Missteps

After a wild chase through the rest of the house, Patch skids around the corner of the bedroom and arrives at the doorway to the sunroom where she sits and yowls. I'm sure there's a purpose to this but it eludes me. After a minute or two, she loses interest and jumps to the old leather chair where she curls up in the sunlight for her morning nap.

A great deal of feline behavior is mysterious to me. I often wonder what goes on in their empty little heads as they prowl the house, ferociously attacking a random ivy then pretending they didn't and looking at me with total innocence, hurt and insulted by my accusation. An assault upon a venetian blind cord leads to a tangle then a crash and when I arrive at the scene, Murray has distanced himself from the destruction and is looking on in complete surprise as if the picture frames on the floor leapt there on their own accord. He gives me an indifferent glance before casually strolling out in search of something more interesting. Muggs discovers a moth and the chase is on - she vaults over furniture, leaps at the curtains and lands on an unsuspecting lampshade where she rocks precariously until moth, Muggs, and lampshade all tumble to the floor in an untidy heap. The moth flies on while Muggs watches and decides whether or not to pursue it and I snatch her up before she makes up her mind and causes more damage. Mischief investigates a plastic bag and gets entangled in it - panic stricken, she tries to break free while shrieking and crashing into furniture. When I finally catch her and remove the bag, her heart is racing and she is terrified but not so much that she will learn a lesson.

I've heard it said that we learn best by our mistakes but with the distance between adventure and pitfall only a matter of a misstep or two, it's best we should all tread lightly and watch where we're walking. An inquisitive nature can too often take us off the path and into a hazard. Consequences follow curiosity no matter who or what you are. Learn if you can.

A Fondness for Chivas

My daddy taught me how to make a ginger ale last all night.

Having his own experience with alcoholism had made him gun shy and he drank sparingly when at all although he had a fondness for Chivas and often got several bottles at Christmas and for his birthday. He stored them in the corner china cabinet in the dining room, under my mother's collection of cups and saucers, until space ran out then began a second stash in a kitchen cabinet, always professing delight at the giver's thoughtfulness and generosity then wearily making room for yet another bottle or two. What am I to do with two lifetimes worth of Scotch? I heard him often grumble but it was good natured complaining.

The china cabinet doubled as the liquor cabinet and a catch all for things that had no other home - red and green Christmas napkins, never used crystal decanters, candlesticks, bourbon, vodka, gin and the rare bottle of wine. My brothers discovered it early on, and the fact that it was almost never checked was too much temptation - they set about exploring it with a foolish and greedy passion and their after hours activities went unnoticed for several months until my mother decided to give a party and discovered the perilously low levels of whiskey. An all out search followed and in a matter of hours the entire house had been ravaged but she found no cached liquor, no empty bottles, no evidence of theft. She howled and threatened and raged, threw whatever she could put her hands on, cried and screamed and wailed, but it was useless. When she got to the kitchen Chivas stash, she smashed each and every bottle and a river of broken glass and scotch covered the kitchen floor. This was how my daddy found her, sobbing and half out of her mind with anger.

Being a first things first kind of person, he cleaned her cuts, calmed her down and got her to bed before beginning the process of putting the house back to rights and questioning his children. Being almost religiously loyal to each other, neither of the boys would own up and knowing that my mother's accusations would be taken over my word I kept silent - to this day it breaks my heart to tell the truth and not be believed. Guilt could not be established and so we were all grounded, I suppose in hopes that one would turn on the other, but it was a poor plan and as he supervised our clean up, he seemed worn down, exhausted and bitterly angry.

He lost some of the fondness for Chivas after that. Alcoholism has a way of destroying the smallest of pleasures and the largest of hearts.

Wrinkles and Wisdom

Wow, the cleancut and obviously new young clerk at Sears said, his eyes wide, You've had this card longer than I've been alive.

I winced at this unintended slap of reality and he immediately began to blush and backpedal. Not that you're .... I mean....that is .....you don't look a day over .....gee, I didn't mean .....

I wanted to show him some pity, should've shown him some pity, but something in me rebelled at this and I let him stammer and stutter his way deeper and deeper. Finally ashamed of myself, I waved him off, assured him I hadn't taken any offense, signed the little etch-a-sketch machine and left, reminding myself that we all sometimes speak without thinking. The difference is that once people of my generation unintentionally say something appallingly stupid, we know how to cut our losses - a brief but sincere apology is all that's required, then we move on. We may beat ourselves up later but we do in private, inherently understanding that to dwell on a mistake is to extend it's life.

Age brings gifts - wrinkles and wisdom, the ability to learn and move on, a ripening maturity that only works after having lived a half century or more and the good sense to think before we speak.....most of the time.

A Tale of the Trolls That Almost Won

This was the day I was determined not to feed the trolls.
It started innocently - I packed the dogs into the car and drove them 'cross town to the vets and still got to work 5 minutes early. Pleased with myself, it was then I realized that I had forgotten my keys. I swallowed the curse words that immediately leapt to mind and calmly drove back home again. Without warning, lights or even a sound, the car died at the first stoplight and at each subsequent intersection, forcing me to wait for each green light, restart it, slam it into drive and accelerate at full speed. Each stall stopped my heart as I wondered Suppose it doesn't restart, but it did and I retrieved my keys and then headed to the service station. It was by then nearly 8:30, a time when any self respecting mechanic would be on duty, but wasn't. I counted to ten and headed for the next nearest station, praying for green lights and not getting them. They had mechanics but couldn't even look at it til early afternoon. Refusing to panic, I accepted their offer of a drive to work, called the doctor to let him know what was happening, looked on the bright side ( the dogs were safely at the vet and I hadn't needed a tow ) and got to work 15 minutes later.
By late afternoon when I hadn't heard from the mechanic, I was beginning to stress about picking up the dogs and getting to my night job on time but I reminded myself this was to be a troll-free day and that it would all work out.
I pushed the anxiety back, took two aspirin and waited. Half an hour later, my car and student driver arrived and we nearly made it back to the station before it stalled again. It was getting harder.
I cooled my heels at the service station only to discover that the car couldn't be fixed this day, that there was not a rental car to be had in the entire city, that there was no way to pick up the dogs or even get home much less to work in the morning. The mechanic must have seen something of this in my face - or possibly the trolls peering gleefully over my shoulder - because he led me to a bright, metallic blue pick up truck and handed me a set of car keys. Go, he said with an encouraging smile, Get the dogs and go home. And I did just that.

It's easier to beat back trolls when you have a little help and a friend with a pick up truck.

Do Not Feed the Trolls

If our better natures are summoned by angels, then surely our dark sides are summoned by trolls.

The stress of working two jobs and still being unable to make ends meet - who could have foreseen the breakdown of the air conditioning system - has, of late, put me in a dark mood. I fight it but find myself giving in to quick temper with the animals and a total lack of patience with fellow workers. Mornings come too soon after nights of sleeping poorly and what rest I do get is troubled by wild dreams and night sweats. Everything annoys me - the weather, the astonishing re-growth of the crepe myrtle outside the door, inanimate objects that refuse to cooperate, the ongoing battle for order and neatness at work, the constant territorial spats among the cats. To paraphrase an old greeting card, the air is simply unacceptable.

