It Begins With an Unmade Bed

It begins with an unmade bed. After that, neglect and procrastination are natural steps, taken with the greatest of ease. What few dishes there are can wait until tomorrow, the dust is hardly noticeable, the plants are holding their own and the random clothes dropped here and there aren't hurting anyone. What begins as the tiniest bit of laziness has reached full fledged sloth in a matter of hours. I marvel.
Sunday comes and with it, the hour of reckoning. But then again, I have all day so there's no harm in an extra hour or two of sleep. When I wake, it's just past noon and I imagine I hear not only my grandmother's footsteps but her voice, How can you live like this? Get up this instant! And I do. Tired and guilty, I begin housecleaning, shooing animals from everywhere I need to be, gathering laundry and putting things to right. It takes the remainder of the day and when done I'm more tired and headachy than when I started and too hot to eat more than a chocolate bar and a glass of apple juice. Speaking nutritionally, I am in the land of the walking wounded with neither the inclination nor the will to change. I despair.

Monday dawns bright and beautiful, the beginning of a new work week. With the animals fed and watered, I shower and dress, make the bed, put on makeup. My hair works on the first try, my keys are exactly where they should be,

I remember my bottle of chocolate milk, my car starts. I hope.

I once read that one of the prime causes of teenage suicide is a teenager's inability to see down the road, to recognize that change will come, that no bad feeling or depression will last forever. They see no way out.

When you have taken everything you can stand,

Stand your ground.
Hold the fort,
Withstand the pain.

And if you are running

And the wind is always is in your face,
Just keep on running,

The wind is bound to change.

Larry Gatlin

Just Friends

The men in my mother's life changed like the seasons.

I never understood what drew them to her - she wasn't pretty or thin or very bright but rather stocky, with a foul mouthed ability to curse like a sailor. She told dirty jokes with relish, chain smoked, could drink any of them under the table, and drove her pink Ford convertible like the devil was on her tail. Her flirting was suggestive and crude with a malicious edge and her temper, always close to the surface, could explode without warning. She was married with three young children, a chip on her shoulder and a nasty inclination to stir up trouble. Yet the men came. The three I remember most vividly were Jimmy, Freddie and John.

Jimmy was a tall, silver haired, rail thin pharmaceuticals rep. He smiled a lot and drank martinis, smoked long, thin cigarettes with a shiny black holder. He was a nervous sort, chattering on about nothing at all for hours at a time and always being meticulous about keeping his distance from her if the kids were home. After school, we would find them in the living room, drinking and playing cards. He was partial to pink gin and lived with his mother somewhere in Maine. John was wheelchair bound, enormously fat and very pink - his hands were swollen and his laughter often turned to a coughing fit which turned his pudgy, jowly face dark crimson. He had gone to high school with my mother, so she said, and then been in a car accident which left him paralyzed. He drank beer
in huge quantities then needed help to the bathroom. I didn't dare think what might be going on behind the closed door, he was a touchy-feely type with a loud voice and he made me want to wash. Freddie was a Cambridge homicide detective, a leathery faced, hook nosed and narrowed eyed man from the North End of Boston. His teeth were frightneningly white against his olive skin and his dark hair was always uncombed. He spoke in rough street language and his voice was coarse with a hint of an accent. He drank beer from a bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He wore a wedding ring and a diamond pink ring, dressed mostly in black and always carried a gun. He and his wife were working things out, my mother said and he was the only one that my daddy knew separately and who would sometimes linger until suppertime.

A therapist once asked what I thought my mother might have been looking for in these odd relationships - love, drinking buddies, approval, scandal. I never knew and by the time I left home had come not to care. In a way, I think we all summon our own demons and have to deal with them alone. Some of mine were not the men in my mother's life but the aftermath, the late night arguments between my parents and my mother's slurred denials and her repeated protests of We're just friends. My daddy, so slow to anger, would rage at her with questions she couldn't answer until he was defeated and then a deadly silence would come over the house. The demons were beaten back but would come again another night. They had a standing inivtation.

Beacon Hill

My grandmother had one sister, Zelma, who lived in New York, and one brother, Edgecomb, a steadfast and dedicated bachleor, who we called Uncle Eddie and rarely saw aside from holidays. He was a short, almost pudgy little man with bushy eyebrows, a grey mustache and kind eyes. He was in his late forties when he finally met and married Aunt Helen, the headmistress of a prestigious girls school in a wealthy Boston suburb. She was tall and trim, properly brought up, carefully coiffed and well dressed, the product of Beacon Hill roots and old money. Nana said it was a marriage of convenience but wouldn't explain what she meant.

Aunt Helen's debut with her new family was planned and rehearsed for carefully and at length. It was decided that Nana would serve sherry and use her good china, classical music would play in the background, the children were taken shopping for proper dress up clothes and lectured relentlessly on manners and etiquette. My daddy was to wear a suit and tie, my mother was to stay sober. Toys were put up, knick knacks dusted and adjusted, ashtrays washed to a shine. Any misbehavior would be dealt with instantly and severely, my grandmother warned us in dire tones, There will be swift and certain justice for any infraction of the rules, mark my words, she predicted grimly, broom in one hand, apron in the other, No shenanigans!

As my daddy tried to tell her later, it was simply an unreasonable expectation. We were introduced and immediately banished to the downstairs playroom until dinner but it only took minutes for a fight to break out and spill back upstairs. There was much yelling and crying, blame and accusation flew in all directions, my youngest brother's nose was even bloodied before it was over. We were all sent to separate rooms to cool down and consider our behavior while Nana did her best to comfort Aunt Helen who had had simply been stricken with shock at this outbreak of violence. When she suggested in a shaky voice that perhaps the children ( we knew she wanted to say heathens ) should dine at the kitchen table, apart from the adults, Uncle Eddie refused. And, he added sharply, if you're going to have one of your spells, Helen, then please do it upstairs. Nana blinked at this rebuke, her eyes widening in surprise and she dropped the facecloth she had been holding over Aunt Helen's forehead onto her lap. Aunt Helen jumped up

with a shriek that would've shattered glass and ran from the room. While my grandmother stood speechless, my
mother and daddy both began to laugh helplessly and Uncle Eddie soon joined in. Come, Alice, he said, taking my grandmother's arm, Let's have dinner.

