Butterflies & Worker Bees

Head in the clouds, heart in graphic design and fashion, emotionally torn loose from her moorings and verbally battered by an antagonistic and critical partner, our nurse accepted her firing without much reaction other than mild surprise. She quietly gathered her things and left, no tears, no protests, no parting shots.

Knowing the inevitable is going to happen turns out to be not much use when it actually does happen. I felt mostly sadness as she left, sadness and a vague kind of regret that I hadn't been able to be more help to her. Patients were arriving already and I had to put my emotions aside for the time being - the doctor, an immensely practical and realistic sort, had moved on the moment the door closed behind her. He'd had the advantage of planning and preparing for this moment and had long ago come to understand that we were carrying dead weight while the rest of us continued to hope for a turnaround. I had, it seems, forgotten the old philosophy that you can't help those who will not help themselves. Too distracted to focus, too stressed to think clearly, too filled with worry and dread and non work related troubles, she had been simply unable to concentrate or learn even the smallest tasks. Her work had to be constantly watched over and frequently re-done, mistakes mounted and became costly. The doctor's patience - already a thin thread - frayed and finally broke entirely. He had given her every opportunity, had tolerated her fuzzy minded memory, accommodated her headaches and depression even when we were already short staffed, and still she stayed in the clouds, adrift and floating, unhappy and unaware. She reminded me of a butterfly - fragile and delicate, good at flitting but not follow through, softly pastel and out of place in a field of sharp, primary colors, a touch of color among the worker bees.

It's a sorrow that people who seek comfort and shelter in misery don't have to look far or work hard to find it. Being unhappy is a choice - you select it and wear it despite all the choices you could make to the contrary and it becomes like a pair of old, worn out but comfortable shoes you can't bear to throw away.

Among the worker bees, the butterfly is a pretty but useless piece of fluff - never staying in one place very long, always in search of something sweeter and more appealing, making the most of a brief lifespan and carried on the breeze like a bit of dust.

A Touch of Royalty

My daddy lifted me on his shoulders when the shiny limousine passed by. The crowd cheered wildly at the sight of Princess Margaret, smiling and waving from the open car, and I got a fleeting glimpse of royalty.

We had waited most of a month for this grand event and it was over in a matter of seconds. The procession passed and was gone but I remember high stepping horses and soldiers in bright, regal colors. There were flags of all sizes, horse drawn carriages, military guards and a column of canons. Muskets were fired leaving white plumes of smoke in the air, swords flashed in the sunlight, the color guard saluted smartly. Men in top hats and tails marched by, then a line of women dressed in gingham and white bonnets and crisply starched aprons, each with a basket of wildflowers on her arm. The finale was a marching band in full dress uniform - horns glimmering in the sunlight, clarinets and saxaphones and snare drums all in step and playing a a tightly choreographed "God Save the Queen". It was a magical and dazzling morning, and after the parade passed there was an even more extravagant treat - hamburgers and ice cream sodas at the village's only pharmacy/lunch counter, just my daddy, my Aunt Ivy, and myself.

These were the youngest of my grandmother's children, the last boy and the last girl. They looked very much alike, both young and vibrant, darkhaired and slim, and at least on that day, all smiles. Ivy had left home and found a job and a small apartment. She loved her family but treasured her independence and her privacy and I very much wanted to be like her - on her own and beholden to no one - she had never married and was what my mother called with disgust, a career woman. Whether marriage and children simply didn't appeal to her or she had just never found the love of her life I never knew - she died very young and maybe just didnt have enough time. I have very few memories of her but the ones I do have are vivid. She was pretty, hard working, she laughed a lot and loved Marty Robbins and she always looked like a young professional. We left the little lunch counter and walked to Ivy's car for the drive back to the farm, tired and happy and with a grand story to tell.

Choose Your Burdens

Choose your battles, I remember Uncle Shad telling me, and then later he said, Choose your burdens as well. The first advice was easier to put into practice.

Whether out of training or reflex, guilt or just habit, oftentimes we carry burdens needlessly. We strap them on like backpacks and struggle with the weight and the bulk - the effort of moving forward is physically exhausting and emotionally draining. Yet we dare not let go for fear that the world will collapse around us, like an explosion of jigsaw puzzle pieces blown in all directions and landing randomly, impossible to put right. The illusion of having or needing control too often overrides free will - the need to maintain, to balance, to make sure that everything works according to plan, that the waters aren't muddied by conflict or confrontation, prevails.

Choosing which burdens to carry and which to leave at the side of the road takes effort. We can't fight the battles of others, can't rescue everyone who needs it, can't evade every unpleasantness. While it's hard to admit, we are, none of us, indispensable or essential and we have the obligation to learn to say no and risk the peril of someone else's disappointment or anger. We have to get past the idea that saying no is a social sin.

If it accomplishes nothing, turn it down.
If it gets in the way of someone else's hard work, say no.
If it provides a safety net for someone who needs to learn to be accountable, say hell, no.
If it costs you peace of mind or time you can't spare or a good night's sleep, let it go.

When the crosses we all bear become unmanageable, it's time to remember that we choose to carry them and we can just as easily choose to lay them down, if we are willing to relinquish the spotlight.

The Top of the Stairs

It all started over carrots.

Of all the vegetables that ended up on the family supper table, carrots were the worst of the lot. I could be persuaded to try almost anything once - parsnips, turnips, even brussel sprouts - but carrots, with their soggy texture and wretched orange hue, were nickel sized bits of noxiousness. I pushed my plate away in disgust.

You don't leave the table until you finish, my mother warned and pushed it back.
Just one or two bites, my daddy pleaded, then you can be excused.
I crossed my arms defiantly and settled in for the duration.

Aside from my place, the table was cleared and my brothers sent to do homework. I sat through the dishes being washed and put away and my parents left for the living room for the nightly ritual of television. The carrots began to congeal and grow cold. Minutes turned into hours and still I sat, glaring at them, resenting their very existence and refusing to compromise with even a single bite. Change your mind? my mother asked with a self satisfied smirk, We've got all night. My daddy came and sat with me, speaking softly, coaxing me with kindness to not antagonize her any further, One small bite, he implored, One small bite and it'll be enough to get around her. I shook my head and dug in with a vengeance. I think we both knew by then that it wasn't about carrots anymore.