This is the work of trolls, the dark side of my nature that concentrates on the dark side of life and sees only the obstacles and failures. This is the side that wants to take me down - it thrives on depression, worry, simmering anger, self doubt. It points out the fundamental unfairness of life and highlights negative emotions - anxiety,
weariness, fear and futility. Given free rein, it would pull me into a pit awash with self pity and resentments, it would drown me in my own guilt and lack of optimism. Vicious, long nailed little creatures, these trolls with bad teeth and evil in their eyes. They hunger to make mischief and inflict damage wherever they can.

When I feed them, they gain strength and become bolder and braver. When I don't, they retreat to whatever nasty little caves they live in and plot ways to return. They turn small, insignificant defeats into major uprisings and celebrate by dancing on graves. They cannot be killed, only kept at bay and out of sight by hope and peace of mind and acceptance.

Today I will not feed the trolls.

So You're Not Happy At Home

Marriage is a little like a Whitman's Sampler - sweetness and variety mixed in with hard carmels that will rip your bridgework out and bitter, liquor laced pieces that can leave a bad taste. The entire box can go stale if you're not paying attention.

And so another marriage crashes - discontent, restlessness, simple but free floating unhappiness, a nameless need to move on and be free and leave the wreckage behind. There is anger and pain in the air, threats are made and harsh words spoken then a suitcase is packed and it falls quiet. Twenty years of partnership is dissolved with the slam of a door. She cries and rages while he refuses to look back. No one knows if it can be put back together or even if it should and the news makes me sad for both of them although having been through two marriages, I understand how couples can drift in different directions. Commonalities become conflicts, commitments become steel jawed traps and love lessens to be replaced by a sense of futility - as if through denial you can change feelings - and while you hope for the best and keep trying, the struggle takes it's toll until each day is too much to endure. Flight is the final option so you pack your guilt and unhappiness and move on, praying not to leave too much damage behind, hoping a change of scenery will bring a fresh outlook and another chance. The habit of marriage no longer fits and you discover you care more about your own well being and peace of mind than whatever it is that you can't fix. Self preservation has won out and you can't look back for fear of changing your mind.

It happens every day and we all survive one way or another and I have no doubt that some marriages were never meant to be in the first place. Still, to see a couple torn apart is painful and difficult - as a spectator, I am pulled in two directions with allegiances to both and no good way to be objective or neutral. These things happen, I tell myself and life goes on.

The mere process of living often leaves an unintentional wake of troubled water behind and you never know when you might need a life jacket.

Mrs. Miller's Kitchen

The last house around the cove belonged to Bill Miller and his extensive family. As children had arrived through the years, he had embarked on a building spree and the old farm featured a variety of added on rooms and levels, all slightly on the haphazard side, some with slight tilts, some going off at peculiar angles, a few detached and separate but connected through partially covered walkways. Here the family worked the land, growing vegetables, raising sheep, haying and hauling with a yoke of ancient oxen and selling berries during the warm summer months. Mrs. Miller made homemade jam and canned goods for McIntyre's Store while her sons worked a mildly prosperous lumber mill and her daughters learned to use the kitchen spinning wheel to turn wool into clothing. They were, as were most island families, largely self sufficent, good neighbors, and slightly isolated - unused to the fast pace of the mainland or the entitled attitude of the tourists who were more than willing to pay to pick berries in the hot sun. Bill and his family watched in amusement as these pale faced, fragile visitors filled their buckets with strawberries and blueberries, some even brave enough to venture into the thorny blackberry briars in their imitation leather sandals and bare legs and Mrs. Miller soon learned that a small bottle of fresh cream ready on their departure could fetch a good price. Picnic tables and rough hewn benches soon followed and after a few summers, the Millers were serving lunches - milky white filets of fish and lobster salad on homebread bread, fresh corn on the cob and thick, sweet chowder with chunks of real potatoes and onions, fresh caught haddock, cold summer salads with wedges of tomatoes and cucumbers and buttermilk dressing. The tourists sat on the splintery benches and ate off paper plates, washing everything down with lemonade or iced tea or ice cold beer quietly and stealthily brewed behind the lumber mill. Soon Bill had built a small roadside stand at the beginning of the dirt driveway and the Miller children manned it faithfully, gleefully collecting baskets of American dollars for their mother's figs and preserves and square cardboard containers of berries covered in plastic wrap and wrapped with ribbons. Bill crafted and painted a sign proclaiming "Mrs. Miller's Kitchen" and a bright red arrow pointing toward the house and nailed it atop the little stand. Children clamored to have their pictures taken with the oxen and yet another small business was born - small 3x4 pictures were mounted in paper picture frames and sold for $1.00 apiece. The Millers had discovered wealth and fame beyond their limited island dreams and were astonished at their success. Imagine, Bill told my grandmother, these damn fools are paying good money to make my livin' for me! Nana laughed and told him all he needed was overnight cabins and he'd be a regular innkeeper. The following summer, three tiny cabins had been erected and furnished and for $10 a night, you could sleep on a proper cot and have your breakfast served right in the family kitchen. The phrase "Bed and Breakfast" had yet to be invented but the Millers cashed in, ahead of their time and still amazed at the foolishness of people so willing to part with their money for what they called a "genuine island experience" but which amounted to no more than a little home cooking and an hour or two of chores.

Mrs. Miller's Kitchen overflowed with people "from away" summer after summer. Many returned over the years and became regular guests, often bringing friends who brought friends. The Millers welcomed them all with open arms,
fresh food, and a place to lay their heads at night and listen to the ocean. Peace, sweetness, renewal and homemade biscuits were served to everyone who visited.

The last hurricane took the sign, the roadside stand, the cabins and several of the crooked additions. The Millers returned to working the land but the children had married and moved on and Bill never had the heart to rebuild so Mrs. Miller's Kitchen became a memory and the tourists took to day trips while sleeping on the mainland. A new team of oxen replaced the old one and the hay fields eventually overtook the vegetable garden and the picnic tables. Everything has it's time and place and season and Mrs. Miller's Kitchen was closed.

Silver Linings

Shortly after the episode with the bat in the woodbox, my grandmother announced her plans to disinfect the garage and woodshed. She made a trip to the mainland and hired an exterminator from Yarmouth who would arrive in a week or so and survey the situation. My mother protested the expense and ridiculed the idea but Nana would hear none of it. My grandchildren play in there, she told my mother sharply, And they will play safely. My mother shrugged and argued no more.

The exterminator arrived as promised - Nana knew the instant he drove onto the ferry 12 miles up island - and his truck and crew were soon descending the driveway. He was a skin and bones, tall drink of water, Nana would tell Aunt Vi later, a strong wind would've carried him off and he wore denim - cap, jeans, shirt - with his name boldly embroidered over his shirt pocket, "Darryl". Island folk, curiosity aroused by this outsider, had already gathered in and about the yard and Nana dispatched my mother to bring iced tea and a plate of cookies. No one had had seen such a sight before - islandfolk took vermin and rodents pretty much for granted and followed the rule of peaceful coexistenence for the most part. Unless some unwelcome things got into the corn crop or were bold enough to venture inside during supper, they were left alone as part of God's plan. With of course, the exception of things that crawled on their bellies which almost to a one, islanders despised and would not tolerate without the aid of a 12 gage. So it was something of a mystery as to why Nana would be willing to pay cold cash for someone to sanitize the woodshed and it brought out the onlookers in force.

