't do more when she was here. Someone suggests that we all feel that way when it's a close and longtime friend, it's natural if not rational, but my mind isn't quite clear enough yet to comprehend it all. I used to email her every other day or so and I find myself still thinking about what I'll tell her today or tomorrow. Then I remember that she won't answer and a quick, sharp, unexpected stab of pain goes through my heart. It's reality, taking its time to be sure, but firmly reminding me who's in charge. It's futile, I know, but every instinct I have wants to challenge it and fight back.

We studied Kubler-Ross in college and the 7 Stages of Grief has always made perfect sense to me, but when you find yourself actually going through them, it's not quite as clear. It seems to be a matter of two steps forward and three steps back and at times I still find myself forgetting that certain people are dead. I hear a joke or read a book or discover a new restaurant and I think, Oh, so and so would enjoy this, I need to call him or her. Then I remember they're gone and curse reality.

The first time we met it was over dinner at a local restaurant. Tricia and my husband were working together on a project for the Chamber of Commerce and they had agreed that their respective spouses ought to meet. I didn't know what it was like for her but for me it was stunningly painful – I was a northerner from the other side of the tracks, married into money and perpetually uncomfortable in my role, shy to the point of reclusiveness. She was poised and confident and outgoing and beautiful and I clearly remember being shocked by the fact that she had kept her maiden name, common and quite unremarkable now but outrageously radical and

suspicious 45 years ago. She later told me that getting me to say more than a word or two had been like pulling teeth. Lord only knows why she decided I was worth it – I'd have written me off as a meek, little mouse in a completely inappropriate marriage and not given it a second thought but she persisted. I doubt either one of us knew we would form a bond of unshakeable friendship and love.

One of the things I have learned about life is that If it's not wrapped and ribboned, we often don't recognize the moment we are given a precious gift.

Missing Pat

Before she died, I was just beginning to understand the likelihood that my second longest friendship with a woman as dear to me as a sister might be, is never going to be the same. We are not going to be running to Dallas to shop, she is not going to preside over any more late night suppers of red beans and rice, she is not going to scold me for not answering my phone or tease me with stories of my domestic incompetence. We're not going to spend long hours dissecting and re-dissecting what went wrong with old friendships or why marriages failed. I'm not going to nag her about her pickiness over food and disdain for chain restaurants. She isn't going to complain about my fear of interstate driving or rail about my stubborness. There'll be no more endless conversations about life, love, suicide, children, regrets, running out of time or the perils of getting old. She's the only friend I have who knows - and has kept - every one of my secrets. I have treasured her wisdom, loyalty, honesty and fierce independence for better than 40 years and I can't imagine life without her in it. But on this, her 4^th or 5^th day in ICU after an unexpected cardiac arrest that came after she'd already been hospitalized a week, I didn't seem to be able to find much light in the darkness. I began to be terribly afraid that I might not see her again and the thought was too paralyzing to consider. You get sick, you go to the hospital and you get fixed, I told myself, that's how it works. Any other outcome was unthinkable.

So I kept in touch with her daughters several times a day and each morning and evening I let myself in to tend her cat. I filled her food and water bowls and then laid on the couch for a half hour or so while she nudged and heat butted and stretched out on top of me, purring like a leaf blower. The house was cluttered with things left undone, eerily quiet and elegant but I refused to allow myself to think it was anything but temporary.

After another day or two, the doctors put in a permanent pacemaker and were cautiously optimistic that her heart was stabilized and her kidneys responding to treatment. They began discussing moving her to a rehab floor but plans stalled after her first night following the implant and she remained in ICU. Stable, the girls told me repeatedly, but very weak, in pain, and sometimes out of it. This didn't come on overnight, I told myself and them, and recovery isn't going to happen overnight. There was no choice except to keep on waiting and watching. To some degree or another, we all put our lives on hold and hoped for the best. After the first two weeks, the cat and I became joined at the hip and the girls sucked it up and carried on, each dividing their time between their own families and the hospital. All of us carried reality in our back pockets but none of us would take it out and look at it.