Eventually the music of "The Tonight Show" came on. My mother swept away the plate of misbegotten vegetables and furiously sent me to bed. I knew the carrots would re-appear as surely as I knew a violent argument was about to break out and I climbed the stairs slowly, regretting that my stubborness was going to be the cause of it but still feeling a perverse kind of joy at a small if temporary victory. The yelling began before I reached the top, my mother accusing my daddy of blatant favoritism, of lack of backbone, of undermining her parental authority and being defeated by a child. This rapidly led to the familiar lyrics of his not loving her, of marrying her for who knew what reason, of how she hated him and wished to God she'd never had kids, of how she'd get even if it took her the rest of her life. I won't stand for another second of this! she screamed and there was a crash - an ashtray, I speculated, probably the big ceramic one on the coffee table - and then she began to cry in loud, out of control sobs with an undertone of hysteria. I couldn't hear my daddy's words, only the soft murmurs of reassurance, followed by another crash, more delicate and high pitched - a coffee cup, I thought, one of her prized collectibles - and then my daddy's footsteps, slow and heavy hearted, and the quiet closing of the front door. I left my place at the top of the stairs and crept to my room, making sure to lock the door behind me before crawling into bed and under the covers. I heard the old station wagon's engine rev up and my mother cursing as she stumbled blindly up the stairs, slamming her fists into the walls with every step. I dreaded her coming to my room but she only stopped long enough to stage whisper at the door, You'll eat those damn carrots if it takes all week, you little spoiled brat, you'll see.

By morning, when my daddy still wasn't home, she was peaked and hungover and had lost the will to fight. The carrots sat on their plate, haphazardly wrapped in saran wrap, yellowish and nasty looking. She scraped them into the garbage in between gulps of sherry laced coffee and smashed the plate into the sink with one brutal, futile gesture.

It could have been about anything, but this night it had all begun with carrots.

The Rain Storm

Three days and nights of relentless rain had washed out the roads and driven all but the gulls indoors. The ditches filled and then overflowed, the strawberry field was underwater and the blackberry patch was losing ground. The factory had closed on the morning of the third day and there was a general retreat in effect. Even the ferry suspended serivce as there were no passengers having anywhere to go.

We watched awestruck when the tiny post office building floated by and came to a stop when it crashed headlong into the guard rail. There it sat, rocking back and forth like a cradle until eventually the water carried it over and it spilled onto the rocks below where it split open and shattered. The tide carried the pieces out to sea and all that was ever found was the battered old door that washed up on Peter's Island, splintered and waterlogged but intact. Uncle Willie's pasture turned into a swamp and his old hay wagon soon followed the path of the post office. The beach was littered with bits of wood and metal and random debris. We watched a river of water carry away the backyard swing set and a dozen or so of Uncle Shad's lobster traps drifted past, then a line of bait barrels and a solitary church bench followed by pieces of a white picket fence. The guard rail did it's best against the onslaught but it the end the metal dented and twisted and gave way, never having been meant to stop a flood.

Nana did her best. We baked cookies and bread, played dominoes and every board game we could find. The radio played ceaselessly through the static. She taught us hearts and three kinds of solitaire, challenged us to jacks, and helped us with crossword puzzles. We read and wrote postcards and played dress up and watched the rain carry off more belongings - a beaten up bicycle, a small ice chest, a clothesline complete with several pairs of long johns still attached, a Union Jack flag, parts of a stained glass window. Some went over the side of the road, some swirled past, some came down the gravel driveway but all traveled the water's route. The fog rolled in and out like the tides, hanging in the air like thick, dripping curtains then slowly sailing past and out to sea. On the fifth day, a Sunday, it cleared.

Islanders talked about the storm for years, about how so much had been driven to the sea and yet how little had been lost, proving once again that it's all in how you look at things.

The Making of a Marriage

Meeting in the middle, my parents decided to live apart.

My mother bought a small cottage on a small lake in New Hampshire and moved lock, stock and barrel, leaving the city heat behind her. My daddy moved in with my grandmother and commuted each weekend. It was an odd arrangement and one that caused a fair amount of talk, much to her enjoyment and his chagrin, but mostly it seemed to work. The distance and separation brought them each a measure of peace and quiet during the week and as their time together on weekends was limited, they were able to get along with a minimum of conflict. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, my brother said with a pleased smile. I thought it was more likely they had just worn each other out.

My daddy continued to work and after my grandmother's death he moved into a small room at the funeral home with his books and crosswords and music. My mother was content with her soap operas, bingo, knitting and newfound freedom to drink at will and without consequence. They spoke by telephone once or twice a week but otherwise lived separate lives - each moving in their own circle, at their own pace, married but apart and happier than they'd been in years. It was unsettling to see them get along after so many years of unrelenting warfare and I suspected that it was at least in part due to the absence of their children. We were adults by then, we had survived and moved on to our own battles and taken much of the hostility with us. It's hard to find something to argue about when you can't even find anything to talk about.

It wasn't exactly a reconciliation as such, more like a prolonged truce, sustained by weariness and age, hard earned wisdom and a fair share of resignation on both sides. They had come to terms, finally, and discovered a way to live together - if not in harmony, at least in peaceful coexistence.

On the rare weekends when we drove to visit, I watched them, perversely curious about the relationship and how it worked. They didn't speak much to each other but the extended silences didn't appear to bother anyone. The television was on constantly for noise and companionship - they slept in single beds in different rooms and my daddy puttered outside a great deal doing small repairs and projects while my mother knitted and sipped genteel sherry. Toward the end of the day they sat on the deck, watched the sunset and listened to the ski boats making their last runs while hamburgers cooked on the grill. There was store bought potato salad, iced coffee, cold beer if my brother was there, and the illusion of a normal family. Come Monday morning, my daddy rose early and drove back to the city. They lived this way for several years through summers and winters, heatwaves and ice storms, strangers with a history. They had chipped away at their mutual anger and unhappiness for so long that the marriage had become a habit, too much trouble to break, too insignificant to bother about.

They had, in their own way, solved the mystery of partnership and the making of a marriage - after a lifetime of incompatibility and bitterness, they had retreated to their separate corners and learned to settle for what they had. It was sad and tragic, wasteful and empty, but at least it was quiet.

Too Much Martyrdom

Since losing his job at the beginning of the year, my friend Sam has been on unemployment and a downward slide. He sleeps til noon and spends so many waking hours locked in his recliner in front of a television that he can recite commercials backwards and forwards. And in search of answers to questions he isn't even sure of, he drinks, steadily and seriously, until he doesn't have to think at all.

He emerges from his apartment in a badly stained and wrinkled t shirt, worn out jeans and ripped Nikes, his hair a tangled mess, unshaven and homeless looking. He reeks of stale cigarette smoke and scotch and his voice is muffled and hoarse with disuse. He immediately begins to tell me how well he is doing, despite evidence to the contrary, and for the half hour drive to Texas, I listen to his stories - of his photography class and how his students adore him, of lunches with teen age girls begging him to photograph them in the nude, of his constant salvation of others, his rightness, and his martyrdom. Every story has the same theme of being under or over appreciated, under or over loved and they all end with him being a hero in a valiant struggle of good against evil. He is weary and long suffering, put upon and put down, and once or twice his voice breaks and he cries. Life is too much for him and he clings to his ego and his stories as if they were bits of a life raft in a rough ocean.