Soon someone had turned on a small, battery operated radio and Darryl began his work to Ernest Tubbs' orginal "Hello, Walls". Cookies and tea gave way to sandwiches, salad and carbonated drinks and while the little ones began playing with the dogs, the teenagers began dancing on the grass and the old fishermen settled in with their pipes and hand rolled cigarettes. Uncle Willie came across the road with his accordion and the Sullivan Boys arrived with their dogs in tow and when John Sullivan arrived for water, he was persuaded to return with his harmonica.
A process of extermination had turned into a party.

Meanwhile, Darryl had donned his exterminator suit and done battle with the rats, mice, bats and assorted insects infesting the woodshed. He washed it all down with a lethal spray and pronounced it fit for human occupation once again. The sun set in a blaze of pink and white and blue over Westport and a party turned to a celebration that lasted til well after midnight. Having missed the last ferry crossing, Darryl spent the night on Uncle Willie's faded front room couch and had made a island full of new friends by the following morning. He later married on of the Elliot girls and moved to Central Grove. Nana said it was a lesson about clouds having silver linings and she hoped I'd been paying attention. I had been.

Warrior Woman

In my dream it was very early in the morning and the dogs were making a racket. Then I heard my grandmother shriek and I came fully awake. There was a metal and glass clatter coming from downstairs followed by heavy footsteps and clearly defined profanity.


I found Nana in the pantry doorway, a can of bugspray in one hand and the old broom in the other. She was in her nightgown and behind her the dogs were frantically barking - she was shooing them and guarding the doorway while waving the broom like a madwoman. Wood, broken glass and several pots and pans were scattered on the red and white linoleum floor and water from the open faucets was pouring over the edge of the sink. A tiny, terrorized bat clung to the sheer curtain in the pantry window and my grandmother was doing battle like a wild woman. Get out of my kitchen! she screamed at the intruder, oblivious to the fact that the creature was cornered and had no place to go. She let loose an explosive shot of ant killer and the bat, half dead with exhaustion and fear fell to the floor in a crackly heap - she immediately pounded it into extinction with the broom, continuing the assault long after the thing was dead, it's wings in several pieces. Regaining her composure, she swept the remains into the dustpan and dumped them into the stove with a gesture of contempt. Together we cleaned up the glass, gathered the sticks of wood and mopped the floor, the dogs trailing our movements and inspecting the pantry floor. Bleach! she snapped at me and we scrubbed the kitchen and pantry til both our hands bled. Nana half leaned, half fell against the wall, panting and still cursing. Vile, rabies carrying vermin, she muttered, In my kitchen! I'll be goddamned!

The doomed creature had roosted in the outside woodbox and woken in the armload of wood Nana had been carrying in. Fearing that it might not have been alone, my grandmother re-armed us - the broom, the can of ant killer and a small kitchen axe - and we crept up to the woodbox like thieves in the night. We found no more bats but did manage to annihilate a small colony of woodbugs, several harmless spiders and a nest of flying ants. When Nana was satisfied that nothing else lurked in the kindling, we re-stacked the wood and she gave me a hug and told me Good work.

In all the years with Nana, I had seen many sides of her - angry, compassionate, efficient, impatient, kind, practical, protective, tyrannical. Until that morning I had not seen her viking side and it was impressive to behold. In defense of home, family and hygiene, my chunky, white haired grandmother had become a warrior and she was not to be second best even in a battle with a bat.

Noodles in the Sink

Searching for a patient's chart in the B's, I was surprised to find an R. Later in the G's, I came across an L and still later a B turned up in the G's and an F in the L's. Houston, I thought to myself, We have a problem.

We all know about the dangers of assumptions but in the case of our latest new nurse assistant I had been guilty of making some, namely that alphabetical filing was not a skill but a matter of reading and that the concept of last name first and first name last was relatively universal. I was willing to concede that front and back copying required more cerebral alertness but taken aback when I heard her making reminder calls - May I please speak with Smith, John? I heard her say on her first call and thought to myself, Surely not.

Alas, the nameless, free floating anxiety I had been feeling and trying to deny had surfaced and given itself the name of incompetence. As my cousin wrote me, we seem to have a front row seat in this endless parade of useless, dishonest and inept help. Where do they come from, I find myself wondering. Amid all the available jobs in our small city, how do they so unerringly find us? In the space of a mere six months, this is number 8 and the prospects are diminishing with each termination. I can't help but think of my own work experience - summer camp counselor at 14, nurses aide at 16 ( while still in high school ), Ma Bell at 18 ( lasting 11 years ), administrative assistant to a theatre renovation project ( 2 years ), executive director for a humane society ( 2 years ), Barnes and Noble Bookstores ( 13 years ), a photo store ( 10 years ), a modeling agency ( 2 years ) and finally a medical receptionist during the day and a wine shop sales person at night. I have - as do the vast majority of people my age - what is called staying power, ethics and a sense of responsibility. We take the good with the bad and we stick to whatever committment we have made, we show up on time and stay put, we don't malinger or leave early,
tie up company telephones, drag our sick children to work with us, abuse company time, take four hour lunches or drink during working hours. We don't display cleavage or chew gum, fail to shower, or quit without notice. We are thirty year librarians or railroad engineers, social workers or ministers, journalists or retailers. We take our work, whatever it may be, seriously and we don't feel entitled or resentful. We learn English and how to use it, we smile even when it's an effort and we have initiative, loyalty, and the good sense to come in out of the rain. We can find our own ass without the aid of both hands, a flashlight, a compass or a Boy Scout troop. We may never get ahead of the curve but we do our level best to keep up and we believe that a job worth doing is worth doing well without a deep sigh of martrydom or a put upon scowl. We clean up our own messes and if we have soup for lunch, we don't leave noodles in the sink and then pretend we didn't.

We shall overcome or die trying.

Stopping Traffic for Jesus

They were all along the sidewalks of the intersection, several at each corner, effectively snarling traffic and hemming it in. Some carried signs, some chanted, the leader held a bullhorn and was roaring for repentance. Angry drivers held up on their way home shouted and gestured at them but they held their ground, approaching the cars with a religious fire and passion better served in church. They had no pamphlets to give, no buckets to beg with - they were young zealots with smiles, carrying the message bravely - God Loves You, Repent and Be Saved, Is Jesus in Your Soul and my favorite, It's The Evening of the Apocalypse, Do You Know Where Your Church Is? All this in the midst of small town rush hour traffic on a steamy July night.

There are no doubt souls in this world in need of serious saving, needing to be brought back to God and a peaceful afterlife but if stopping traffic is the way to do it, then the message may need a slight revision. Southern folk don't welcome this close up and personal invasion by the faithful, not while the cars overheat and the ice cream melts. We don't care to be force fed our spirituality no matter how sincere the messengers and revival meetings on busy city street corners are going to be met with resistance.