On an unseasonably warm November night, I got a call from her youngest telling me that her mother had asked for me. I think a part of me knew it was to say goodbye and I threw on my clothes and drove as fast as I dared in the darkness to the hospital. Whatever I was feeling was buried far too deep to face. I found myself holding onto my denial as if it were a lifeline. She'd developed an infection in her blood and a Cpap was breathing for her – the mask covered her face from chin to hairline. It was loud and looked uncomfortable as it forced air into her lungs and took out CO2. She couldn't talk, could barely move or even open her eyes. When I took her hand and squeezed, I saw a trace of recognition cross her face, just a shadow really, so brief I almost missed it. Her daughters were all there, holding on as best they could, grief stricken and trying to be brave for her and each other. I sat by the bed and held her hand as nurses and the respiratory therapist came and went. More IV's, more drugs, a quick visit from one of her doctors. Outside her 7th floor window, the lights of the city were bright and busy, traffic was thick with everyone on their way to somewhere else. Here there was only the ghastly sound of the Cpap, the flickering lights of the machines, the occasional musical-like alarms of the monitors keeping track of her heart rate and blood pressure and oxygen intake. The fluid in her lungs was slowly but surely drowning her. Her entire body, so heartbreakingly thin it was almost transparent, was a mass of bruises and dressings and discolorations. I fought off the thought that she'd never make it through the night but it came back, persistent and stronger, gnawing and scratching with renewed energy in every breath. I couldn't make any of it real. The girls has turned down the dialysis and signed a DNR order. There was nothing more to be done.

She died at 2:3o that morning. Her youngest texted me and though I saw the words, they were a jumble. I felt disconnected and abandoned and couldn't make sense of it. Morning came and I went to feed the cat and turn off the porch lights. The silence of the house was desperate - her signature was on everything, I realized - every painting, piece of crystal, stick of furniture and photograph was a reflection of her taste, every color was her choice. The idea that she would never return to the house she so loved was unbearable. I hugged and held and stroked the cat until she purred herself to sleep right on my chest. Here where we had spent so many days and evenings and random hours, I thought the tears might come but I left dry eyed. What I know in my mind hasn't quite reached my heart. This was a woman who rose above personal tragedy on a regular basis. For decades, she counseled, sheltered, mothered, scolded, reassured, praised, argued with and stood by me. She saw me through an alcoholic husband and an unfaithful one, gave me work, found the house I now live in, rescued me when my car died at 2 in the morning. She offered me a place in her family yet respected the distance between us and trespassed only when she thought it was absolutely necessary. She despaired of my stubbornness and didn't always understand my loyalty, believed in me more than I ever believed in myself, and never once gave up on me though she did like to remind me that she'd told me so on more than one occasion. Even then, she did it with a hug and a smile. When it came to honesty and integrity, she practiced what she preached and wished more folks would do the same, even when it was painful. She did not suffer fools gladly or otherwise but was rarely mean spirited about it. She loved her daughters with a hard and indestructible passion and missed her husband every single day but loss didn't stop her. She understood and accepted that life doesn't stop for death. She made room for everyone she cared about to be themselves, make their own choices whether she agreed or not, and ease the consequences of a bad decision whenever she could. She was a remarkable woman, a true and always reliable friend, a loving mother, a decent and fine businesswoman. She cared deeply about her family, her friends, her cats and her community.

She loved and was much loved in return.

Although the memory of my last visit with her is likely to stay with me for the rest of my life – it was grotesque and truly awful – it was also a gift I will always treasure and for which I will be eternally grateful. Other memories will, in time, become stronger and overcome those last few hours. Hours spent working crossword puzzles on her front porch, how she taught me to needlepoint and cross stitch, working together for a theatre renovation project with a different crisis every hour and the constant risk of a piece of plaster falling on our heads. Long drives to and from Dallas for market, regular Thursday evening suppers with our husbands at a favorite restaurant. Weekly cards and letters when I moved away, her delight at snow when she visited me in New England, elegant dinners in the French Quarter, long, lazy weekends at the lake, the hours we spent in the hospital waiting room the night her first daughter was born. Not all memories are happy - I watched her children grow up but I also watched her husband die long before his time. The good and bad times slipped through our fingers and then one day, we woke up old and tired, painfully aware of our own mortality and missing the friends we were losing.

Charlie Chaplin wrote “Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles.”

Rest in peace, my dear and precious friend. We'll take it from here.

Spare Change

I'd been scrounging the bottom of my battered Lucky purse for loose coins and was leaning against the exterior wall of a drugstore known for its tolerance of panhandlers, when the well dressed, silver haired lady came through the automatic doors. I noticed her in my peripheral vision but thought nothing of it until she stopped directly in front of me and with one perfectly manicured hand, offered me a palmful of silver.

“Here, dear,” she said kindly, “Maybe this will help.”

