Richardson's Corner Road

Darrell Wayne had worked in the lumber mill all his life, following a tradition originally set by his great grandfather. He was a rough and tumble young man, hard drinking, hard living and hard working, fond of course language and high stakes poker games but always cheerful about his lot in life, always the first in line to lend a hand to a friend. The night of the accident he had taken on a extra run with the logging truck when another driver had called in sick. He never gave it a second thought, climbing into the cab and roaring off into the cold night, airhorn blaring and every light on the truck aglow.

The collision with the pickup truck happened on a deserted, back country two lane road an hour or so later. Darrell Wayne had made the turn at Richardson's Corner and was headed downhill when the pickup came into sight, weaving and veering toward him like a drunken sailor. In the split second before impact, both drivers tried to adjust their courses but space and time ran out and they met with such a devastating and shattering force that residents of nearby homes expected to find a crashed aircraft and body parts scattered along the road. Instead, they found survivors - both men crushed, broken and burned, but alive. The woods were alive as well with rapidly spreading fire and in a matter of minutes an entire small town mobilized, pulling the victims away from the wreck, coordinating fire fighting efforts, saving the lives of two strangers as well as what was so precious to them personally.

God must've been watching that boy, Aunt Pearl remarked to the Ladies Quilting Circle when the news reached the island, I expect this will change his life. My grandmother laughed a little harshly, Don't hold your breath, dear, she told Pearl, Darrell Wayne t'ain't likely to find the Lord over this.

After several months in hospital and several more in rehabilitation, Darrell Wayne emerged, intact save for a number of pins holding his broken bones together and a pronounced limp. The pick up driver had lost an arm but was otherwise healthy and the two had, strange as it seemed, forged an enduring friendship and kept in touch for the rest of their lives. Each year on the anniversary of the accident, they traveled to Richardson's Corner Road, offered up a brief prayer and then got what Uncle Shad called "knee walkin' drunk" together. Mighty strange way to say thanks, Shad told my grandmother with a shrug and Nana just laughed. As she had suspected, Darrell Wayne's brush with death didn't change his life or alter his behavior except to make him more determined to live as he pleased and cram as much in as he could. He was just past forty when mortality, disguised as a pretty woman with a jealous boyfriend, intervened in a bar brawl in St. John. The boyfriend took a beating before drawing a knife and Darrell Wayne was, Uncle Shad reported, dead before he hit the floor.

God has his eyes somehere else that night, Aunt Pearl said tearfully and my grandmother had the good grace to keep silent.

A Case of Curious

By the time, Dev had turned 5, the island was in complete agreement - never had a more curious, adventurous child been born into their midst.

Devlin Hugh Melanson had come into the world on a loud and stormy early morning, as if the weather was in sync with his birth. He had been a discontented infant, learning to crawl at an early age and howling in frustration when he couldn't get his way. He was attracted to closed doors and locked cabinets, anything out of reach, and the world of the outside - just before his 3rd birthday, he had forced open a latched screen door and headed onto the porch and down the steps where he tumbled and fell into a patch of poison ivy. By the time he turned 4, he could open windows and go missing before his bewildered mother had even missed him, turning up in muddy sheep pens, alseep in Sparrow's vegetable garden, playing happily in the tide and jagged rocks of the coastline. John Sullivan, halfway out of the passage one pre dawn morning, discovered him tangled in a barrel of baited fish, untroubled by the bloody hooks caught in his hair and contentedly chewing on a length of greasy coated rope.

At 8, he began dismantling things to see how they worked - a ships clock that had been in his mother's family for generations, a discarded boat engine, an ancient radio. He crawled into the workings of Aunt Florrie's pump organ, took apart his daddy's scatter gun, shooting off two toes in the process, pried open padlocks, small motors and a cast off wringer washing machine to examine their parts and put them back together again. Nana allowed him to tinker with her steam iron and then reluctantly handed over her antique toaster - a strange little affair with sides that flipped up and down with the turn of a knob on either side and had developed a distressing habit of smoking bread while not actually toasting it. By then Dev had acquired a collection of tools as well as an assortment of nails and screws, bits of wire and metal, odds and ends of hardware and plastic, and after a hour or two, the toaster was repaired and returned. By 15, he could fix lamps, pocket watches, brownie cameras, push pedal sewing machines, even his Uncle William's tractor, and slowly he began to charge for his work, saving enough to build a small workshop inside the barn. That boy, his daddy announced to the men gathered at Curt's corner store, that boy got a case of curious, ain't never seen anythin' like it.

Ayuh, Curt agreed, Smart as a whip with his hands.
Yep, Uncle Willie nodded sagely, reckon it's a callin' and a good livin' both.
Dunno, Uncle Shad said with a grin, fixin' folks pays a mite better.
Mebbe so, Dev's daddy paused to strike a wooden match on the heel of his boot, But it ain't near as useful.

Private Perversions

In some ways, we are what we learn.

If, from a young age, we are taught to be lazy, irresponsible, shirkers who will never be truly held accountable for our actions, who will always have someone trailing behind to clean up the messes we make before they catch up to us, we become useless adults. If we are never asked to reason, if everything is handed down without effort, we become thoughtless, selfish and intellectually challenged. And if we are taught materialism and the value of possessions count more than integrity and kindness and peace of mind, then we become greedy, grasping, and vain. Family will turn their backs, friends will fade, even drinking buddies will move on, finally realizing that if alcohol is all you have in common, then you have less than nothing.

Such people are the clutter of the earth, little scraps of litter and discarded debris that men in orange jump suits on the sides of the road are sent to pick up. They have no purpose except to get in the way and be annoying, to trash an otherwise pretty landscape and to relentlessly disappoint those around them. Searching for the good in such people is an exercise in futility and only breeds resentment and rage at their very existence. They take without the first thought of giving back, hiding behind fraudulent smiles and counterfeit, imitated emotions. There is nothing genuine to be found - no character, no consideration, no good deeds. Take them apart, and you would find acres of emptiness in place of a brain, a heart, or a conscience.

This we learn - to be careless with others, to be assured of our own entitlements, to arrogantly dismiss those who might help, and to tread on anyone brave enough to get in the way. Is it really any wonder that such people are despised and laughed at? That at the end of the day, we have not even pity for them? That contempt would be generous? Just as I think it might be possible to find some charity, I discover that their private perversions are not rumors but advertised boldly, made public on a website, twisted, mangled, sadistic and sad.

In some ways, we are what we learn but if we choose to stay that way we shouldn't be surprised to be kicked to the curb and run over by a passing garbage truck.

Go With God - As Long As You Go

In this particular part of the Bible Belt, a great many people have taken to wishing me "A Blessed Day". It is on their checks and their answering machines and used regularly in everyday conversation. Few things annoy me more.

