Wash Day

Hard work, my grandmother remarked to me, is it's own reward.

She was feeding sheets through the old wringer washer machine at the kitchen sink. She considered the machine somewhat of an extravagance but had made her peace with it although she was still a bit suspicious as she was of all labor saving devices. She liked to remind me of the days when she and my great grandmother scrubbed clothes with rocks down at the creek. I had recently figured out that we didn't have a creek but all that earned me was a glare and a warning not to sass her. It's the principle of the thing, she told me briskly. We filled her wicker basket with the wet clothes, filled her apron pockets with clothespins, and headed outside.

She has overseen the construction of the clothesline herself several summers ago - six lines were strung from the woodshed to the house at the exact height of her upraised hands. She stuck several of the old fashioned wooded clothespins in her mouth and began to hang the wet sheets, humming an old hymn as she worked. It was a glorious wash day - warm and clear with a strong wind that whipped the sheets back and forth on the line - they cracked and rose to meet the wind, one after another after another, like great white birds lifting off in flight. Nana stepped back, nodded in satisfaction, pocketed the remaining clothespins and the lifted the basket to her hip. The factory whistle blew and she glanced at her watch approvingly.

That night I crawled into bed with sheets smelling of the outside - crisp and clean and cool. I fell asleep to the sounds of the curtains blowing softly away from the open window, the tide slapping against the breakwater, faint music from John Sullivan's boat, and a Red Sox baseball game playing on Nana's little battery powered radio. She was a die hard Boston fan and would listen until the end and her morning mood would be influenced by the outcome of the game. I crossed my fingers for a win. Soon I could hear the click clack of her knitting needles and knew that she was in the leather rocker by the side window with a small glass of sherry, knitting and listening to the radio, her small feet propped up a needlework footstool my great grandmother had made and glancing up at every car that came around the curve. It was all familiar and comforting and a good way to fall asleep.

Nana's Dining Room Table

Storm clouds had been gathering all day and the air was heavy and damp. By early afternoon the skies were nearly black except for the lightning flashes on the horizon. The schoolhouse was closed and the children sent home to help their families get ready. Windows were boarded up or x'd with masking tape, drinking water was collected along with first aid supplies, blankets, canned food. Cattle and other livestock were brought in to shelter and the minister prepared the church to serve as a refuge. The storm was coming, a category 5 hurricane, and the small island was dead in it's path. The evacuation order had come the previous day but the village had evacuated only the very old and the very sick, preferring to stay and defend their homes and livelihoods as best they could. I was born in this house, my grandmother announced, and I'll not leave it come hell or high water.

Landfall was just after 5 o'clock. The wind was deafening and the rain hit like hammerblows, the whole house shuddered and trembled. The flagpole toppled with an enormous crash and the sunporch windows blew out in a mad shower of jagged, flying glass. Water poured though the broken windows and under the door and furniture
disappeared in a whirlwind of hail. The interior windows held but the water in the sunporch had reached critical levels and the pressure cracked open the door at the same time there was a tremendous crash from upstairs and an avalanche of water and debris poured down the stairs only to meet the incoming flood from the sunporch. Up on the table, right now! Nana shouted as dirty water swirled around her ankles. The massive dining room table seated ten and had been in her family for as long as anyone could remember but we scrambled up and over the sides like drenched monkeys. The huge clawfoot legs never wavered although the water eventually reached almost halfway to the table surface. Lesser furniture would've washed away but Nana's table was well rooted by it's own weight and by history and it would survive as would we all.

The vicious storm passed through during the night and the next morning dawned brilliantly clear and sunny. Having done its worst, the water had receded. An upstairs window was broken as well as all the glass on the sunporch and there was water damage everywhere, but relatively speaking, we'd gotten off lightly. Nana packed
linens and towels and food in the big Lincoln and we began to navigate our way to the church. The damage was beyond description - roofs missing, trees and power poles downed, cars picked up and flung into ditches by the winds, broken windows and houses missing steps and walls. The road was littered with pieces of furniture, sections of fences, barrels, car parts, even half of a fishing boat. There were serious injuries, mostly from wind driven debris, but miraculously, no one had died. The clean up would take years, some families would never recover entirely, some fishing boats would never set sail again, but all would try.

A Line in the Sand

You're not going anywhere, young lady! my mother was shouting, spitting the words out and so redfaced that I started thinking about apoplexy. I stood my ground, I'm going to the library, I repeated. The hell you are! she screamed with spittle now actually on her chin. The hell I'm not! I yelled back.

It was a small victory when I slammed the door behind me and shut out her last words, You just wait until your father gets home! A small victory, but a significant one - the very first time I'd openly defied her, brazenly refused a direct order and actually challenged her one on one. My heart was pounding a little faster than usual and there were butterflies in my belly but I was on the sidewalk, on my feet, so I started walking. It hadn't been the first confrontation and it wasn't to be the last but it had been definitive. The balance of power between us had finally shifted and the sensation was so strong that it was a breath away from being physical. Somewhere deep inside I knew that this time there'd be no going back, no forced apologies, no false peacemaking. This would not, as my daddy liked to say, be put behind us and forgotten. Whatever had been been between us, and it had been neither motherly or daughterly, had been severed. I was in new territory, probably dangerous territory and I would have to watch every step I took. I had called her a drunken bitch and told her to go to hell. She had responded that she'd see me dead before allowing me to talk that way to her and immediately reached for the telephone. Nobody's going to save you this time! she screeched and I tore it out of her hands and threw it against the wall.
She flung a candlestick at me and I ducked and said I wished she'd die and leave us in peace and as I heard the words I realized how true they were.

The sanctuary of the library ended at nine and as I walked down the steps, I wasn't surprised to see my daddy waiting for me, leaning against the old station wagon with a sorrowful expression. Wordlessly, he opened the door for me and I slid in. We sat there for a few moments and then he asked if I wanted to tell him my side. There was no point in telling him that she'd unaccountably trashed my room, looking for Lord knew what, or that she'd called me a thief and a liar while tearing up my precious books, smashing the mirror and broken my belongings. I shook my head and looked away. She won't speak to you, he said gravely, or to me until you apologize. I looked straight ahead, held my head up stubbornly and said, Fine. With a huge sigh, he turned the key in the ignition and we drove home in a familiar cold war kind of silence. Your mother .......... began once and I cut him off in a fury, My mother is a drunk and a hateful bitch and you always take her side! The words came out in a rage of guilt and despair, born of a desperate longing to be heard and an agonizing need to be understood but it was breaking the rules to speak of her drinking and once we'd pulled into the driveway, he ordered me to my room.

It had been a small victory in a great war and there had been a price. In the end it changed only the way I saw myself and that was enough. After a few weeks, the incident was all but forgotten and life, such as it was, resumed except that there was a subtle change in the way she talked to me, as if she was being just the tiniest bit cautious, as if she suspected that I might fight back. There would be many more such small victories and defeats, many more triumphs and concessions as I grew older and she spiraled into alcoholic madness. What there would not be was forgiveness or reconciliation. In the end, only the war itself won.

