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.