Religion in the south is no private affair - there are Bible Schools and camps and bookstores, religious gift stores and day care. Church attendance is high and most people who go still go in "church clothes", excepting, of course, for the Unitarians of what is affectionately known as "The Church of Anything Goes", a free spirited congregation who actually do seem to practice what they preach. Mostly, the rest is window dressing, habit, and tradition - it wouldn't do to not be seen in church, people would talk.

If my soul is to be saved, it will not be within the confines of a designated building on a designated day of worship but rather through living a life as best I can, on a wing and a prayer, I admit, trying to do as little harm as possible. Until it reaches out and wrecks the lives of others, sin is a private affair, between my conscience and my beliefs. If God is to judge, I trust Him to look at the whole picture. A life is, after all, not much more than a body of work, some good, some bad, some worthy, some not. I think that like a teacher grading on the curve, all will be taken into consideration.

It's a well intentioned phrase, probably sincere most of the time and while I appreciate the thought, I'd be happier without it being put into actual words. I never like to be told what kind of a day to have - I'd rather decide for myself.

The distance between religion and spirituality is infinite.

Free will is a bitch.
Al Pacino in The Devil's Advocate

Mary Alice and The Man Who Made Rocking Chairs: A Love Story

The man who made rocking chairs made his rounds each second week of June, arriving in a dusty old Chevy and pulling a horse trailer. He carried a small notebook for order taking and a portfolio of sorts, a looseleaf plastic binder with drawings of rocking chairs. The finished products were carefully packed in the trailer, coverered with sheets and wrapped in straw and these he delivered first, unpacking each one alone and almost reverently. No ordinary chairs these - each was crafted by hand from start to finish, grooved and and pegged to fit together with perfect symetry and harmony - carved, sanded, polished and painted over the long winters, each shone with craftmanship and pride. The man who made rocking chairs was likened to an artist, known for his work and reputed to be a perfectionist of the highest degree, refusing to accept the most minor flaw in wood, working alone and until all hours, turning out treasures for front porches and kitchens and the rooms of newborns.

Mary Alice, a wood nymph of a girl who loved to draw and paint and wander the backwoods with a sketchbook and a pocketful of charcoal pencils, much loved and not at all understood by her practical and hardworking parents, thought to be shy and even distant and not much of a prospect, fell in love at first sight - first with the rocking chairs and then with the man who made them. She was a delicate, withdrawn, head in the clouds seventeen and he was an already gray at the temples, man of few words forty-one and there opposition to the match from every corner, dismal predictions of failure were heard all over the island and the phrase "cradle robber" became popular.
Nevertheless, when the man who made rocking chairs had finished his deliveries and order taking, he moved on with Mary Alice at his side in the old Chevy. They arrived on the South Shore and were married that very day, taking up residence in the second story apartment above the rocking chair workshop and immediately beginning to plan for a house overlooking the bay.

Public opinion was discreetly against them from the start, saying quietly that a marriage made of instant faith and recklessness could not survive, that love at first sight would wither with the first winter or the first hardship. They said it quietly for years, predicting that it was just a matter of time, that May - December marriages burned hotly then burned out. And through it all, Mary Alice and the man who made rocking chairs made a life together, built a house, worked and traveled together so that they would not be apart, and stayed in love. They listened only to each other and their hearts and forty years passed in the blink of an eye.

Mary Alice buried the man who made rocking chairs in the small South Shore cemetery on a bright sunny day in June, just before she packed up the latest horse trailer and the latest Chevy and began his last round of deliveries.
At summer's end, she returned to the house above the bay and to the pair of rocking chairs on the front porch, to watch sunsets alone, to smile at those who passed by, and to rock gently and wait.

Down Like A Stone

John Sullivan appeared at the back door, kicked it open with one swift motion and crossed the kitchen into the living room room before the door had swung closed. He carried Miss Hilda, riding boots, walking stick, tweed coat and all as if she weighed no more than a feather. Alice! he yelled Spirits of ammonia!

My grandmother - a practical and wise woman who knew enough to trust John Sullivan not to stride through her house unannounced without good cause - snatched the smelling salts and dashed downstairs. Miss Hilda was horizontal on the divan, her head resting on one end and her boots hanging over the other. John had unbuttoned her jacket and loosened her collar and was in the process of applying a cold washcloth to her forehead. Before Nana could brush him aside, Miss Hilda woke up. Bloody hell, John Sullivan, she shouted, her usual distinguished upper class British accent taking a decided turn toward the Cockney, What do you think you're about? Get your bloody hands off me! John backed up, trying to hide a smile and Nana took the old lady's shoulders with a firm grip and forced her back. Breathe, dear, she said calmly, Nice deep breath before you try to stand. Miss Hilda glared at her and I was reminded of one of Rowena's yearlings after a run, slightly sheened with sweat, impatient, nostrils flaring and a trifle dangerous if you got too close. My grandmother held her ground, insisting Hilda breathe and relax for a few more minutes, speaking mildly but firmly and not paying the slightest attention to the wail of protests emanating from the divan. Now, dear, Nana advised her quietly, Why don't you tell me what happened? Miss Hilda set her formidable jaw and struggled upright, adjusting her collar and smoothing her tweed skirt with as much dignity as she could muster but she said nothing, studying the worn linoleum at her feet with intense concentration.

Fainted, John Sullivan volunteered from across the room, Went down like a stone.

The very idea! Hilda snapped, I am not a woman who faints and most certainly not one who would require assistance if I should!

Down like a stone, John repeated stubbornly.

Hilda got to her feet, replaced a loose hairpin in her silvery hair, cleared her throat and rapped her walking stick against one polished boot. You, sir, she said clearly, her upper class accent restored and cutting cleanly, are misinformed. I am a woman of fortitude, endurance and independent means. Your efforts at chivalry, commendable as they may have been, were entirely unneccessary and in future will be regarded as intrusive. When John just shrugged, she rapped her boot more sharply, I am also a woman who is accustomed to being answered by those I address, she said curtly, Kindly accommodate me.

John straightened, nodded, struggled not to laugh. Yes'm, he finally managed but his voice was shaky and Nana gave him a sharp prod in the ribs. Miss Hilda gave them a final, withering look and turned on her heel, striding out, head held high, shoulders squared. One stray strand of hair curled defiantly from under her tweed cap, a small concession to her injured pride and British reserve.

She was not a woman to be taken lightly, not a woman who would afford herself the luxury of a fainting spell or a debt of gratitude. My grandmother and John Sullivan laughed themselves silly then each vowed to protect Miss Hilda's pride and never mention the incident again. Despite a world of temptations - most brought on by Miss Hilda herself - it was a promise they honored without a second thought.