A pretty young thing with her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail rushed a pickup truck trying to manoever into a parking space at the local chicken shack. Her sign read Give It Up for Jesus and the driver slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting her while shouting a long and lusty stream of profanity about what she could do with her sign and her Savior. An eighteen wheeler unable to make a right turn and likely late with his delivery simply turned off his engine and stopped in mid course to threaten the protesters about what would happen if they didn't clear the streets. The young man with the bullhorn raged on about sin and salvation and someone threw a well aimed bag of chicken wings at him - he ducked and continued his shouting and gesturing with renewed enthusiasm.

In good time the police arrived, dispersed the young lions, cleared traffic and restored order with a minimum of effort and no fuss. Rush hour resumed with no further delay and neighborhood dogs made quick work of the chicken wings. The corner was reclaimed and it was back to business as usual. Most of us prefer to find our own salvation rather than be led or dragged to it.

Owls Don't Speak

On a high branch of a tall tree at the edge of the hay meadow, I saw an owl. He sat perfectly still, large yellow eyes scanning the horizon and waiting for darkness. He looked very old and very wise as I thought all owls should and I expected him to take wing as I got closer but he held his ground, measuring the threat and dismissing it. The soon to be night breeze ruffled his feathers slightly and he spoke in a voice that sounded like James Earl Jones. My name is Geoffrey, he announced, and I have a message for you. Worry is not preparation. He blinked and hooted softly at me then spread his wings against the darkening sky. Goodbye, he said calmly and lifted off gracefully. The last I saw of him was his silhouette high in the clouds over the hay meadow and diving toward earth and the nearby cornfield at dizzying speed. That was when I woke up.

I have very few lucid dreams and even fewer ones that make sense - they routinely fade to nothingness in the few sleepy seconds after I wake and are gone like echos - I can almost but not quite recall them, like a taste that you know you recognize but can't name. They play at the very edges of my memory but then disappear completely without my even being aware of it happening. Geoffrey the Owl was the exception, staying with me vividly and at length and finally becoming a memory. I began to be fairly sure that it had actually happened and had to remind myself that in the real world, owls don't speak much less give advice. But if they did, I would hope they would all be as wise as my dream owl.

Most things break, including hearts. The lessons of life amount not to wisdom but to scar tissue and callouses.
Wallace Stegner.

Watered Down

A woodpecker has taken up residence somewhere in the yard of my next door neighbors, possibly in the tree we share. I hear him in the mornings, a muffled but staccato sound that is very clear and distinctly woodpecker-ish. The small brown dog is untroubled by this but the black dog is curious and she stands stock still, head cocked and alert, scanning the fence and trying to narrow down the noise. Oddly enough, she does not bark, perhaps sensing that the noise is not a threat, just a thing of minor interest. After a time when she sees nothing but limbs and branches, she lets her guard down and trots off to explore other areas of the yard. Blue jays chatter at her from the power lines and squirrels high wire through the air from tree to tree while a pair of robins land on the back fence - only this last catches her attention and she makes a mad rush in their direction but they take wing quickly, unimpressed with her show of strength and bravado. She is, after all, bound to the ground while they have the gift of flight - I think birds know this and use it to tease and taunt their predators - and I watch her have a minor temper tantrum over the lost opportunity then turn her attention to another section of fence. There are several loose boards and she checks them all regularly, hoping for one to give way to a sudden 20 pound assault and provide instant access to one of the adjoining yards. I don't think she knows that I also check them regularly, hoping to prevent just such an incident.

The morning quiet is abruptly shattered by the sound of a door slamming and then a fierce eruption of barking from the terrier next door. I can see his feet in the space between the bottom of the fence and the ground and so can the dogs. Both race toward the fence and the noise level peaks out as all three try to outbark the other - they are nose to nose to nose and each is determined to be heard and committed to having the last word. They have never officially met except through the spaces in the fence but it seems to be enough to have established a pattern and the exchange gets more and more raucous until the terrier's owner and I are both involved. He shouts an assortment of reprimands and idle threats barely audible over the barking while I, in a moment of inspired creativity, fill a bucket of cold water and douse the dogs on my side the fence. There is suddenly just one protesting voice in the morning air and it is stilled the moment I empty the remainder of the bucket over the fence. I can't see the terrier but my own two dogs hightail it for the back porch and sit dripping and downcast, astonished that I would treat them so and looking at me with hurt, accusing eyes. I hear the sound of the back door from the other side of the fence, a quick intake of breath and then loud and long laughter and a young man somewhere in his mid 20's appears at my gate carrying a sodden and sullen black terrier in his arms.

The only real question here, he says to me, is why I didn't think of that first. Hi, I'm Miles. The terrier looks at me, ears down and betrayal written all over his face and Miles gives him a reassuring hug and me a grin. Nice to meet you, I say and we shake hands through the gate. The terrier glares and I begin to hear growls from the vicinity of the back door - the black dog has regained her composure and is coming to investigate and it's time to go. Think they learned anything? I ask Miles and he laughs again and says, Doubt it!

And so I met one of my new neighbors, a city firefighter as it happens. He really should have thought of it first.

Truce or Consequences

Without invitation or the slightest advance warning, twenty pounds of black, longhaired, and unhappy cat landed on my chest. He was immediately followed by twenty pounds of black, barking, and jealous dog and the competition was on.

Nicodemus is remarkably light on his feet and agile for his size. He speaks with delicate and gentlemanly meows that sound almost kittenish and though he doesn't like the black dog, he is not afraid of her and will give no ground no matter how hard she pushes. On this occasion, before I could separate them, she had grabbed a mouthful of his fan like tail and given a mighty tug. He turned calmly and with one oversized paw, swatted her soundly across the muzzle. She growled and unimpressed, he defiantly smacked her a second time, forcefully and with a glare of fierce, feline indignity common to all cats. Feeling like a referee at wrestling match and fearing an all out brawl, I got one arm around her chest and pulled her off while restraining him with my other hand and telling them both in no uncertain terms, Enough! The small brown dog, alarmed by the commotion, burrowed under the covers while the other cats watched - from a safe distance - with wide eyed interest. It's a draw, I told them all firmly, And it's all over so everybody back off. The black dog slunk a foot or so away and laid down on her belly, keeping a baleful eye on me and muttering low in her throat while Nick yawned and then stretched out bedside me, washing his paws with studied indifference. After a few moments of fragile quiet, the small brown dog eased her head out from beneath the blanket and then nestled up to my neck. A truce was in effect - tenuous at best, short lived to be certain, but holding for the moment and even possibly for as long as I didn't turn my back.

There are no bad dogs, I keep telling myself as well as my veterinarian ( who finds this theory charmingly amusing and completely wrong ) and will often use the black dog to demonstrate her point. We have known each other for a very long time and while she would never presume to tell me I'm unbalanced or impaired in keeping this animal, I can see it in her eyes. I like to think it's a kind of resigned admiration but it's far more likely relief that it's me and not her. We have reached an agreement that if anything serious should happen to this recalcitrant, impossible animal, that she will not be treated. She wearies me half out of my mind but it's as far as I can go. And then there's this - she jumps on the couch and nudges all others out of the way to lay with her head in my lap and her brown eyes filled with love until she falls asleep and I forget that ten minutes before I could've cheerfully strangled her. We all have our dark sides.