They continued to visit for holiday dinners and sometimes dropped in for birthdays and Helen eventually forgave us our initial encounter. They had no children and traveled extensively, furnishing a renovated Brookline townhouse with pieces and mementos from all over the world. They were an interesting if mismatched couple, the haughty Beacon Hill headmistress and the affable, down to earth real estate developer, but the marriage was to last over 40 years until Helen died, well into her eighties, and Uncle Eddie followed soon after. Gotta go, Alice, he told my grandmother with a wink, I just can't seem to do without her.

Life in the Movies

The darkened theatre smelled of popcorn and candy bars. My friend Iris and I sat high in the balcony watching "Lawrence of Arabia", absolutely transfixed by Peter O'Toole's blazing blue eyes and remarkable good looks. It felt like magic. Some time later, I would flee that same theatre in sobs, my heart in pieces at the death of Old Yeller, utterly unable to comprehend that it was make believe. I was an adult by the time I happened on "The Yearling" but the reaction was the same and I cried for hours, unable to distinguish fiction from reality. I have never seen "The Lion King", or "The Horse Whisperer", still can't watch "Bambi" and fast forward over the scene where Atticus Finch shoots a rabid dog in "To Kill a Mockingbird". I've gotten through "Babe" though it took several attempts, and I've learned to watch certain movies by avoiding certain scenes - "Dances With Wolves" for example. Now and again I can get most of the way through some of the episodes of "All Creatures Great and Small" but I do it on full alert, ever ready to punch the mute button and look away.

It's been pointed out to me that disaster movies give me no such pause and that I can watch hour after hour of serial murdering without the first twinge yet can't bear to watch a dog or cat who simply looks sad or lonely. I have no explanation other than when people die, I know it's a movie and when animals die or are injured, I don't. Perhaps it's a glitch in my nature or a missing gene or just wanting to believe that if I don't watch, then they won't suffer. I have discovered that I'm not alone in this though - ask someone who saw "Old Yeller" when they were kid and most will tell you they were devestated if not affected for life.

Give me a crime drama any day.

Learning to Make Rice

In the kitchen with my mother one fall afternoon, I tentatively expressed an interest in learning to cook. She laughed out as if I'd suggested I might learn to fly and said no. You're too young, you'd just get in my way and I don't have time. Ask your grandmother. The subject was not raised again and I found myself with no call to learn. I had no aspirations to be Julia Child and there were simple cookbooks to be had. I made do.

Some years later, the vet suggested that adding cooked rice to our elderly cat's diet would help her intestinal problems and wiling to do anything to make her last years a little easier, I immediately bought a glass sauce pan,

a bag of Uncle Ben's and dusted off my basic Betty Crocker. In the box with the sauce pan was a metal triangle and a warning never to use the sauce pan without it. Curious, I thought, but I dimly remembered an experiment from 7th grade science about heat, water, glass and conductivity - I wasn't positive but it seemed that putting a metal spoon into a glass container of hot liquid would keep the glass from shattering. It seemed sensible to me so I filled the sauce pan with the specified amount of water, dropped the metal triangle in, measured out rice and added it to the boiling water. I did this once a day for several weeks and Tiffany's intestinal problems improved. I was worried about wear and tear on the triangle though - it was prone to rust - and I made a note to purchase another one.

One afternoon in my friend Tricia's kitchen, I noticed that on each burner on her stove there was a metal triangle.

None were rusted. A glass pot of rice was cooking, resting on it's own triangle and in what I can only describe as a moment of sudden and blinding domestic insight, I realized how the triangle was meant to be used. My hand flew to my mouth in horror, Oh my God! I shrieked, I've been poisoning Tiffany! Dear friend that she is, Tricia calmly coaxed an explantion from me then did her level best not to laugh but she was overcome and in seconds was laughing so hard she could barely stand and tears were running down her cheeks. The more I tried to explain, the worse it got.

The rusted rice diet was not fatal - Tiffany survived several more years and did quite well. I learned a valuable lesson about cooking and friendship - Tricia still tells this story with love each and every time - and I suspect that we all have some version of learning to make rice in out pasts. We do learn best by our mistakes.

Gather Ye Rosebuds

The lily pond was exactly midway between Freeport and Tiverton, in the tiny village of Central Grove. It seemed to be always in bloom, the water like mirror glass, reflecting everything it saw. Nana could usually be persuaded to stop long enough to let me wade in, sink my bare feet into the cold mud, and pick a single flower. The lilies didn't last, of course, they would have died by the next morning but for a brief time their sweet, sharp scent would fill my small room. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Nana told me kindly, old time is a-flying. And my daddy would smile and recite the next lines, The flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.

Steve Goodman wrote It's a mighty short trip from the cradle to the crypt, so you better get it while you can. And in AA they say One day at a time. The message is all the same - the sweet things in life never last long enough so live, love, laugh and be grateful.

The best cure for resentment or anger is gratitude. On a bad day, I try to look around and take stock - I'm above ground, reasonably healthy, I have a home and a houseful of animals I adore, I work and get paid for my efforts, I don't wear rags and I'm not hungry. My life is filled with music, books, friends, and solitude when I want it. Though I still struggle with finances, health, my past and all the seven deadly sins, I like my life, where I am and who I am. I am more fortunate than I deserve, more lucky than I could have hoped. Gratitude is a godsend.

In the Company of Christians

"I sing because I'm happy,
I sing because I'm free.
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me." - Civilla Martin

God, in the form of the born again, religious right, has entered my workplace. When marketing questions arise, we are advised to pray, when issues of procedure or policy are raised, we are advised to look to God. We are told only true and repentant Christians will ever achieve or succeed or be invited into heaven. We are warned of the perils of alternative lifestyles and righteously told that we are being prayed for. We are expected to embrace this newly found strategy and work within it, revere "the anointed ones" and ask no questions. We are subtly threatened with expulsion if we refuse and the promise of hell if we don't acquiesce. We are encouraged to find the right road, travel it in the company of Christians only, and gratefully accept all we are told as the only correct way to live.