Walking on Stilts

My friend Sam stopped by today, reminding me once again of how difficult it is to watch someone you care about gradually deteriorate.

Thinner than ever, his arms hang loosely from his t shirt sleeves and his blue jeans don't even pretend to fit. His hair is uncombed. he needs a shave, and he walks with a stiff, inflexible gait, as of his legs were made of wood. His very face is misshapen, cheeks puffed up toward his eyes like a full mouthed chipmunk, jaw loose, making me think that his teeth don't fit very well. He chews gum with a vengeance and it impairs his already scattered speech, his eyes are little manic and he's restless, barely acknowledging the attentions of the dogs that he once loved. He skips from subject to subject and back again, his thoughts randomized and painfully cluttered.

He is moving, he tells me, and when I ask why, he launches on a bitter stream of invective about his landlord - the broken windows, the leaks in the roof, the backed up plumbing, the failed air conditioning unit - all unrepaired for years and then the final insult, yet another rent increase. He's had enough, he tells me, there's no reward for eight years of loyal renting, no justice in the world. He rambles on, eventually losing steam and his train of thought at the same time. The dogs whine and nudge him for attention - he has known them both since they were born - and he absently strokes them while asking me how I am but he doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, I hear of his latest new friends, of dinners out and evenings of wine and sunsets, of how many new young girls are begging to pose for him and how nudity, done right, is art. There is less and less of the friend I once had in him and when he gets up to leave I don't ask him to stay for supper as I would've once done, don't suggest we get together soon, don't tell him to keep in touch. This is a static-y stranger, a man at playing at contentment while at odds with the world.

He leaves, half lurching, half staggering down the steps toward the driveway, walking stilt-like and carefully, a scarecrow figure in rumpled, ill fitting clothing. He hadn't hugged me goodbye as he would've done once, didn't turn at the car for a final wave and a grin. I closed the front door quietly, feeling sad and relieved, hoping that he would not call again. It's too difficult to watch someone you once cared about deteriorate and turn into a stranger.

Deep Sighs, Dead Cats and Five Days of Rain

We all have our saturation points. Mine came today, when, after a morning of listening to a litany of health complaints from a co-worker and a deep sigh following each and every telephone call, I left for lunch and stalled at the first intersection. Something's misfiring, my mechanic assured me cheerfully, I can look at it tomorrow. It's always tomorrow in the world of car trouble. I got home, arriving the same time as the letter carrier and made the mistake of opening the front door while he was still depositing mail. The black dog, who had clearly had him in her sights before he reached the door, lunged like a wild thing, careening through the screen and onto the steps in one amazing motion. I caught her in mid-leap, twenty pounds of struggling, powerful and very irate dog, determined to defend her territory at all costs. She's not a bad dog, I told him weakly, She has issues. The unnerved postal employee fled, leaving a trail of scattered mail and magazines in his wake and giving me a dark look over his shoulder. The black dog, still barking and fighting for the freedom to chase, began licking my face and neck, proud of her behavior and happy to have won another round, unimpressed with the severe scolding that followed and content to race in mad circles around me while I began the midday feeding. Enough! I heard myself shout through the chaos and slammed my fist on the counter, startling the pacing cats and causing the small brown dog to immediately seek shelter under the table, I'm doing the best I can!

I regretted this outburst instantly and made amends, counting to ten and taking several deep breaths before apologizing and regaining my composure. My temper rarely gets the best of me and my animals - with the notable exception of the black dog - were certainly not to blame. It was a minor meltdown but a telling one, making me realize that I need a break from work and caretaking and bad weather. I canceled my plans to come home and collapse, opting instead for a quiet dinner at a downtown restaurant and an evening of music and picture taking.

There are times when you just have to put it all down.

A Strange and Marvelous Threesome

Through a haze of sweet smelling pipe smoke, the old fisherman watched the parade pass by. Leaning in the doorway of the cafe, he adjusted his cap to shade his eyes then idly hooked his thumbs in his suspenders - the tourists didn't appear to notice him and the dog at his feet slept peacefully through all the chatter and noise. When local folk passed and nodded to him, he nodded back, the barest hint of a smile passing across his face. A smallish blue green parrot perched nonchanlantly on his shoulder, so still and serene that it might have been made of wood.

Mornin', Samuel, my daddy said as we passed by, Think it might rain?
The old man glanced at the sky and then at the parrot, giving his shoulder a slight shrug. The bird fluttered it's wings just a bit and opened it's eyes long enough to cackle God save the queen! and Samuel shook his head, Tain't likely. My daddy smiled and walked on but I stopped in my tracks, never having seen a parrot before and certainly not one that could speak. The bird regarded me with disinterest until Samuel shrugged his shoulder again, then it shifted it's spiky little, taloned feet and cawed, Come to order! Come to order! God save the queen! Samuel almost smiled and the dog woke briefly, then laid his head down on his paws and went back to sleep. The parrot spread it's wings, gave itself a shake and shrieked a curseword followed by an even louder God save the queen! By then a small crowd was beginning to gather, tourists and fascinated children alike watched as the old fisherman produced a handful of seeds and the bird delicately pecked them from his palm and continued to speak. Come to order! it squawked and Be seated! and more God save the queen!

The children laughed with delight, besieging Samuel with questions - Can I feed him? Can he count? What's his name? Can he fly? Who's the queen? Where did you get him?

His name be Micah, Samuel replied, He's from a dark continent, very far away, and he can fly like the Lord's own wind if'n he has a mind to. And, the old man paused, narrowing his eyes and giving us all a warning look, he bites.

We all took a respectful step back while the parrot screeched out Take your seats! Take your seats! God save the queen! Then, as if listening to a waltz, he began to bob his head up and down and sway back and forth on the old man's shoulder, squawking curses and pecking. It was a curious and graceful dance, interspersed with curses and it woke the dog who roused himself and gave a mighty yawn. Time to go, Samuel told him, and the old man, the parrot, and the dog - a strange and marvelous threesome - began ambling down the sidewalk toward the docks, the sun at their backs and the carefree summer day stretched out before them like an invitation.

Success in a Three Piece Suit

All humor, I once read, is based on malice. Now there's a bitter thought.

My first husband was somewhat of an expert on this, knowing instinctively where to aim and how to hit the target dead on. He was always careful to disguise these little poison darts with a friendly slap on the back and much hearty laughter and his targets usually responded in kind, at least superficially. It was a stealthy kind of attack, cloaked in friendship and intimacy, born of insecurity and a need to be the center of attention. Sadly, since he was so accurate, he was rarely called to account and those he targeted tended to laugh right along with him, agreeing that it was all in good fun, no real harm intended.

