Nana's Table

 

I confess to a general dislike of family holidays but I do sometimes think back and miss my grandmother’s Thanksgiving table.

It meant church clothes, of course, and we each had to pass an inspection of our fingernails and the backs of our ears and once we were ready, we were seated and warned not to move lest we wrinkle or spoil the final effect. And then we were carefully led to the old Mercury station wagon, settled in and driven to Nana’s. We sat stiffly for the short trip and there was no talking. She lived in the next town over and there was barely time for the heater to kick in on some of those frigid November days, especially if there was snow, but we sat more or less patiently. We might have been shivering with cold but we knew better than to complain.

Nana’s house was always toasty warm during the winter and kitchen smelled wonderfully of turkey and fresh rolls and cinnamon dusted apple pie. The table was set for our family of five, Aunt Helen and Uncle Eddie, and my grandmother. Nana always put out her best china and linen napkins for Thanksgiving and each place featured a crystal glass for ice water and a small sherry glass for apple or tomato juice. Dinner was turkey and gravy, stuffing, white and sweet mashed potatoes, onions in cream sauce, those green squash, halved with their centers cut out and refilled with butter and maple syrup, and Parker House dinner rolls. A huge crystal tray set in front of Nana’s place, neatly arranged with celery, green and black olives, cubes of Vermont made cheddar cheese and cocktail onions. There were two silver gravy boats, one for each end of the table, two butter dishes, and a centerpiece of fresh flowers surrounded by white, tapered candles in gleaming silver holders that gave off just the slightest hint of vanilla. If ever I was to choose one image that would be my ideal of a family, it would be that table and it’s hand crocheted tablecloth. It wasn’t, of course, and it wouldn’t last but for a few precious moments before my mother or Aunt Helen would begin sniping or the boys would start fighting, it felt like a Norman Rockwell magazine cover.

The tradition continued until Nana was in her late 70’s and decided she didn’t want to put in the time and trouble anymore. Nobody else was willing to either so we began to go to restaurants – my favorite was The Red Coach Inn – but it was in Wayland and that meant a considerable drive (a stuffy half hour) so we usually ended up closer to home at places with plain vanilla fare and very little ambiance. We settled for whatever holiday menu they offered and made the best of it. Only my mother seemed to enjoy these dinners but I often suspected it was because she didn’t have to clean up the kitchen and wash dishes afterwards. Sentiment wasn’t part of her nature but for that one day every year, it was part of mine, at least for a little while.

An Unexpected Kindness

 

My first brush with gratitude came in elementary school when my 4^th grade teacher, Mrs. Scanlan,

suggested that if I was a mind to, I could stay after school and read in the library, putting off going

home for an hour or two. It was an unexpected kindness and while I had no idea how she knew how

reluctant I was to go home and I wasn’t brave enough to ask, I did take her suggestion. She was a

strict disciplinarian, taken to rapping the knuckles with a ruler of anyone who didn’t pay attention in

penmanship, and like all 4^th graders, she intimidated me.

The school library was no more than an unused classroom with book shelf covered walls, a single

scarred table and four slightly unsteady wooden chairs but to me it was a gold mine of escape and

adventure, a quiet place to do my homework, and a safe haven. Mrs. Scanlan must’ve mentioned it to

my 5^th grade teacher, Mrs. Rankin, because the privilege was extended the next year but it was my 6^th

grade teacher, Mrs. Arnold, who brought it all to life. Mrs. Scanlan and Mrs. Rankin were silver haired

and gruff, sisters who had been teaching since – as my grandmother used to say, “Before the flood”, a

mysterious phrase if ever there was one – both wore low heeled, sensible shoes and support hose, gold

rimmed glasses, and house dresses. In winter, they each added a neutral colored sweater held in place

by shiny sweater clips. For the time, they were both model teachers, prizing orderly classrooms and

inviolate seating charts, no crumbs with our graham crackers and milk, and homework turned in on

time and done neatly. You sat up straight in their classrooms, paid attention, didn’t whisper or pass

notes or squirm in your seat. There was no mercy for anyone defiant enough to throw a spitball, when

Steven O’Leary, the class bully tried, he found himself swiftly and unceremoniously drug by the scruff

of the neck to the principal’s office. This was an early lesson about consequences and we took it to

heart.