Slack jawed and speechless, I was still searching for the proper response while she briskly crossed the parking lot, gracefully climbed into her black Mercedes, and drove away. I had no idea whether to be insulted or grateful or entertained or just bewildered. A quick look in the security mirror ruled out insulted - I saw what she had seen, an old woman with ragged gray hair under an ill fitting knit cap, dressed in sweatpants and an ancient tee shirt over thermals and a plaid flannel shirt, Nikes that had seen far better days, a pair of dark purple fingerless gloves my cousin had made for me and sent all the way from Florida and no teeth.

“Good Lord,” I muttered, “No wonder she thought I was homeless.”

I guessed gratitude was more appropriate with bewildered a close second but entertained won out. I bought my cigarettes and Peanut Butter Cups, wrote out a check and left the lady's change in one of those plastic “Help a Hungry Child in Malaysia” collection boxes retail stores always seem to have at checkouts.

There are still a number of women in this town who would cut their throats before going to the grocery store without make up and heels. I've never been one of them, not even when I was expected to be, and it often caused ripples in my appearance-conscious family. If you judge a book by its cover, my daddy told me, you'll often be wrong and you might miss a really good story. I'm not likely to change my refugee-looking ways at this late date but I don't suppose it would do any harm if I were to remember my teeth.

Parking Lot Games

The saving grace was that it happened in the parking lot of the grocery store so neither of us was traveling at much more then 15 mph. I had the right of way when the shiny black Jeep

ran the stop sign and crossed directly in front of me. I slammed on my brakes and the little

blue car spun sideways, missing the Jeep by no more than a whisker. My window was open and the words were out and hanging in the crisp November air before I knew it.

YOUMISERABLESTUPIDBUTTSNIFFINGMOTHERFUCKINGSONOFALOWLIFEWHOREPIECEOFSHITLOOKWHEREYOU'REGOING!!!

The driver of the Jeep, a youngish blonde woman in a red MAGA hat, gave me an oblivious, careless wave and drove on.

WHERE'DYOUGETYOURLICENSESEARSANDFUCKINGROEBARDS! I screamed and leaned on the horn hard.

The near miss had me shaking so hard I had no time for punctuation. The Chevy pickup who had been behind the Jeep gave me a thumbs up and a sympathetic smile then gestured for me to drive ahead. Instead, I wrenched the steering wheel to the left and took off after the Jeep, not even considering what I intended to do if I caught it. That red MAGA hat burned in my vision and it suddenly seemed as if everything that was wrong with the world was driving that goddamned Jeep. I sped up and caught her at the parking lot exit, took note of the Anti Abortion and NRA and Trump 2020 stickers plastered on the vehicle's back end and whipped out my cell phone and snapped a picture. She noticed and immediately plowed into and through oncoming traffic. There was an explosion of blaring horns and screeching brakes but somehow no collisions.

I caught my breath enough to shake my fist and yell some final insult about her mother and alligators eating their young, then came to my senses and pulled into a parking space to regroup, calm down and console myself with a vision of the dumb bitch in a six car pile up where only she was hurt. Maybe her Jeep would catch on fire, I thought hopefully, maybe it would explode and send her and her red hat to kingdom come. Even when calm and rational thought returned much later, I couldn't bring myself to take any of it back. I don't often wish people dead these days, at least not like I used to, but some folks are just too deserving.

A Memory of Crows

I remember hearing crows.

It was a clear, crisp October afternoon along a recently blacktopped backwoods road in Maine. The smell of fresh gravel and tar was faint but still in the air. The sun was just beginning to go down and I was pedaling a little harder and a little faster to be sure I got home in time for supper. Traffic was scarce on the rural two lane road and I wasn't paying much attention to it. I wouldn't have noticed the small, two tone beige station wagon at all if it hadn't been rattling and belching smoke from the exhaust as it passed me. Some sort of old Volkswagon, I remember thinking and was trying to remember the theme from the Midas Muffler tv ads as it disappeared over the next hill. Then I was distracted by a scarecrow in a corn field - it reminded me of the Wizard of Oz - and I pulled over and stopped to get a better look. It was a near perfect late fall day and just past the scarecrow I could see a herd of dairy cows and a couple of shaggy draft horses peacefully grazing. On the far side of the right hand ditch, a chorus line of crows perched on the telephone wires, cawing raucously and righteously and flapping their wings as they lifted off then alighted again in a flurry of feathers. They jockeyed for position and status but never lost their symmetry. I thought of Edgar Allen Poe's raven and half expected one of them to call out to me, a salutation perhaps, or maybe a warning, who could tell.