I have wondered - endlessly and uselessly - if we had not returned to his home territory and his family, would he have been different, would he have remained kind, true to his feelings, or gentle. The boy I married was quick witted and funny and although he could be sharp tongued, he was rarely mean spirited. He was generous with his feelings and his time, determined to succeed despite his name and inheritance. He wanted to make it on his own and had left the South and traveled to a college in New England to find not just independence but anonymity, to shed the caste system that wealth had provided him with, to live on his own terms. The man he became was caustic and callous, easily re-integrating into his family and their expectations, accepting their kid gloved rules and embracing their lifestyle. His name opened doors and he went through without a backward glance, effortlessly reinventing his values and goals. The boy I married exchanged his tattered jeans and long hair for a three piece suit and a Porsche, swapped his ideals for small town prominence, and in the end, became all that he been against.
Worse, he expected me to make the same journey and the same transformation, to become an accessory rather than a partner. I watched this process with dismay, anger, and a sense of being left behind, feeling inadequate and unwilling to be made over into an acceptable - and by his new standards - presentable wife.

Success and a three piece suit without a social conscience leads to arrogance and arrogance leads to condescension which reinforces the feeling that it's acceptable and funny to attack others and disguise it as humor. A name does not a better person make, money does not buy class, an intact family is more than breeding and appearance and two people on different life paths cannot travel together for long.

Better Days

It wasn't the kind of day you'd want to live more than once.

The prospect of losing two cats, maybe even three, was devastating. I had closed my eyes to their age and ill health, praying for some kind of miracle that would restore them and me. Not only was there no miracle, there was now the distinct possibility that I might lose a third. My thoughts were clouded with fear and dread and it was difficult to concentrate on insurance claims. As always, I couldn't imagine where I would find the resolve and courage to do what was best for them and let them go.

My love of cats seems to have been with me always but the truth is I was into my 20's before I learned to love them. I was suspicious of such independent minded creatures, so distant and strong willed, so indifferent to affection. I wasn't willing to work for their approval when dogs were so readily available, devoted by nature and always anxious for attention and praise. Clearly, a cat was a challenge I didn't need or especially want. Now, having loved and lived with them for over 40 years, I can't imagine what I was thinking and what I missed. Black, tiger, calico, tabby - each has been unique, each has been a gift. Some have been timid and reclusive, some have been extroverted and pushy, some have been loving and some have been standoffish, but each has been one of a kind and utterly irreplaceable. Each was a joy, a trial, a treasure and a heartbreak. The pain of losing them never heals but it becomes almost bearable knowing that their suffering is ended.

Meanwhile, the third cat is home, looking all the world as if he'd lost a fight with a threshing machine, but intact and on the mend. He sleeps beside me, curled up tightly and purring fitfully, dreaming perhaps of better days and healing. Just as I do.

The Unexpected

It's the unexpected that brings you to your knees.

For months now, I've been trying to prepare for the inevitable loss of my old tabby and my even older tortoiseshell. They are both thin and wasting away, well into their teens and although they have lived good lives and been well loved, although I know it's time to let them go, it's a decision I've put off for far too long. I was not prepared to face the possible loss of a younger and healthier cat.

I woke to the sound of labored breathing and discovered the small black cat huddled in a corner. One eye was crusted shut, the other filled with pus, his nose was clogged with mucus and one entire side of his face was swollen and covered with scales. In total panic, I wrapped him in a towel and headed for the vet's, convinced that it would be nothing short of a miracle if he survived the 20 minute drive, anticipating every ragged, choking breath would be his last. We made it just as the clinic opened its doors and within seconds he was put on oxygen and fluids, antibiotics were administered, one of the techs gently wiped his eyes with a wet washcloth. I answered questions about caustic chemicals, poisons, toxins, had anything changed in the house, was anything different, could he possibly have gotten outside or gotten into a fight. I watched them draw blood and check for fever, watched the dismayed faces treating him turn from concern to genuine fear then to relief as his breathing eased a bit. They stroked him, talked to him, and soothed him as best they could. On the sidelines, all I could do was pray.

Today as I held the old tabby and the old tortoiseshell and Doc gave them a final injection, I was still praying. Patch went quietly, gently, without fuss or protest, simply laying her head on my arm and drifting off to whatever place is next. Chloe, true to her nature, died as she had lived, growling and pushing back and mad as hell.

Afterward I saw the younger cat, face still swollen but eyes clear and breathing normal, almost well enough to come home. Mercy comes in many forms.

Seven Days of Decadence

The yacht was fully staffed - a chef, a maid, several young man in black trousers and white shirts who's only job it seemed was to see to every whim of every guest, a captain and a capable crew. The prospect of a week at sea in the warm waters and picturesque ports of the Caribbean seemed like a gift from above.

We left from Puerto Rico, sailing into a bright ocean with sun and blue skies above. I felt at home with the salt spray and the water, it was familiar and comforting. A table was laid on deck, linen napkins and sparkling silverware, a vase of flowers. Lunch and champagne were served precisely at one, dinner at eight, and in between the chef was always available to whip up a light snack. We sailed mainly at night when all but the crew slept so as the sunny days were free for sunbathing and swimming, an impromptu game of bridge, or some lazy fishing. Along the way we stopped in Martinque for a day, in St. Kitts for an afternoon, and finally in Jamaica where we shopped and roamed until dark and spent the evening on the flagstoned terrace of an oceanside hotel, watching the boats in the harbor and drinking rum punch.

For me, it all came to a screeching halt the following morning. While my mother in law tended to some last minute shopping and my father in law and husband lazed poolside, I discovered the side of Jamaica you don't see in the travel brochures. Following a sing song sound from beyond the shopping district, I walked along a dirt road to the shacks, the stray dogs, the crushing poverty. Children in rags begging for coins, old people so thin that I could see their ribcages and a group of women in a circle on the ground, plucking chickens and singing in French. No tourist trade here, no colorful shops or gregarious vendors, no high flying flags or well appointed horse drawn carriages. This side of Jamaica wasn't for the rich Americans or other carriage trade in their linen dresses and seersucker suits, stocking up on paperback novels and duty free liquor and my liberal social conscience had kicked in with unexpected force. The images refused to go away and the yacht lost its charm, leaving me with a wretched sense of guilt and unearned, undeserved good fortune.

Like unexpected company, rude awakenings arrive without invitation and overstay their welcome. You can make conversation with them or leave the room but you can't pretend they aren't there.

The Amazing Maple Syrup Raft

Out?? Miss Hilda exclaimed incredulously, Out?? She glared at the helpless shopkeeper, her face dark with threat. Eugene, a loud rap of her walking stick, Be good enough to explain to me how you can conceivably be "out" of peanut butter AND maple syrup at this time of year!