Come, Sweet Death

The cicada went wild the moment I flipped the switch for the back porch light, flinging itself violently against the glass window panes and crashing into the side of the house all the while making it's eerie buzzing sounds. The small brown dog cornered it but was frightened off by it's anxious and threatening noise - she yelped and retreated to my side to safely watch. Even the black dog was cautious, approaching one step at at time and then jumping back as the thing took it's jerky, convulsive flight. It slammed into the back door, fell with a thud, regained it's wings and flew straight into the railing, on a collision course with death, I was certain. But no, it staggered and then took wing again, it's chunky little body ramming directly into the light fixture, it's hoarse, scratchy little voice humming loudly in protest. The dogs watched in amazement and apprehension, not making a sound but following every movement intently. Inside, the cats had gathered as one. Muggs had climbed the screen and was hanging on by her front claws - below her, a small troup of spectating felines were fascinated by the noise and the commotion, drawn together out of curiosity and predatory instincts. The cicada continued it's mad dance around the light for several minutes and then flew raggedly toward the windows where it crash landed on the outside sill and lay motionless. This was a creature who had lost it's way and after a final, explosive struggle,had made a grand and memorable exit from life. The dogs satisfied themselves that the small thing was no longer a threat and the cats lost interest once the noise and the frenzied flight were over. It was another lesson in the fact that life goes on.

Cicadas are relatively benign insects with short life spans. They are harmless creatures, primarily known for their acoustic abilities and an unfortunate tendency to be eaten by birds. That something so small should cause such consternation and anxiety among my animals - noticeably higher up in the food chain and at least slightly more intelligent than a mad, buzzing insect, at least so I hope - was interesting. I doubt they recognize life as such, it's the movement and the sounds that draw them, but I would like to think that they understand that these other creatures are more than wind-up, mechanical noisemakers. The demise of one cicada is not likely to cause an ecological shift in nature - still, it might have been something's mother or father or sibling, a breadwinner perhaps or a stay-at-home mom out for one night of freedom. It's hard to know how it all works. I scooped up the corpse and disposed of it, uncertain if the dogs might be tempted to think it an hors'doerve and wanting to be safe rather than sorry.

Come, sweet death, and we will fight with the foolish courage and conviction of a cicada.

When in Doubt, Wear Navy Blue

Make yourself useful, Nana used to tell us all the time, There's a lot to be accomplished in this life.

She set store by usefulness and industry and couldn't abide idleness until all the day's work was done. Even then, she was never without her knitting or crocheting to occupy her hands. She loved lacework - tablecloths, doilies, handkerchiefs with lace fringe. She tried to teach me this delicate art through the years but I hadn't the patience or the appreciation to focus on the work. Her fingers would fly and her copper knitting needles made an endless clatter as she stitched. She was able to talk or scold or praise all the while and never miss a beat. Her hands ached with arthitis and were often so swollen that she had to pause every few minutes to massage them but she never gave up and some project was always in progress in her various baskets. She kept everything carefully organized and neat and could always find exactly what she wanted at the proper time, another art I mostly failed to learn. There were scarves and mittens, lap robes, colorful vests with bright, oversized buttons, and afghans by the dozens. She chose her colors to fit each person - pastel blues and soft vanilla shades for one, bright yellows and chocolate browns for another, greens and ecrus and cranberries for yet another. Colors need to blend, she told me, They need to get along and not try to outshout each other else all you have is a riot.

During the school bussing riots, she expressed much the same opinion - that if people would learn their place and keep to it, the world would run far more smoothly. She was adamantly against anyone getting beyond the raising, especially if they happened to be black, Catholic, Italian, Jewish or Irish. It was a free country, my grandmother believed, but only for certain citizens. It never occurred to her that this was racist or discriminatory or if it did she dismissed it as frivolous - the world was what it was and she held fast to her roots, skewed as they might have been. She taught this to my mother who in turn taught it to us, a legacy I'm less than proud of and have worked hard to overcome. The 60's were hard on my family - change and revolution were beating at the door and they carried drugs, incomprehensible music, free love and terror. My grandmother's small, isolated world was under seige and she fought back as best she knew how.

I wonder what colors she'd be knitting with now.

Game, Set, and Match

Insomnia and I go way back - we are old friends and adversaries.

Nights pass slowly when I can't sleep and my mind churns with frustration and fragmented thoughts, little snippets of conversations or story lines, random colors and the flickering images on my screen savers all fight for my attention. I toss and turn, unable to find a comfortable position or keep my eyes shut. I hear the air conditioning come on and go off, every breath the small brown dog takes, the black dog's nails as she trots across the wood floors. I count sheep and recite song lyrics, get up and take a hot bath, get up and take a double dose of sleeping pills, run through a list of state capitols, Gary Cooper movies, animals that begin with A. I mentally name The Seven Dwarfs, The Twelve Disciples, The Ten Commandments, The Seven Deadly Sins ( and Cardinal Virtues ), The Eight Wonders of The World and The Nine Circles of Hell. I hear the digital clock tick off the minutes. I go through The Five Stages of Grief, The Twelve Steps of AA and The Twelve Days of Christmas, every dog breed I can remember, The Ten Canadian Provinces ( I always forget Newfoundland ), The 23rd Psalm and the Apostle's Creed. And still the clock ticks off the minutes and sleep slips further and further out of reach. At quarter til four I give up and try reading then an old movie and finally at quarter after five, I give my concession speech and it's game, set, and match to insomnia. The animals are restless and I suspect it's going to be a long day.

I see the sunrise more mornings than I would like or need and by late afternoon this all nighter will have taken it's toll. Life doesn't wait for me to catch up.

The Last Lincoln

Toward the end of her life, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts declined to renew my grandmother's driver license.She raged against them with all her might, fighting furiously for this last, lonely bit of independence but it was to no avail. She was barred from the road due to age and failing eyesight and she railed against their ruling until the day she died, bitterly complaining about how her tax dollars were being spent, condemning them for their decision and threatening legal action against every public official. It was a bitter pill and she never quite swallowed it.

The real issue, of course, was not her ability to drive safely, but what it represented - the loss of her independence. She was doomed to rely on alternate transportation from her family, from friends, from anonymous taxi drivers who often spoke little or no English and drove like hellfire was behind them only to get hopelessly lost and cause her to be late. She despised being housebound and dependent, hated having to ask someone to take her somewhere, couldn't tolerate not being able to do her own shopping and errands. The Lincoln Continental sat in the garage and gathered dust, a daily reminder of the DMV's dictatorial injustice. She refused to abandon it or sell it and only allowed my daddy to drive it on those infrequent occasions when they were making long trips. When a neighbor lady needed a place to park her own car, Nana rented her the empty space beside the Lincoln and I think it comforted her that the old car was not alone. I would often find her at the kitchen window, staring out at the garage with a grim expression, car keys in hand, as if she were willing them both back to productivity and usefulness. The loss of her license was an unbearable insult to her dignity and her sense of self - it had "senior citizen" written all over it, an expression she held in the most serious contempt. Imagine some damn fool pencil pusher telling me I can't drive! she muttered across the breakfast table, Who in the hell do they think they are.