The night before, I had watched my friend Liv lose her temper and self destruct over a remark made by a co-worker. Holding back her tears, she had protested and fought like a trapped animal when confronted, refusing to admit any culpability or participation. Either she goes or I go! she spit at her manager in a rage, And I have a pretty good idea who's more valuable! It was an awkward and uncomfortable scene, filled with pain and anger and righteous indignation. Her need to be right and in control outweighed her good sense and gave her an exaggerated sense of her own importance - she had hit the wall of her battle with the world and she broke, stalking out in misery and spite, her wounded pride in pieces, her ultimatum hanging in the air like an echo.

People at odds with themselves can't help being at odds with the world, as if no matter the cost, they would rather be right than happy. Misery seeks and finds them without even trying and they embrace it like a long lost friend.

The Sum of All Forces

What came to be known as "The Suicide House" was a small, well kept bungalow around the Old Road, just this side of the Ryans. It sat atop a hill with a spectacular view of the ocean and good light and was much admired. It had been built as a vacation cottage for a well off Massachusetts couple who had gradually turned it into a permanent home and after their deaths, it had passed into the hands of the bank who in turn told it to the oldest Titus boy and his wife, Johnny Ray and Florrie.

Florrie was, as Uncle Willie liked to say, bright as a shiny new dime and pretty as a daisy. She was dark haired and slight, on the petite side, optimistic and sunny natured but tough as old boots on the inside. She kept the little cottage pristine and friends were always welcomed with buttermilk and biscuits and a comfortable chair. She sang as she went though her daily chores, any song that came into her head although she favored the old Patsy Kline classics, and sometimes Uncle Willie said, if the wind was right, he could hear her singing as she hung the washing or tended the small garden she and Johnny Ray had planted. She was a good girl, folks said, good for Johnny Ray and a pleasure to be around, content, generous, serenely happy and delighted with life. Something of a dreamer though, folks also said, seeing her leaning on her broom on the small porch, gazing toward the sea with a faraway look in her eyes, head tilted to one side as if she were listening. These were small moments, folks said, and they were infrequent, but during these small moments, Florrie went away, her mind captured by distant voices and sounds far across the ocean. She would come back to herself and shake off the brief journey with a reassuring smile. Reckon my mind sometimes just wanders off to the other side, she would say with a shrug and resume her sweeping. Other side of what? Uncle Willie asked once, and she looked puzzled for a second of two. Why, she finally said, To the other side of the ocean, I imagine, and she laughed.

Uncle Willie repeated this slightly odd conversation to my grandmother who frowned slightly and told her own story of Florrie, of how one Sunday morning she had come across her standing at the edge of the breakwater and staring out to sea. Florrie? Nana had called to her but there was no answer. Mildly concerned, my grandmother had pulled the old Lincoln to the side of the road and approached the breakwater on foot, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the young woman and calling her name loudly. When she still didn't appear to hear, Nana laid one hand on her shoulder, What are you looking at, Florrie? she asked worriedly, and Florrie turned and smiled at her, Alice! she said with surprise, What are you doing here? Nana persisted, What were you looking at, child? And Florrie laughed and said, Why, the water lilies, of course! What else?

Johnny Ray heard these stories and dismissed them, She daydreams sometimes, he told people, We all do. But he took to paying more attention to his pretty young wife, as did everyone, but Florrie continued to drift away for little bits of time, returning with a bright smile and no memory of the few lost minutes. In time, most people became accustomed to these short lapses and no one was prepared for the sound of the shot that rang out on a clear summer Saturday morning. Nana was beating rugs and she froze in mid stroke then rushed across the strawberry field and stumbled down The Old Road, whitefaced and unaccountably panic stricken. Uncle Willie and the Ryans had heard it as well and fearing the worst, had raced toward the little bungalow. Florrie lay in a heap on the freshly swept front porch, one hand still on her old broom, the pistol inches from her other.

Johnny Ray, bewildered and shattered, buried his wife a few days later and returned to the bungalow, desperately searching for some reason, some answer, some cause for the unbearable tragedy. He looked for signs, for clues, for anything to help him understand the unexplainable, and though he searched for years, he found nothing and slowly, painfully, came to terms with his loss, and left the bungalow for the mainland and a new start.

Abandoned and unattended, The Suicide House succumbed to the pasture and high grass and was soon overgrown and left to the elements. A late summer storm brought a lightning strike and within a few hours nothing remained save ashes and scorched wood, all of which was swept into the sea by a fierce rain. The regrowth made a perfect and peaceful grazing ground for sheep and The Suicide House was no more - mysterious forces more powerful than man and far less understood had done their work and done it well.

Reckon there's some things we's meant to take on faith, Uncle Willie allowed to my grandmother as they surveyed the ruins, some things we just ain't never meant to understand. Ain't it a bitch.

Gone to Glory

Dropping like flies, Nana announced as she read through the obituaries in the morning paper and sighed. Didn't even know he'd been sick.

My grandmother always read the obits first, saying it made her feel better not to be in them. They were called "death notices" then, plain language being preferred and they were simple and straightforward, sometimes including a grainy old photo, sometimes not. Now and again the notice would include a little decorative phrasing - gone to glory was most popular. Everyone knew that a long illness almost always meant cancer while untimely passing generally meant an accidental death. Nana read them all whether she knew them or not, often with a critical eye toward grammar, punctuation, and proper format. She disliked the ones that rambled on or listed several paragraphs of relatives and she detested the use of pre-deceased in any form, judging it to be an awkward and clumsy word. She had even been known to call the night desk at The Boston Globe and share her criticisms, an act unfailingly reported to my daddy the following morning by a besieged and harried editor.

She also liked to write letters to the paper when a story amused her or more frequently made her angry. Very few were ever printed but when they were, she celebrated quietly. Freedom of the press, she would tell my mother with a contented smile, was a fine idea. No one would have dared to mention that she expressed this sentiment only when her position and the paper's happened to coincide - there were an equal number of mornings when she would discard the entire newspaper as barely fit to wrap fish in and fiercely threaten to cancel her subscription.

Each month, the paper boy left a small envelope with her bill inside. She would evaluate her calendar where she made notes on a daily basis and add up the number of mornings the paper had made the doorstep against the number of mornings she had had to descend the front steps and collect it. She tracked which rainy mornings the paper had been plastic wrapped and which mornings it had not and she noted late deliveries in detail. The sum of all her numbers decided whether the paper boy got a tip or a Try harder note - she never held him responsible for content, only efficiency of delivery.

I can't help but wonder what Nana would make of newspapers today and the gradual transition from ink, paper and press to headlines and stories on line. I suspect she would say they have gone to glory.

The Man Behind The Curtain

There is thunder and lighting in the palace, smoke billows in great clouds and the huge voice of The Wizard of Oz threatens Dorothy and her friends - until Toto pulls aside a drape and reveals the wizard as a fraud. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain! the veteran actor Frank Morgan exclaims in a last ditch effort to maintain the illusion, but it is too late. The great wizard has been exposed.