Nathaniel's Garden

Nathaniel knows his flowers. He is a trimly built black man, somewhere between 40 and 60, with a ready smile and a greying mustache. He is a morning person, arriving long before the office opens, to plant and transplant the newly delivered flowers. He is frighteningly respectful and courteous and although barely literate, he is on a first name basis with each flower. He handles them with great care and delicacy - using gloves only for the roses - and he talks to them as he works. I see him on his knees in front of the flower beds, smiling at the pansies and jonquils and caladium, gently encouraging the lilacs and azaleas, beaming at the ivy as he coaxes it up the trellis. Though it's early, it's already nearly 80 and the sun blazes fiercely. Nathaniel keeps a hand towel across one shoulder, to wipe his face and hands as he works but his shirt is already soaked with sweat. He doesn't seem to mind the heat, it's a natural part of his garden. Under his care, the flower beds blossom and thrive until they are a mass of color and greenery, all reaching for the sky like anxious children begging for candy. Later in the morning, Nathaniel will put away his shovel and spade, replace the wheelbarrow in the shed, and patiently water down the beds until he is satisfied. He will walk all around the big old house, inspecting his work slowly, stopping now and again to pull a dead leaf, remove a stray branch, or sweep dirt from the brick patio. Lastly, he will test the soil in the massive pots by the front door, making sure the begonias can breathe and grow properly. All this he does out of love for the flowers and the soil, for nature and the beauty she provides.

Nathaniel's garden is a work of art and a labor of love.

The Road Back

The Allison twins, Davey and Donny, were six years old when they shot and killed their mother.

They had discovered their daddy's hunting rifle in the closet under the dark stairway and been playing a noisy game of cowboys and Indians when their mother came in to quiet them. Startled, they turned at the sharp sound of her voice and the gun went off. She was, as people came to say, dead before she hit the floor. Wakened by the blast, John Allison raced out of his bedroom to find his wife sprawled and bloody on the kitchen linoleum and his sons screaming over her body. Both boys were covered in blood and hysterical and John, a good and decent man, gathered them to him and carried them outside to the front steps where he began to sob. He was twenty four and Jenny had been two years younger.

No one was prosecuted. The mounties came and an inquest was held in the church and as everyone expected, Jenny's death was ruled an accident shooting. The boys were sent to live with relatives in Yarmouth while John tried to come to terms with his shattered life. Accidental or not, the fact was that his sons had killed their mother, a reality that would never go away, and John had no clear idea how to accept it or get past it. He loved his boys but he had loved Jenny too and reconciliation seemed far beyond his grasp. How am I to look at their faces and not blame them? he asked my grandmother, how am I to forgive them for what they did? Nana sighed but she had no answers so she simply forced him to drink tea with brandy and repeated the same words over and over to him, Time, John, give it time. But time brought no change and no healing and by the summer following the shooting when the boys were still away, Miss Hilda stepped in and swept away all sentimentality like so much debris under her feet. First, she took stock of the island girls and commandeered those she found fit for a cleaning crew and set them to work on the Allison house. Under her watchful eyes, it was put right, inside and out, in just under three days. She then enlisted my grandmother to call her the next time John appeared, and as he sat drinking tea and brandy on the sunporch, in strode Miss Hilda. Come now, John, she told him sharply, we're going for a walk. He reached for the brandy and she struck his wrist smartly with her stick. I disapprove of spirts, sir, she said in her no-nonsense tone, especially when used to excess. He met her gaze with a haunted look in his eyes and his shoulders sagged. For a fraction of a second Miss Hilda wavered then in a voice as cold as steel she made what amounted to a speech. Do not think, sir, for one moment, that I or anyone within three hundred miles is unaware of your situation, however, this maudlin self pity has run its course. You have two sons and it's high time you saw to their needs. Now get up! And she punctuated this last with a another strike of her stick. John got up.

Miss Hilda and John walked - 'round the Old Road, all the way to the other side of the cove and back, then past the point and over the coastline, coming out at the softball field. They walked that day, and for several days that followed and Miss Hilda showed no mercy, no diplomacy, no weariness and no inclination to give up. She walked John Allison into submission and back to life. When the boys finally came home, Miss Hilda went every day to cook and clean and put the family back together until she felt that they could manage on their own. She nagged,
lectured, manipulated, threatened, dominated, reasoned, counseled and arbitrated until they were whole again.
It was her finest hour.

The House Jack Built

My mother's friend, Jack, had come to visit for a couple of weeks and fallen completely under the spell of the island, its weather and views, its people. He immediately began looking for property to buy and settled on a tract of land slightly up island with a breathtaking view of the ocean. By the following summer, his house, complete with a gravel driveway and an open front deck was finished and he had started the landscaping, a process he mostly had to do himself as the concept was unfamiliar to the villagers. They tended to think that his determination to mold nature made him slightly off, Things grow or they don't, Uncle Shad said with a frown and everyone agreed.

My mother's friendship with Jack was immediately suspect. He was a short, pudgy and unattractive man with thinning hair and a deformed left hand. He drank expensive liquor, smoked only imported cigars, and enjoyed spreading money around. His bright red Triumph sportscar raced like the wind over the dusty, dirt roads of the island, leaving frightened children and mystified residents in its wake. He and my mother took to spending afternoons playing cards and drinking on the deck of his secluded house. Passing boats could hear the music that blared from the expensive speakers and the fishermen shook their heads in disapproval of such "city ways". Jack's money couldn't buy their acceptance or their silence and soon my grandmother caught wind of the goings on at the fancy house that overlooked the ocean and put an end to it. There was a violent scene on the sunporch in which my grandmother stood, arms folded in the doorway, forbidding my mother to see Jack. My mother refused loudly, saying she was "free, white and over 21" and would see anyone she damn well pleased. Nana responded with an angry " not while you're under my roof, you won't " and when my mother tried to push past her, Nana slapped her. Stunned, my mother fell back, slack jawed with surprise, a red handprint already blossoming on the side of her face. Bitch! she snarled and Nana,
very quietly, not giving an inch of ground, and with frightening control in her voice, said, Whore. There was a sudden dead silence between them. I could hear every tick of the mantle clock, every wheezing breath my mother took, and each one of my grandmother's footsteps as she walked away.
I crept back to my room, opened the window and crawled out to the roof where I could easily jump to the ground, then ran for the safety of the woodshed.

I wasn't sure, but I didn't think that kind of thing went on in other families that I knew. I barricaded myself behind the wood and tried to sort it out. No one defied or challenged my mother, at least not more than once, the misery that followed was never worth it. And while Jack ususally made me feel like I wanted to wash after he touched me, he surely wasn't worth name calling and slapping. I was pretty sure I knew what the words had meant but hearing my mother and grandmother use them against each other was scary. Still trying to work it all out, I fell asleep in the sawdust with the good smell of wood all around me. And that was where Nana found me later that night. Supper's ready, she said, go wash up. There was no sign of my mother and the table was only set for two, as it would be for several days and nights to follow.