“Young ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs. Rankin announced the following morning, “Mr. O’Leary will be

spending the day at home today. It will give him and all of you the opportunity to review and reflect

on the behavior I expect from my class.”

We didn’t need to be told twice. The reckless had been scared clean out of us and we were grateful.

From the desk next to me, my friend Paulina flashed me a wicked grin. She was a chubby little thing

with olive skin, a frequent target of Steven’s and when I winked back to assure her I understood,

Mrs. Rankin abruptly cleared her throat and gave her desk a sharp rap with her ruler. It might have

been no more than my overactive imagination but I could’ve sworn she was trying not to smile.

And then, almost like magic, on one fine September morning, we became sixth graders and everything

changed. Neither Paulina nor I had ever imagined that Mrs. Buchanan – a trifle younger, stouter and

slightly more liberal then Mrs. Scanlan or Rankin – would ever really retire or that the new sixth grade

teacher was about to guide us through a life altering experience. Mrs. Arnold was shockingly young,

barely in her 30’s and not only pretty but fashionably dressed in sweaters and skirts and to the absolute

horror of more than one conservative parent, sometimes tailored trousers that flared when she walked.

Her handbag usually matched her high heel shoes and her makeup was delicate and lightly applied to

show off her nearly perfect skin. Her nails were kept manicured with clear polish and she favored a

single strand of rose tinted pearls and matching earrings, pierced, not the old school clip ons.

“Wicked!” Paulina whispered to me that first morning as we chose our random seats with our new

teacher looking on and smiling.

“Good morning,” she told us in a voice soft and just slightly southern, “I’m Mrs. Arnold. Welcome to

the sixth grade! Would each of you tell me your names, please?”

We watched in surprise and bewilderment as she took out a Polaroid camera and snapped our pictures

as we gave our names. She laid out each photo to dry then neatly printed our names on them and put

them in a plastic bag.

“I’ll know your names by tomorrow,” she announced cheerfully, “but for now you’ll need to bear with

me. Now…….,” and this with a warm and genuine smile, “What would you like to start with?”

Start with? No assigned seating? Pictures? All eighteen of us were slack jawed with shock until

finally a voice from the back spoke up.

“You mean we get to choose?”

“Well,” our new teacher glanced down at her day planner, “Within reason, of course. We have English,

Mathematics, Geography, History and Music Appreciation. We have to do them all but where we start

is up to you. Who has a preference?”

Preference? Even sixth graders knew that the idea of having an actual conversation with a teacher was

no less than preposterous. Why, the very idea of this type of classroom freedom was practically

Communism and we’d all done enough Duck & Cover drills to be fully suspicious of this approach.

Though our new teacher didn’t look like a spy, you never could tell. We were children who drank our

milk every day with Ike and recited the Pledge of Allegiance before every class – and come to think of

it, we hadn’t done that yet either, what was the world coming to? Oh, it was all too new and confusing.

We began to suspect that our new teacher was as my mother liked to say, some sort of outside agitator,

here to wreak havoc upon our beloved country.

“Wait until my parents hear about this,” Paulina whispered to me, “They’ll blow a gasket!”

“Mine’ll blow two!” I whispered back.

But Mrs. Arnold remained serene and when the same voice from the back called out, “Music

Appreciation!” she nodded and smiled.

“Who likes rock and roll?” she asked, reaching for a tape recorder and I thought we might all faint.

The world, however, did not go gray or come crashing down on us that particular September morning.

Mrs. Arnold taught with patience and genuine enthusiasm. She had a gift for involving and engaging

her students, a flair for creative and more modern teaching methods, a respect for her profession and

her charges that we’d never seen before. She fed our curiosity, inspired us with an eagerness to

learn, taught us an authentic and long term love of reading, instilled in each one of us a sense of pride

and self confidence. She knew all our names by her second day and inside of a month had found out

all kinds of things we didn’t talk about – she knew that my mother was an alcoholic, that Paulina’s

daddy was a day laborer and spoke little or no English, that Steven O’Leary had spent the entire

summer in juvenile detention and been forced to change schools, that Everett Smith was being raised

by his grandmother who cleaned offices at night to get by, and a host of other well kept, sixth grade

secrets. She found out and then used what she learned to draw us out ever so gently and slowly. She

was, so those in her very first class thought, a wonderful blend of compassion and innovation and we

loved her.