There are no current day wizards, no Professor Marvels, but I often think there is still a man behind the curtain, pulling strings and creating special effects for our everyday lives. He would be mostly kind, mostly a showman and something of a narcissist, but randomly he would decide to test us through a small series of disasters - for his own ends and perhaps for our own good, he would make life complicated and invent obstacle courses for us to overcome. There would be lessons about adversity and faith, about trusting in a power outside ourselves, about keeping on in the face of impossible odds and inescapable situations. There is value and virtue in learning the simple things, in remembering that at the end of the road not much of it will really matter anyway - staying in the now and putting one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, is what gets us through the hardship and the inherent unfairness. He would be stubbornly determined to teach us that giving up is no solution, it's just giving up.

If you've painted yourself in a corner, I once read, remember: paint dries. Hard to keep in mind when everything seems against you and there's no way out but the man behind the curtain may still be there and may still have a plan. It would be nice to know the details, of course, but then it wouldn't be faith.

So on we go, through debt and job loss and abscessed teeth, unplanned pregnancies and foul weather, too much month and not enough money, hard times and harder decisions, endless chores and child raising. I am always looking for the man behind the curtain so I can give him a piece of my mind.

Aside from That, Mrs. Lincoln......

The phrase that occurs to me is, Aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?

The faithful PT Cruiser sits lonely and abandoned in a service station bay, awaiting further exploration, diagnostics, and tests. Half an hour after picking it up, I heard the lava sounds from under the hood and watched the thermostat needle as it streaked into the red again. Steam and smoke and the smell of burning oil were everywhere and my heart sank. I had just returned the little VW rental, cringing at the bill but accepting the inevitable. I had no idea that the following day I would be once again at the rental company, this time leaving - for the entire weekend - in a shiny champagne colored Elantra. I handed over my credit card, feeling as if I was signing my own economic death warrant.

On the bright side, or so I kept telling myself, was the fact that I had gotten the much needed if only temporary treatment for my abscessed tooth. The pain and swelling had receded, I was able to wear my bridgework and take nourishment again. I banished all thoughts of next week's oral surgery to next week, determined to cross that bridge at the proper time and not one nano second sooner. Slipping into denial was surprisingly easy, like easing into a warm, scented bath and refusing to acknowledge that the water would eventually turn cold. Calgon, I said to myself, Take me away and I will stay put until reality rears it's demonic head and drags me back.

Racing with the Dogs

My parents never fought, my first husband pronounced with chest swelling pride, Never even raised their voices at one another.

I considered this for a moment, weighing his natural tendency to exaggerate and shape the truth against what I knew of his parents' marriage. That, I said carefully, is not normal. He glared at me through narrowed and suddenly suspicious eyes, then thought better of it and shrugged, intentionally deciding not to pursue what might end up to be a minefield.

We were, truth be told, an unlikely match. He was a child of wealth and privilege, maids and private schools and grand expectations, the only boychild to carry on his family name. I was a child of alcoholism and conflict, angry and withdrawn. Rebellion had brought us together and rebellion would later pull us apart but for a time we had found common ground - I was comfortable and secure in his shadow and the security of his name, sheltered and kept safe by his outgoing nature and celebrated family. He had found a pliable, presentable partner whom he could dress up and manage with minimum effort. We didn't get in each other's way and were relatively content, finding it easy to overlook each other's flaws, easy to push aside the restlessness and complacency that had overtaken us.
Certain families, however, especially the kind who never raise their voices at each other, tend to build traps for their children and themselves. The perfection he perceived in his parents' marriage eventually helped bring about multiple marriages for the children, searches for approval that were destined to fail, unvoiced resentments and battles for control. Independence was won and lost, traded, won and lost again. The fight never really ended, even after the death of both parents, it was a legacy that lived on. All three children are still searching, still trying to prove themselves, still trying to reconcile with the demands of perfection.

These parents who never fought, never raised their voices, ruled with iron hands in kid gloves, sweet words and gentle smiles. Their children chased after the rewards they offered like greyhounds pursuing an always out of reach rabbit, running in circles and ending up empty handed and empty hearted but always ready and willing to race the next day.

Add Water

I noticed the smoke while sitting at the red light, clouds of it, pouring from underneath the car. Unalarmed, I looked around to see which vehicle was in distress, then caught sight of the thermostat, and with a shock, realized that it was mine.

At the service station, they poured gallons of water under the hood while I listened to the lava like bubbling noises echoing out and the hiss of cold water hitting hot metal. Start 'er up, the mechanic directed, and the needle instantly swung into the danger zone. Shut 'her down, he called. This went on for the better part of twenty minutes. They added more water, peered into the engine, added more water, uncapped the radiator, added more water, looked at the undercarriage, added more water. They found nothing wrong and added more water, reckoned that it was cool enough to drive and that I could get back to work safely. I got about a block.

A more or less civilized morning at the doctor's office had suddenly turned into a nightmare. I had been on my way to pick up a prescription for my abscessing tooth - now in full throb mode - when the disaster struck. Now I found myself without pills and without a car, late for work, in serious pain, and at my wits end. From somewhere inside my head I heard a voice repeating AA slogans, Easy does it, and First things first, and One Step at a Time. I took a breath, regrouped, and began a simple priority list: Get back to work, deal with everything else later.

Panic is a tricky, treacherous thing and it can snatch you without warning and throw you into a pit where logic and clear thinking can't follow. Rage and fractured emotions are waiting to welcome you, everything is beyond your ability and out of your control. You discover you can only think in the negative and only in terms of defeat. You began to empathize with Job only you don't have his faith. It's a good time to step back, take a second look and a couple of aspirin. Add water.

Ain't No In Between

Look here, son, Cap told my brother impatiently, you're either at the table or on the menu. Ain't no in between. So get in the damn boat or let go the rope.

It had taken weeks of coaxing, gentle persuasion and finally a crisp new twenty dollar bill to get Cap to agree to take us out lobstering with him. Nana had manipulated, nagged, bargained and finally bribed him into saying yes but at the last minute, faced with the small fishing boat and a very wide expanse of open ocean, my brother was having second thoughts. Cap was anxious to be underway - We're burnin' daylight here, boy! he growled - and he felt saddled with the unwanted responsibility of two children. It made him short tempered, testy, and more convinced than ever that we'd get underfoot and cause some unholy damage. After another few minutes of the standoff, he shrugged and with one covert gesture had latched onto my brother's overall straps, lifted him with ease, and deposited him into the boat. Sit, he told us, and don't be touchin' anythin' or I'll throw you both over the side. We had no doubt that he meant what he said.

With no further delay, Cap headed for open water. The island grew more and more distant til it was barely a speck on the horizon and there was no other land to be seen. It was a fine day on a relatively calm ocean. Cap and crew began the difficult chore of pulling traps and to my surprise, I learned that live lobsters were greenish black, not red as I had always imagined. Some were small and tossed back, some were oversized, most were average. The sun was warm but the men wore heavy gloves and long sleeves and didn't seem to sweat. They worked with very little conversation and no breaks, hauling a trap and emptying it, then rebaiting it and throwing it back. Cap smoked and supervised, his eyes constantly on the skies and the surrounding sea, as if on alert against a sudden change of wind or the approach of a dark cloud. It took hours to fill the hold and all the while my brother and I sat and watched, hungry and restless, and slowly realizing that the life of a lobsterman was not as romantic or as daring as we had thought.