I have never trusted or had much use for those people who claim there is only path to anything, let alone God. My faith is a matter between myself and my God, it's private and intimate. I don't share it unsolicited and don't expect everyone to respect or believe in it - I feel no need to convert or preach to prove it, no need to recruit for it, no need to exclude those who do not share it. I don't accept that God sees, recognizes or loves only Christians or that He will close his kingdom to anyone with a different belief system. If there were only one path to God, it would be so crowded that no one would get in.

There is no room in this recent religious conversion for mistakes, for doubt, for tolerance or for non-believers. Books about finding God arrive, sent with all the speed Fedex can muster and signed "Love in Christ", emails that begin and end with prayer fly through cyber space, memos about forgiveness (for Christians only) are written and distributed. This path to God is narrow and inflexible, it curves and winds around charity, around free will, around forgiveness. A misstep on the path will send you into the arms of the devil himself and, we are told, endangers our souls, our lives, and our financial well being. It all feels suspiciously like a carefully cloaked-in-God version of blackmail, well meant, perhaps, but more likely a marketing ploy, born of the need to increase the bottom line for those in charge and prop up our faltering industry through the use of Jesus. It doesn't make me proud.

Those that put salvation out of reach for so many may gain the kingdom of heaven but it will be a lonely place if you don't have to sin to get there.

Cardboard People and Their Place

He enters center stage, flinging the door open and stepping in, arms open wide. He strikes a pose, throws one shoulder back as if to discard an invisible cape, removes his fedora and gives a sweeping bow. In what we refer to as his opera voice, he bids us all a good morning and favors us with a jaw numbing smile. He is one of the cardboard people, announcing his presence and waiting for the applause.

I'm fortunate enough to know very few people with absolutely nothing at all to recommend them. Such people live carefree lives - they work when they please, knowing that their employees will take up the slack. They are untroubled by the weight of intellect, unburdened by the responsibilities of friendship, unfettered by the cost of
maintaining a relationship. They are free to travel at company expense, shop extravagantly, indulge in their addictions - and they will harm no one. They fashion their ethics to fit their current situation and mold their morals to their lifestyle. They smile and speak on cue and if their mark moves, they move with it. They have a great gift for mimicry and can parrot back the latest popular opinion with ease, knowing they'll be be asked no questions about their sincerity. They adopt the latest in style columnist's writings and call it their own. They are constantly performing - their laughter and grand gestures are practiced and polished, probably we think from many long hours in front of a mirror. They are Hollywood props, made from cardboard and face paint, you can pass your hand through the smoke of their substance and not cause a ripple. Such people go through life without being touched or loved - the only hand they hold is their own. The welfare or misfortunes of others sail over them like skimmed stones on a placid pond - if they notice the pain of another at all, it's peripheral and fleeting like the stones as they brush the surface of the water and move on. All the proper and accepted things may be said, but they will be hurried and hollow, like a bad actor with a mediocre script wanting to move on to the next audition.

I want to believe that everything and everyone has a purpose in being here, even the cardboard people. I think that perhaps they're here to remind us not to be like them, to live with some meaning and sincerity, to care about more than ourselves.

Or God had an off day and they're really here for comic relief.

Mint Condition

So, the Dallas talent agent said in his cultured and best professional voice, Do you think you can help?

He wanted a beautiful girl to play a doctor and a chiseled, leading man type to play a pilot. They both had to be in their 30's, in costume, and available for shooting on Monday morning. It was just after five on Friday afternoon and we were packing up to go home for the weekend. Absolutely! I assured him with a confidence that I hoped sounded better than it felt, Let me get back to you in a few minutes. Panic set in before I had even replaced the receiver. And this is how I came to find myself on a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning, headed toward the only Army Navy Surplus store within 30 miles. My pilot would be in a fur trimmed leather jacket and goggles, an overly long white fringed scarf blowing over his shoulder - the image had formed instantly in my mind, a rugged, young Spencer Tracy smiling from the cockpit of a fighter plane. The talent agent's pilot was from Delta - blue blazer and white dress shirt with an shiny brimmed hat complete with emblem. Dismally, I realized that I had seen too many 1940 war movies.

The owner of the surplus store had given me precise and careful directions but it was more than 20 miles out of town and as four lane divided highways and strip malls turned into a two lane blacktops and abandoned corner grocery stores, I began to have doubts. A turn off the blacktop and several miles later, there it was - Bob's Army Navy Surplus, a tumble down, unconverted gas station at a forlorn intersection in the middle of absolutely nowhere. The rusted remains of pumps still stood, the roof of the building was partially caved in but holding at a sharp angle, weeds had overtaken both sides and nearly covered what was left of the faded Uneeda Biscuit painted sign, and the door stood open, revealing a dark and musty carnival of camouflage. Behind the counter stood Bob, a short, bald, chubby little gnome with thick black rimmed glasses and an unlit, battered cigar clamped between his teeth, hip deep in clutter and military remnants. He was carefully transferring figures from a stained, yellow notepad to a relic of a faded, oldstyle green adding machine with a pull down lever, keeping his place on the yellow pad with a chewed yellow pencil. He worked by the sunlight filtering through the unwashed window behind him - there were no lights in the entire little building and dust and debris seemed to dance through the random rays of sun that found their way in. There were racks of camouflage clothes, backpacks, ragged recruiting posters, medals, a single pair of combat boots sat on a shelf amid fading black and white pictures in broken frames of smiling soldiers. A bayonet dangled from the ceiling, an American flag hung on a back wall, there were canteens lined up in a row on a window sill, a fur lined parka on a mannequin in the corner, mosquito netting draped over a window with a missing pane and model airplanes hung with fishing line - they swung to and fro with the breeze from the box fans.

From this amazing and long forgotten clutter, Bob produced an officer's hat with a shiny brim and a silver emblem,
two silver oak leaves and a pair of shining silver wings. Twenty bucks, he said gruffly, Mint condition. You can bring'em back Tuesday. I smiled and handed over a twenty dollar bill. My Spencer Tracy pilot had met the talent agent's Delta pilot and they were going to be perfect.