It was Mrs. Arnold who asked me to stay after one cool autumn day.

“American Bandstand can survive one day without you,” she said with a knowing smile. When

school let out, she and I walked the few blocks to Massachusetts Avenue and another two blocks north

past the Rexall Drug and the Woolworth’s Five & Dime and the tiny Italian sub shop, to the East

Arlington Branch Library.

“We’re getting you a library card,” she told me, “They’re open until 6 during the week and all day on

Saturdays and it’s up to you but I promise it’s a safe place and you’ll learn a lot more here than with

Dick Clark.”

It was another unexpected kindness, one what you might expect from a very good friend or a devoted

grandmother but certainly nothing that happened in my enabling, chaotic and sometimes wildly

ambivalent home. I hated to cry, especially in public, but there was no help for it and right there in

the small branch library, in front of God and everyone, as my Nana liked to say, I hugged my now

beloved teacher and let the tears flow. She hugged me right back, and after a moment or so, produced

a lavender scented handkerchief from her shoulder bag and gently wiped my eyes then tucked my new

library card into my pocket.

“Take good care of it,” she told me softly, “It’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

And it did.

Mrs. Arnold only taught that one year at our elementary school and moved on to where we never knew

but in that one year, she changed lives and opened our eyes. I never got to tell her what sixth grade

came to mean to me but I’ve always hoped she had some idea. To this remarkable teacher and all the

others that followed from junior high to high school to college, thank you. It would never have

happened without you.

After The Fall

 

It happened on a perfectly innocent walk across the Walgreen’s parking lot. I never did see how or why – a ripple in the cement perhaps or a loose shoelace – but I suddenly found myself hunched over and pitching forward. After two or three steps, physics kicked in, then momentum, then gravity and I found myself crashing into the concrete. There was a rip in the knee of my jeans, two fingernails were torn, and I had three dime-sized scrapes on my knuckles, all raw and bleeding but to my amazement, nothing was broken. Humiliated and horrified that this graceless act might have been witnessed, I scrambled to my feet, snatched up my keys and purse and skittered to my car like a wounded water bug.

A week or so later, I decided to change the light bulb above the kitchen sink. I dragged one of the dining room chairs to the sink and (carefully) climbed up but the fixture was still just out of reach so I climbed a little higher (again, carefully) into the sink, braced myself against the cabinet and changed the bulb. I fell on the way of getting down, somehow losing my balance, twisting sideways and pitching off the chair, landing on my whole right side with enough impact to set my dentures to rattling. I laid there for several seconds, anticipating an abrupt shock of pain from a shattered shoulder, elbow or most likely hip, but nothing came. Except for a ragged patch of skin on my elbow which was bleeding freely and hurt like a son of a bitch, I was miraculously intact. From 4 feet off the floor to linoleum and nothing broken.

“Jesus wept,” I told the anxious little dachshund who had come to investigate, “I must be made of iron.”

I hauled myself to my feet, bandaged the elbow and replaced the dining room chair. Then the medical alert alarm sounded like an air raid siren, scaring us both out of a year’s growth.

“Here comes the cavalry,” I told the little dachshund, “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”

I thanked and assured the concerned voice at the other end of the line that I was fine. I had taken a tumble, I explained (seeing no need to give her any details), but no harm done. I appreciated their calling and was glad to know that the system worked.

Moments later my cell phone rang and my friend, Michael, demanded to know how had I fallen and was I really alright.

“I was changing a light bulb,” I explained a little impatiently, “and I lost my balance and ……..how the hell did you know I fell?”

“I’m your emergency contact,” he said mildly, “They said you’d fallen and were fine but they’re required to let me know. So, are you? Fine, I mean?”