The sun was high in the sky when Cap called it a day and we turned for home. We hadn't seen a shark as we'd hoped but as we drew nearer to the passage we did see a colony of seals - they were bright, shiny creatures with long whiskers and huge eyes, splashing and cawing and lazing on the rocks. When one of the crew produced a rifle, Cap shook his head, Not this trip, he said softly, Not with the young'uns aboard. The seals were spared that day.

In some things, there is an in between.

Parent Stories

As women sometimes will, we were combining work and play, the three of us sitting at an unused dinner table, talking about which wines and cheeses to order for the coming week and telling parent stories.

Lindsey and I have, though there are just over thirty years between us, a great many common memories of tv shows, music, past events, and parental themes - Clean your plate, there are children starving in Europe, for example or Little pitchers have big ears. We both know the story of "The Black Dahlia", both have seen "The Wizard of Oz" more times than we can remember, both know who Billie Holiday, Clarence Darrow, and Audie Murphy were. We both know the story of "To Kill a Mockingbird" and who starred in the movie, all the theories of the JFK assassination, remember "Bandstand" with Dick Clark, have a working knowledge of the Civil War and past presidents. I have the Weeper Whineys who lived under the shoe shelf in my closet and she has monsters who came out of the dark and devoured children who didn't mind their parents.

Liv, being considerably younger and having been born and raised in a tiny, South Louisiana town built on grit, poverty, broken families and tamales, has ghosts and dire warnings. She remembers tales of "The Crying Woman", a lost and condemned spirit who killed her child and spent eternity stalking and kidnapping children who misbehaved. Parents who sold their children to creatures who wore rags, lived under bridges and were always hungry - hellfire was the reward for sassing grandma. Children who defied their parents could be snatched by ghosts and never returned, the penalty for a stolen piece of candy was being locked in a dark, airless closet with only your imagination and the monsters it could produce for company. Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about was everyday language.

Be it cruel threats or a beating in the woodshed, emotional deprivation or ghost stories, we all survive our childhoods and carry scars. We overcome or give in, get past it or stay stuck to the memories. Either way, the parent tales we remember, whether good or bad, remain - to be shared and laughed over, wondered at or hurt by, but never to be completely dismissed.

A Simple Puzzle

Imagine your life being over in the 6th grade. In one brutal stroke, I was undone.

I trudged home slowly, intentionally stepping on every crack with well aimed and utter precision, dreading my mother's inevitable satisfaction and my daddy's disappointment, imagining the jeering and rejoicing of my brothers, anticipating that this was a failure I would never live down. I looked at the malicious and glaring "D" - printed in bright, bold red so as to call attention to itself and stand out from the other grades - and despaired. It wouldn't matter that this was the very first non-perfect grade in my short academic career, wouldn't matter a bit. My daddy, to whom mathematics was second nature, as clear and straightforward as a sunny day, would grieve over this. My mother, never content with the consistent straight A's I had always brought home and always ready with a nasty smile and nastier remark ( Nobody's that smart, you must have cheated.) would celebrate this failure. ( Jan, my daddy always protested without much enthusiasm, children don't cheat.)

Numbers had unexpectedly stopped making sense to me, stopped being logical and clear, stopped being a simple puzzle. I had no explanation for this phenomena and less of an idea how to fix it. I studied hard, tried to look at mathematics in different ways, paid strict attention in class, and still my tests and homework assignment results were dismal. I worried that this would become a pattern I would never escape and now in one report card, my worst fears had been confirmed. I was terror stricken at the prospect of making this public.

Things did not improve in junior high or even in high school. I failed Business Math, repeated it and passed, but failed Algebra. I repeated Algebra and passed only to fail Trig and so on. Looking at my senior year grades, my advisor suggested we not even bring Calculus into the realm of possibility and I graduated by the narrowest margin, mostly due to finally passing an Advanced Algebra course the second time around. The entire concept of mathematics had by then turned into incomprehensible nonsense. I was perfect in English, Fourth Year French, Biology, Sociology, and all four years of History but broken and tragically flawed by mathemathics, it might as well have been Arabic.

Now, a lifetime later and just a few years away from Medicare eligibility myself, the evil of mathematics - this time in the form of medical billing and the mechanics of health insurance - has returned to haunt me and complicate my life. Any rational foundation of numbers is hidden in a maze of allowables and percentages, fractions, and red tape inspired rules that serve only to protect the insurance companies and confound anyone foolish enough to try and decipher their methods. Each day I sit and try to un-jumble it, I'm reminded of my 6th grade report card, of that wretched, oversized "D" and the pattern I set for myself.

We are too soon old and too late smart.

Sweet Grass & Salt

Over one more hill and we'll be home, my grandmother announced with a lightness in her voice that I hadn't heard since leaving St. John 12 hours earlier, Just one more turn.

The ocean came into view first, a gorgeous stretch of green blue just a mile across with Tiverton on the other side and streaks of early afternoon sun flashing across the water. I could see the lighthouse and all the brightly painted houses, the church spire and the boats at rest. The ferry was on the far side and Nana pulled the old Lincoln to the side of the road to wait, rolling all the windows down and letting the salt air fill our noses. It could hardly have been a more perfect day.

It was late May, just after Memorial Day and we'd been on the road for three days, we were restless, anxious, cabin feverish and tired but the sight of the ocean and the village changed all that. We let the dogs out to run and stretch their legs and I leaned against the car, closed my eyes and let the sounds and the feel wash over me. I listened to the waves and heard the ferry's engine, smelled sweet grass and salt, sensed the change of pace and country and tried to breathe away the knots of excitement in my belly. Unaccountably I began to cry, the joy of coming home was overwhelming and nearly too much to comprehend. An entire summer was ahead of me, an entire summer in a place I loved better than anywhere on earth and still do.

I would grow up on this small island, would smoke my first cigarette, have my first taste of alcohol, go on my first date and fall in love for the first time. I would learn the true nature of my mother and grandmother's relationship, would see my first animal die, learn my phobic fear of reptiles, go to my first picture show, see the inside of my first dance hall. Each summer, I would slowly step further and further away from childhood, would pass the 8 o'clock bedtime in favor of staying out, sometimes half the night, sometimes with a boy. I would meet and come to love the island's eccentrics and bootleggers and even the flat out crazies, wild people living in worlds no one else could share. I would learn how to let my imagination run free and embrace the ocean and I would discover a life long love of books. I would see death and drunkenness given free rein, would come to realize the damage abuse and inbreeding could create, would confront inevitability, loss, pure joy and even magic. I would come to treasure solitude and the quiet.

I still dream of sweet grass and salt and a welcoming ocean.