The Cost of Living

After nearly a week of living on apple juice and ginger ale, the blitzkrieg intestinal virus that knocked me off my feet has passed and I woke feeling more or less human again. It was an interesting and challenging several days - the first drawn out illness I'd had in a very long time, the first time I've missed work in a year and a half, and a reminder that living alone has it's advantages and it's drawbacks. Life goes on even when you're sleeping on the bathroom floor and vowing to live a better life if He'll just make it stop. When the clear liquids and the over the counter medications fail, when sleep is a memory, when every joint in your body aches, when it's the fourth day and you know you'd have to feel better to die, it's time to open negotiations with God. Never mind that this sort of bargaining has never worked before and you know it won't this time, desperation overtakes reason.

This is the cost of living, of aging, of a routine intestinal parasite that will run it's course and move on. I know this, of course, but only in my head. In my gut, wherein lies this parasite feasting and having friends over at my expense, is the thought of dying alone and in total misery, perhaps having my body discovered with the animals gathered around me, hungry and confused. Cause of death - dehydration, despair, self pity. I shake these thoughts off and crawl back to the couch where the small dog sleeps fitfully, aware that something is wrong and wanting to make it right. A cat or two or three arrive and burrow into the blanket. There is comfort here as they nuzzle under my chin and knead against my shoulders. The black dog sits beside me, resting her head next to mine and whining softly. She is hungry, wanting to go outside, wanting attention and stroking. The parasite within grips my intestines with a vicious and vindictive twist and it's back to the bathroom floor. The animals follow, licking my face and lying up against me. Long, painful hours pass and life goes on.

The cost of living increases as I get older. Unfamiliar aches and pains become common and chronic - every cold turns into a siege, things that never hurt before now sing to me daily, my body seems to breaking down with an infuriating regularity. But these are things I only notice when I'm unwell and bartering for recovery. Illness now blackmails me and distorts my reason, makes me all too aware of what might lie in wait. It makes me angry, sad, regretful, afraid, powerless. When, on the fifth day, I return to normalcy and health, I do it with a vengeance, a hot shower, shampoo, fiercely brushed teeth, clean clothes and make up. The parasite has been defeated and the time to celebrate is here. The cost of living has been put back in it's place. I have regained my health, my positive attitude, and most of all, my perspective. Life is good again.

The Kingdom of Walls

Entrance to the kingdom was by invitation only.

It was surrounded by carefully constructed and maintained walls, designed not as most people supposed, to keep people out - but rather to keep them in. The walls were, of course, invisible to those on the outside. They were made of loyalty, manipulation, intimidation, guilt, threats of disappointment and promises of rewards.The kingdom kept up appearances through philanthropy,the support of liberal causes, business success, doing good works, community involvement. Their generosity embraced the downtrodden and turned lives around, provided opportunities where there had been none, educated and enlightened. The kingdom was respected and admired, envied and emulated. But behind the walls there was frequent darkness, secret jealousies, hidden agendas and power struggles. There was power and corresponding corruption, emotional blackmail and family pain, all dressed carefully in wealth, privilege and kindness. The kingdom was superficial and false.

All kingdoms collapse eventually. This one withstood the outside forces with enviable fortitude but the chaos within ate away at the foundations until cracks began to appear. Divorce, rebellion, adultery, loss of control, even bad investments began taking their toll and as the children began pulling away to make their own decisions and mistakes, the center of power was challenged and fought back with fierce effectiveness. Appearances were kept up, the small revolutions were put down, and though the fires of resentment continued to smoulder, they were contained within the walls, at least for a time.

In the end, those that inherited the kingdom would find it intact but under fire. They were left with wealth and privilege, fame and power, but nothing more. The reality of the kingdom has been an illusion after all and real happiness had always been outside the walls, just out of reach.

A Random Act of Arson

The cribbage game was going hot and heavy in the front of McIntyre's Store when one of the Sullivan boys crashed through the front door, out of breath, black smudges on his face and arms and yelling, Some damn fool set the church afire! The men abandoned their game and raced out while Mr. McIntyre ran for the telephone. In a matter of minutes, the whole island had been alerted and was headed for The Point. The bucket brigade was in high gear but there really wasn't much to be done except watch the old building burn and hope it didn't spread. By morning, it was nothing but ashes and debris and a goodsized patch of charred ground. Dispirited islanders made their way home wearily, grateful that no one had been hurt.

Catholics had never been welcomed on the island and when a small group arrived and took over the old house to make a church out of it, they were shunned or ignored. No one considered it a serious threat and imagined that they would soon give up and return to their heathen roots in St. John. The island was hard core Baptist and suspicious of Latin and foreign rituals. But they harmed no one and their recruiting efforts were half hearted at best - so they were mostly regarded as misguided and left to their own devices. It was rumored that some of the regular summer people might be of their faith but as there was never any proof, the village extended them a measure of tolerance and the benefit of the doubt. It was the only act of arson the island had ever known and while it was widely known who had set the fire, his name was never revealed. After the fire, the Catholics packed and left quietly and were never heard from again. The following Sunday's sermon on tolerance was sincere but ineffective and the blackened ground was left to heal on its own. The wild grass soon grew and grew well and all traces of the fire were erased and forgotten. By the following summer, sheep were set out to graze on the abandoned land and no one gave the site a second look.

Class of '55

Mama Cat has moved on. It's been weeks and weeks since we've seen her or her kittens and the squirrels now feast on the catfood we set out. It's a classic reminder to me that life goes on.

I'm preoccupied with age lately as my birthday is so near. I recently spent an afternoon at a collective birthday party for a graduating class of 1955 - everyone in the room was 70 or more - and they were a lively, happy, and enthusiastic crowd. They hugged and cried, made the rounds of all the tables, catching up and passing on news of children and grandchildren, exchanging gossip and stories of old times, remembering high school and what it had meant to them. They were generous with praise of each other, genuinely concerned about each other's losses and hard times, joyful to be alive and singing the old high school song. When the names of classmates who were not there was read, there was a respectful silence, a moment of remembrance and sweet sadness.