Mr. McIntyre lowered his eyes and wrung his hands together despairingly. I should have more by the end of the week, Miz Elliott, he mumbled, I'll have them delivered.

That, Eugene, will hardly be sufficient, Miss Hilda snapped and turned on her heel, stalking out, her polished riding boots clacking sharply on the sawdust covered floor and pausing only long enough to wait for one of the men playing checkers to leave the game and open the door for her. Disgraceful, Eugene! she threw back over her shoulder, Poor planning and utter ineptitiude, I should say. Disgraceful!

At the island's only other general store, Aunt Jenny had no better news, confessing that she had indeed sold her entire inventory of peanut butter and maple syrup to Willie Foot not three days before, as well as a dozen balls of twine, a set of paint brushes, a box of nails, a hacksaw and a Union Jack flag. Suspicions began to form in Miss Hilda's mind at the mention of the flag and she left, so distraught that she opened the door herself, leaving Aunt Jenny open mouthed in surprise and a half dozen old fishermen half risen off their seats.

News of the shortage spread quickly and thoroughly, the entire island community taken up with curiosity and wonder at Willie's purchases. Willie himself was nowhere to be found although a search of his ruined old house did produce the remains - a nearly empty box of nails, a lone ball of twine and several empty gallon cans of maple syrup. There was no sign of peanut butter or a hacksaw but in the back room, Uncle Len discovered a pair of wooden saw horses nearly buried in wood shavings and cut up logs. The flag, neatly sliced into strips, was tacked over one broken window. Hell's bells, Uncle Shad remarked to Uncle Len, What the blazes has that damn fool gotten up to now?

The answer came much later in the summer, on a clear Saturday evening, in the cove, just after the tide had come in. Willie Foot, his hair colored bright green and sticking out at all angles, his eyes wild with excitement appeared on the water in a makeshift raft. He was, as Uncle Shad later reported to my grandmother, Bare ass nekked and standin' at attention, polin' that green wood raft for all he was worth, takin' on more water with every stroke, but damned if he didn't make it to shore. Miz McIntyre, well, she run out there with a buncha towels, tryin' to hide her eyes and cover 'im up all at the same time!

An inspection of the raft revealed a neat layer of peanut butter carefully spread between each log, twine had been triple wrapped and tied to hold them together and each log was nailed to the next. The entire contraption had been glazed with maple syrup - top, bottom, and all four sides. After a day or so of sun and tide, it gradually broke apart and was abandoned to the salt water and the gulls. Willie salvaged a battered log - no one dared ask why - and while dragging it home he tripped on a piece of leftover twine, fell and rolled into the ditch, breaking his leg in two places. Rowena was recruited to splint the shattered leg, Uncle Len's old pickup was improvised into an emergency ambulance and the two of them carried Willie to the mainland hospital where he was greeted like an old friend. He returned several months later, courtesy of the mail car, gleeful as ever, more or less intact, and no more perpetually dazed then when he had left. He was one of their own and they were more than willing to settle in and wait for the next chapter of madness. They had no idea what it might be or when but no doubt at all that it would come.

Conversations with the Dead

In her spare time, Miss Clara tended the cemetery behind the chuch, bringing fresh flowers, planting and re-planting borders, gathering fallen leaves and wayward tree branches. She kept a small polishing rag in her apron pocket and would go from headstone to headstone, wiping away smudges of dirt while her painted pony contendedly grazed not far away. And Clara sang while she worked, old Baptist hymns and Buddy Holly songs, show tunes she'd learned from the radio, old time gospel and forgotten blues. When she wasn't singing, she was talking - long, involved, one sided conversations with the dead - cheerfully bring them up to date on their families and island goings on, birthdays and the weather, the latest gossip and news, births and deaths and who was keeping company with who. She told of Willie Foot's latest adventures, of the revenuers and their raids on the island's well hidden stills, of what was playing at the picture show that week, Rowena's new foals and kittens, Miss Hilda's newest battle with Mr. McIntyre, and the progress of the new post office building. When she was done, she packed away her pocket knife and gardening tools, brushed the dirt off her knees and apron, and rode the painted pony home again.

Clara's house was the only one in Flower Cove. It consisted of three rooms and a tin roof and was accessible only through a path that wound its way through the dark trees for nearly a mile. John Sullivan had added the wraparound porch over several summers, hand carrying the lumber through the woods, several boards at a time and never complaining. On it, Clara kept her window boxes of flowers, tubs of ferns and ivy and spices, a matched set of rocking chairs. Several iron caldrons sat on one side and she had fashioned a clothesline on the other. A battery operated radio played continuously, other than the ever present sea birds and the far off seal colony, it was Clara's only companion. No one, save Long John Sullivan had ever seen the interior of the house and when pressed for details, he remained stoic and silent as ever.

The little house was built on the edge of the woods and Clara's front yard was coastline. We often played there, collecting shells and driftwood at low tide, racing the waves at high, gathering firewood for Clara's little wood stove while she served gingerbread. Sometimes she let us carry water from the well and would reward us with tales of shipwrecks and pirates and the ghosts that haunted the surrounding woods. They only visit at night, she would say, As a rule, ghosts are very shy. They were, so Clara told us, spirits of sailors and whiskey makers long dead and buried, A rowdy bunch, they can be, she said with a wink, always lookin' to make a mite of mischief, but mostly friendly seein' as they know I mind the graveyard.

Do you talk them, Miss Clara? we asked breathlessly, Do they talk back?

Clara smiled patiently, adjusting her long, black skirts and putting one wrinkled fingertip to her lips. Ain't nuthin' worse 'n' chatty spirit, she laughed gaily, 'Ceptin' if I was to start listenin'. And with that she turned to watch the sunset and would talk to us no more of ghosts. The painted pony grazed peacefully at the edge of the trees until Clara nodded off in her old rocking chair, then he picked his way toward the porch and stood motionless, keeping watch over the old woman as dark shadows began to stretch over the rocky sand. The path through to the woods was a shorter route home but we decided to follow the coastline instead - not that we actually believed, we told each other, it was just that a scolding seemed harmless against the unlikely possibility of waking the dead and we had not been raised to be reckless.

The painted pony watched us go with a shake of his mane and a soft whinney that sounded like goodbye.

A Cluster of Crows

Looking out from behind the counter into the restaurant, I was reminded of a cluster of crows.

Not only was every table taken, people stood in twos and threes between them, wine glasses and margaritas held high, voices shrill and shrieking, each trying to drown out the other. The bar was four deep and harried servers darted back and forth, balancing trays and plates and crystal with enviable skill. Though I was thirty feet from the nearest table, I could hear the cross conversations and the drink orders, the debates over which wine to try, the familiar pick up lines being tried, all the social niceties being put into play, southern style. The Thursday night musicians arrived, set up in a crowded corner and began their repertoire of cover songs, though I doubted anyone was listening, and gradually the image of crows became an image of chattering magpies - all noise and nonsense.