Pretty on the Outside

Image, my friend Michael likes to tell people, is everything. He runs a modeling agency and it's his business to know. What may be pretty on the outside, however, does not always reflect the inner reality. This does not concern him in the slightest as he makes his living from superficiality and outward appearances - and more power to him - but for the rest of us, sometimes the underneath shoves it's way through and it can be ugly and evil tempered.

He had decided to take the Mercedes convertible out as it was a pretty day. He knew the tags were expired and the inspection sticker out of date and when he was pulled over, he was resigned to a stiff fine and a stern lecture. He had - in a rare display of good sense and diplomacy - decided against righteous indignation in favor of honesty and courtesy. He would take his medicine. He did not anticipate being arrested on the spot, They actually handcuffed me! he told me, horror stricken, and took me to jail! He was fingerprinted and photographed and put into a cell, treated like a criminal and forced to wait to be bailed out.

Bet you pulled him right off the golf course! the old hag matron cackled to the arresting officer. Nope, the cop told her, Just a traffic stop.
Well, then, she cackled some more, Bet it was a big ol' fancy Cad-de- lack!
Nope, the officer told her with a grin, Just a purty, lil' silver Mur-say-dees.

Some four hours later, bailed out and badly shaken by the experience, Michael returned home in a frenzy of fury and humiliation. Rubbing elbows with the great unwashed is not something he does willingly or well. It's a scam! he told me with heartfelt and sincere indignation, The city is cracking down because they need money! I was victimized!

You broke the law, I pointed out, what did you expect?
Not to be taken to jail! he wailed, Not for a traffic violation!

I couldn't help it, picturing him being handcuffed was bad enough, but as he described being fingerprinted and put unceremoniously into a cell to await his 'phone call, I began to laugh. The more he railed, the harder I laughed.
What in hell is funny about this? he demanded and I couldn't even begin to answer.

If image is everything, his had taken a distinct wrong turn.

No Harm Done

Undeterred by the loss of his wagon or his adventure in the sea, Willie Foot somehow persuaded Uncle Len to build him a scooter. It was primitive, just two boards, set at right angles, a handlebar and a pair of wheels. For a time, Willie set it in his front yard and decorated it with grass and roots. Then he painted it, crooked stripes of bright red and white and added a straw basket for collecting rocks. Inevitably, he walked the contraption to the top of the hill and began riding it down, landing first in the ditch and then the Sullivan's front yard and lastly, on a bright Monday morning as Nana was hanging clothes, careening down our steep gravel driveway at breakneck speed. Nana looked up and shouted a curse then began flailing her arms but Willie never noticed. He turned the handlebar and headed straight for the clothesline with my grandmother screeching in protest. In a matter of seconds, Nana, Willie and the scooter were all on the ground in a tangle of wet sheets and clothespins. The back door slammed and my mother appeared with a mixing bowl in her hands and a puzzled expression on her face then the dogs, roused by the commotion and not to be left out of the fun, came rushing around the corner and immediately dived headlong into the whole soggy, sorry mess. Nana's pristine white sheets were soon a muddy, grass stained mess and while my mother laughed so hard she dropped the mixing bowl, my grandmother emerged with a look of homicidal fury. Flinging aside sheets and pillow cases, she got to her feet, adjusted her glasses, smoothed out her apron, and began a methodical search for Willie who had managed to creep under the woodshed and was well on his way to a clean getaway, his more or less intact scooter clutched under one arm.

She stopped only long enough to snatch an ax from the woodbox then marched toward the back field. I'll have you and your damn scooter for firewood, Willie! I heard her threaten, That I will! She found him cowering just outside the playhouse, curled up in a ball in the tall grass and sobbing piteously, one arm around his scooter, the other wrapped in a pillow case, his bright green hair matted with mud and weeds. From the playhouse window, I watched her lower the ax, sigh deeply, and then awkwardly get to her knees beside him. Never mind, Willie, she told him resignedly, We'll just wash it all again. No harm done. He looked at her with a shaky smile, his crossed eyes filled with tears and his wild hair half covering his face. Like a child, he shyly offered up the ruined pillow case and then a pocketful of pennies, holding them in his grubby hand like treasure. Nana sighed heavily and took a deep breath.
You keep them, Willie, she said gruffly and struggled to her feet, Now, go home and get cleaned up. And she managed a smile. And Willie, she called after him as he skipped up the driveway, From now on, you ride your scooter in the cove! He nodded happily before carefully putting the scooter on the ground, saluting her smartly, and then detoured through the strawberry field, the remains of the scooter slung over one crooked shoulder.

My grandmother walked slowly to the clothesline to survey the damage to her morning's work. She looked to the sky as if for strength then gathered up the linens one by one and began again.

Cast Off

How far have we to go, sir? a seaman in the cast off boat asked wearily of Captain Bligh.
Don't let your mind dwell on that, lad, the captain replied almost kindly, think of how far we've come.

Being a cast off child means an endless search for acceptance and approval, a watchfulness for demons around each corner, a constant expectation of disappointment. It leads to making bad choices for desperate reasons, erecting walls to keep people at a distance, suspicion and an inability to trust. Painful, angry memories are always just below the surface, waiting to explode and shatter whatever good thing you may stumble onto. You look for and usually find the worst, forgetting that balance overcomes eventually and that the playing field will level out. You never quite learn how to forgive but you do learn how to confront the demons and put them in their place. It's a start.

Friends, in this case, my dear friend Tricia, point out that if I had had a mother who loved her children, I might've missed the amazing, strange, and wonderful people I knew as a child, might never have known the love of a place that has endured for over 60 years. In an intact family, there might've been stability and security, even safety but I might've missed the intimacy with my grandmother and all the characters she collected. I might never have discovered the strength and support of The Twelve Steps or learned true independence. I would never have been drawn to Lee, who became my surrogate mother and loved me through it all, would never have met her daughter whose friendship I treasure so dearly. Life with the love of a mother might've been easier but almost certainly it would've been less colorful and far less of an adventure.

Cast off and adrift, with not enough food or fresh water and motivated only by a need to survive and a thirst for revenge, Captain Bligh reached England. So shall I, by concentrating not on how far there is to go, but how far I have come.

Penny Candy

Aunt Flo's cousin, twice removed on her mother's side, ran a tiny candy store at the foot of the breakwater. It wasn't much more than a shack surrounding a half dozen or so cracked and dusty glass display cases that held penny candy - licorice whips, carmels, jawbreakers, root beer barrels, jelly beans. Around his neck, Uncle Bernie wore a miniature silver scoop on a long silver chain. A penny's worth of candy was one scoop and for an nickel you could open the battered, old red and white cooler and add a bottle of pop from the clear, icy water. It was a kids store and on Saturday afternoons in the summer, Uncle Bernie would sit just outside the door and read to us from The Brothers Grimm, fairy tales filled with blood and gore and unhappy endings, horrifying tales of ogres and dragons and trolls under bridges. Here we learned about witches who cast nasty spells and roasted children alive, about evil dwarves with pointy shoes and scruffy beards, about werewolves and vampires and haunted forests. Uncle Bernie read with enthusiasm and great energy, adding faces, gestures and sound effects to the stories and we were carried away by his imagination and imagery - we shivered with fear and screamed in delight and always begged for more.