I never knew where my mother had gone, only that one day she came home. The scene on the sunporch was never mentioned again and from then on, when Jack visited, my grandmother was always present. With no fuel for the fire, village talk moved on to the next small scandal and some years later when Jack's house was leveled by a hurricane and the debris blown out to sea, pieces were found sixty miles up the coast. The foundation eventually caved in on itself and nature's landscaping took possession again. It became a beautiful place to watch sunsets.

The G String Set

Even a strip club is entitled to advertise, my ad-exec husband told me indignantly. They're just trying to make a living like the rest of us.

And that was how we came to be in a seedy, dark and slightly disreputable strip joint at 2am on a Saturday morning. The club was across the river in an area known as "The Strip" - a place built of flashing neon and unlit doorways, crowded little no-name bars, anonymous dives catering to the darker instincts of the patrons, a place that was quickly living up to all my pre-conceived notions. The owner, an olive skinned, dark haired and mustached little man who just missed being good looking, was Jimmy. He and his tall, leggy, blonde wife had been running the bar for years - both bartended , kept the books, acted as bouncers, and Darlene filled in for absent dancers as needed. Drinks on the house! Jimmy yelled as we entered and embraced us both vigorously then stepped back and gave me an appraising look, nodded and said Pleased to meetcha, what'll you have, and began steering us toward the bar. I accepted a glass of wine, grateful to have something to focus on besides the roomful of sad, hunched over men drinking in solitary silence and watching the stage with tired, spiritless eyes. The jukebox began a scratchy country song, and a waitress in pasties, a G string and spike heels gave it a kick as she passed, not even causing a ripple in the tray of drinks she carried. Dancers came and went on stage, their faces bored and indifferent, their bodies moving to the music by rote and habit. Rotating colored spotlights flashed on them, briefly lighting up breasts or buttocks but not their faces. There was something dismal and weary in their performances and something even more randomly discouraging on the faces of the men waching. There was sadness and bitterness in the very air.

A second glass of wine appeared at my elbow, delivered by a young woman with tassels on her nipples and a cloud of blonde hair. Hi, she said with a genuine smile, I'm Linda and she stretched out her hand. She was in her 30's, I imagined, heavily made up with streaks of sweat across her naked shoulders and down her sides. Even in her 4 inch heels, she was petite with bright blue eyes, good teeth and a fresh manicure. A $20 bill was tucked inside her G string. If I can get you anything else, hon, ask me now, she said, I'm off in ten minutes. I shook my head and she gave me another smile and staccato'd her way around the bar, tassels swinging with her every step. Later I was to learn some surprising things about Linda and most of the other dancers - she was a single mother with two little girls and a school teacher during the day. Another girl was working her way through law school and yet another worked for the local arts council. All were alone and raising children, struggling to make ends meet and doing what they had to. They considered stripping a low class but high paying way to supplement their incomes and it was very clear that they all considered it just another job. None were invested beyond their paychecks, none ever saw customers outside the club, none drank or did drugs or liked getting home late to their kids. None felt proud of or diminished by their stripping. Minus her blonde wig, makeup and 4 inch heels, dressed in sweats and running shoes and carrying a copy of The New York Times, Linda shrugged and said, It's just a job, hon, just a job.

A Joyful Noise

I woke to church bells and the smell of bacon. Nana's voice called up the stairs, making sure I was awake and reminding me that we were going to Sunday service. I heard my brothers rough housing in the room next to mine and Lady's chain jingling as she came running up the steps and launched herself onto the bed. Sunshine streamed in the front windows and the day was cool and crystal clear. It was late August and soon we would be making preparations to leave the island, another summer gone seemingly before it had begun. Nana called again, a slight edge in her voice, and knowing how she hated to be late for church, I put thoughts of leaving aside and got up.

Not attending church was never an option, not even for my mother. My grandmother had strong and clearly defined feelings about Sunday mornings and repentance and we were all required to accompany her. When we didn't have a minister, villagers conducted services themselves, and the old Baptist hymns rang out through the open doors and windows with all the spirit of the island behind them. Beulah Land, Brighten the Corner Where You Are, Standing on the Promises, The Old Rugged Cross and my grandmother's favorite, In the Garden. Everyone knew every verse of every hymn, even The Church in the Wildwood, and we sang - if not well - with enthusiasm and pride and gusto. We cleansed our spirits with music and celebration and reverence. The choir didn't have robes and there was no church organ but before she died, old Mrs. Melanson had donated her upright piano and her daughter, Marlene, had taught herself the hymns. The keys were yellowed with age, some stained brown and slightly warped, B flat didn't play at all, but no one minded except Aunt Jenny, the choirmistress, who finally gave up when Uncle Shad observed to her, The good Lord says to make a joyful noise, Jenny, reckon He don't much care what key it's in.

The Memory Closet

The locked door seemed to be daring me. It was at the top of the stairs, fashioned of old wood slats painted white and peeling in several places. There were spaces between the slats and the smell of cedar chips drifted out but all I could see was darkness and mystery. There was no other locked door in the house and between my imagination and my curiosity, I was fascinated by the possibilitities of what it might contain. When I asked my grandmother for the key, she chased me off with a frown and a brisk Curiosity killed the cat, go play outside. I did as I was told but the locked door stayed with me, its forbidden contents preying on my mind.

I was not an especially mindful child but I was a patient one. When Nana made one of her weekly trips to the mainland, I made myself scarce until she had left, then knowing I had several hours to myself, I raided the tool chest and screwdriver in hand, I climbed the stairs. The old door stood passively on its old hinges, not much of a challenge, I thought but my heart began to pound in my chest anyway and I hesitated just long enough to lose my nerve. Like a frightened rabbit, I scurried away, replaced the screwdriver and ran outside into the sunshine. All that summer the mystery of the locked door gnawed at me, curiosity and fear of getting caught fighting in my head like two old soldiers, equally matched, equally stubborn, neither willing to give up
.
My daddy came for a week in late August. We went fishing off the breakwater, played scrabble at night on the sunporch, took walks around the Old Road and picked blackberries and strawberries out of the fields. Before he was to leave, I summoned the nerve to ask him about the locked door and he laughed, saying there was likely nothing behind it but linens and blankets and old quilts. When I persisted, he cheerfully gave in, and together we climbed the stairs. He produced an old fashioned key and opened the door with a dramatic flair - the old slats shuddered and creaked on their hinges and I ducked behind him in sudden terror. Still laughing, he touseled my hair and took my hand, Whatever did you think you'd find? he asked, the laughter turning to an understanding smile.

It was just a shadowy old closet, filled with linens and blankets and old quilts, piles of dusty books, an unstrung tennis racket, discarded hatboxes. A cedar chest in one corner held my great grandmother's wedding dress still folded between layers of thin paper, yellowed but intact. There were boxes of faded photographs, old newspapers,
an empty jewelry case, a row of tiny crystal perfume bottles, a cracked mirror and an old wash basin and pitcher on a three legged stand. It's a memory closet, my daddy told me, this is where your grandmother keeps the things she can't bear to throw away. He shut the door and relocked it, then knelt in front of me. Sometimes, the mystery is better left unsolved.