The odd thing about both of these falls was what went through my head in between upright and impact. I had time to think and understand that I was going to hit the ground and hit it hard, even enough time to curse and say a small prayer that I’d be able to get up. It was curious and a little unsettling. I’ve fallen before and probably will again but I don’t recall being that aware of what was happening during the fall. Things happen, of course, but usually it’s normality one second and on the ground the next. You hardly have time to dwell on, worry or dissect what’s happening. Looking back, I don’t recommend having the time to reflect on it.

I do hope there’s no truth to that old 3^rd time’s the charm crap.

Watch Your Step

Suspended by a thin thread of spider silk, the leaf spun and danced in the late afternoon light like a crazed ballerina. It would pause for a few seconds, then race upward and to the left, fluttering and swirling madly. Then it would drop down, pause for another few seconds, then repeat the movements to the right. It took me several minutes of watching before I realized that there was only the mildest of breezes, certainly nothing that could account for this reckless and frenzied behavior. Leaves don’t think or plan or move in predictable patterns, I realized, and they certainly are not defiant. Curious, I left the deck and walked toward the back fence with the dogs trotting at my heels. When I got closer, I saw that the leaf was actually a small butterfly, stuck to the silk like glue and despite its best desperate efforts, unable to break free. Poor thing, I thought to myself, you must be exhausted and you wouldn’t make much of a meal, and with one quick gesture, I severed the strand of silk and watched the butterfly soar off in a blur of blue and gold and backlit sunshine. It was, I decided, as good as any a metaphor for life – not all traps are made of steel jaws or quicksand. Some are delicate, practically invisible and woven of silken threads. You might not even notice until you’ve stepped over the threshold and suddenly found yourself captive.

Watch where you’re going.

Home

 

It was just before nine when I pulled into the grocery store parking lot and though the sun was out, it was still chilly, 50 degrees or so, I thought. Hardly unpleasant unless you were homeless like the little lady propped up against one of the outside pillars of the grocery store. She was small boned and thin, wearing 2 pairs of trousers, mismatched shoes and wrapped up in a tattered blue blanket that didn’t offer much protection from the cold. She met my eyes as I passed her, offering up a mostly toothless grin and nodding. She could’ve been 30 or 40 or 100 for all I could tell. She wasn’t bothering anyone, wasn’t panhandling or asking for $2 bus fare, just sitting on the concrete, hugging her knees to her frail chest, holding tight to the blue blanket and trying to keep warm. She was still there when I came out with a week’s worth of groceries and without any warning, something about her struck me. I unloaded the cart and returned it to the store then for whatever reason (which I still don’t know), stopped and knelt down beside her, asked her how she was doing and did she need some help. She shook her head and with one scrawny hand reached for the imitation Swarovski crystal on my key chain.

“Pretty,” she said quietly and gave me another one of those toothless smiles.

The only cash I had was a couple of crinkled up dollar bills but I pulled them out of my pocket and pressed them into her hand. She thanked me and asked God to bless me.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” I asked.

She nodded, but there was a faraway look in her eyes and I wasn’t at all sure she was aware of me or herself. A customer from the deli next door appeared and slipped a handful of bills into her hand. She thanked him and asked God to bless him as well. He smiled at us both.

“You take care of yourself,” I told her.

“Where you going?” she asked me and when I said home, she said “Me too.”

As I was driving away, the deli customer re-appeared with a container of coffee and a sweet roll wrapped in a napkin. He put them beside her on the concrete, gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and quickly walked away.

I couldn’t let go of the image of her and her blanket and when I got home, I ran inside for my camera and drove back to the store. She had moved to a wooden bench in front of the deli by then and she looked even smaller and more fragile than before. There was something about her mismatched shoes, one sandal and one regular shoe, that had hooked me.

“Would you mind if I took your picture?” I asked her.

She peered at me intently, at my Nikon, at the Swarovski crystal, over my shoulder into the parking lot. She asked my name and I told her. She looked again at the camera and shrugged.

“Why you want to make my pitcher?” she asked.

“Because I think you’re a beautiful lady,” I said simply and she shrugged again.

I ran into the grocery store to cash a check and when I came out, one of the cashiers was sitting beside her. They were sharing a cigarette and there was something tragically touching about it. The cashier smiled at me and told the little lady to remember, she was off at 2:00. I took my pictures, handed over a half pack of my own cigarettes and a $10 dollar bill. She squeezed my hand, wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and told me she’d be going soon.

