Tar and Feathers

According to Cap, who delivered the news with a grin and a shake of his head, Mary Louise found out about Ella Ann on Tuesday, Ella Ann found out about Mary Louise on Wednesday, and on Thursday, Travis Prime hastily packed a bag and took off for parts unknown.

“Boy was waitin' on the first crossin',” Cap reported, “Dancin' around like the devil was at his heels and catchin' up fast.”

Nana was unsympathetic. “You lay with dogs, you get fleas,” she said coldly, “Boy never did have the sense God gave geese and neither of them wimmen is blind or stupid. They was bound to catch on sooner or later.”

“Reckon so,” Cap nodded, “Never did unnerstand it myself, all the boy's ever had was them good looks and he'll grow outta them.”

“Good looks and good sense don't always end up together,” Aunt Pearl shrugged, “Leastways he was smart enough to run.”

Aunt Vi sighed. “I s'pose so,” she said sadly, “But I ain't sure he's smart enough to keep goin'.”

On the scandal scale, it was enough to keep the bored villagers talking for a few weeks but, most everyone said, it wasn't much to write home about. And then on one warm summer afternoon,

Ella Ann and Mary Louise happened to run into each other at the post office. They could've ignored one another. They could've had a catfight right in the dusty street. They could've glared and turned their backs. They even could have been frostily polite to one another and left, as the postmistress pretty much expected they would do.

“You jist never kin tell 'bout folks,” Thelma told everyone who would listen, “Who'd a thought to see them two walk out arm 'n'arm like long lost friends! Gon' be a bad day for ol' Travis Prime, I reckon.”

And indeed it was. To the village's bewilderment, Mary Louise and Ella Ann united, pooled their resources and hired themselves a private detective from Halifax to track and locate Travis. It didn't take long before he was found, waiting tables in a down and out diner in a more down and out section of St. John and pretty much living out of his beat up old '47 Chevy. The entire island was on edge with anticipation - the Sullivan boys made a killing taking odds on what the women would do – and it seemed like overnight, the ordinary little scandal caught fire and no one was talking about anything else. Breach of contract and alienation of affections became popular phrases, but both came in a close second and third to tar and feathers. Rumor had it that Travis, feeling rightfully anxious, lit out - sold the Chevy for a song, signed on to an Alaskan bound tramp steamer - and disappeared. There were random sightings over the years, from a logging camp and a fishing fleet to one promising lead from an off shore oil rig but nothing ever led anywhere. Travis was in the wind and for most of the island, it was good riddance. The silver lining was that Ella Ann and Mary Louise became good friends and eventually bought Miz Hilda's old Victorian house, moved in together and rented rooms to the summer folk. On those warm summer evenings, you could see them in their wooden rocking chairs, watching the sunsets and drinking homemade strawberry wine on the veranda with their guests. Travis's name was never mentioned and it was never proven that the women kept a bucket of tar and a bag of feathers in their shed, just in case.

The Third Grave

The air was heavy with a misty, left over rain and the sun wasn't making much progress when I realized the little dachshund had found yet another new way out of the yard. I snatched my keys, threw on on my Nikes and left to go retrieve him. I found him on the lawn of my next door neighbor, sitting still and quiet beside the body of one of my favorite neighborhood cats. It felt as if someone had rammed a knife into my chest. I led my little one back, returned with a towel to wrap up the small, lifeless body and carried him across the street to his home. It was just after seven on a gray-ish Sunday morning and I hated to have to wake Amanda but it'd have been far worse for her never to know. I had to ring the bell several times and listening to her dogs barking from inside, I wanted desperately to give up. She finally answered the door, still rubbing sleep from her eyes and hushing the dogs, frowning at the bundle in my arms.

“Hey,” she began, “What's up and who is............” and then she saw and crumpled into a heap, shaking and sobbing. It was several minutes before she was coherent and all I could do was hold her beloved cat and wait. Words are cold comfort at times like this.

It'd have been unforgivably cruel to bring up the fact that this sweet natured animal would still be alive if he'd been kept inside but it was a thought I'd had about Amanda's cats dozens of times. This is the third one she's lost to the outside world and for the sake of her two remaining inside/outside cats, I had a fierce urge to grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her. I didn't do it, of course, you don't beat up someone who's just lost a beloved animal. Not even when it's the third one, not even when there may be a fourth or fifth.

Later that afternoon, we dug a third grave in the rain-softened ground in her back yard. It was impossibly sad and both of us were in tears. When we were done, we hugged briefly and I walked home slowly to gather my own little ones and be grateful for them.