The Ties That Bind

To my dismay, I have my mother's hands - stubby and short fingers - so every two weeks I make the time to have my nails shaped and polished. It's more than just vanity, I don't like to look at my hands and be reminded.

Her nails were always ragged and grimy. She favored bright red lipstick that often smeared on her teeth and the corners of her mouth. She would apply her makeup unevenly then slap on face powder and the effect was clownish and sometimes grotesque. Under it all, there was an odor of decay and alcohol and urine, it seemed to come from her very pores and saturate her clothing. I couldn't bear to have her touch or be near me. She took to wearing discount polyester pants, gaudy cheap tops and misshapen shoes and carried a plastic purse. It was like being around fruit slowly rotting, swollen and collapsing in on itself.

She spent her weeks alone, closed up in a filthy little house with only the tv and a cat for company. Her trips out were for beer, cigarettes, and bingo. Alone and unhappy, her body as well as her mind began to deteriorate - she developed diabetes, chronic bronchitus, obstructive lung disease and dementia. She began to live in sync with the television soap operas and game shows, following them obsessively as if they were real life. My daddy came on weekends and despaired of the state of the house but said nothing. They lived around each other, sleeping in separate rooms, having limited and meaningless conversations about nothing and arguments about everything. They had each constructed a life apart from the other and although they remained married, their relationship had become like stale cigarette smoke. They were trapped in a windowless room, unable to work together to find a way out, unwilling to tolerate each other, but still dependent each on the other, one out of fear, one out of guilt. One needed care, one was willing to provide it - whatever remained between them stayed between them, whatever kept them together was passive but powerful. They had found a way to accept and reconcile their circumstances without interfering in each others lives and while sad and tragic and wasteful, it served.

Perhaps we are not truly meant to understand the lives of others or the ties that bind them.

Under Construction

It seems to me that we are all under construction all our lives and that some of us need more regular maintenance than others. Maya has torn a tendon her her back leg and will be three legged for the remainder of her life - regrettably, there is no upside to this, as she is equally fast on three legs as she is on four. This will, my vet tells me, eventually develop into arthritus and shorten her life.

My friend Tricia, now confined to a single bed in her breakfast room and dependent on her children and friends for the smallest thing, weary to her bones and in constant pain, still manages a smile at the hamburger and onion rings I bring her for supper. She can't take her socks off by herself and every move brings on a fresh wave of agony, but she still manages that smile. Her children put aside their lives and needs to care for her.

My friend, Iris, still in a walking cast, stubbornly fighting her way through physical therapy and facing empty nest syndrome come fall, still works and stays in touch, telling me that the worst is behind her and being grateful for the ability to have her beloved daughter drive her to Cape Cod for a brief weekend. She managed the wheelchair, the walker, and the strangers who invaded her home to help get her well with dignity.

My friend, AJ, looking perhaps just the tiniest bit older after the unexplained seizure and still forbidden to drive, hating having his freedom and independence compromised, still takes the stage from nine to one and plays his heart out, the sweet sound of his harmonica blowing the blues well into the night. He counts the days til late summer when his doctor will allow him to have his keys back and swallows the indignity of dependence.

I live in a small town, and like those friends that I care for, everything seems to be under construction. There are road crews and pylons and ditchdigging everywhere and it's become impossible to travel in a straight line. Familiar exits are closed, traffic snarls abound, and I'm forced to take detours into new parts of town. Sometimes I find a welcome shortcut - sometimes I get hopelessly lost. It's a lot like life. "Meet trouble as a friend," Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote, "Because you'll see a lot of it and you had better be on speaking terms with it."

The Sullivan Boys & The Ladies Aid Society

Without their parents, who had been gone no one knew where for years, the Sullivan boys grew up on their own. There were six of them - Stephen, the oldest, Bryson, Albert, Daniel, Shadrach, and Hugh, the youngest. They were, the islanders predicted, bound for no good.

Stephen began setting fires when he was in his mid-teens and after the post office burned down, he was arrested, charged with arson, and jailed. Released several years later, angry and vindictive and still an arsonist, he set fire to a church and was shot by police as he was running away. Bryson and Daniel were killed in a bar fight in St. John after they'd been caught cheating at poker. In the midst of a heated argument, Bryson had drawn a knife and threatened the other players, Daniel came to his aid and both died in the violent melee that followed. At sixteen, Albert married a local girl, at seventeen, he became a father and at nineteen when his son began to show a marked resemblance to a local fisherman rather then himself, he beat his young wife senseless and left her and the child for parts unknown.

With only Shad and Hugh left, the local Ladies Aid Society ( consisting of the spinster Haynes sisters, Miss Violet and Miss Victoria and Miss Swift from Westport who sometimes sat in when a tie breaking vote was called for ) decided that it was high time to step in and take a stand lest the family's name disappear entirely. The ladies met in the front porch of Miss Violet's and Miss Victoria's old home every other Sunday afternoon where, being former nurses at the old folks home on the mainland, they had cared for their daddy when at 90 some odd years, he had finally taken to his bed with the pnemonia that eventually killed him. And none too soon, Miss Violet would remind Miss Victoria whenever his name came up. Ira Haynes had not been known for his kindness to animals or people or his family and Miss Victoria would nod agreeably and say Pity you can't choose your kinfolk.

The influence of the Ladies Aid Society was not lost on the island residents. Haynes money had built the new post office ( Only the best brick, Miss Violet had instructed, she didn't care to have another unfortunate incident of arson ), funded books for the school, provided hurricane relief for as long as anyone could remember, and in the summer when she could find a doctor from the teaching hospital willing to work on the island for a few leisurely months, paid his salary as well as his room and board and supplies ( on the condition that he also make his services available to the island's animal population ). So when Miss Violet and Miss Victoria decided that Shad and Hugh must be taken on for their own welfare, island families united in support.

In due course, it was mandated that Hugh should aprentice himself to Mr. McIntyre - rumor had it that he was looking for help - and that Shad should be taken on as a veterinary assistant at the clinic in Kentville. In return, Miss Violet and Miss Victoria would subsidize their living expenses for the next year, an arrangement that could be renewable should the boys prove worthy of expectations.
Shad and Hugh, taken by surprise by this generosity and speechless by the expression of the sisters' faith in them, immediately and enthusiastically agreed.

Money, Miss Violet remarked, is like manure. It's no good unless you spread it around encouraging young things to grow.

That's from a play by Mr. Thornton Wilder, Miss Victoria said reverently, Mr. Wilder understands youth.

The Man in the Santa Claus Suit

The man in the Santa Claus suit politely held the door for me at the convenience store. He carried a morning paper under one arm and a bottle of cheap wine clutched in the other and as I passed, he flashed me a grin and winked. I thanked him and he nodded. The store was crowded but no one seemed to be paying the slightest attention to him even though it was nearly 80 degrees on a bright April morning.