A few days ago I was driving in the left hand lane of a four lane highway and from my right a dark blue Cadillac pulled out into traffic. When I realized she was not simply going to turn right into the near lane but keep coming into the lane I already occupied, I had to pull into an oncoming lane of traffic to avoid her and I missed her by a whisker - completely unfazed by the near miss, she didn't even slow down or appear to notice how close a call it had actually been. She was about my grandmother's age and I suspect she shared Nana's attitude about her right to drive and damn the consequences.

Sympathize as I did with my grandmother, there is a time to let go gracefully and let others carry the burdens.

Dragonfly Days

Of all the legends about dragonflies, the one I like best is from the Native American culture - they are a symbol of renewal after a time of hardship.

Sitting on the back deck this morning, I watched a single dragonfly land on a stalk of greenery. I was several feet away but could see it clearly, wings beating with a barely perceptible whir, a tiny bit of blue around it's head. It stayed put for several minutes, giving the impression of motion so rapid that it was like no motion at all, as if my vision was blurred and it was at a standstill. So light was it's burden that the slender stalk moved not at all, not even a whisper. In a few more moments, the dragonfly lifted off gracefully and vanished, leaving no trace or mark - but for the small brown dog prancing toward me and the black dog barking in the background, it might have been a dream, a trick of sunlight and reflection, or a wish.

For the moment, hard times are behind me. They could come again tomorrow or next week or next year but for this moment, they are a fading memory. There is the smell of cut grass and magnolias in the hot summer air, a six pack of Orange Crush in the 'fridge, my animals have made temporary peace with each other, my checking account is in the black. There is music in my life, work I have come to enjoy, sleep that comes and overtakes me without pills, and mornings that dawn bright with birds outside my windows. I am intact and in good health and my hair is a new and noticeable shade of red. Soon it will be the Fourth of July and a week later I will turn 60, a good age, I think, all things considered - a comfortable age of routines and work, solitude and balance - a time to be grateful for all the times hardship fought with hope and by a narrow margin, hope won.

My cousin sent me a poem by Mary Oliver the other day. One of the last lines read What will you do with your wild and precious life?

I will wait and watch for dragonflies.

Nana's Stash

Nana loved to shop at the better stores but she had a weak spot for Filene's Basement.

Before Sears discarded Roebuck - a name not very many even remember these days - Nana turned up her nose at the suggestion that we shop there. Certainly not, she would say, It's a place for hardware and peasants. She favored the likes of Jordan Marsh and Filene's, Lord and Taylor and Saks, and the newly built and very upscale Bloomingdale's in Chestnut Hill. But in weaker moments, her thriftiness triumphed and we would make the trek to downtown Boston, through the Combat Zone, a place of prostitutes and low collar crime, through the glitzy theatre district, and to Filene's Basement. Once inside, she became transformed - my meticulously put together grandmother joined in the fracas of shrieking women tearing through the boxes of scarves and discounted shoes, flinging rejects here and there and pushing and shoving through linens and hats and designer dresses. She would fight with the best of them for a purchase, claws outstretched and teeth bared in an effort to reach the racks first, to snatch greedily at a box of stationary she might never use or a towel set that would never match. From the sidelines I watched in awe as she shouldered and elbowed her way through the mob of frantic women shoppers, mad with bargain hunting fever and offensive as quarterbacks in the last minutes of a critical game. She would emerge with her purchases clutched to her chest, often a run in her stocking and her careful hairdo in shreds, and battle her way to the chaos of the checkout counter, dizzy with success and pride and victory. At her lowest, she was not a woman to be trifled with and on those Saturday mornings in Filene's Basement, she was a force of nature, a mixture of grim determination and iron will, an unstoppable power.

Afterwards she was often bewildered by what she had bought, wondering aloud what possible use "this" would be or why in heavens name had she fought for "that". She would wrap her purchases and usually consign them to a closet with a resigned and weary sigh and she kept a small notebook on the inside of the closet door with a detailed list of the contents. One Sunbeam Mixmaster, I read, One Hat With Veil And Artificial Flowers, Two Pair Silver Slippers
(Size 6), One Pair Mittens, Three Boxes Blue and White Stationery, One Bathroom Scale, One Set Silk Sheets, One Set of Six Mini Pool Cues, and so on. She valued accuracy and organization in all things. Now and again, certain items would reappear as last minute birthday gifts or stocking stuffers but for the most part, the gift closet simply seemed to mutate and reproduce on it's own, bringing forth toys or lace handkerchiefs or A Tiny Tears doll at her command. Think ahead, she told me, ( One Lionel Electric Train Set, marked Guy's 40th and a question mark), Be prepared for anything, ( One "Virtue is it's own Reward" Satin Pillow With Fringe , One Pair Pewter Candlesticks,
One Deck of Fortune Telling Cards, One Uncle Wiggley Game, One Complete Set of Nancy Drew, Six Thanksgiving Door Wreaths With Indian Corn), a cardboard glider in it's original cellophane flew by my head as she continued searching for some particular item - it was followed by several packages of assorted buttons and a Glenn Miller record album - Here! she exclaimed, triumphantly holding up a fisherman's cable knit sweater, I knew it was in here somewhere! She carefully backed out of the closet, sweater in hand, and crossed it off the notebook list with a sharp nod of satisfaction before we proceeded to the gift wrap closet. The next morning, the sweater was on it's way to it's destination, usually with a card reading some variation of "Thinking of you" and signed "Love, Alice".

People like to be remembered, she told me, even the ones we'd like to forget.

Fake It Til You Make It

I decided it was time to have my hair cut for the summer - one of those very short, almost boyish styles I favor in the southern heat and humidity - and by sheer luck, I drew a new hairdresser. He began talking immediately and non stop about his recovery in AA, the group home where he lives and it's rules, the gift and cost of sobriety, each and every step of the program, making amends to his five wives, changing his life and getting right with God. He was talking at me, working the program by sharing and carrying the message, reinforcing his own beliefs with every sentence. I heard all the slogans, all the right things, and although it was more information than I needed or wanted, I listened to it all and wished him success and peace of mind. Only my instincts told me he was trying to convince himself and maybe trying a little too hard, but recovery is very much an individual process, a day to day effort of finding whatever works and using it. Fake it 'til you make it is a popular slogan in AA.

I'm blessed to have a number of friends in recovery, all doing well and staying clean and straight despite the odds. Each has come to terms with their addiction and found a way to change their lives. They carry the message by the way they live, by example, and by actions. They have found new ways to deal with adversity and temptations and setbacks and new ways to celebrate and enjoy life. Many are music makers, continually exposed to alcohol and drugs and an old way of life that will always be willing to take them back. But they don't go - choosing the harder road and the longer life over the quick fix and the momentary high. I keep them all in my prayers as they keep me in their's.