 

I got back on my bike and coasted down the incline to gather as much speed as I could for the next hill and then pedaled fiercely. It wasn't as hard as I'd thought it would be and the crest of the hill came easily. Before I knew it I was coasting downhill again and it was then I saw the old Volkswagon parked on the shoulder of the road. The driver's door was open and there was a man behind the wheel, a beer-bellied man in a checked shirt with pale skin and straggly red hair on his head and chest. His trousers were around his ankles and he was watching me. I wasn't old enough to exactly know what I was seeing but I knew I was alone and that it was wrong and probably dangerous. A sickness of fear crawled into my gut and I doubled down, pedaling for all I was worth and flying past the small car like the wind. I pedaled harder, ignoring the sharp stab of a stitch in my side and the acid taste in my mouth. I could hardly breathe for the pain in my chest but I kept going. Fear, I discovered, could motivate you beyond your limits. I was expecting to hear that ratchety old muffler behind me at any second and I turned down the first country lane I came to and rammed my bike and myself head over heels into the ditch. The startled crows on the telephone wires cawed in protest. I crouched down in the muddy water, camouflaged by weeds and the depth of the ditch, and waited for what seemed like forever but nothing followed or tracked me down. I heard no cars, no motors, and most importantly, no rattle trap mufflers. I waited some more, cold and wet, listening to the crows and very afraid.

Eventually I convinced myself that the danger was past and I crawled out of the ditch. I could see a long way in both directions and there was not a car in sight. I dragged my bike out of the weeds, wiped off the mud, and set for home, listening for every small sound and watching over my shoulder the entire way. It took a long time and I had to stop twice to throw up but I got home. I rinsed off the bike in the lake and managed to sneak past my mother and change my clothes before supper. If I'd been caught, I was going to say I'd been going too fast and run off the road and into a ditch. Skinned my knees and the palms of my hands, tore my jeans and tee shirt but no harm done.

I'd turned ten that past summer, not an age when I knew how to tell my daddy about a nasty, dead fish bellied, half naked , redheaded pervert on the side of the road. More, I had an unpleasant suspicion that if I told my mother, it would somehow end up being my own fault.

I'd had a bad scare, I reasoned, but nothing had actually happened, so I never told a soul and did my best to put it out of my mind. I stayed around the cabin more than usual from then on and told my daddy I was getting too old to be riding a bike everywhere. He didn't question me and the crows who had seen it all kept silent.

Fill in the Blank

Leaving the bank, I passed by the manager's office and heard her call out my name and wish me a good day.

“Thanks! You too.....................” and there was a blank space where her name should have been.

“Ma'am!” I finished lamely. By the time I got to my car, I'd remembered it was Valerie but it was too late. The moment was lost. These days, although I find myself more and more trying to fill in these kind of blank spaces, it was the first time I could remember just flat out blacking out on the name of someone I've known for years. It was unsettling.

I love language and it annoys me no end when a specific word just will not come. Once a year I re-read “Wheel of Fortune” by British writer, Susan Howatch, for the sheer joy of the dialogue and the incredible elegance and creativity of her writing. My cousin writes with much the same grace and I often wish I had her gift. I don't know if she has these pauses with words that just unexpectedly refuse to show up but I'm betting I'm not the only one it happens to. I like to tell myself it's just absent mindedness and not anything more serious like some misfiring brain cell at death's door, crossing over and never to be heard from again. After all, everybody's forgetful now and then. It's part of the process. And just because the name of a bank manager eludes me for a few seconds or I can't remember why I came into the kitchen …. well, it's irritating but no cause for panic.

Before my mother was diagnosed with cancer and a host of other ills, she had moments of dementia. She would become vacant-eyed and bewildered during a scrabble game, not be able to recall the name of a common household item or suddenly lose the thread of a conversation. As a family, our second nature learned responses kicked in at once - we simply pretended it wasn't happening - just like we'd learned to pretend she wasn't a drunk. Just like we'd learned to fall asleep to the sounds of a raging argument or the crash of a ashtray hitting a wall. There was no cause for panic at those moments either.

I kick my denial into a higher gear and tell myself that these early warning signs (ironically, the word “precursor” evades me even as I'm writing), are unimportant. I focus on being grateful that these random memory lapses don't come any more often and cost me nothing but minor aggravation. It's easy to call someone an asshole or moron or son of a bitch but it's magic to call someone “....the jaundiced secretion of a bilious toad's eye...” (Sybil Fawlty, Fawlty Towers).

No matter how limited it may become, I will never not love language.