He stashed his wine inside his red jacket, adjusted his shiny black belt, and headed out and down the sidewalk. His hat was slightly off center, the fur trim on one boot was missing and the fingertips had been cut off his white gloves but he walked straight and with purpose. By the time I left the store, he was seated on the bench at the bus stop, his paper open on his lap and the cap of the wine bottle showing through the buttons of his jacket. He was frowning at the pages and shaking his head, now and then tugging at his beard to scratch the real whiskers underneath. A passerby slowed, stopped, then smiled and said, Merry Christmas! Santa looked up from his paper, glanced from side to side and then to the pedestrian. It's April, he told her in a tone that suggested she was somehow impaired, Christmas is in December. Her smile turned to a glare and she huffed at him before she stalked away. He dismissed her with an impatient wave and an inelegant hand gesture and the two uniformed cops outside the store broke out laughing. Santa turned in their direction briefly then returned to his paper.

The bus arrrived in a cloud of exhaust fumes and passengers alighted, a few doing a quick doubletake at the sight of the man on the bench, but most exiting and hurrying on their way without giving him a second look. He paid them no mind and when the bus pulled away, he remained on the bench, still reading his paper. The cops began debating whether or not to move him along but as he seemed harmless enough and was bothering no one, they decided to let him be. Within a few minutes, he meticulously folder the paper back into thirds and put it in his pocket. Unscrewing the wine bottle, he took a surreptious swallow and then stuffed it back under his jacket. Both cops had witnessed his action but to my surprise, they let it go.

A second bus came and Santa rose and climbed aboard without incident. The bus pulled into traffic and made it's lumbering way down the road with a roar of diesel engine and Santa Claus madly waving from the back window. I climbed into my car and pulled away, having decided that it couldn't help but be a good day.

Listening to the Wind

Close your eyes, Uncle Willie said, and listen.

We had made a path through the tall, uncut grass and laid a quilt down where we could see the water and the road.He had brought the dominoes and a pitcher of iced tea but the day was too lazy to make the effort of playing so he decided to teach me about listening. Obediently I closed my eyes. What do you hear? he asked and I said, Nothing.

Try again, he told me. I shut my eyes tightly and hugged my knees to my chest. Several minutes passed before I realized I could hear the tide coming in, the waves against the rocks made a muted splash then retreated over the sand. I heard the woodchopper from my own yard across the road and the click of metal against wood as the ropes from the flags hit the pole. I heard ice clinking in the pitcher of tea and the sharp crack of sheets flapping in the wind, the steady chug of the ferry as it made its way against the current, grass rustling all around me. I heard an engine and knew immediately that it was the mail car, then footsteps, whistling and the dancing steps of a dog - Buttons and Gene, I knew at once. Another car coming around the Old Road, still unpaved, and making a spray of gravel against the ditch, Aunt Vi's old pick up, lobster traps bouncing in the truck bed. I heard the wind and all the sounds it carried - a discarded piece of metal washing up on the shore, the vibrating hum of the power wires, a fishing boat far in the distance and the small, quick sound of a match being struck.

Doors opened and closed, voices called, a sudden avalance of pebbles cascaded down the side of the cliff, I heard the ferry dock and moments later a caravan of vehicles drove past. The factory whistle blew three o'clock with a shrill, piercing sound and the men and women began their trek home. I heard conversations, lunch pails clanging,
heavy boots marching past, it was the sound of weariness and days end. I heard all this from an overgrown field overlooking the ocean and was amazed that it had always been there and I'd never noticed.

That, Uncle Willie told me, is the difference between hearing and listening. There were no notes, no stage, no instruments, but it was music all the same.

The Tactics of Kittens

There is some good, my daddy said wisely, in everyone and everything.

We were sitting on the veranda of Ruby's farmhouse, idling away a late summer afternoon and playing with the latest batch of kittens. They were trying to climb the old porch boards but kept tumbling off, landing in the soft grass in an untidy pile of heads and tails and whiskers. They fought fiercely for a second or two then were distracted by a blade of grass, a slow moving bug or a grasshopper. My daddy put aside his second hand copy of "Sailing Alone Around the World" and began to tell me about Captain Joshua Slocum and his travels but it was a trick I recognized - diversion was always his first line of defense for those times when he didn't want to answer a question. I listened patiently, waiting him out with Aunt Ivy's copy of "Anne of Green Gables" in my lap, a book I knew by heart and had loved since my first reading. And so, my daddy said with a smile, that's how Captain Slocum got his second ship. The kittens had now discovered his shoelaces and were fully engaged in stalking and preparing their attack. I could see that it was going to be a full fledged ambush on the unarmed and unsuspecting laces and wondered if I should raise an alarm.

I asked again, why my mother didn't like his family. He sighed and stretched his legs and the sudden movement caught the kittens by surprise. They scattered in all directions in a disorganized retreat then gathered together to regroup and plan a second strategy. Round one went to the laces. Your mother, my daddy finally said, is a force to be reckoned with. And, he added carefully, she's an unhappy woman. He took a pack of Lucky Strikes from his shirt pocket and scratched a kitchen match with his thumbnail. I smelled the sulphur and watched cigarette smoke spiral up into the air as he retrieved his book and began reading again. The kittens were on the move again. They were approaching from different angles, focused on the target with tails twitching and their tiny backs arched, each step a picture of stealth and concentration. My daddy read on, unaware of the iminent threat, believing that his diversonary tactic had worked. I thought about her jewelry boxes, her pink convertible car, her closet full of evening gowns that she would only wear once, the fact that she didn't have a job and didn't want one. But why, I finally ventured, why is she so unhappy? He shrugged his shoulders, a weary gesture, and looking at me over the pages of Joshua Slocum he got as far as I only wish I ........and the kittens pounced. His book went flying into the air and he leapt to his feet with a howl of pain and a curse. A kitten had sunk her claws into his ankle with a death grip and trickles of blood were already running toward his shoe. He detached her gingerly and instead of giving her the smack she deserved, he gave her a slight shake, saying mildly, Bad kitten! and held her to his chest, stroking her trembling tiny body.

Ruby appeared at the door with a towel in one hand and a bottle of iodine in the other, absently removed the kitten, and knelt to clean his wounds. Some good in everyone and everything, she muttered, hmpf!

Open Water

It was a small lake with crystal clear water and a beige sandy bottom, surrounded by clean shoreline and thick trees.
It was rarely crowded and we went often during the summer - to swim, fish, row slowly to the middle and then drift lazily in the sun. Ruby would have packed us a picnic lunch with fried chicken and fresh greens, homemade cookies, and bottles of icy cold water. The adults read or sunbathed, the children swam to exhaustion, and Uncle Ernie would sit in the shade on the far bank for hours, a slouch hat pulled over his eyes and a fishing pole propped between his knees. He had, it seemed to me, an endless reservoir of patience even on the days he caught nothing.

Our dog, Fritz, an aging and overweight dachshund, severly grey around his muzzle but still full of mischief and spirit, had his first swimming lesson there. My daddy carried him out and set him in the water and he swam furiously for shore, emerging indignant and humorlessly to his laughing owners. He found a sunny spot at the edge of the trees and curled up to nap, wanting nothing further to do with his tormentors. Uncle Dave would arrive with his truckful of children and containers of blueberries, fresh picked from his own fields and my cousins raced madly for the open water like city children who had found a gushing fire hydrant.