“Is it far?” I asked.

“Not as the crow flies,” she said brightly and gave me a wink.

The Prowler

 

It was just after 1:30 in the morning when the dogs began to bark frantically and throw their small bodies against the window. Not sure what the problem was, I came awake slowly and it took a few seconds to realize that the front porch security light had come on. I was thinking stray cat or maybe a hungry raccoon when the pounding started and I understood that this was human noise and not wildlife.

“LET ME IN!” a male voice was yelling urgently, “PLEASE LET ME IN! SOMEONE’S SHOOTING AT ME!”

More fists against the door, the dogs going wild, but no gunfire. I couldn’t see anyone from the window and going to the door was out of the question but I could hear him, alternately yelling and talking to himself, and relentlessly pounding on the door.

“GO AWAY!” I shouted, “I’M CALLING THE POLICE!”

“LET ME IN!” he repeated over and over again, “IT’S NOT SAFE HERE!”

I found my phone and dialed 911, was more or less instantly connected with a police dispatcher who calmly told me to make sure my doors were locked, asked if I was armed, and reassured me that officers were on the way. She would stay on the line with me until they arrived, she said and very gently told me that she knew it seemed like forever but it had actually only been 4 minutes, and just then a pair of police cars pulled up. Even as the officers approached the house, my prowler continued banging on the door and ranting wildly, but thoughtfully stayed right in the center of the security light until the police escorted him off the porch, into handcuffs, and then into the back of the first patrol car.

The dogs were still in a frenzy over all this commotion but I managed to calm them after several minutes and only then did I let myself think about how terrified I’d been. A sudden and almost paralyzing attack of the what if’s soon followed – what if the door had given way, what if he’d had a gun, what if the dogs hadn’t heard him, what if someone actually had been shooting at him and he wasn’t some wild eyed, delusional meth addict having some kind of psychotic episode. One of the officers knocked at the door to make sure I was okay and I quickly realized that all the what ifs didn’t bear thinking about. I let the dogs out briefly, gave them each an extra biscuit, and crawled back into my nest in the love seat and hoped for sleep.

It was, I admit, a long night but morning came as mornings do and life went on. All that was left was the uneasy but faint under taste of my home almost being violated. And I feel like even that will pass.

There is, however, still a melancholy longing for a time when life was simpler, saner, and safer. I fear it will never come again.

Darkness

 

It’s a routine morning as I tend the animals and work on waking up and then with a crash I can almost hear, I remember my friend Marissa took her own life yesterday and the world is suddenly darker.

Marissa. A vibrant, compassionate, gifted musician. A wife. A mother of a 5 year old son and a 3 month old daughter. A home health care nurse and a woman full of faith. How could such a thing have happened and how do you make sense of it? Her devastated and bewildered husband collapses with grief and shock and an entire music community grieves.

By the next morning, a meal train has been established and it goes clear to Thanksgiving.

Her family and his are both local and they step up and in immediately. An absolute torrent of messages of love and support flood social media, offering prayers and play dates and even dog sitting. This was a woman who was not just much loved, but treasured and the idea that such a darkness as overtook her even exists is frightening. That it could be hidden is terrifying.

In less than 24 hours, a Gofundme account has raised over $20,000 and upped their goal to $25,000. A half day later, they’ve made the $25,000 and upped it to $30.000, the day after that to $40,000. I imagine it will be met if not exceeded by the end of the today. The messages on social media continue to mount – they are heartbreaking and it begins to be apparent that this lovely woman touched more lives than you could count. Childhood friends post pictures from school and work and evenings out, happier times that will never be again. How do you tell a little 5 year old boy that his mother is gone for always?

Absent some mitigating factor, it’s about the darkness, an evil and seductive trickster if ever there was one. She wasn’t incurably ill with some disease that would’ve savaged her body and mind and taken her life in the end. There was no chronic, untreatable pain. She wasn’t facing a life of incarceration without hope for release or working through some addiction. And yet, the darkness somehow convinced her that she was a failure and that her husband and babies and family and friends would all be better off without her. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

Most of the time, I’m not sure whether or not I believe in God or an afterlife but things like this make me want to, even if it’s nothing more than finding peace.