They ate, some with teeth, some without, and drank modestly, some popping down medication in between water and iced tea. There were canes and oxygen containers and a wheelchair or two but mostly there were smiles and a huge amount of laughter. This was a class who had grown up together, dated, partied, kept in touch and remained friends. They had been there for each other in 1955 and they still were. There were 1500 in my graduating class of 1968. Close friendships were rare, most of us didn't even know everyone in the class and I've long since lost touch with the reunion committee. I have no curiosity about what's happened to who and no desire to go back. I'm not bitter about high school, just disinterested. It was a highly non-memorable time. In a small town, it's very different and I was glad to be a part of the celebration.

Apart from it's inevitability, the other side of aging is doing it with grace and gratitude. There is a great deal of both in the Class of '55.

The Weeper Whineys

The creatures who inhabited my closet were called Weeper Whineys. They were pale, tiny figures who resembled Casper the Ghost but had no feet and they cried tears of sour milk. Their village was in the space between the shoe shelf and the floor of the closet and only I could see them and only at night. Their houses were made of square adobe-like bricks, vanilla colored and simple, all one story with no glass in the windows. The village was divided, one part the happy Weeper Whinies and the other the sad Weeper Whinies. At night, both sides would gather at the fountain in the center of town - from which flowed sweet cream - and the happy ones would fill lifesize milk bottles from the fountain and pour sweet cream on the sad ones. Then everyone danced. Since the happiness didn't last,the whole procedure had to be repeated each night.

When I told my daddy about them, he smiled, the way parents smile indulgently at imaginative children. He asked no questions. I have always thought that the Weeper Whineys were beyond my imagination and that I must have seen a cartoon that at least suggested them. The memory is crystal clear, these little creatures were like pencil drawings in soft shades of black and white, floating gracefully and footlessly through their little town, filling their bottles and passing on smiles.

My imagination was set free as I watched them and I dreamed of living their peaceful life. For awhile I collected milk bottles and hid them, as if by finding the fountain, everything could be put right.

In a child who feels alone, unloved and always frightened, imagination is a great gift. It can take you away to safe, happy places where there are magical creatures and fountains of sweet cream.

Red, White & Blue

The fireworks lit up the sky all evening in an explosive array of colors and shapes. The staccato noise echoed like rifle shots, sharp and startling against the music of the marching band in the background. There was shouting and cheering and applause. It was the 4th of July - steamy hot and humid, like being encased in a sauna, but no one seemed to mind. Children with sparklers and little Uncle Sam hats ran here and there, surrounding the hot dog cart in a clamoring mob. There were late night runners, weaving their way through the crowd, trying to maintain their pace and young mothers, pushing strollers with one hand and managing leashed dogs with the other. The marching band began "America" and everyone stopped and got to their feet - young and old, all of one mind, one spirit, and one voice. There was pride and solidarity in every note and it gave me chills.

"With freedom," we were taught in high school, "Comes responsibility." The words were just rhetoric then, a good phrase for an essay or term paper but with no real meaning. We were teenagers with no sense of war or country and we grew into young adults during Vietnam, a time of upheaval and protest against the government. Later we would outgrow some of our liberalism and shed some of our idealism and eventually we would find a center where we could reconcile without selling out. And here we stood, on a scathingly hot July night, celebrating Independence Day with fireworks and songs, with a sense of belonging and unity. We were diverse but unified, separate but together. We had yet to learn to disagree, this would come later as our stark black and white world began to fade to gray. Our moral certitude about everything would come under fire from within and like it or not, we would start down the road of doubt that my daddy had warned me about. "Precious few things," he had said with a sad smile, "Precious few things are absolutely right or absolutely wrong. It's far more complicated than that."

He would often take the opposite side in an argument just to test my logic and committment and perhaps to try and teach me to think things through. He was something of a philosopher about life, able to separate out the nonsense from the serious issues, able to show me the different sides of a coin. He worried that I worried too much about silly things and always tried to demonstrate the improbability of my fears coming true. We were on firm ground in the abstract and thin ice when it came to the reality of our family. While we could debate the death penalty into the ground or fight like dogs and cats over Nixon's presidency, we could not talk about my mother's drinking habits. We were together but apart, close but at arms length.

The Fourth of July is a good time to reflect on the cost of all kinds of freedom.

Bandaid Solutions

I woke with a powerful thirst for chocolate milk and an overwhelming urge to rearrange furniture, both signs of stress. It was just after five am and I know myself well enough to realize that any further attempt at sleep would be wasted so pushing cats and blankets aside, I got up and prepared to face the day. The sun was up but feeling weak and unsure of itself and the sky was still grayish. This was a day that could go either way.

Fourteen hours, a touch of heatstroke and three closets later, it began to dawn on me that this manic behavior might be related to my anti-depressant medication which had not arrived, likely trapped somewhere in customs between here and Canada. Through the day I had battled chills, sweats, chills and sweats at the same time, several bouts of vomiting and a low grade, nagging headache, all tell tale signs of seretonin withdrawal. I called my friend Michael, a veritable warehouse of pharmaceuticals and assorted drugs, and he arrived immediately with a substitute medicine. The following morning I woke right as rain - better living through chemistry, as the ad says. I am - who isn't - susceptible to the temptation of the quick fix. Cures come in prescription pads and pill bottles because it's simpler, faster, and less work. We're inclined to mask pain rather than treat it and attack symptoms rather than causes in the interests of getting on to whatever next thing it is that we're already late for. It's a silly way to live but it makes sense in a mortal sort of way - time is slipping away despite our best efforts and we don't have time for illness or incapacitation. We might miss something.

Pills have their place but sometimes you just have to do the work your own self. The shortcuts to sanity or sleep or peace of mind may get you there faster but you have to stay put under your own steam. Like most shortcuts, life is better the long way 'round.

The Many Sources of Madness

"You can't live in this world," I heard my grandmother tell my Aunt Vi, "and not be touched by the madness."

They were sitting on the sunporch drinking manhattens and watching Willie's progress as he rearranged the rocks in the ditch at the edge of the road. "Thelma Weeks went mad just last week," Aunt Vi said, "Said that a chicken was spying on her from the henhouse so she set it on fire."

"The henhouse?" my grandmother asked, one eyebrow raised slightly.

"No," Aunt Vi said sadly, "The chicken."