Later on the stories became bloodier and more grotesque - Dracula was portrayed with a make believe cape to hide his eyes, an unnerving, cackling laugh and an improbable but completely convincing accent. The Frankenstein monster and Jack the Ripper came to life before our eyes as did Sweeny Todd, Lizzie Borden, The Phantom of the Rue Morgue, even a Lovecraft character or two. Fact or fiction, Uncle Bernie read and acted it all out, capturing us and our curiosity, encouraging us to read and discover the wonder for ourselves. He treasured books and authors and all things literary and wanted us to do the same.

For those who couldn't read - child and adult alike - he opened his home during the evenings and helped them to learn. When my grandmother and others questioned his choice of reading material, he waved them off. Literacy is a gift, he told them sagely, and it should be passed around just like penny candy, otherwise it goes stale. The stories continued without change, all the horror kept our attention until gradually our imaginations grew and we sought out our own stories. And it all began with penny candy and fairy tales.

The Pennygoods

After 67 years of marriage - the best time of his life, Mr. Pennygood told me, fighting back tears - his wife had passed on Saturday night. She had just turned 86 and had died at home in the bed they had shared for all of their married life, in the house they had lived in for the last 50 years.

I remembered her as being a slight, frail woman with gray hair tied in braids and wound around her head. She walked with effort, usually leaning on his arm while he leaned on his cane. They were a small couple, always smartly dressed and unfailingly polite. This day, Mr. Pennygood wore a blue tie with geometric shapes and a matching handkerchief tucked neatly into his breast pocket, his gold rimmed glasses sparkled. The best time of his life, he repeated with a wan smile, she had been an exceptional woman. The viewing would be tomorrow and they would lay her to rest the following day. He would preach his regular sermon on Sunday, given in her memory, and the entire congregation would attend. She had loved the choir, had sung in it for years, he said, and her voice would be much missed. It had comforted him to preach knowing she was always behind him, her sweet soprano raised in the singing of praises, her voice in harmony with God and life. It had not always been an easy life, he told me, even with her at his side, but it had always been a good one, filled with grace and sweetness, struggle and determination. They had risen above the name calling and racism of the south to build a small, sturdy church and a small, loyal congregation. They had rebuilt after the burning and the threats, had never given up on faith, had survived and continued to preach forgiveness and love even when shut out and despised. Years of nickels and dimes put away in coffee cans had paid to send their only daughter to teaching college and to make a down payment on a small house.

I listened to Mr. Pennygood with a sense of sadness at his loss and amazement at his acceptance. He told me he'd gotten the call just after they met and had given up his day laboring job to join the church. He began preaching with her full support although it meant living on next to nothing in a dogtrot house in a neglected and forgotten part of town.
She wrote his sermons out in longhand and never missed a Sunday service. In the years before their daughter was born, they lived on beans and rice, charity and hope. Mrs. Pennygood cleaned houses by day and office buildings by night so that he could spend his time doing the Lord's work. Never a word of complaint, never a doubt that it was the right thing to do, never a question about his devotion. She believed with her whole heart, he said, in him and the life he had chosen for her.

His daughter, now a teacher in Dallas, had suggested he come and live with her but he had refused. His work, he had told her firmly, was not finished and he would not leave the little house he had shared with her mother, not leave his congregation or his friends. She had protested that he shouldn't be alone, that it would be no trouble, that she wanted him to come, that he would love the city and would have a room all to his own, that his grandchildren needed to have time with him. It was all to no avail and Mr. Pennygood had hugged her and smiled, a preacher he was and a preacher he would stay until it was time to go. Mrs. Pennygood, he suspected, was watching and he would not disappoint her, not after 67 years.

Partners in Crime

Hank had worked for my grandfather even longer than my daddy.

In addition to being a licensed funeral director, he acted as limousine and hearse driver, pall bearer and casket carrier, all around handyman and jack of all trades. He supervised the interns, did small repairs, cleaned up the morgue and was on call around the clock. If the power went out, the walk needed shoveling or the windows washing, you called Hank. If a car wouldn't start, the water heater sprung a leak, or the pipe organ needed repairing, you called Hank. If you needed to find my daddy, wherever he was, or needed a ride home from school, you called Hank. If you needed a shoulder to cry on, you called Hank.

He was a huge, bulky man with a perpetual scowl, a taciturn nature and an untamed mane of thick, silver hair that would never stay in place. His collars were always too tight and his vest buttons seemed to strain at the seams as if they might pop off at any moment. He stood well over six feet and was an imposing if slightly sinister figure at wakes and services, standing motionless and watchfully overseeing the proceedings from the shadows, ready to intervene at the first breach of etiquette or the first awkwardness. He was, my daddy said, an extra pair of hands, always thinking three steps ahead and prepared to handle the unexpected with polished skill and such efficiency that it was barely noticeable. Since he so rarely smiled or displayed emotion, it was easy to think him distant, certainly intimidating, even forbidding, when just the opposite was true. Despite his size and football player build, despite his gruffness and one word answers, despite his overall bearish-ness, his heart was breakable and kind.
When he grew a silvery mustache, he looked all the world like a combination of mafia knee breaker and Santa Claus- elegant, well dressed and manicured, but with a faint scent of menace mixed with his Old Spice.

It was said that on his rare nights off, he prowled the Boston clubs and the Cambridge underground, a lavish blonde on each arm. It was said that he was on speaking terms with gangsters as far away as Providence and with detectives as far away as New York. All anyone knew for certain was that he often did not return until the following morning and after a quick shave and shower, would go immediately back to work. He spoke to no one of his off time, he was wife-less and childless, worked most holidays and could level anyone curious enough to ask about his personal life with a level but icy glare. My daddy would smile at the speculation and rumors but never denied or confirmed a word. He minds his business, he told me once, and expects you to mind your's.

His blind side turned out to be a surprising and remarkable lack of foresight in the simplest of things. He grew tired and exasperated at the habit of the interns pocketing the company keys to the two hearses and limousines.
He tried making extra sets of keys without success. He tried dismantling the door locks without success. He tried dire threats and docking their pay without success. And finally he hit upon a foolproof scheme and spent an entire morning welding the keys to a length of chain and the chain to the dashboard of each vehicle. As if by engraved invitation, all four cars were promptly stolen.

He hit the Cambridge streets in a black mood and within 24 hours each vehicle was back in it's place, no questions asked, no damage done, no police reports filed. Sometimes, my daddy told me, not knowing whether to be furious or admiring, it pays to have friends in low places.

Nary A Lamb Were Lost

No one would own up to leaving the gate open that warm summer day when the lambs got loose. All anyone was positive of was that a flock of sheep had come thundering down the coast from 'round The Point, turned the corner to the wharf and headed toward the open water at breakneck speed with Old Hat and her shotgun hot on their heels. The lambs reached the end of the breakwater where there was a mass collision and pile up, then the laws of physics and oncoming momentum took charge and over they went.