Full Circle

 

Ruthie was practicing “Star of the East” on the piano when her daddy got home. He sank into his easy chair in front of the television – one of the only ones on the whole island – and growled at her to stop. She didn’t hear him and with cobra like speed, he rose, strode to the piano and slammed the cover down on her hands. When she screamed, he snarled and delivered a quick and furious backhand across her cheek, sending her tumbling off the bench and onto the floor. After a second or two, we broke through the paralysis of shock and terror and bolted, running like hell was at our backs and gaining.

Sadly, neither of us was completely unfamiliar with domestic violence but this was new – close up, bloody and absolutely terrifying – we were running for our lives and instinctively headed for Doc McDonald’s. Ruthie was cradling her hands against her heart and sobbing.

Her mouth was bleeding badly but neither of us slowed down. We didn’t know if the devil would chase us and we weren’t about to find out. What we did know, had always known so it seemed, was that an old drunk didn’t have a prayer of catching up with two healthy, 1o year olds, even if one was injured. Still, we ran like the wind, all the way to Doc’s.

Three fingers on Ruthie’s left hand and two on her right were broken and it took four stitches to close the wound at the corner of her mouth. Remarkably, Doc asked no questions, just set about splinting, bandaging and sewing her up, gave her a shot for the pain and then packed us into his old station wagon and looking like death come for the old dog, drove us to The Point and my grandmother. As we pulled into and down the gravel driveway, Ruthie elbowed me sharply.

“When they ask us,” she whispered low, harsh, and urgent, “I fell. We was runnin’ and I tripped and fell in the ditch. Cross your heart that’s what you tell ’em!”

I knew in my heart how unfair it was and I wanted to protest the lie but I didn’t. I couldn’t overlook Ruthie’s bruised, tear stained face and broken hands but I knew the truth could bring even worse. It began to seem like a small lie, a well intended cover up and best for all concerned. Feeling sick and frightened, I crossed my heart. I was sure Doc would know the truth and positive Nana wouldn’t believe us but I crossed my heart anyway.

“I fell,” Ruthie told Doc and Nana stubbornly.

“Reckon she tripped over a rock,” I said shakily, “Fell right into the ditch.”

“You was runnin’,” my grandmother said with a gentleness I’d never have expected, “Who was in front?”

“I was,” I said, eager to step up because when you’re ten and lying doesn’t come natural, you make mistakes.

“If you was in front,” Doc said casually, “How’d you see her fall?”

“I heard it,” I said at once, more than a little proud of my cleverness, “And when I turned around she was in the ditch.”

“That what happened, Ruth?” the doctor asked and Ruthie nodded.

“I fell,” she repeated, so sincerely that I almost believed her, “Weren’t nobody’s fault.”

“And why,” Nana asked almost casually, “Were you runnin’ in the first place?”

And that’s when the trap door came down because we had no answer and it was clear anything we came up with would be just one more fable. We opted to take our chances with shrugs and silence, hoping to buy ourselves some time but we knew that neither Doc nor my grandmother were in the market. We then opted for tears and must’ve looked perilously pitiful because the adults exchanged glances and then let us go for the moment. We fled upstairs to the room we always shared when Ruthie spent the night and curled up together on the big double bed. We didn’t talk and it wasn’t long before being worn out and still a little in shock, we fell asleep.

We stayed put until Nana woke us for supper a few hours later. She’d called Aunt Jenny, she told us casually and explained that Ruthie would be staying with us for a day or so. If Ruthie’s mother had her suspicions, she kept them to herself just as she did the bruises that often appeared on her arms and neck. And then, just after supper, we got a visit from Remy Prime, the only law enforcement the RCMP had on the island. He and my grandmother talked quietly on the sun porch with the door closed for well over an hour and it was coming dark when he left. Ruthie and I, young but old enough to understand consequences, were too frightened to even speak to him.

In a perfect world, there would have been some justice and maybe even some change but we were a tiny fishing village on one end of a 12 mile long island- isolated, proud, self sufficient and in favor of quietly solving our own problems. Nobody was going to be rehabilitated or go to jail, there would be no counseling for the victims nor any retribution. Ruthie went home after a couple of days and as far as we knew, her daddy never raised his hand to her or her mother for years. Too many folks were watching. Much later, when he drank himself into a stupor and drowned, nobody talked much about it and nobody mourned. It was ruled an accident and there were no questions asked.