Follow the Leader

As traveling carnivals went, it wasn't anything to write home about. A half dozen tired rides, a sad and sorry Bingo tent, a couple of dancing chickens who had seen far better days and the food wagons - cotton candy, caramel apples, foot long hot dogs with cheese and chili - enough grease and sugar to make a 10 year old's heart beat like a hammer. Courtesy of my grandmother, who was more than happy to get us out from underfoot for an afternoon, Gilda and I each had two crisp, new dollar bills to spend as we wished. We hardly knew where to start but then Gilda saw the fortune teller's tent and her eyes lit up like Christmas.

“Wicked!” she breathed into my ear and began tugging on my sleeve, “C'mon!”

I was an imaginative child but not a brave one and the idea of leaving the summer sunlight and open air for a ragged and dark tent with some mad, mangy gypsy who I was absolutely positive would look like Elvira Gulch didn't appeal to me. I tried to hang back, tried to shake off Gilda's vise like grip on my elbow.

“Don't be a sissy!” she snapped and pulled a little harder.

A dirty, bedraggled yellow banner proclaiming Madame Zena's fame hung crookedly on the front of the tent. FORTUNE TELLER TO THE STARS! it read, TAROT READINGS AND TEA LEAVES!

SEE YOUR FUTURE IN THE CRYSTAL BALL! ONLY 25 CENTS! A sullen-eyed, leering midget sat Indian style in a rickety lawn chair by the closed tent flap, one grimy hand extended to take our quarters. I imagined flying monkeys were not far away but Gilda refused to let go.

“I'll leave you!” she threatened, “and the midget will get you and steal you like they do babies!” Next thing I knew, we had slithered by the midget and were inside the dark tent. It smelled of unwashed clothes and patchouli and was smoky with incense. The real world of grade school and Saturday matinees and spaghetti on Wednesday nights closed behind me. I wasn't at all sure we'd ever be able to get back but Gilda was fearless, a warrior with braids and a toothy grin, always a step away from adventure or disaster.

Once our eyes had adjusted to the dimness, we could see a round wooden table with four overturned barrels for chairs. She pushed me onto one and took another across from me and

Madame Zena appeared ….well, materialized was more like it....from out of the shadows. I saw at once that this was no Elvira Gulch and something in my gut relaxed. She was tall and slender and dressed in chiffon - the word “willowy” came to mind – and most surprisingly, she was young with a cloud of dark hair that fell to her waist, a sweet smile and pale, perfect, unlined skin. She couldn't have been much older than we were, I realized with a shock. How could I have been terrorized by a pretty teenage gypsy?

She whirled her skirts, threw back her hair and took a seat between us. “Well, little ones,” she said in a soft voice with just the slightest suggestion of an accent, “What shall it be? The cards, the tea leaves or …...........possibly the crystal?” The last was offered with an engaging tilt of her head and a sly smile aimed directly at Gilda.

“The crystal!” my cousin said without hesitation and Madame Zena nodded approvingly. With a flurry of chiffon scarves, a dramatic hand gesture or two and a quick incantation, she seamlessly produced a crystal ball and placed it on the table. This expert bit of misdirection was so elegantly and unexpectedly done that Gilda and I both jumped in surprise but the pretty gypsy girl just lowered her eyes and favored us with a mysterious smile. She peered into the crystal ball, alternately frowning and smiling. Without warning, a smoky haze rose from the floor and enveloped us. At the same time, something warm and furry brushed by my ankle and I nearly shrieked but it was only a cat – all black (no surprise) with glowing yellow eyes and a bob tail.

It jumped lightly to an unoccupied barrel and regarded us impassively.

The smoke cleared and Madame Zena looked satisfied.

“You are of blood,” she intoned solemnly, “But not sisters.......cousins, I think, but close in mind and spirit.” Here she peered into the crystal ball, eyes narrowed. “One leads,” she said slowly,

looking directly at Gilda, “And one follows.” she finished, looking straight at me and a chill seemed to slither up my backbone.

The rest was plain vanilla and not memorable. After several minutes, she covered the crystal ball with a pastel scarf, gathered up the black cat and invited us to come again. Gilda and I slipped out into the sunshine. The midget, now sitting on a wooden bar stool and calmly knitting what appeared to be several yards of scarf, gave us a toothy grin. I blinked and rubbed my eyes and he tipped his cap, hopped off the stool and ducked into the tent, trailing the overlong scarf over one shoulder. I blinked again and he was gone.