My grandmother believed you had to dance around madness or it would latch onto you with an unbreakable grip. I was too young to grasp the concept of the causes - genetics, illness, alcoholism - but I did understand that it was everywhere and that there were a number of folks in the village that she referred to as "not right". Most were harmless and loosely classified as colorful or eccentric, like Willie with his rocks and multi colored hair. Inbreeding was too common to be noticed much in the isolated and sometimes desolate community. Winters were rugged and cold and villagers took their comfort when and where they found it. "Nothing that a little new blood couldn't cure." Nana would say shaking her head as Willie began the slow process of emptying the ditch with a small shovel and a shiny new aluminum bucket. "Well, " Aunt Vi said as she poured a third batch of manhattens, "You do have to admire his ability to focus."

Nana fought off madness with order and routine, neatness and self-discipline. She kept to the rules, didn't take chances and maintained her standards. She stood up to dirt, dust and disorder and railed against the evils of self indulgence,
selfishness and self pity. She trusted in will power and doing the right thing, old time values and keeping up appearances. Her only child was a profound and private disappointment to her - a bitter reversal of everything she treasured. So she concentrated on her grandchildren, on saving them and setting them on the right course. It was, at times, a task beyond her abilities, but she held the fort regardless. Nana didn't give in lightly.

"There goes Kenton again." Aunt Vi looked over her shoulder at the sight of poor Kenton, waist high in grass with a set of bagpipes around his neck. For reasons that passed understanding, Kenton would suddenly appear and begin playing every few days, the melancholy music carried all the way to Westport and even Willie stopped his ditch digging and saluted smartly. Nana gathered the makings of the manhattens and with a sigh carried them to the kitchen. The madness had been getting a little too close for comfort. "You can't let it in," she told Aunt Vi, "it'll strangle you." In my grandmother's world, the battle against madness was an everyday fight. She believed that you couldn't escape it but that you could be sure it only brushed you in passing.

Late News

Woody drove the mail car.

Five afternoons a week, he picked up the mail on the mainland and drove his 40 mile route, slowly and painstakingly stopping at each and every village along the way. Sometimes he drove stranded passengers although the practice was very much frowned upon and sometimes he carried liquor - frowned upon and illegal. He knew everyone's name and what they were expecting from the Spiegel catalogue and he treated his cargo with respect and loving care. He never got bored or complacent with his routine, was almost never late, and always had a smile for everyone he met along the way. He was what my grandmother called "chipper". Good news and bad came via Woody - draft notices, obituaries, changes of address, birth announcements, even divorce papers. Several families subscribed to "The Courier", a tiny, chatty mainland paper put out once a week and consisting of village news compiled by the locals and submitted through Woody. There were stories about quilting parties, news from the factory, birthdays, who had put up the latest preserves, church events, deaths, who was visiting and for how long, the weather, crop reports, church events, barn raisings, who had chosen what color for their new fence, In these tiny, lonely villages, any news was welcome and Woody delivered it all. He also passed along items that didn't make the paper - a new litter of kittens at Miss Rowena's, the arrest of one of the Sullivan boys for public drunkenness, the fact that someone's wife had gone missing for three days, rumors of a feud between the Elliotts and the Blackfords. Gossip was passed around cheerfully and liberally.

It was a routine trip on that late spring evening except that Woody was running a little behind due to having gotten a late start on the mainland. He was trying to make up the time when he reached the hairpin turn at East Ferry and he never saw Miss Emily's flock of geese crossing the road until it was too late. Geese, feathers, and the mail went flying in the ensuing collision and Woody was thrown from the mail car as it slammed through the guard rails and arched over the water before gravity kicked in. He landed, none too gently, in the cold ocean with a solitary mail bag still in one hand, a bunch of tail feathers in the other, and cursing the geese at the top of his lungs. Miss Emily, who had come running at the sound of the crash, immediately fainted at the sight of the wreckage and the ferry crew who had been pulling out, reversed course and drew back in. Miss Emily was revived, Woody was pulled from the water, and what mail could be salvaged was retrieved to shore but a great deal of it floated out of reach and sank. Two geese, several parcels and the mail car itself were drowned during the rescue efforts.

Woody stood alone and shivering at the end of the breakwater, watching the tide carrying the mail away. He mourned for the car, the geese, and the lost news slowly sinking into the sea.

Broomsticks and Bedboards

"There are," my Aunt Lizzie warned me, " Spies among us."

Aunt Lizzie lived next door to us with her one son, Kenton. She had been bedridden for as long as I could remember and spent her days on a small cot in the kitchen, close to the stove. Nana said she was perfectly capable of getting up and around but simply chose not to. Kenton, a tall, gangling 40-ish bachelor with a pronounced stutter, badly crossed eyes and one leg considerably shorter than the other, took care of her. He was what Nana called "not right" and we kept our distance from him. We would see him chopping wood in his red and black flannel loggers cap and rubber boots, his glasses hanging by one earpiece and saliva dripping down his chin. When he looked in our direction, we fled - terrified by his unkept appearance and wild eyes, more terrified that he might try to speak. He was I came to finally realize, my version of what a child molester or pervert would look like and although Nana constantly reassured us that he was harmless, I was never persuaded. Retardation and incest were so common that they were taken for granted but something about Kenton was wrong, almost menacing.

"Would you like a chocolate?" Aunt Lizzie asked politely, offering me a hand towel.

Nana said Lizzie had raised Kenton alone, that he had been a difficult child and that Lizzie had often found it necessary to lock him in the closet beneath the stairs for long periods. He was very nearly blind, she said, a result of being kept in darkness so often and for so long and completely unsocialized as Lizzie had never allowed him to go to school or interact with other children. She had taught him to read and write herself, and if he did poorly, she beat him, breaking his fingers on several occasions. When I asked why, Nana shook her head and muttered about unnatural relationships but she would explain no further except to say that the real monster was not Kenton, but his frail, invalid mother.

"Mind that spider, " Aunt Lizzie said, pointing a shaking finger toward a knitting basket, "It bites."