I didn’t hear it myself but when he was asked about it, Remy Prime reportedly said, “Weren’t nobody’s fault. He fell.”

The Virtue of Ignorance

 

Imagine you’re a wannabe actor living in a poverty-stricken, crime-infested Southern city in a state where racism and white supremacy still make the rules. Corruption is so commonplace that no one even notices anymore. There is no hope for education or decent health care or finding a job. Falling down shotgun shacks line the sidewalk-less forgotten neighborhoods and everywhere you look the streets and bridges are falling apart. Even in the traditionally best parts of town, there’s no safe place left to shop, walk, drive, work or live.

Now imagine that, as unlikely as it seems, a casting company is coming to town to make an M. Night Shyamalan film and as an aspiring actor, you are offered $500 a day to learn a half dozen lines and be in the film. Provided you are vaccinated against COVID 19 and are willing to wear a face mask when not shooting. I myself would be doing handstands to get to the nearest vaccination site but not in this city. No, here we prefer to go maskless and refuse to vaccinate. Our faith is in God and science is a Chinese hoax. We prize our ignorance, crow about our rights, shoot anyone who gets in our way and step over our dead. It’s not a pretty sight. It could be worse, I remind myself, I could live in Texas.

The world has changed and I’m not persuaded it’s for the better.

With a handful of exceptions, if left to their own devices and consciences, people will not do the right thing.

With a handful of exceptions, businesses and corporations will choose profit over people every time, no matter the consequences.

With a handful of exceptions, there is not a politician on any level with the most remote sense of integrity or compassion or concern for his constituents or country.

With a handful of exceptions, I didn’t know the people I thought I knew at all. To see their true colors exposed is sickening.

A run of the mill Saturday night in this city brings news of three separate drive by shootings, not in the places you don’t go after dark but in the upscale zip codes of the wealthy and privileged. The front windows of a hospital are are shot out, innocent passengers in nearby vehicles are terrorized, a high speed police chase ensues and three teenagers are dead. No one can say why or what they were thinking but when they are caught, a veritable arsenal of weapons is seized, leaving some in this community to be stunned and others to shrug in resignation. The following week, an office-involved shooting takes another teenage life and though over 2o police units respond, it’s barely reported in the news. We are so accustomed to the violence that it’s hardly on our radar anymore. It would seem we have resigned ourselves to our own ignorance and its consequences.

Not surprisingly, the movie company changes its mind about filming here and decides to move on to a city with a little less gunfire, a little more concern for human life, and a place where ignorance is less of a virtue.

“The real weapons of mass
destruction are the hardening hearts of humanity.”

Leonard Cohen

The Mohawk Man

 

Being a creature of habit, I take the same route to work every day and it takes me to the same bus stop at the same intersection twice a day. For several weeks in June, I saw The Mohawk Man at the bus stop each morning and evening. He was tall and muscular with a finely chiseled face, always dressed in the same clothes – black nylon sweat pants and matching jacket over a bright red strappy t shirt and high tops – in the morning he would usually be stretched out on his side on the bench, head and shoulders resting on his backpack, high tops crossed at the ankles. In the evening though he was upright, meager possessions spread out on the bench for inspection, just part of the landscape. Sometimes he wore a red and black headband across his forehead. Except for the mohawk and the long braid, his head was shaved and tanned on both sides. A piece of cardboard was propped up against the bench. “God is good,” the hand lettered first line read, then “Able To Work” on the second, and finally “Be Kind To The Homeless” at the bottom. I was (selfishly) curious and captivated and I couldn’t help but think about what a great subject he would be for a portrait. I wondered what his story was, where he showered, was he actually homeless, where did he go to relieve himself, did he work, did he have family, what did he think about as he spent long hot days and nights on a bench at a bus stop. Before I could work out how best to approach him though, it was July and he disappeared. Maybe he just changed bus stops like you might change a room, I thought. Maybe he moved on or found work. Maybe he was in jail or worse. I didn’t much like the possibility that I would never know but there it was. At this particular bus stop, the tenants change pretty regularly, there one day and gone the next.