Three Cookies and a Diet Coke

The line of hopeful wannabe models stretches out the door and around the corner. They are tall and short, black and white, blonde and brunette, thin and family sized. It's going to be another three cookies and a Diet Coke for lunch kind of day.

They have been clearly and specifically told to bring a current photo. Many don't.

They have been clearly and specifically told not to bring their entire family of 12. Many do.

They have clearly and specifically been told what to wear. They ignore the instructions.

They have been clearly and specifically told we will not see children under 6 The 3 year old twins and their parents leave in a huff.

They have clearly and specifically been told about being punctual. I turn away the three who stroll and slouch in a half hour after we start. They decide to argue and it almost turns heated but when I point out that if they can't be on time for an audition, how could I expect them to be on a time for a job, I prevail and they wander away like a herd of lost sheep.

With a little help from Michael, I manage to get them all signed in, seated, and more or less paying attention. He teaches them the basics of posture and a runway walk, then they all read a tv commercial, even the ones who obviously don't consider literacy a benefit and after a quickie question and answer session, we're done.

One or two have the height, one or two have the drive, one or two have the personality, one or two even have the resources but when it's all said and done, we hope for a shining star but settle for a festival of ordinary. Broadway and Hollywood will have to wait for the next crop of starry eyed dreamers.

In the meantime, maybe I can get a decent lunch.

Chickens & Charity

Rain or shine, fine or fogbound, Wednesday was the day Nana made her sick calls.

We packed the old Lincoln with a half dozen or so food baskets, cleaning supplies, a couple of boxes of books and magazines, some odds and ends and second hand clothing, and headed out to make the rounds. Sometimes Aunt Pearl or Aunt Vi or Miz Clara came with us, on rare occasions we picked up Uncle Len or John Sullivan to help with small repairs. If there were children on the list, we would try to include a used toy or game and even would bring one of the dogs. It was what Nana called, OUR CHRISTIAN DUTY.

“What goes around, comes around,” she assured me firmly, “Everyone needs a little charity now and then, whether they want it or not.”

I learned early that charity and pride don't always walk hand in hand and sometimes OUR CHRISTIAN DUTY was not as welcomed as we'd have liked. My grandmother was undeterred by the rare doors that were not thrown open for us and would just leave her care packages on the porches and move on.

“You can't take away folk's pride,” she told me with a smile and a shrug, “Sometimes it's all a body's got left.”

“Pride don't put food on the table or keep the lights burnin',” Miz Clara would observe sourly when her knock on the door wasn't answered but Nana ignored her and checked off another name on her list.

“Returned or not, Clara,” she chided her gently, “Ain't no harm in kindness.”

“Mebbe so,” Clara replied ruefully, “But it ain't no one way street neither.”

“I reckon we'd be done already if you two old hens would quit peckin' at each other,” John Sullivan remarked more loudly than necessary and both women glared at him briefly and then commenced to laugh.

“Wimmenfolk,” Long John muttered, “More trouble 'n chickens and christian duty put together.”

Visiting Hours

A gentle rain washes away the green pollen mist and a light breeze stirs the curtains at the windows. We sit, my friend Jean and I, and talk about everything and nothing – her cancer treatments, the new temporary dog groomer I've found, how she still misses her husband, what life and the future hold – it's comfortable and easy, sad and optimistic at the same time. She looks tired, a little lost, and her mind sometimes wanders. The radiation has stolen her ability to taste and made it hard for her to swallow. The chemotherapy is rough on her immune system. She grimaces and forces down a glass of gatorade. But her smile is still there – it takes a little more effort and lasts a little less long, but it's still there. This isn't her first battle with cancer and she isn't the giving up kind. I can't help but wonder if I were in her place, would I have her courage and grace or would my faith be as strong. Even facing cancer, there's a touch of mischief in that smile, a hint of the hope and humor that sustains her. I'm not at all sure that I would be so strong or so stubborn.

She's about to start the 3^rd week of a 10 week treatment protocol – radiation five afternoons a week plus chemotherapy each Thursday morning – her doctors are hopeful and her spirits are mostly good although every now and then her eyes cloud over and I can see the worry and the fear and the weariness. They creep around the edges of her mind, beckoning to the dark places we try so hard not to think about. She catches herself, shakes it off, closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe and relax, to meditate and let go.

“My mind needs healing as much as my body,” she tells me. Her voice is thinner, shakier than I like to hear, not quite as convincing as a couple of weeks ago. Seven more weeks of this, I think, will she ever be the same?

We have a lunch of buttered croissants, beef broth and smoothies and the minutes slip by as minutes will do.