Nana liked to tan both our hides for being late to supper but when she asked where we'd been and Gilda immediately said we'd wanted one last ride at the carnival, I backed her up without a second thought. Some of us lead and some of us follow and hope for the best.

Nothing Lasts Forever

Nothing lasts forever.

The little blue car, cosmetically unsightly but as reliable as rain, makes a series of gagging noises when I turn the key and refuses to start. I hope it's no more than the battery but the poor old thing is nearing its 20^th birthday and may be ready to give up the ghost. It's 1o5 in the shade and car trouble is the last thing I need but shit happens, I remind myself. I resign myself to it and start looking for the bright side.

It could've happened this morning all the way on the other side of the city and left me stranded at the vet's office.

Even if the a/c is less than perfect in the old Suburban, lots of folks wouldn't have access to a second vehicle.

My Mobil card is paid up and it isn't pouring rain.

I have enough savings to make a down payment on a new car if it's absolutely essential.

Turns out the bright side isn't as far off as I thought. The mechanic replaces the battery for less than a small fortune and confidently sends me on my way.

When it happens a second time not 24 hours later, this time in the early evening as I'm leaving a local bar, I have to work a little harder to find the bright side. The mechanic is distraught to discovers a connection was left loose when the battery was installed and he's so ashamed that it's all he can do to meet my eyes. I tell him not to be a goose, nobody's perfect. He thanks me and gives me a hug, tells me he appreciates my business and my understanding. I've known him for a lot of years and I suspect he means it. That's part of the bright side.

The little blue car lives to fight another day.

Paper Cuts & Other Life Threatening Injuries

I wake to the all too familiar news that my friend, Dennis, is in jail. The police found him passed out on the side of the road with the engine running, his foot on the brake, and an open container in his hand. It's his third offense which means that there are fifty or a hundred that he got away with and they waste no time or nicelties hauling his scrawny ass to a cell. Friends and family blow up the internet with sympathy and worry and well wishes and a Gofundme to raise his $3000 bail. They point out that he has cancer he needs treatment for and that he was just released from several weeks in the charity hospital for a life threatening infection in his intestines. There is rampant speculation that he isn't being allowed his medications, that he is confined to a cell for 21 hours each day, that his significant other has refused to bail him out and that his family is being indifferent to his plight. They are quoted as saying he's a worthless drunk, it's his own doing, and he can rot for all they care. If you really care about him, one sister writes, You'll take his damn keys and throw them in the river. The words are harsh and painful to hear but they resonate with me more than I like. The line between helping and enabling is thinner than a paper cut. It can be invisible but still hurt like a son of a bitch. The effort to raise the bail money barely causes a ripple and though I struggle with it, in the end I decide not to give. I don't believe that the local police will let him die in custody and apart from his poor health issues, I don't believe jail is likely to do him any harm. I'm very much in the minority about this and it's not a decision I come to lightly. There's a good chance he'll be angry with me - as will others – possibly it could even mean an end to our friendship but I'm willing to risk it. As my friend Charli reminds me, if he gets angry, then he gets angry. He can be angry for a lot of years to come, God willing.

Killer

The question is: Why on earth didn't she run?

She was only a foot or two from the fence and could've scaled it easily enough. She was within an easy sprint of a massive oak tree and the dogs hadn't seen her yet. She had the time and the space to run. And she didn't. They attacked with a killer fury and she fought back like a mini tigress but a 10 pound cat against 150 pounds of psychotic pit bull isn't much of a contest and even as I beat the dogs into submission and got her away from them, I knew she had no real chance. I wrapped her in a towel and for the 2^nd time in as many days, but with no illusions of saving her life this time, headed for the vet's. The only thing I could do was put an end to her suffering. She died shortly after we arrived and I was left shattered and still asking myself, why didn't she run?

If I were a stray cat in a yard where I knew there were dogs that could turn savage in a nano second and they hadn't seen me, I'm reasonably sure I'd head for the hills. I found myself re-thinking the death of the stray kitten the day before - at the time, I'd assumed it had been an owl or a hawk or one of the alpha male ferals that live in the neighborhood. I go with the dogs when I let them out and I couldn't imagine them attacking a defenseless kitten and my not noticing but then I got to thinking that if he'd no chance to run or fight back, maybe they could've killed him without a commotion. And maybe, just maybe, the adult female they'd gone after so mercilessly now had been his mother. Maternal instinct is a powerful force and I couldn't think of anything else that made any kind of sense. To be sure, I scoured the yard on both sides of the fence and explored under the house but found no sign of kittens.