These people are the exceptions - most addicts don't make it. A prominent young attorney favored arriving at his destinations with a glass of wine balanced on the dashboard. He walked with a precarious, stumbling stride and was dead before he was 45. I watched his self destruction with sadness and anger at the waste of life but could do nothing - all his second chances were lost in an alcoholic haze. A well known society woman reeking of liquor and unable to put together a coherent sentence at ten in the morning, a drug dealing doctor who carried syringes in his pocket, a salesman who lived for the end of each day when he could drink himself to sleep, broken people all, living on borrowed time and emaciated emotions. So I listened to the man cutting my hair and said a small prayer that he would find his way.

The Gentleman Toad

The small brown dog sat with her head cocked, listening and watching intently and wagging her tail furiously. There was no movement that I could see under the shrubs and I thought she might be imagining something. Then she abruptly jumped backwards and gave a single, sharp bark - and to my surprise, I saw a toad emerge from under the greenery and stop just a few inches from her.

He sat, still as stone, brownish colored and perfectly calm, watching her cooly and without a trace of fear or good sense. She barked again, a yelp that pierced the early morning air and startled me but did not appear to disturb him in the least. She took a hesitant step toward him, nose to the ground and almost in a low crawl, ears perked upright and eyes dancing with curiosity. He continued to watch her disinterestledy, filmy eyes yellow and green tinged and half lidded. She slowly took another step closer, caution and inquisitiveness at odds within her small little self and when she glanced at me almost as if for approval, I spoke her name softly, It's ok, I told her, Just go easy. She looked back at the foreign creature and slid another inch in his direction, deceptively resting her chin on the concrete drive but still alert and prepared to move quickly.

The toad stayed motionless, only his rapid breathing giving any indication that he was alive. I thought about my camera but it was inside and I knew that if I moved, the whole scene would fall apart so I sat still, watching and wondering how this contest would play out. The brown dog had now made her way to just a postage stamp's distance away and still the toad didn't move. They watched each other but neither seemed anxious to make the next move. They were stalemated and it lasted for several minutes until finally the dog barked in frustration and jumped to her feet in an unexpected flurry and the toad seized the moment, leaping for the safety and darkness beneath the deck. The dog tried to follow at once, white paws scrabbling on the concrete in a panic and entire body quivering, but the toad had made his escape good. She gave one final bark and then plunked her little body down in the wet grass, head on her paws and nose pressed against the wooden slats, whining softly and looking after him forlornly.

Would she have hurt him? Not in a hundred years - her nature is too tender hearted and too forgiving. It was a moment of potential friendship that passed her by and knowing her attention span to be brief, I knew she would forget and move on. Time heals all wounds and eases all sorrows, even for small brown dogs and toads.

The Game of the Audible Sigh

Consider the audible sigh and all that it conveys.

Quicker than you can say Jack Robinson, you get the message of impatience, weariness, disappointment. That unmistakable "How many times do I have to tell you...." is in the air, the message of "You ought to know this..." comes across clearly. If there is one thing I remember about my mother above all else, in the kingdom of martyrdom, she was undisputed queen of the audible sigh.

Of course, it's something of an art and improvisation is not only allowed but encouraged. Added touches include a a despairing head shake, a tightening of the mouth, a sideways look that suggests you may be seriously impaired,
but mostly a simple, shoulders up with a deep inhalation then down with an equally deep exhalation will do. The higher the shoulders go, the further they have to come down and this adds to the dramatic effect but any expert sigher will tell you that it's the letting out of breath that wins in the long run. It also helps to be doing something that appears important so that you demonstrate your willingness to sacrifice - my mother favored knitting because she could make such a production of folding it up, rewinding the yarn, and storing the needles. She would then push herself to her feet, repeat the sigh, and wearily say, Never mind....(pause for emphasis)....I'll do it myself.
The more trivial the "it" was, the greater the score - inflicting a small humiliation or causing a quick flash of anger were both opportunities for bonus points.

It's hard to confess that when this happens now, the sting is still powerful - I time travel back and hear my mother's voice all over again, the profound weariness and the resignation, the sense that all her life she has had to do the simplest things for me, the implication that I can't be trusted in the most basic of actions and worse, the certain if unspoken accusation that I could if I would only try. Being put upon suited her immensely and she demonstrated it with unfailing regularity. Her voice is a broken record, replaying the same old message - the same old wrong message, I remind myself - that she taught me as a child. She treated everyone as lesser people, perhaps because she had been treated that way herself, perhaps because it was the only way she knew to feel good about herself.
In the end, the venom caught up with her as it tends to do with us all.

We are all capable of ingesting our own poisons. Better to spit, rinse and move on.

Cambridge Days

We walked the ten blocks or so to catch the bus to Harvard Square and the subway system. It was a perfect fall day, cool enough to be comfortable and warm enough not to need a jacket. We emerged in the heart of the Square and all it's unique character, a mix of students, panhandlers, street musicians, academics and shoppers. It was noisy and cheerful and completely at ease with itself. We headed toward the river, past the small, shadowy shops and bright awnings, past the little German bistro my daddy used to take us to, past the record stores and art stores. The sidewalks were crowded with people and dogs and the streets were a perpetual snarl of traffic. Music of all kinds drifted out second and third floor windows and taxi drivers shouted at pedestrians in languages we didn't understand while the occasional junkie nodded off in a doorway. There were long haired hippies and crewcut professionals, women in starched shirts with ties and men in robes and long beards. There were beads everywhere and the scent of marijuana was in the air like cologne. There were shouts from various young men and women hawking the Boston Phoenix on the corners, people passed out flyers against the war, closer toward the river a young man stood on an overturned milk crate, preaching, protesting, pleading for someone to listen. His eyes were slightly glazed over and he was surrounded by pigeons and empty whiskey bottles. An old man passed us with a monkey in a shiny, miniature leather jacket perched on his shoulder. A young woman leaned against a lampost, a dog eared copy of the King James Bible pressed to her chest and a string of rosary beads wound around her hand. She blessed us as we made our way around her.

It was less crowded as we got closer to the river. The water was murky and still, tinged with a metallic gray and reflecting the high rise dorms of Harvard. Debris floated randomly along with the mild current and the city buildings stood sharply etched against the skyline. All along the river banks people were spread out - drinking wine from paper cups, playing frisbee, reading, sunbathing on old blankets spread on the new grass. Portable radios broadcast opera, the lone country western station and the baseball game in progress at Fenway Park. Couples strolled across the bridge holding hands, walking dogs and pushing baby carriages and we could see a denim clad, long haired woman in front of an easel, passionately sketching the horizon. This was Cambridge when I was fresh out of high school, artsy and intellectual, free spirited and casual, tolerant and color blind. The city opened its arms to everyone and invited them to stay and make themselves at home. It was a liberal hotbed of anti-establishment life styles and radical thinking, of flower children and protesters, of the fight for freedom and individuality. And the last time I was there, it still was - underground coffee houses still exist along with wine bars and very pricey hotels, handmade jewelery and leather goods are still for sale, there is still music from the doorways and windows and the dusty, dim, old bookstores have survived. Change comes to the Square but it's superficial, cosmetic, and overall unimportant.