I sometimes wonder if a world with less noise wouldn't be a better world in which to hear, if we weren't all trying so hard to out do, out shout and out argue ourselves. Perhaps we would be better listeners - willing to yield some of our precious time to the opposition, willing to make room for another perspective and relinquish the spotlight of moral certainty to another's point of view. My daddy would laugh at me for such thinking, tell me to have more faith and worry less about the dark side of human nature, to trust in right conquering wrong and good outliving evil. It was an argument he made often and I think, at times, actually believed if only for the sake of his children and his peace of mind. It wasn't quite as loud a world then and being inherently a gentle, peaceful and fair minded man, he needed to see the good. He was perpetually in search of a silver lining, always expecting a rainbow after each storm and a generous minded elf at every rainbow's end.

I suspect that if a cluster of crows had invaded the backyard maple tree, even if he'd had the means to shoot at them, he'd have tried shushing them first.

A Good Wife

Uncle Joe had worked for my grandfather all of his adult life. He had been a vibrant, handsome man with a mane of thick white hair and blue eyes always full of mischief. Now he sat in a wheelchair, confined and stricken by a stroke, never to walk or speak again. His pretty and substantially much younger wife, who had never been far from his side during the good times, was with him round the clock, keeping him dressed, shaved, and occupied. She read to him, fed him, saw to it that he didn't cheat on his physical therapy, got him up each morning and put him to bed each night. She entertained him with gossip and crossword puzzles, forced him to see old friends, took him to Red Sox games, wheel chair and all. She never gave up or let up, never compromised, never accepted his paralysis as a permanent despite all the doctors telling her to make peace with the inevitable. After the first year, she made her only concession and hired a part time nurse to come on weekends and a three day a week housekeeper.
This strength of purpose and determination, this loyalty, stunned Uncle Joe's friends and in particular, the female members of my family. Aunt Vickie had long been reputed to be a former chorus girl from New York, a girl with an ache to perform at Radio City Music Hall, a burning ambition to be on stage, and Probably, my viperish Aunt Helen said darkly, Of Low Character. My mother agreed, A barfly, she said scornfully, Only after his money. My grandmother was a trifle more charitable, her tolerant side making an effort if not a a very enthusiastic one, Well, she replied tartly, At least she's not a common street walker. My daddy, caught in mid swallow of ginger ale, over heard this conversation and laughed so hard he nearly choked, For the love of God, he sputtered, She's from Vermont! She was a waitress at a diner in Stowe! Not to be outdone, my Uncle Eddie joined in the fray, Not only that, you old battleaxes, she's a Democrat! he yelled from the safety of the kitchen, And worse, he paused for dramatic effect before adding, I have it on good authority, a Yankees fan!

This bit of blasphemy was too much for my grandmother who detested the arrogant New York team. Mind your business, Eddie, she warned him, Don't think I can't still wash your mouth out with soap. Uncle Eddie and my daddy collapsed with laughter at this threat and my mother and Aunt Helen stiffened their spines in righteous indignation, furious at being caught being in their own cattiness and backstabbing.

I never knew what Aunt Vickie actually was - but chorus girl, playmate, golddigger or hash slinger - she stuck with my Uncle Joe for the remainder of his life, at his side through every illness and every dark hour and in the end, all I knew for sure was that she had been a good and faithful wife for more than thirty years, that she had loved him every minute of every year, and that she was barely fifty when he died. She buried him quietly in Mount Auburn Cemetery with my daddy and Uncle Eddie at her side, then took a train to Vermont. She never remarried.

A Fine Day on the Bayou

The old woman came across the pond in a pirogue, paddling in smooth, graceful, hand over hand motions and picking up debris. She wore gold spectacles and a flowered sun bonnet.

Good morning! she called to me, scooping up a discarded water bottle and a Walmart plastic bag from the surface of the water. Protesting ducks quacked their annoyance with her and a startled turtle on a floating branch dived for cover with a soft splash. Fine morning, don't you think? It was just after eight in the morning, already in the high 90's and personally I thought the heat and humidity were god awful unbearable but it was too early and would've taken too much energy to argue so I nodded. She smiled at me, snatched a styrofoam cup off a clump of weeds and captured a mangled soda can with one quick flip of her wrist. The pirogue came dangerously close to shore as she reached for a scrap of newspaper wrapped around a fast food wrapper but at the last moment she deftly reversed her course and continued her way downstream, calling good naturedly over her shoulder, Don't litter, will you, dear! The last I saw of her she was retrieving a rusty tin can from the weeds - she rinsed it out several times before adding it to a green mesh bag of trash balanced in her lap and paddling on her way, sun in her face, ducks ahead and in her wake, no piece of offending trash too small to be ignored. The pirogue disappeared around a bend silently and smoothly, leaving the barest of ripples behind and the small environmental activist cheefully gathering up the trails of indifferent and uncaring humans too lazy to walk the dozen steps to a trash barrel.

I walked further down the bayou, passing strutting geese leading parades of ducks and other geese to the water,
passing old fishermen with tin cans of worms and cane poles, sitting on overturned plastic buckets and squinting against the sun. Children carrying cellophane bags of stale bread skittered on the banks under the watchful and amused eyes of parents, a young couple holding hands and pushing a stroller walked by and early morning joggers, undetered by the heat or humidity, panted past. The geese on the sidewalk, heads tucked beneath their wings in slumber, slept on.

The Hope Chest

I hadn't thought about the hope chest in years but as I cleaned out the rabbit hutch and poured fresh cedar chips, the smell suddenly took me back to a summer afternoon in my parents bedroom. I could see every detail down to the nautical patterned bedspreads and the dust bunnies

The chest sat against the wall in my parents' room, usually covered in piles of linens and forgotten drycleaning. The first summer I stayed home from Nova Scotia, my daddy launched a full scale cleaning effort and he began in his own room. Curtains were pulled down, blinds removed and thrown in a bathtub of bleach, every pane of glass was scrubbed and polished inside and out. Dresser drawers were emptied onto the bed, their contents sorted and replaced neatly folded. We stripped the beds and laundered everything - sometimes twice - jewelry boxes and book shelves were gone through, the floor was swept and mopped. The hope chest stood untouched until the last.