It amazes me to see the old pit - the most mellow, mild mannered and patient of dogs - turn into a frenzied and vicious predator. I can't comprehend it's the same dog who lays his head on my lap and gazes at me with such love and devotion. How is it possible that this fat, arthritic, and clumsy old cast off who is terrified of storms and loud noises is also a lethal killer.

Perhaps it's just that we all change faces depending on the circumstance. Even dogs.

Rockslide

Chilean poet Pablo Neruda wrote, “You can cut all the flowers but you can't keep spring from coming.” I very badly want to think he's right but the death toll is rising and I feel the weight of it like a rockslide. Two more mass shootings in one weekend and we are so crushed and numbed that the horror of it barely registers. It's another win for hate and cruelty and the despicable racism that the president promotes. Soon there may be no flowers left to cut.

If my daddy were alive, he would undoubtably tell me that I worry too much, that I'm taking things too seriously, that good always wins in the end. It doesn't. Regardless of who wins in the next presidential election, some of the damage that's been done will never be undone. “It's not about politics,” I recently read, “It's about morality.” It's about discovering who people really are, including ourselves, and then getting over the shock at what we learn. Losing friends who think the suggestion that we shoot immigrants is funny is no great loss. If that's what you think, then I don't want to know you no matter how much I may like your music or admire your love of and kindness to animals. Regardless of who wins and what happens, we're done. I'm only ashamed that it's taken me this long.

In the 60's, I was in my teens, one of thousands of young people living in and around Boston who protested the war, stood with the welfare mothers, was disgusted with corporate America and detested Nixon. I believed in peace and love and kindness to animals. I was willing to fight for the less fortunate, wanted treatment on demand for addicts and alcoholics, worked for the democrats and thought term limits might save the country from the corruption and greed of the rich. I gave up my Villager skirts and sweaters for beads and ragged blue jeans. I carried signs and stood on street corners and marched in protests. I wanted nothing to do with my middle class background or the status quo. I smoked and drank and slept with young black men. I wanted to re-make the country fair and equal and color blind. I didn't do drugs but I had no particular issues with those who did. Speaking out became a way of life and some 50 years later, it's a hard habit to break. Living in sin with the boy I later married was a badge of honor.

Coming from that place to now, it's almost impossible to stay out of the fray. I can't shake the idea that silence makes me an accomplice but at the same time I feel too helpless and hopeless to fight. I won't live long enough to see the consequences of the current administration and I see that as a curious sort of kindness.

Hate does not and should not come easily to us. Like pain, time tends to make it fade. But I hate - well and truly hate - the monster in the White House and all he stands for. We have cut down our own flowers and spring may never be quite the same again.

Cometh the Rain

It was another steamy hot July afternoon when I left work and by the time I reached the intersection, the a/c was blowing fast and furious but had barely de-fogged my sunglasses. I almost didn't see the man on the corner. He was tall and rail-thin, wearing blue jeans and sporting a bright red t shirt with a white Nike logo, barefoot and holding a hand lettered sign that read “Cometh the Rain”. With his free hand, he was making the hand signals from “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” and more than one driver was responding in kind. Just another homeless, harmless lunatic, I thought but just in case I hit the door lock button of the little blue car. When you live in a world gone more than slightly mad, there's no percentage in taking risks. The light changed and I pulled away.

I am very much a creature of habit and the very next morning, although coming from the opposite direction, I ended up stopped at the same intersection. This time there was a woman in a coral colored ball gown with a mesh top sitting alone on the bus stop bench. She was delicately holding a filter tip cigarette in one hand and reaching into a bag of Purina One dog treats with the other. I watched her munching casually and when she looked up and saw me, she graciously extended the bag toward me as if to offer me a biscuit. I shook my head and she shrugged her coral covered shoulders and gave me a brilliant smile. I was wondering if she and the Close Encounters man might not be fellow escapees but I couldn't help but smile back.

Life is nothing if not an uncertain adventure. What with malls in foreclosure, stores closing after no more than a few months in business, restaurants failing at record levels and more homes for sale than I can ever remember, our small southern city may be on the brink of dying but at least we'll be entertaining about it and go out with style.

Unfixable

It's a hard lesson and often it takes decades to learn but the fact is, not everything is fixable.

If it were up to me, animal abusers, child molesters and rapists would be publicly castrated and then executed on the court house lawns in as lengthy and excruciating painful a manner as we could think of.

If it were up to me, the inventors of shrink wrap plastic and child resistant pill bottles would be staked out atop fire ant mounds and wrapped in yellow fever blankets.

