Real Worries

 

There’s nothing like worry. Useless, stressful, wearing and bad for the soul.

I worry about everything.

I wonder how long the little blue car will endure, will the a/c unit last another year, will the agency survive, what if I have a catastrophic injury or illness, do I have enough life insurance, will a tree fall on the roof during the next thunderstorm, how am I going to manage without unemployment benefits. I worry that Covid 19 will kill us all, that the president will win in November, that there won’t be a country left to call home. I think about cuts to social security and medicare and families going bankrupt from or without health care. I worry about the forests and the oceans and the air and the wildlife preserves. It’s foolish and wasteful and unhealthy but if it’s out there, I worry about it. Now and again, for brief periods, I find and push the pause button but in the end the off button just doesn’t work.

I’ve practiced one day at a time thinking and staying out of the dark places for a very long time now but there’s always been a ray of hope to hold onto. Now the reality is that if the president wins re-election, it’s a victory for ignorance, racism, misogyny, political corruption, hypocrisy and nepotism. After another four years of self destruction, I’m not persuaded that as a country we will ever be able to find our way back. Some damage can’t be undone.

In an effort to distract myself, I sign onto social media to see what’s happening outside my own self. I scroll past the political crap piles and delete the sad eyed, abused animals but I can’t quite bypass the update about a friend’s child who is in St. Jude’s in Memphis with leukemia and not doing well. I can’t imagine what they’re going through, can’t even begin to comprehend the fear and anxiety and exhaustion they must be feeling. Then I see a new GoFundMe account set up for a modeling agent I know in Dallas. In his fight against a particularly virulent, brutal and disfiguring cancer, they have tried everything without any success. He has a wife and four young children and isn’t expected to see another Christmas.

I send donations to both and remind myself what real worry is.

The Fog

 

On the morning of the day that Uncle Eddie and Aunt Helen were due to arrive, a fogbank rolled in, rapidly swallowing everything in sight. By the time Nana was wrapping up the breakfast dishes, you could extend your arm straight out and not be able to see your hand. It was cold, dense, and sopping wet.

“It’s a bad sign,” my grandmother muttered to my mother.

“It’s only for a week,” my mother pointed out.

“A week with Helen is like a month with a witch,” Nana said grimly, “And if, God forbid, if it don’t clear, we’ll be trapped inside the whole time. I’m ain’t sure I’d survive it.”

To be sure, the prospect of a week under the same roof with my Aunt Helen was dismal. We had already cleaned the house from top to bottom, washed every single dish and linen twice, relined the shelves in the pantry, defrosted the refrigerator, organized the kitchen drawers and dusted anything and everything that didn’t move. Lily Small had instructions about what and when to deliver vegetables, Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi were baking ftesh bread, Nana had arranged for John Sullivan to bring scallops and haddock. My mother had stopped Bill, The Meat Man, and bought a quarter of his stock of steaks. Every window was newly washed, inside and out, Nana and I had scrubbed and polished every inch of the bathroom from the ceiling to the walls to the floor. Brand new towels hung from gleaming towel racks and every curtain in every room had been washed and pressed. Even so, we were not optimistic – it was relatively certain that Helen would find fault with something. She had, so my mother often said, a perfect gift for criticism and it was always delivered with such an unmistakable air of condescension that it set everyone’s teeth on edge. Even the dogs avoided her but it was here that my grandmother drew her line in the sand and refused to even consider sending them out for the week.

“If she don’t bother them, they won’t bother her,” she announced in a tone that clearly said it was not up for discussion. The very last thing we had done was bathe them both in the kitchen sink that very morning, sprayed them for fleas and washed their bedding. “Bad enough that they smell like lavender,” Nana said with a sigh, “I ain’t gon’ throw them out of their own home for Miss Fancy Britches nohow.”

It was nigh on supper time when Uncle Eddie’s Cadillac convertible inched down the gravel driveway, its headlights glowing faintly and eerily through the fog. At Nana’s direction, the boys had strung twin guide ropes from the backdoor to the garage and back again so there was a narrow makeshift path to follow. It reminded me of the rope bridges from the Saturday morning Tarzan movies except on firm ground. Nana held her breath as her brother and his wife navigated slowly and carefully to the house. I knew she was thinking about the consequences of a slip and fall or just the possibility of a turned ankle. Once they were safely inside, she sent the boys for the luggage and did her best to reassure her sister-in-law that the worst was over.

“Supper’s on the table,” she told them a little anxiously, “Whenever you’re ready. I know the drive must have been dreadful.”

“Harrowing!” Aunt Helen replied imperiously, “I couldn’t possibly even think about eating!”

“Well, I sure as hell can, old girl,” Uncle Eddie said cheerfully, “Helen may be undone but I’m half starved! Do I smell the traditional fish chowder and brown bread?”

“That you do!” my mother assured him with barely a glance at my Aunt Helen, “Ready and waiting!”

“Edgecomb!” Helen intervened sharply, “I insist you help me to my room! I need to rest!”

“Certainly, dear,” Uncle Eddie sighed, “Shall I carry you or do you have the strength to walk?”

Nana covered her face and fled. My mother was right behind her but not before she’d laughed out loud. Helen bust into tears and Uncle Eddie looked heavenward. It set the tone of the week to come nicely. After three days of the fog-induced, close quarters hibernation, the women were barely speaking. On the third night, the sky cleared and turned a dark red.

“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” Uncle Eddie predicted as he and my grandmother washed the late supper dishes.

“Praise the Lord,” Nana said hopefully.

We woke the next morning to a bright, clear, sunny day – the ocean seemed bluer, the grass greener and the air sweet and fresh. The foghorn was blessedly silent. Everyone’s spirits had been lifted and breakfast was an almost cheerful affair with Helen having recovered from her trauma of her harrowing, foggy drive and regaining her appetite despite the fact that she was forced to settle for orange juice rather than tomato. When we were done, Uncle Eddie suggested they go for a drive and you could almost hear the relief, it washed over us like a wave.

“Just the thing!” my mother said, “Helen, you get dressed, and we’ll pack you a picnic lunch and you can make a day of it!”

Nana held her breath and I suspected she was desperately praying for her sister-in-law to say yes. Helen looked thoughtful – then briefly suspicious – but in the end she agreed.

“Bring a scarf, old girl,” Uncle Eddie reminded her, “It’s a fine day and you won’t want to get wind blown.”

An hour later, Helen reappeared in her immaculate make up, pumps, pearls and matching sweater skirt ensemble. Her designer handbag hung casually from one elbow and a chiffon scarf was fashionably draped around her neck and shoulders. We all complimented her, as required, and then Uncle Eddie escorted her to the convertible.

“Your carriage awaits, madam,” he told her with an exaggerated bow and a discreet wink to my grandmother. Helen stiffened her already rigid spine and allowed him to take her elbow. She never looked back but I think if she had, we’d have been leveled by her familiar, contemptuous glare. Nobody could do a sneer quite like my Aunt Helen and nobody paid less attention than my Uncle Eddie. For his part, it was – we all agreed – a remarkable achievement.

The day long drive gave us a chance to regroup and recover and the next few days passed without incident. A week to the day they had arrived, the convertible was packed up and we watched it pull up the gravel driveway and disappear.

“That’s that then,” Nana said with a heavy sigh, “Reckon we’re safe until Christmas.”

That summed it up nicely.