Harvard Square was and continues to be - for me - the heat and heart of the city. It comforts me to know that it's still there, still as it was, still alive with a feeling of quiet revolution. The subways rumble beneath it coming and going in all directions, a maze of underground railways that extends far beyond the city's limits but always comes back to it's starting point, like coming home again after a journey and being glad to see all the familiar landmarks still as you left them.

Chess Men

The shortcut back to work took me through a less than prosperous section of town and it was on a run down block of brick fourplexes that I saw the chess game. On either side of a rickety card table on the broken sidewalk, two old black men sat on overturned vegetable crates. They were scarred and chipped like the board and the chess men and I immediately cursed myself for not having my camera with me but I stopped anyway.

Both smiled at me and asked if I knew the game - I said no, I'd been struck by the image of the sidewalk game and wondered if I might come back and take their picture another day. Without looking much away from the game, they both nodded and one asked if it would be in the paper. I said probably not but I'd be happy to give them each a print, and they laughed. Their names were Eustis and Johnny Mac, two old friends since childhood. They had both been in the war together where Eustis had lost his leg - that was when I noticed the crutches - and had come back together to work for the railroad, marry and raise families, and now with their children grown and both their wives "passed on", they were retired and passing the time with pensions and chess. We just be waitin', Miss, Johnny Mac told me, waitin' for our time to go. Eustis carefully moved a pawn and agreed, Ain't much else to be done at our age and place.

Johnny Mac had eleven grandkids, Eustis only nine, but the children had moved away to Tulsa, Birmingham, New Orleans, San Antonio. They rarely visited having their own lives and problems but they kept in touch, The oldest, she calls every Christmas, Johnny Mac said proudly, Works for some big lawyer firm outside the Quarter. Eustis looked thoughtfully at the board, hesitated, then made a move with a sideways glance at me, Least ain't not a one in jail, he said defiantly, and Johnny Mac laughed and slapped his thigh, Least not no more! And then with a gleeful shout,
Checkmate! Eustis narrowed his eyes and muttered Shut up, you ol' fool, you ain't won a game all day. Johnny Mac began gathering up and rearranging the pieces, Tide's turning now though, ain't it, he crowed.

I left them to their opening moves and though I often drive down that block with my camera in tow, I've yet to see them again. Two old men, old soldiers, old game players, passing the time with pensions and chess and waiting.

Night Lights

Aunt Essie was not the only one who saw the lights in the sky, she was just the only one who would talk about it.

Like a rainbow in motion! she exclaimed to my grandmother the morning after, Flickering like lightning bugs but all different colors! Nana frowned and poured Essie another cup of tea. And flying so fast, like a rocket ship, then it was just gone - poof! Nana wiped her hands on her apron and cut a generous slice of blueberry cobbler which she set in front of Essie along with a small pitcher of cream. Eat, she said sternly. And Essie ate but kept talking. Aunt Vi cleared her throat delicately and added sugar to her tea while Aunt Pearl stared in disbelief. What were they, Essie? she asked and my grandmother rapped the table sharply in disapproval. What were they? Essie repeated, Why, they were aliens, of course, what else? Aunt Pearl gasped and spilled her tea while Aunt Vi hid a smile and Nana sighed. Goodness, Pearl, Essie added with a matter of fact look, Don't you think I know a spaceship when I see one? This was too much for Aunt Vi and she fled, holding her napkin to her face and trying desperately to conceal her laughter. Aunt Essie seemed not to notice, concentrating on her tea and cobbler all the while explaining to Nana about how she had been awakened by the sounds of wings and the feel of the great light that was flooding her small bedroom. She had grabbed her shotgun and run to the front door in her nightclothes, prepared to shoot to kill if need be, and then she saw the lights and heard the ship hovering yards from her roof. Colored lights flashing like Christmas! she said with her arms spread wide, And bigger than any boat you've ever seen!

My grandmother took off her glasses and massaged her temples, a familiar gesture when she was trying to collect her thoughts. She withdrew a Kent 100 from the pack but didn't light it, just tapped it on the table. Essie, she finally said kindly, You had a dream. Essie pushed her tea away with an angry shove and crossed her arms over her chest. Did not, she fired back defiantly, It was a spaceship.

Now ,Essie, Aunt Pearl had regained her senses and composure, You know there's no such thing. Essie stamped her feet and repeated, I saw a spaceship, she repeated stubbornly, and that's all there is to it.

Aunt Vi returned to the table with fresh tea and a plate of oatmeal cookies. Have a cookie, dear, she said with a smile, You'll feel better.

Essie stood, tears welling in her eyes and her voice trembling. Don't make fun of me, she wailed, I saw it! And snatching a cookie, she ran out, the backdoor swinging shut behind her with a mighty slam that made Nana wince and woke the dogs from their morning nap. Aunt Vi shrugged and Aunt Pearl started clearing the table but my grandmother sat smoking with a thoughtful expression on her face. When I asked her what she was thinking, she
laughed and told me Nothing at all. But I think she was wondering if there might not be magic in the night skies. Essie's spaceship was never mentioned again that I heard but lots of people became sky watchers that summer and my grandmother was one of them.

The Waiting Room

Imagine being born almost a hundred years ago! the little girl in our waiting room stage whispered to her mother, That's reaaally old! The mother blushed and grabbed the child's arm, apologizing at length to the old woman the little girl had been pointing to and embarrassed almost to the point of tears. Other patients began to laugh quietly and the old woman smiled. It is reaaally old, she assured the mother with a passable imitation of the little girl's tone, and it's quite all right for her to say so.


To the very young and the very old, we give an extra measure of freedom of speech. The one has lived long enough to earn the right to say exactly what they think and the other hasn't yet learned to think before they speak. Both are naturally honest and we give them a great deal of latitude. To those of us still in the middle, still counting to ten before we lose our tempers, still choosing our words in order not to hurt someone's feelings, still keeping a lot of what we really think to ourselves, it's enviable to watch the old and young being free with their thoughts and words.


Can you take your teeth out? the little girl asked curiously and the old woman threw back her head and laughed outloud. I can, indeed, she admitted with pride, but I try not to in public. The child cocked her head and frowned, Why not? she demanded and the old woman shook her head, still laughing, Honestly, I don't know why not. The mother, now in a paralysis of shame, hid her face in her hands while the other patients joined in the laughter. The waiting room door opened and a nurse called the old woman's name - the mother took her child's hand and fled to the safety of the outside hall while the old lady struggled to feet, took a firm grip on her walker and headed toward the exam rooms. She was indeed, ancient - face powder exaggerated her wrinkles and there were traces of it on her collar. Bright spots of rouge lit up each cheek and her red lipstick was crookedly smeared on. She looked like a crone but as she passed me I smelled lavender water and had an instant image of my grandmother. She looked me directly in the eyes and told me good morning in a clear, strong voice then gave me a smile. Her eyes were a watery blue and slightly cloudy but her voice was bright and unhesitating, Children, she remarked, have certainly changed since I was a girl. I nodded and she paused then said, For the better, don't you think. I nodded again and she turned away, step by shuffling step, trailing the nurse and humming to herself.

Wisdom may come with age, but kindness is a choice.