My mother sat slightly apart and away from us, wearing sunglasses and propped on a chaise lounge. She did not join in and except for a half hearted effort my daddy made, no one tried to persuade her. She was restless, she hated the sun, she had nothing to say to her family and she clearly would've preferred to be somewhere else. When Aunt Norma attempted to talk to her, she feigned sleep and the plate of food she brought was ignored. Fritz awoke from his nap long enough to make quick work of the untouched plate then waddled back to the shade. Later, someone organized a lively game of dominoes and my mother woke long enough to reach for her aspirin then lay back, one arm thrown over her eyes in great weariness. She spoke only to complain of one of her all purpose migraines and when my daddy offered to drive her back to the farm, she sighed deeply and allowed as how she'd suffer through. Her game of mock sacrifice and guilt worked and reluctantly he gathered up his protesting children and old dog and we left the peaceful lake with the sun just beginning its descent to the horizon.

My daddy favored the path of least resistance in most things. He detested confrontation in all its forms and would almost always submit to whatever course of action he felt was likeliest to keep the peace. Like swimming in open water, he kept to the surface, not wanting to know what might lurk in the water below.

Mr. Rosetti's Last Ride

All was quiet at the dinner table. My daddy had plans to go back to work and my mother was washing dishes. Did you remember to pick up the dry cleaning? she called from the kitchen. It's in the car, he called back absently and went back to his crossword puzzle. Annoyed, she told me to go and get it and I was nearly out the door when the newspaper went flying and he scrambled to his feet, knocking over the chair in the process. No! he shouted suddenly, I'll get it!

To hear him raise his voice was a shock and he nearly knocked me over getting out the door. My mother appeared in the doorway, frowning at the commotion as he pushed past me and went outside. He was back in seconds with the drycleaning over one arm and a caught in the cookie jar expression his face. She looked at him suspiciously, the frown turning into a scowl and demanded Something wrong with the car? He took a minute to catch his breath then looked at her with an innocent smile and said No, no. I just felt bad about forgetting the cleaning. Her eyes narrowed and I held my breath waiting to see which way she would go. Surprisingly, she decided to let it pass and muttering about having to live with people who would forget their heads if they weren't attached, headed back to the kitchen. Retrieving his crossword, my daddy settled in his recliner with his pen and coffee.

The screaming started several minutes later. He put aside his puzzle and pen, took a sip of coffee and said calmly,
It appears that you mother has discovered Mr. Rosetti. I had no idea what he was talking about but I followed as he
got up and went outside. At the front door he gave me a wink and said She never has learned to leave well enough alone.

Unsatisfied with his explanation about the cleaning, she had slipped out the back door and in the dark opened the door of his ancient Mercury station wagon. The back seats had been lowered and Mr. Rosetti, a young and handsome man with a striking resemblance to Sal Mineo, was peacefully laid out in an elegant silk Italian suit with diamond rings on his fingers and a diamond stick pin in his tie. My hysterical mother was clutching the sheet that had covered him and howling incoherently like a wounded wolf. There's a body ....he's dead....oh my God, you brought a body ....in the station wagon!

My daddy grasped her firmly by the shoulders, gave her a hard shake, spoke her name sharply. She dropped the sheet and gasping for breath pointed a trembling finger at the station wagon. This is Mr. Rosetti, dear, my daddy told her, He's very dead and he can't hurt you. She looked at him open mouthed and wild eyed and he spoke soothingly,
Go inside, dear, this is nothing for you to worry about. He gave her a gentle push toward the back door, re-covered Mr. Rosetti's body, and closed the station wagon's rear door. You too, he gestured at me and winked again.

Mr. Rosetti had been the unfortunate victim of a gangland shooting in Boston's North End and his wake was to be that evening. My daddy hadn't had time to pick him up and return him to the funeral home before coming home for supper so he did the practical thing. He hadn't counted on anyone discovering the body, at least so he claimed, but what was done was done so he laced a glass of warm milk with a sedative and saw my mother safely asleep before he chauffered Mr. Rosetti away.

Just bad judgement on my part, he assured me later and winked.

Trinket

She was a tiny powderpuff of a puppy - colored like caramel and vanilla ice cream with an intelligent, inquisitive face and a sweet nature. She was deservedly pampered and spoiled her entire life and she grew to be a beloved animal. She lived with my friend, Rochelle, for eleven years and she had an active, healthy and wonderful life.

Such animals are gifts from God, given into our care for their lifetime whether it be short or long. They make a place in our hearts because we take them into our homes and our lives with love and we let them go with the same love. When they die, that place stays empty and sad, sometimes forever. The truly special ones cannot be replaced and that's how it should be. The pain of losing them can be overwhelming but we trade the heartache for the years of joy they bring, for the affection they offer so freely, for the trust and love in their eyes. And we do it knowing how it will end, because the years in between have a sweetness like no other.

Trinket died prematurely, one of the many to perish from poisoned dog food. This makes her death all the more tragic and difficult, and for Rochelle, her anger has no real target so it swirls inside her like a vicious storm with no place to make landfall. The world is often incomprehensible - people do us great harm without penalty or justice, those we love have their lives cut short, that which is given is taken back. There is starvation, poverty,
suffering and war all around us, indifference and self interest rule. Should we be surprised that a lethal posion is put into petfood or that there is no one to hold responsible?

Trinket's death is not fair, not forgivable, not right. For those who loved her so dearly, it is no small passing thing and she will be missed beyond words.

Loose Boards & Lost Dogs

In the face of adversity, dignity is useful but underwear is more practical.

The loose fence board was in the far corner of the yard, hidden by weeds and shrubs. Unbeknownst to me, the small brown dog had been digging at it for days and finally managed to pry it loose. Being a dog with a dismal understanding of consequences and faced with a gaping hole between the slats, she immediately jumped right though and into the land of next door, eight pounds of curiosity bound for adventure.

I discovered her missing several minutes later and when I found the hole in the fence, I panicked and ran for the front yard barefoot, un-showered, barely dressed. There was no sign of her on the street and I ran up and down the block, shouting her name and imagining the worst. Fear and adrenaline had taken charge and beaten back good sense and rational thinking. Meanwhile, the black dog was repeatedly slamming her body against the gate and barking like a wild thing trying to break through a cage. I couldn't catch my breath and there was a sudden sharp pain in my side which brought me to my knees where I was forced to reevaluate the situation. Bleeding from both feet, sick at heart and desperate, I got to my feet. Maya's barking persisted, now highpitched and verging on hysterical and I wasn't sure how many more assaults the gate would withstand. I wiped away tears and began to whisper a prayer, Please, God, help me find her, she's so small, please God, and as I limped up the street, I suddenly heard the sound of a tinny bell. I looked up and the small brown dog was strutting toward me, ears up, tail held high, proudly carrying a long, thin tree branch in her mouth. She leaped into my arms, branch and all, her adventure over and ready to come home.