It was a traditional piece, full sized and lined with sweet smelling cedar. It should have contained the things a mother passes to a daughter when she becomes a bride, things that represented the promise of a new life - embroidered linens and towels, crystal glassware, a wedding dress. And it did. We lifted these things out with care, gently placing them on the bed, my daddy often smiling and telling me what he remembered about them. I felt a slightly eerie sense of intruding into something private and intimate, until we came the empty bottles - the labels peeling off, some with caps, some not - gin bottles, vodka bottles, bourbon bottles, scotch bottles. And stacked neatly in one corner, a half full bottle of sherry and two six packs of Budweiser.

My daddy froze in mid-reach, his face tight with anger, his hands shaking slightly. He stared at the secret stash for several seconds and I felt a familiar fear in my belly. Thinking I might be sick, I backed away, no longer wanting any part of the old hope chest or it's contents, no longer wanting to watch his face. I watched him close the lid with gentle awkwardness and sink back onto his heels, covering his eyes and cursing under his breath, How dare she? Goddam it, how the hell dare she? He turned suddenly and got to his feet, delivering a vicious kick to the side of the chest then looked at me as if he had forgotten I was there. I was crying and he took a huge breath before telling me, We'll finish this another day. Though his voice was soft and the words gentle, there was pain and shock underneath. He brushed past me and started down the stairs in slow, measured steps, one hand gripping the rail like a vise. I fled for the security of my room and locked the door behind me, as if it would keep the ugly truth away.

My mother returned in the fall and with typical willful blindness noticed nothing. The secret of the hope chest remained a secret and was never mentioned again. When I graduated high school that fall, my daddy gave me a small version, almost a miniature hope chest, made of the same fine wood and lined with the same cedar. For your wishes, he told me with a sad smile.

Mary's Flight

Cameron was the last child of ten born to Mary and Alfie Allbright, the sixth boy and the only one with dark hair and brown eyes. By then, Mary was showing the strain of motherhood and this last child broke her in spirit and body. One fine summer morning, she packed a small suitcase and caught the early ferry, headed for the mainland and parts unknown, leaving Alfie with a houseful of children, a bad back, and no idea where to turn.

For the most part, the village took a dim view of her desertion in the line of duty. They didn't mind her leaving Alfie so very much, but abandoning the children was considered next to unforgivable and against all the rules. A sort of day care was set up by the Women's Auxillary where the youngest children were farmed out to other families during the day and the village women each took a day to clean and cook for the family. After a few months, Alfie stepped up, designing a schedule of chores for each child, learning to manage his time and provide for his remaining family. He found work in the factory and was - after several lessons - able to cook basic meals. The girls pitched in with cleaning and laundry and the boys worked the tiny farm and watched over the younger ones. It was not an easy time but the children were kept fed and clean, the farm made a meager profit, and Alfie was able to hold his head up in the village and face down the loss of his wife with a small measure of dignity and pride. Admirable man, Miss Hilda told my grandmother, Adversity does build character, I should say.

Of all the children, only Cameron hadn't known his mother. He had no memories of her, no reminders or pictures and his brothers and sisters were forbidden to talk about her. He was a brooding and restless boy, a loner always on the prowl, always in search of something intangible and missing. The more Alfie tried to steer him away from the subject of Mary, the more persistent he became. Did she leave because of me? he asked over and over again and Alfie would shake his head and turn away, too fragile to face his youngest son's fears and too decent to tell what he thought might be a lie. We'll talk about it when you're older, he would say weakly and Cammie would grit his teeth in frustration. He was sixteen when he left to look for her, twenty-two when he came back.

In all the years that followed, he never spoke of his time away to anyone and no one knew where he had been or what he had found, if anything. He kept his silence, never married, and the mystery of his mother's flight remained a matter of speculation.

Simply put, there are not always answers to be found.

Eighteen for Dinner

The table was set with crisp white linen and gleaming silverware, wine glasses sparkled, everything meticulously laid out for the dinner party. Extra maids in uniform darted about doing last minute chores and making last minute preparations. A dozen or so bottles of wine and champagne were brought from the cellar and set on ice in shiny silver buckets, candles were lit and lights dimmed. A fire had been laid in the den and several guests in black tie and tails gathered about it, cocktails in hand, chatting like old friends. Not a single thing was out of place, not a single carefully arranged rose would have dared to wilt.

I don't remember what the party was actually for, only that I had lived in dread of it for days, praying uselessly for a migraine or an outbreak of some wickedly contaigous disease - an out of town emergency would've served nicely but I couldn't manufacture one that would've deceived everyone. My husband, a spotlight seeker of the first magnitude and totally at home with his family's wealth and status, dismissed my fears as petty nonsense. Having been born and raised in privilege, he took it all for granted and reveled in the attention while I could only cling to the fringe, sure that I would be unmasked as lower middle class, out of place and certainly undeserving. Smile! he snapped me, Mingle! They won't bite you! My mother in law appeared in a gliding swirl of green satin and emeralds and took my elbow firmly. Come, darling, she stage whispered in my ear, You look lovely, let me introduce you to the mayor and his wife. I frantically reached for a glass of champagne from a passing silver tray and tried to steady my nerves and pretend that I couldn't hear my heart thundering like an avalanche of logs. Escape seemed like a faraway dream but I held onto the possibility for dear life, as if drowning in this sea of elite.

Rescue came from an unexpected source - an amazingly chubby and short statured little man with a full head of hair and an impressive beard, smoking a pipe and wearing a tweed suit - shockingly out of place in the formally attired room - smiled at me. There was something in that smile that suggested resignation and familiarity, a hint of satire at the social circus going on all around us, something that was very much like reality. I smiled back and he got to his feet and gently took my arm, suggesting that we get some air.

This was my sister in law's husband, a forensic pathologist who would one day become coroner for the parish and who would die all too young, leaving behind a cloud of suspicion about his work. But on that night, he was an outsider who recognized another outsider and did something about it. It's not an easy family to marry into, he told me, but you'll get the hang of it if you decide to stay. And now to practicalities, he relit his pipe and exhaled sweet smoke, Do you know your silverware?

We talked until dinner was served and then he deftly altered seating arrangements so that we were side by side. I paid attention to the silverware, accepted wine sparingly, kept my hands in my lap and was comforted knowing he was next to me, taking up social slack and being charming, managing to include me in conversation and making me feel entitled to be at the table. Among all the gltter and gold, I had found not just a kindred spirit, but a friend.

Change, Tradition, and The Canned Milk War

Though usually the strongest of allies, Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi waged war over fish chowder for one entire summer, refusing to speak to one another when they passed, refusing to be in the same house with each other. The sisters had come to an impasse over canned milk, Aunt Vi being for it and Aunt Pearl being against. Neither was willing to give an inch over the recipe and Nana predicted violence by Labor Day.