The ensuing commotion would've woken the dead, Nana claimed afterwards - twenty or thirty sheep sinking into the sea and Old Hat watching in a mad, helpless dance of passion and rage, screaming curses to the afternoon sky and firing at the gathering seagulls. From his front porch, Sparrow watched the growing chaos and sighing heavily, rose from his old rocking chair and trotted toward the disaster. He calmly disengaged the shotgun from the old crone's hands and in one smooth gesture tossed her scrawny body feet first into the ocean. By then, incoming fishermen were on the scene, netting the sheep into their boats and the factory women had left their places to wade into the water and drag the protesting lambs to land. Old Hat was rescued last and brought to shore, 90 pounds of kicking, screeching, clawing and ungrateful profanity, neatly tucked under John Sullivan's arm, kelp covered and spitting sea water. It were some sorry sight, Alice, John allowed to my grandmother later that day, Some comical, too, but nary a lamb were lost. That old scattergun though, well, that be a diff'rent tale.

To the dismay of no one save its owner, the old shotgun had mysteriously vanished in the fray. Sparrow claimed to have flung it into the waves and while no one confirmed this, no one contradicted it either. It was not found that day, not found for many days after and then it appeared to have washed up on the rocks in several useless pieces. The old hag gathered them carefully and buried them in the back garden under Sparrow's distant but one good eye. When she was done, she scattered ashes and barb wire over the ground, layered it with rocks, and spit. The scattergun was retired at long last and The Point became a quieter place. And nary a lamb had been lost.

The Good China

Being a product of terribly proper old Boston stock, my Aunt Helen was fairly appalled with her new husband's side of the family. Is it true, she asked my grandmother as she adjusted her dress to cover her knees, that you have cousins in......well, Worcester? And that Jan's husband comes from an exceptionally ...........well, shall we say, a rather distressingly prolific family?

My grandmother looked at her Beacon Hill born and bred sister in law and paused in her knitting. It is, she said calmly, but let me reassure you, Helen, it's hardly contaigious.

Helen gave a delicate shiver and pulled her sweater over her narrow shoulders. Good heavens, Alice, she said with a touch of starch in her tone, Worcester! They're foreigners! And ten children veritably shrieks of a lack of self control, not to mention other interests!

Nana sighed and tapped her knitting needles together sharply. Helen, she said, adding her own starch, Have you considered the possibility that your sensitive and proper breeding might have neglected the area of, dare I say, good manners?

Come now, Alice, Helen huffed, I certainly meant no offense.

You always mean to offend, old girl, my Uncle Eddie chimed in cheerfully from the archway, She can't help it, Alice,
that silver spoon has stuck in her craw since day one. Just ignore her.

Aunt Helen winced and turned her back, her dignity too assaulted to respond and her senses overcome by her husband's crude language. To make it worse, my grandmother winked at me and Uncle Eddie laughed outloud, sister and brother in league against the proper head mistress and her snooty, intolerable good breeding. We might have been kinder had she ever relented or shown any sign of imperfection, but all she had was her snobbery and she distanced herself from those below her at every opportunity. At the suggestion that we all help clear the dinner table, she raised her eyebrows in surprise and rallied. Have you no help for that sort of thing? she asked with a hint of distaste as we gathered dirty dishes and trekked to the kitchen. Nana paused at the swinging door, the not quite empty, silver gravy boat balanced in one hand as she judged the height of the candles and the distance to Helen's still occupied chair just beyond them. Uncle Eddie smoothly intervened and with one practiced move swept the gravy boat away and steered his sister through the door. I think it's cook's night off, dear, he told Aunt Helen with a tolerant smile, just before dodging a suddenly airborn coffee cup Nana had flung at him from the kitchen, Why don't you retire to the drawing room? Helen's face paled as a juice glass whizzed past his ear, followed by a barrage of black olives and celery and then an unexpected mix of cursing and laughter. She fled to the living room with Uncle Eddie loudly protesting, Not the good china, Alice!

Myrtle & Twice A Week Walter

My mother's friend, Myrtle, was a Cambridge shop girl.

She was in her thirties when I first met her - chubby and just over five feet tall with dark hair and a bright smile. She wore oversized, black rimmed glasses with rhinestones on the corners and always a touch of red - lipstick, scarf, shoes or purse. She tended to sparkle and she chattered non stop and mindlessly. She worked in an upscale department store in Cambridge, selling ladies wear or as she said with a giggle and slight blush, undergarments and foundations. She had a blatant crush on my daddy and took to batting her eyelashes and smiling shyly at him at every opportunity, cupping his hands in her's when he lit her cigarettes and gazing at him with a starcrossed and lost expression that we found endearing and slightly comical. For heaven's sake, Myrtle, my grandmother would snap at her, Act your age! And Myrtle would sigh and pout at the reprimand but she was never deterred.

Still single and aching for a home, a husband and children, Myrtle dated an intriguing variety of men. She found them through personal ads, lonely hearts clubs, church groups, blind dates and matchmaking friends. Each new man was cause for hope and celebration but there were rarely second dates - her eagerness to please was wearying, her chatter wore them out, her very nature and childlike innocence put them off. Be yourself, my grandmother told her with a scowl, Stop trying so hard! And tears would well up in Myrtle's eyes at this verbal slap, her hurt feelings spilling over with her tears. Nana immediately relented, drying her tears and chiding her gently for being overly sensitive and too tender hearted. Be patient, dear, she would say kindly, The right man will come along when you least expect him. And Myrtle would raise her head and wail with despair at the prospect of dying a virgin.

In a perfect world, the right man would've come along, met the shop girl and swept her off her feet in a daze of romance and flowers and candlelight dinners. Reality, however, is less kind and the right man never materialized for Myrtle. More and more time passed between first dates until they stopped altogether and little by little, Myrtle aged, saddened, and gradually came to accept that a shop girl she was and would always be. She hated being a realist and dreaded being alone and old but she kept her bitterness mostly to herself and concentrated on being the best shop girl she could be. When her mother became ill, she moved back home to be a caretaker in a small walkup apartment in Brighton, just over the Cambridge line. She barely noticed Twice A Week Walter, her mother's home health nurse who came each Tuesday and Friday, a chubby little man in white scrubs and hospital shoes with a perpetual smile and Paul Newman blue eyes. He looks a little like a Christmas elf, she confided to my grandmother, And sometimes he brings flowers. Nana raised an eyebrow and looked at Myrtle closely. For you? she asked casually and Myrtle shook her head, Oh, heavens no, for Mother. My grandmother paused and then asked, Are you sure? Myrtle gave her a startled look and laughed self consciously.

I think my grandmother may have been the only one who was not surprised when Myrtle and Twice A Week Walter eloped to Las Vegas the following year. The announcement was made with a flurry of postcards written in splashy, bright red ink. The shop girl found the right man as soon as she stopped desperately searching - all she had to do was get out of her own way.