Neither Lizzie nor Kenton ever left the house and no one except Nana ever visited. Mail and groceries were delivered,

sometimes there were packages from the Spiegel catalogue. Lizzie survived several small strokes without medical attention and when Kenton broke his leg one summer, it was said that he had fashioned a splint from broomsticks and bedboards and tied it off with rope from the clothesline all because his mother would allow no doctor in the house. Though it healed, the bones had knit crookedly, resulting in a deformed limb and a lifelong limp and as Nana said with a scowl, likely chronic and severe pain.

"The horseshoe will only fly on Thanksgiving." Aunt Lizzie told me sadly, "Give me your thimble, dear, it's quite early." In a rocking chair on the sunporch, Kenton rocked himself to sleep while Lizzie raved on.

Some lives are lived entirely in pain and tragedy.

No Hard Feelings: The Art of Theory & Practice

The squirrels gather late in the afternoon, chasing each other through the trees with astonishing energy and flexibility. They sometimes chatter and switch their tails menacingly as they fly from branch to branch but it's all just for show. Squirrels, I think, are competitive but pacifists at heart and their enthusiastic confrontations are vocal but non-violent. They each make their points then resume their activities with no hard feelings, no lingering resentment. Squirrels forgive and forget, they harbor no ill will.

I only speak for myself, but even the suggestion of a confrontation puts me into a tailspin of fear and anxiety. Nervous knots develop in my stomach and my ears ring, my throat closes, I feel a little sick, and my hands shake.

In my mind, a confrontation is a breeding ground - for anger, disappointment, yelling, hurt feelings and even violence. Nothing triggers my "fight or flight" instincts faster or more powerfully. My beloved friend Tricia, on the other hand,

sees an opportunity - for clearing the air, sharing ideas, finding resolutions and moving on. She's absolutely right, of course, but when experience teaches you the meaning of a word, it's difficult to accept a different definition, even if you do know better. We are all threatened by our own flaws and limitations, our own experiences, our past history and the lessons it has taught us. We need to remember that the lessons we learned are not carved in stone - they can be modified or even ignored. Like all good advice, this is easier given than followed, easier said than done. Theory and practice are very distant cousins twice removed.

In AA, they say simply - Take what you need and leave the rest.

.

Anna

My great grandmother died in one of the two first floor bedrooms in the house where she had been born. She'd been sick all that summer, confined to bed, and had become querulous and demanding in her illness. She was ready to die and impatient to get on with it. She waved away food, medicine, all visitors, and refused to tolerate any effort at optimism. My grandmother sent me in to read to her and with surprising mobility, she snatched the copy of "The Water Babies" out of my hands and sent it flying against the windows before sinking back into the pillows and snapping at me, Leave me be! Her hair, free of it's coiled braids, spilled over her pillows and down onto her thin shoulders. It was entirely white now, nearly as white as her face with its deeply etched lines and creases. Beneath her skin, her veins showed at her temples and her wrists. She was like old parchment, cracked and frail and well worn, but mostly she was tired of being ill, tired of being helpless, tired of hanging on. Why doesn't He know that I'm ready? she would moan as my grandmother changed the linens and forced apple juice down her throat. Just a swallow or two, Mother, please, my grandmother would coax and the old woman would rage back at her and swat one arthritic, gnarled and swollen hand at the glass. Nana would sigh and her shoulders would sag in defeat as she left the room in tears.

My daddy, who only came for a week or two each summer, arrived in July. By then, the sickroom was kept dark and a hospital bed had been brought in. Nana had given up bringing in fresh flowers and opening the windows and there was a bad smell to the room, a combination of stale air, bedsores, infection and the old woman's waste. My daddy immediately opened the windows wide, sent me to pick wildflowers, and had my grandmother fill the old aluminum wash tub with water and gather towels and fresh sheets. He picked up the protesting old woman, slipped her nightgown over her head, laid her effortlessly in the warm water and began talking to her in a quiet, read-to-me tone of voice. He bathed her gently and washed her hair, then dried her off and wrapped her in Nana's thick, soft towels while he brushed out her hair then carried her to a regular bed by the window and laid her down.

Bright sunshine shone on the bed and the sweet smell of fresh air and just cut grass flooded in. Anna, he said softly, It's good to see you. My great grandmother opened her eyes and smiled at him.

He sat with her for several days, simply being there, sometimes stroking her withered hands or reading to her. He had brought a small tape recorder with him and he played her music every day, added blankets when she was cold, took them away when she was warm, brushed her hair every morning and watched over her while she slept. On the fourth evening, she closed her eyes and died quietly and at peace.

In the World of Cats

The black and white cat sits quietly on the dressing table, silently observing, her green eyes fixated on the sunroom windows, her front paws primly together. There is motion outside, a squirrel perhaps, or a bird seeking shelter in the crepe myrtle. She is patient, alert to the rustling sounds and moving branches, curious but not impetuous. She is a watcher, content to be a safe distance away and on the sidelines. She will not call attention to herself or make a wild scene. She will not stalk or give in to her impulse to investigate but rather sit calmly. She has gained the high ground and will maintain it unless challenged. By nature, she is wary, shy, drawn inward and cautious. She treads lightly and with soft, quick steps so as not to be noticed. She keeps her guard up at all times, just in case. But for the occasional timid meow at the sound of the can opener, I would hardly know she was here. I think at one time, we were very much alike, locked up inside ourselves and locked away from others,
too frightened of a misstep to risk any step at all. In the world of cats, this is unremarkable but in the world of humans, it makes a difference.

Lately I have been struggling with an impulse to take a backward step and return to safer ground. I dislike conflict of any sort and recently I find myself in it almost daily. I deal with it badly, allowing my feelings to be hurt by a tone of voice or a thoughtless remark, resenting the criticism and reminders of my mistakes, wanting to smash something at the next unreasonable accusation. It feels all too familiar, all too much like going home, all too much like blame. I would rather not see my own part in this - much more comfortable to assign fault to someone else. My own need to be right, to be vindicated, adds fuel to an already hostile fire.

But I do not live in the world of cats and must fight my battles on a different plane. I say a small prayer that I will not be someone who must diminish others to feel good, that I will find the strength to resist those who do, and that I will concentrate on my own faults and not those of others.

The Blue and the Gray

With a brightly colored sweatshirt in each hand, the clothing rep looked at me with dismay. Just blue and gray? he asked again and I nodded.