The closest I ever came to homelessness was a few short months spent in a poorly heated garage with a camp shower, a sink, a commode and a black cat named Magic. We had come all the way from New England in just a few short days, leaving my husband to sell our mountain top cabin, pack up the remaining animals and belongings and join us. The cat and I ate fast food twice a day, slept in a sleeping bag and listened to a small and tinny portable radio at night. There was no cell phone or computer or cable. It might not have been much but looking back, it was sure as hell better than a bench at a bus stop in 100 degree heat.

I have an idea it takes a special kind of strength to be homeless and live on the streets.

A Possum Tale

 

Hands down, it was the best imitation of death I’ve ever seen.

The dogs were barking frantically which they never do unless they find an intruder in the yard and when I went out to quiet them, I discovered what they’d discovered – a possum, dead as a door nail, you’d have sworn – lying on it’s side with its tail curled and it’s tongue hanging out. The dogs approached with a mix of fascination and fear, barking wildly and loudly, but being careful not to get too close to the corpse. It was barely seven in the morning and they were unwilling to leave their find. After several minutes of threats and calling and coaxing, I had to carry them both- very reluctantly- back inside. Clearly, they’d found a prize and didn’t want to leave it. After another several minutes, the possum stirred, raised it’s snout and looked around as if assessing the danger, then got to its feet and casually ambled off and out of sight. When I was sure he’d had time to climb the fence or tunnel out or do whatever possums do to come and go, I let the dogs out again. They spent some serious time in search of the curious creature but eventually got distracted and gave up the hunt.

To be sure, a possum is not one of God’s more beautiful creations but it does no harm and its passive nature of playing dead appeals to my own non-confrontational nature. I often wish I myself could just play dead until the danger passes.

Dogs Of Chaos

 

There are days and then there are days you wish you could live without.

I’d been at work less than an hour when things began to go downhill and I could feel chaos nipping at my heels like a pack of wild dogs. It was already nearly 90 inside and the humidity was like a sauna. The animals were restless and underfoot, snapping at each other and picking fights. There was no Sweet’n’Low for Michael’s coffee and having slept badly, he was already in a temper when the ADD/HDD commenced and he couldn’t find any of his diabetic testing supplies. He began a frantic search of his landfill of a desk, snatching up piles of paper and empty cigarette packs, notes scribbled on matchbook covers, half full coke cans, assorted cables and wires, unopened mail with sticky notes attached, samples of cologne, unpaid bills, and the ever present clear makeup case of several dozen prescription bottles. Manilla folders went flying, a new pair of shoes tumbled into the trashcan next to the desk, packing material and cellophane wrappers from God knew what were swept to the floor. Somewhere under this mountain of debris, his cell phone began ringing and he let loose a stream of colorful cursing. In the midst of all this mayhem, there was a knock on the door and the dogs erupted savagely and made a charge for the front office. They hit the door en masse, a snarling tangle of howling hounds with saliva dripping jaws and mad eyes and the startled UPS driver dropped his armful of packages and fled. I could now feel the chaos like canine teeth gnawing at my ankles and I envied him his freedom.

“ENOUGH!” I screeched like a fishwife and slammed my fist onto my desk, “GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THAT DOOR AND CARRY YOUR SORRY, FLEA BITTEN BUTTS OUTSIDE BEFORE I BEAT YOU SENSELESS!” And amazingly enough, perhaps sensing that an invisible line had been crossed, they did. Which left me free to deal with Michael.

“STOP!” I shouted at him, “SIT!”

He looked at me, wild eyed and frenzied, then dropped the fistfuls of trash he was clutching and dropped to his chair. He looked undone and defeated and very angry, exactly the way I was feeling, but someone in this house had to be an adult, I reminded myself. Clearly, it wasn’t to be Michael or the damn dogs. I forced myself to take a breath and chaos relaxed its grip just a fraction. My rule has always been that this madness stops at the door of my office. I can’t change what he is or how he is but I don’t have to be sucked under and drown along with him.

As usual, we got past it and things settled down. Keeping the chaos at bay is becoming a full time job.