If it were up to me, every greedy, crooked politician would be stripped naked and hanged in a public square. Twice. And it would be televised.

Such are my dreams these days. I've lived too long and am too tired and broken down to be tactful or superficially nice. I do not, as Salvatore Dali famously said, understand voluntary idiocy.

Until now, my friend Michael has always been able to pull a last minute rabbit out of a last minute hat. Somehow, he's always managed to come up with some scheme or new approach and save the day for himself and the agency and I've been constantly amazed at his persistence and optimism and ability to rebound even from the most dire of circumstances. Until now, I thought it was just a matter of time and creative energy but in recent days and weeks, I realize it's far more serious. I've witnessed him wrack his brain for a solution. I've watched him drive himself into a suicidal depression over paying the bills and feeding his dogs. I've listened to his every desperate and impossible idea. I've heard him wonder aloud, what's the point. I lose sleep for worrying about the future. I can't remember ever seeing a man so utterly and completely miserable, without hope and on the very brink of defeat. Things will look brighter in the morning, I tell him, but the words are hollow and we both know it. The plain fact is that what he does is no longer wanted, no longer attractive, no longer relevant. Modeling has become entitled and frivolous, acting is now a do-it-yourself art. Everybody wants to be an instant star but nobody wants to put in the time or do the work. The big modeling conventions of the past are over, the glory days behind us and everybody still hanging on is scrambling for a new approach or fresh revenue source. Mostly we're all out of ideas.

I try to keep in mind that sometimes things fix themselves if we can manage to stop interfering. Meanwhile, we muddle on, one foot in front of the other, one day at a time, hoping for a turnaround, a better economy, or a miracle.

It's A Cat Thing

The youngest cat watches me walking toward her but it doesn't occur to her to get out of my way. The very second I step over her though, she puts it in gear and skitters backwards. When I compensate to avoid stepping on her, I lose my balance and abruptly find myself on the floor. She watches from a safe distance and I'm absolutely, positively convinced it was an intentional act on her part. She has developed an amazing talent for being indifferently underfoot and/or in the way.

I am not her only target, of course. When she's not running randomly from room to room and feverishly meowing with every other step, she lies in wait - around corners, behind doors, under furniture - for the other cats. She's not much on technique, seems quite content to wait for them to pass by then launching herself like a heat seeking missile. Even when she misses, which is pretty often, the target cat is startled and defensive and a quarrel invariably follows each ambush. It sounds quite a bit worse than it actually is but it's still enough to rattle my nerves and aggravate the dogs, both of whom are unexpectedly tolerant of her. They patiently let her chew on their ears, knead their bellies and even steal their food with barely a whimper. On the rare occasion that she crosses the line, there might be a low growl from the little dachshund but it's perfunctory at best, and usually ignored.

About the time I decide I could cheerfully smother her with her own double paws, she changes tactics and quietly crawls up on the love seat, burrowing into my side and purring like a runaway jackhammer. I scratch her ears and under her chin and she looks at me with those trusting and totally innocent green eyes. My mad instantly fades away and my impatience and aggravation with her evaporate. It's a cat thing.

This Way Out

The look on the cashier's face said it all. It was a mix of weariness, veiled anger, and the certain knowledge that saying what he really thought would get him fired. The customer, a tree trunk of a man in a vile temper, slammed his fists on the check writing platform.

“Where's your supervisor at, white bread?” he demanded. My head snapped up and there was an audible gasp from the people behind me in line. The cashier sighed and reached for the intercom. The customer fumed.

A supervisor arrived and quietly explained to the customer exactly what the cashier had already said. The customer narrowed his eyes and leaned toward the supervisor.

“Figures you'd take his side, Uncle Tom,” he said nastily.

The supervisor's jaw dropped and from behind the barrier of the customer service counter, I saw someone reach for the telephone. The people behind me began moving away to other registers.

A second supervisor appeared, followed almost immediately by a uniformed officer resting one hand casually on his gunbelt. I was thinking that the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups weren't worth it and wishing hard I'd chosen a different line. I wasn't in any danger (it crossed my mind that that was probably exactly what the letter carrier was thinking just before he was shot to death a few door down from my house) but the whole thing was giving me butterflies in my belly. As with any confrontation or even the threat of one, I had an all consuming desire to run. Raised voices make me sick with fear.

Luckily, the big cop had no such problem. The irate customer was ushered from the store and the situation naturally defused itself. No harm, no foul. Except for that shrill, nagging little voice that wants to keep reminding me that the world has changed and none of us are really safe anywhere.