Is she ok? Are you? a voice suddenly asked and I turned to see the young man who lives across the street at my side, holding a blanket which he threw over my shoulders. His voice was concerned and kind. Next time, he said and I heard a smile in his voice, You might want to rethink the outfit.

With lightning speed, my mind raced back to getting dressed that morning. A paint stained pair of sweatpants with a medium sized tear up one leg ( that now extended from hip to ankle ) and an oversized men's basketball jersey cut to the waist on both sides and designed to be worn over something else. I had chosen it for comfort
and not modesty and had bypassed underwear altogether, a decision which had seemed reasonable at the time but now as I was beginning to realize with horrifying clarity, had been an unwise choice. I tightened my grip on the borrowed blanket while I pondered my next move. A mad dash for the front door was an atttractive choice but it seemed short term unless I was assured of never seeing my neighbor again and that didn't seem likely. The alternative was to gather Butterbean and what dignity I had left and make a strategic retreat. I took a deep breath and retreated.

When facing adversity, hold onto your dignity but don't forget your underwear.

Letters Home

Jimmie Prentice had been so small when he was born that he fit into a shoebox. It was a story his parents loved to tell, especially after he reached his teens and had become a tall, thin, good looking boy who laughed a lot and loved life.

He wanted off the island in the worst way. Being bright and hard working, he breezed through his schooling at the one room schoolhouse and went on to complete grade twelve on the mainland. He had no precise idea what he was going to do except that he was determined it would not involve a fishing boat. When he finished school, he took to the road, supporting himself with parttime jobs here and there, living in rented rooms, and seeking his place in life. His letters home were filled with adventure, people he met and places he passed through. His sister read them to his parents weekly and the entire village kept up with his travels - Yarmouth, Halifax, St. Andrew's - then on to visit the other provinces. He tried his hand at logging, hotel keeping, caddying, a steel factory, even itinerant fruit picking but nothing seemed quite right. He built bridges, worked on the railroad, delivered mail, signed onto a steamer and discovered Singapore, spent time on an oil rig in the States. By the time he was 30, he had seen the world and still wasn't satisfied but he was tired of roaming. One bright summer morning, he simply stepped off the ferry at Tiverton, tanned and muscled and smiling, with everything he owned in a sleeping bag and a battered old suitcase.

There was celebration and story telling for days and when it was over, Jimmie became the school teacher in the old one room schoolhouse. He taught with the stories of his travels, using pictures of faraway lands and foreign people. He taught with road songs and memories and his letters home that his sister had saved. He taught adventure, overcoming adversity, how to be fearless and pursue a dream. He taught with a worn out copy of
"The Wizard of Oz" in one hand and "There's No Place Like Home" written on the blackboard and the children listened in awe. He taught the multiplication tables and the alphabet, reading, writing, and how to make the most of their imaginations and abilities. He taught them not to be limited, not to be afraid to try, not to be ashamed of failure. He taught them a world of possibilities was waiting and he gave them the courage to believe.

He had found his place in life, closer than he'd ever imagined. He had, the village believed, been born to it.

Rusty

The leaves are so dense on the trees in the backyard that you can barely see the sun and the squirrels running and leaping from one limb to another are almost invisible. They are given away by their excited chattering and they chase each other playfully through the trees, over the fence, to the roof and back again. The temperature will climb to the high 80's today and the birds will be out in force, singing sweet spring songs and bathing in the mud puddle behind the house.

Spring was my favorite season in New England. Warm days and cool nights were perfect for climbing out my bedroom window and sitting on the roof. I counted stars and listened to the neighborhood noises in the darkness, far away from whatever was going on inside. I imagined myself to have run away to another world where God would actually listen, where there was no war, where all children and animals were loved and safe. Our old orange tomcat, Rusty, often sat with me and I would whisper secrets in his battered ears and stroke his scars. He was a veteran and won most of his battles with the other neighborhood cats and I envied him - he was tough, streetwise, and independent. He had scrapped with other toms, and a dog or two, twice his size at that but Rusty
prevailed in those battles and returned a little bloody but not beaten. My daddy would patch him up and offer him the sanctuary of inside, but the old cat preferred the front steps or the roof. He was a prowler, a stalker, a fierce
fighter and except for really cold, snowy nights when he would sleep in front of the fire, he liked the wide, open spaces of his outside territory. He valued his freedom and while my daddy often fretted and worried about him, he also respected the old cat's determination and will. Rusty remained an outside cat all his life. He had traded
security, safety, and an easy life to live on his own terms, in his own way, and he never gave in. So we would sit on the roof together and watch for shooting stars, this old ruffian and I, both fighting our own battles on different fronts, both resolved not to give up.

Rusty was a wanderer, a free spirit, a survivor. You can learn a lot from a cat.

Miss Hilda & the General Store

Miss Hilda lived in a grey, castle-ish looking house high on a rise overlooking the cove. She was an English lady who prided herself on posture, appearance and propriety and she spoke with a cutting accent, her speech clipped and to the point. She was slightly horse faced, favored masculine attire, and carried a walking stick with a shiny brass duck head on the handle. She believed in cleanliness, exercise, proper diet and the monarchy and was said to have been a nurse, a nanny, a head housekeeper and a governess for a wealthy English manor family. From her practical walking boots to the slight mustache above her stiff upper lip, she was the very essence of no frills, no nonsense, properly bred and well brought up British womanhood. She scared the living daylights out of us.

Each evening - rain or shine - Miss Hilda briskly made her way to the post office and back again. She acknowleged those she passed with a wave of her stick and a curt nod but she rarely spoke unless it was to a gang of children and then she limited herself to Clear the way, you bedraggled street urchins! and the children would scatter like marbles. She collected her mail and deposited it in the black handbag she carried in her free hand, and then returned the way she had come, head high, back ramrod straight, eyes front.

Her first visit to McIntyre's Store became an island legend. She strode in like a military commander, surveyed the scene and found it wanting. The old men on the benches looked up from their newspapers and pipes, nodded to her and looked down again. Miss Hilda cleared her throat vehemently and then rapped her stick on the old wooden floor.
It is customary, she said clearly, eyes narrowed at the nearest bench, for gentlemen to rise when a lady enters a room. The dusty old men in their overalls and flannel shirts shuffled and got to their feet, eyes wide in surprise. Miss
Hilda gave them an approving nod and then made for the counter where she presented Mr. McIntyre with a neatly printed shopping list. I don't expect that you will have all these items in stock, she said, her tone clearly indicating that she considered this to be a serious business failure, so you can order them from your suppliers. Time is of the essence.

Mr. McIntyre reached for his reading glasses and looked at the list. Miss Hilda waited like a soldier at attention.
How will you be getting these things home, ma'am? he finally asked, frowning and Miss Hilda arched her eyebrows in surprise, took a breath for patience and said distinctly, Certainly, sir, your establishment avails itself of some manner of delivery service? Mr. McIntyre sighed, wiped his hands on his apron and conceded defeat. Of course, he told her, Will this afternoon be ok? Miss Hilda drew on her gloves and nodded, That will do, she said tartly, Good morning. She turned to leave and the old men on the bench got smartly to their feet. She swept past them like royalty, out the door and down the steps and thus the island's first delivery service was born. Mr. McIntyre hired the youngest Sullivan boy to sweep, clean up, and deliver groceries all over the island. He made a killing and very nearly put his competiton out of business while Miss Hilda became his best and most loyal customer.