He had laid out a rainbow assortment of college wear - pastels and stripes, checks and plaids. There were puffed sleeves and short sleeves, baseball shirts, pullovers, hooded, crew and v necks, all in lime green, heather blue, lemon yellow and fuscia , cheery pink. There were sweatpants and socks, headbands, shorts, polo shirts and jackets. All proudly displaying the initials of the college, all in dazzling colors. I felt overwhelmed and slightly blinded by the choices. Blue and gray, I repeated firmly.

I was a dreadful clothing buyer and after a semester or two I jumped at the chance to return to school supplies. There was comfort and confidence in #2 pencils and notebooks, legal pads, paper clips, binders. The secure safeness of highlighters and folders called to me - they could be easily arranged and displayed, easily counted and inventoried, they didn't shout or challenge my fashion sense, they were simply the necessities of college life and they made for simple decisions. Each morning and evening I could walk the shelves with assurance and ease, checking that everything was in it's proper place, neatly organized and accessible. Things stacked naturally and complemented each other - unlike the chaos in the ransacked clothing area, school supplies maintained their places, patiently waiting for the inevitable buyers, knowing they would be of use. School supplies have self respect and no need to prey on the emotions of vulnerable students. They don't come into fashion then go out of style - some part of the world is always going to need pencils and paper. Unlike college textbooks, they don't go out of print and become obsolete. School supplies are trustworthy.

The artistic part of me rebels at this confined and inflexible mindset, wanting to scatter pencils all over the floor just to see what geometric pattern might emerge, but the bookkeeping part celebrates in the order, the routine, and the sameness, in the very set in stone small outlook. The artistic part wants to photograph butterflies in motion, the bookkeeping part wants to count them and assign each a cubbyhole. Maybe we are, by design, all composed of differing attitudes and emotions, intentionally kept in opposition just to keep things interesting. Or maybe the world really is as random and unpredictable as it sometimes seems.

This much I know - the world needs all sorts of people to keep working and spinning.

A Man No One Missed

Ruthie's daddy didn't call her, he whistled.

She was the child of an alcoholic and abusive father and that whistle came to have ominous meaning for us as we grew up. At the sound, she had to run for all she was worth to avoid a whipping or worse. We were allowed to be friends only because my grandmother had confronted him once and threatened him about raising his hand to her again. He was a short, balding, evil natured man with coke bottle glasses, a quick temper, and a mean streak. He spoke in a low, muttering voice, avoided eye contact and never smiled. Ruthie and her mother were terrorized by him and most of the island folk steered clear of him, not willing to risk his anger or a run in with the shotgun he kept behind the counter. He was a bully, sullen and surly when drunk, disagreeable and unpredictable when not.

Ruthie's mother, a tall and heavy set woman with a frail nature, seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was always weary, beaten down by years of overwork and abuse. She cooked and cleaned, tended the store, saw to the bills, kept the yard, took in other peoples ironing, made sure everything was exactly to her husband's liking. On Sundays, she sang in the choir and taught Sunday school and did her best to pretend that her life was normal. No one interfered. Ruthie helped out at home and at the store and her childhood slipped away slowly bit by bit. At seventeen, she married and fled to the mainland. She never spoke of her parents, never took her children to see them or invited them into her home. She had gotten out and out she was determined to stay.

Her mother died first, a cold turned into the flu and the flu turned into pneumonia which went untreated for several weeks. By the time her husband allowed a doctor in, it was too late and she spent another week or so in bed before not waking up morning. After the store had not opened for several days, curious neighbors went to the house to find a scene straight out of a crime drama show - a bedroom littered with trash and empty whiskey bottles, a dead woman, and a husband passed out cold, lying on the bed next to her. John Sullivan built a coffin out of pine and there was a small graveside service that Ruthie did not attend although a few days later, a wreath of flowers appeared on the grave. The ferrymen talked of a woman in a black dress with a black veil who came and went almost unnoticed that same day. Not long after, a lobsterman dredged Ruthie's father's body from the cove just past the store. He was quickly and quietly taken to Peter's Island, a spit of land that served as home for the lighthouse. There was no ceremony and no marker and soon the weeds and vines overtook the grave and it was forgotten. His shotgun was never found and the death was never reported.

My grandmother heard the news and was unmoved. Sometimes, she said, all you can do is bury the past and move on.

Violet's Summer Romance

Eventually, all the girls fell in love with Lonnie Haynes.

He arrived each summer from New York - tall, blond, tousled and good looking - a guitar case and a dozen cartons of American cigarettes in tow. He stayed with his mother's sisters and did odd jobs, everything from painting to carpentry and assorted small home repairs. He worked mostly outside and mostly shirtless and within a week had become tanned and trim. He was what my grandmother called a heartthrob, educated, articulate, charming, irresistible and utterly wicked, a womanizer with no morals, a snake oil salesman with no conscience. He had his pick of every girl on the island and the summer he was seventeen, he chose Violet, the banker's daughter.

She was an only child, a pretty, petite brunette with a passion for music and books. They became inseparable - each day she would pack him a basket lunch and deliver it to him when the noon whistle blew and they would picnic in the side yard. They went to the weekly movie and stayed for the dance, waltzing around the old sawdust covered floor and necking in the corner of the dance hall. Sundays they walked to church together hand in hand and afterward they went swimming in the cove. Violet collected all manner of shells and Lonnie picked through the driftwood, searching for pieces he could carve into small creations - pipes, bookends, picture frames. At sunset, they gathered their things and he walked her home along the Old Road.

Only a matter of time, the village said, before Lonnie returned to New York and Violet would be left to face a cold winter, alone and heartbroken. But no one had the heart to intervene and risk her romance, even her banker father kept his tightlipped silence about the inevitable pain everyone was predicting for his child. Only when Labor Day came, Lonnie didn't leave. He stayed all September and all October and it was mid-November before he packed his guitar and early one gray morning caught the ferry to the mainland. He had proposed, he told Mac, offered to stay on the island or take her back to New York, whatever she wanted, and she had said no. She had offered no explantion, no apology, just kissed him and said no.

Who had really picked who, the island wondered.