Everyone benefits, she told Nana over tea one afternoon, from order and proper manners.

Among the Flowers

It takes all kinds of flowers to make a garden, even the weeds have their place.

Some overflow and nearly begin a riot with color, others bloom quietly and apart. Some mix and some are at their best in solitude. Some petals are silky soft, some are prickly, some are kept safe by their thorns. They intertwine or climb or attach to trees or trail on the ground. They grow wild or up trellises or in window boxes. They come in all colors and all shapes. Some have meaning, roses for love, shyness for daisies, elegance for orchids, daffodils for spring. Each has its own season and scent and yet put all together, they blend and complement and thrive.

She was walking through the gardens, in full habit with her head down in thought and her hands clasped behind her. Her skirts brushed over the grass and dirt in light, steady whispers. She walked aimlessly, sunlight sometimes glinting off her cross. She stopped at the footbridge, I think to pray for a moment, then continued on across the cobblestone path to the wishing well. She sat on a stone bench, gazing at the rusty bucket and the old rock foundation, surrounded by roses and greenery, hands resting in her lap. She sat for some time, still and meditative, a slightly frail looking and elderly nun on a chilly morning, sitting with her black and white habit in stark contrast to the flowers around her. As I passed her, she nodded to me with a small smile and said Good morning, my child. I smiled back and said Good morning, Sister.

How like flowers we are.

Whale Watching

Malcom Elliott stood well over six feet and was a sheer mountain of a man with dark shaggy hair and a full beard, an ever present bashful smile, and a natural good naturedness. If you needed the strength of six strong men, you found Mac and got it done with one.

He had worked in British Columbia as a logger until he lost an arm and returned home, still able to swing an axe with massive force but no longer able to work at felling trees within safety guidelines of the logging company. Another man might've been bitter, but Mac took it in stride, adjusted, and went to work at the factory. He missed the outdoor work though and eventually left the factory for the ferry where he made a towering and impressive figure as he directed the cars off and on the slip. During the crossing, he would lean on the railing and into the spray, eyes closed and breathing deep. He was a man made for all weather, Nana said, working inside would've killed him.

Whether from overwhelming curiosity or as Nana put it, "poor raisin' ", the tourist children were fascinated by the one armed ferryman and soon Mac began telling stories of how he had lost his arm, stories that involved prolonged and fierce battles with great whales or man eating sharks, sometimes even pirates. His tales were reinforced by the whales we would frequently see swimming through the narrow passage, huge and docile sea creatures on their way to warmer waters. Mac would point them out with solomn warnings of how a whale could swallow a man whole and the children would gasp, Like Jonah? And he would nod, his face serious, Ayuh, just like Jonah, he assured them, and their eyes would open wide and round with absolute belief.

One fine summer afternoon as Mac stood by the railing, several whales appeared on the horizon and began swimming in the direction of the ferry. Ignoring the "ALL PASSENGERS MUST REMAIN IN THEIR VEHICLES" sign, the children tumbled out and gathered excitedly around Mac. As the whales got closer, they didn't swerve away from the ferry as usual and from the wheelhouse, Cap appeared with a pair of binoculars 'round his neck and a mildly concerned expression which quickly changed as he held the glasses to his eyes. By the time he began yelling for the kids to get back inside their cars, Mac had already started the process but they were both a fraction of a second too late and with a mighty jolt, one of the whales sideswiped the scow, knocking it off course and tearing the chains that connected it to the boat. Holy Standin' Jaysus! Cap yelled from the wheelhouse as the small boat suddenly reared up in the water on the back of a whale, then just as suddenly dropped back. The ocean was choppy from the wake of the creatures and the scow had started to drift badly - boats were already headed out from both sides of the passage by the time Cap regained control and it was then they noticed that both Mac and one of the children weren't on board. Holy Standin' Jaysus! Cap yelled again, this time at the top of his lungs, Man overboard!

Captain and crew leaped into action, calming frantic parents, scanning the waves, untying life preservers. Mac was spotted almost immediately, hanging onto the side of the scow with his one good arm, a laughing, splashing little boy wound around his neck yelling A whale, a whale! and Just like Jonah! They were pulled, almost reluctantly, back on board and Cap produced a pile of towels and blankets, mugs of hot chocolate and a flask. The rescue boats took the passengers to shore and then towed in the scow. Repairs were made and Cap was back in business the same day. Mac changed into dry clothes, missed one crossing, and was back on board that afternoon.

The little boy's adventure, much like Mac's missing arm stories, grew, changed and became more remarkable with each re-telling. The ferry continued it's crossings and the whales resumed their graceful and playful journey to open water. All was right with the world again.

Bread & Buttermilk

There's something comforting about a rocking chair.

Mine was a wedding gift and I treasure it - it's survived countless moves, countless dogs, countless abuse. It's a bit chewed and scratched, a little banged up, but it was given with love and it's graceful curves and clean lines are still intact.

Ruby's rocking chair sat by the kitchen window where she had a clear view of the front yard and the driveway. She read in it, napped in it, told stories from it, shelled peas in it, comforted children in it, and watched the world pass by from it. It was the only piece of furniture in the kitchen and being close to the stove, was always warm. The kitchen itself seemed to smell of buttermilk and bread. We would come in from a hot summer day and take the blue and white dipper from it's hook on the wall to drink the clear well water and the kitchen and the rocking chair welcomed us. We cleaned up at the kitchen sink and Ruby served us freshly made cookies and sweet milk from the icebox, so cold it made my teeth ache. Later, when supper would be almost ready, Uncle Byron would stoke the small pot bellied stove in the dining room, take his pipe to the veranda and sit smoking and looking out toward the road. The table would be set, someone would slice a loaf of just baked bread, pitchers of milk, bowls of home grown vegetables and a dish of newly churned butter were set out. A simple grace was said before every meal expressing gratitude for the table, the day, everyone present and all the blessings God had seen fit to provide. It was a small but important tradition, one that made me feel an integral part of the family, one that made my mother feel even more like an unwelcome outsider and she often came to the table late in order to avoid it. If she was judged for this, it was never spoken of in front of the children.

Supper was a long and drawn out affair with much lively conversation. Ruby was up and down from the table every few minutes to fetch this or that or keep an eye on dessert or refill plates. When we were done, the children were exused to clear the table and begin the washing up while the adults remained seated to linger over coffee served directly off the kitchen stove, smoke, and plan the following day. Bedtime came early because on a farm the next morning always comes early. My mother, always restless, would often wander outside to be silent and alone and, we suspected, find something to drink to get her through the rustic evening. Ruby would take to her rocking chair with a basket of mending and Uncle Byron and my daddy would sit in the dining room and take turns on the well worn accordion.

It seemed to me then, as it does to me now, that everything done on the farm was a labor of love.