A minor disagreement - arising when the village's only dairy cows unexpectedly went dry in May, another story altogether - began when Aunt Vi couldn't get milk for her fish chowder and after exploring all options, was driven to purchasing a small can of evaporated milk from McIntyre's. She told no one about this, fearing that her chowder would be tainted by the store bought ingredient, and was delighted to discover that the chowder was actually improved. Even her sister Pearl commented on it and Vi, in a state of high excitement, driven by the success of her radical and daring experimentation, confessed over supper. Pearl immediately backtracked, horrified that their mother's sacred recipe had been tampered with, and refused to take another spoonful. When Vi refused to apologize, Pearl departed in what Nana called a "high dungeon stomp", taking her blueberry pie with real cream topping with her and vowing never to darken her sister's doorway again.

The small sisterly spat rapidly evolved in a full family feud with each woman soliciting support from other island women and enlisting husbands and children in the dispute. By June, both were furious at the other's perceived stubbornness and intractability and the war was on with mutual family and friends being dragged in feet first. By July, sides were being chosen, long time favors were being called in, name calling and civil unrest reigned unchecked. Pearl called her sister an evolutionist, the worst insult she could imagine, and accused her of taking liberties and shortcuts. Not to be outdone, Vi immediately responded with charges of isolationism, claiming her sister followed rules like an obedient sheep. Progress, she maintained, was inevitable. Pearl went white and proclaimed her sister a closet communist.

In August, the tiny mainland paper picked up the story with a headline reading CANNED MILK WAR ERUPTS BETWEEN LONG ISLAND SISTERS: SACRED RECIPE UNDER FIRE. Miss Hilda, astonished and disgusted, promptly arrived at our back door in her riding boots and tweed jacket, walking cane in hand. Alice, she informed my grandmother briskly in clipped, no nonsense British tones, This has exceeded the bounds of civility. Be good enough to get your coat and accompany me.

Both sisters had been brought, under protest, to the village church, where they were informed, they would remain under the watchful eyes of Miss Hilda, my grandmother, and for good measure, the minister, until such time as they each saw fit to reconcile and resolve their differences. I will not tolerate this unwarranted attention to a matter of dairy products any further, Miss Hilda said calmly, You will leave as sisters and friends or you will remain until....she paused for a surreptitious glance at the minister who diplomatically nodded and lowered his eyes .... until hell freezes over, she finished with a sharp rap of her walking stick, Do I make myself abundantly clear?

The sisters - stubborn but aware that Miss Hilda never made idle threats - came to their senses and declared peace, even managing to agree that perhaps there might be room on the island for traditionalism as well as innovation as long as both were held in reasonable check. Two kinds of chowder would learn to live together and two sisters would be re-united.

Mourn and Move On

Stubborn to the last, Aunt Lizzie refused to go the mainland hospital.

She had, according to her own words, not been able to leave her makeshift single bed in the kitchen for years. It was a mystery how she managed to cook and clean and keep the fire going in that one small room, how her white hair was always washed and woven into neat braids, how she never appeared to want for anything. When we made our obligatory visits, she received us gratefully and demanded news of everything. Nana said that late at night, under cover of darkness with no one about, shadows moved in the house, a figure passed from window to window, from downstairs to up and back again. Lizzie, she said with a knowing wink at my mother, appears to be selectively bedridden. What a miracle! And she would shoo us off to play outside.

One early morning, having seen nothing of the shadows in the night, Nana packed a basket of warm muffins and trudged next door. There was no answer to her knock so with typical determination she forced the hook and latch and calling Lizzie's name loudly, barged right in. The kitchen was uncharacteristically cold, she told us later, and there was Lizzie, laying on an armful of kindling and stone cold dead, one hand clutching the blankets from the tiny bed against the wall, the other still wound around a candle lying in a spill of wax on the shiny linoleum floor. I'll be damned if she wasn't smiling, my grandmother told Aunt Pearl later that day, Deader than a two day old mackerel and still smiling.

There was no family left so Nana and Pearl and Vi organized a small funeral and saw Lizzie well planted in the church cemetery. John Sullivan was recruited to bring flowers and Uncle Len saw to it that there were mourners at the grave, picked up and returned home in his old pickup, each given a new $5 bill for attending. Miss Rowena came down from her home on the hill and sang nearly all the verses to "Shall We Gather at the River" before being shushed by Miss Hilda with a sharp poke of her walking stick, No need to be excessive, dear, Miss Hilda remarked in her clipped British tones, Three verses is adequate indeed.

After the service, tea was served in the parsonage and Lizzie's long life was examined, celebrated, and mourned in quick order. She had been an invalid since her early 20's when her husband, a ship's carpenter, had died from food poisoning, a tainted batch of scallops some said, ingestion of arsenic others suggested since he had been known to beat her regularly and without mercy. After his death, she had taken to her bed and had never been known to leave her house again, content to allow the outside world to come to her for more than 60 years. We all mourn and move on in our own way, the pastor was heard to say, she won't be allowed to withdraw from the Lord.

There was a quiet chorus of amens.

Making Do

Make do with what you have, my grandmother advised me with a scowl, it's no good taking on the world.

Nana was knitting and had run out of a needed color. As the nearest yarn shop was a two day ride away, she was forced to improvise - after some mild cursing and color matching, she decided to blend two shades of blue but it meant tearing out a good deal of her work and she was clearly distressed at the wasted time and effort. She disliked busy work and hated not getting things right the first time - her perfectionist streak wouldn't allow her to cut corners, even if only she would've been able to tell the difference. This particular afghan was spoken for, headed for the latest church bazaar to raise money for new choir robes and knowing that her work would be sold only increased the pressure she felt for it to be absolutely right and snag free. My mother thought it silly to be so invested in an afghan and said so, No one's going to appreciate it anyway, Mother, she said with a touch of bitterness and Nana gave her a withering look. You, of all people, have the least right to judge what people do and don't appreciate, she said warningly. And they were off. Deciding that I knew the gist of the argument and how it would go, I called the dogs and set off for a walk around the Old Road.

It was a Saturday night in August, the tide was in and the sun was nearly down with no sign of fog.
I walked past the breakwater and toward the village square - past the dance hall and the picture show, past the barber shop where a line was already forming for the Saturday night shaves and haircuts. McIntyre's was closing for the weekend and a handful of last minute customers were gathered on the steps in a small cluster, killing time and idling. The dogs raced toward them, eager for attention and the men obliged with welcoming, open armed gestures, men and dogs all mixed together in a tumble.

I turned down the offers of a ride back to the point and resumed my walk. The dogs followed, running into and out of the ditches and up and down the slopes on either side of the road, investigating trees and fences and muddy water with equal enthusiasm. By the time we reached home, the sun was nearly gone and there was a cool breeze off the ocean - there was a promise of stillness and serenity in the air, a quietness that only certain summer evenings could bring. There was peace until I opened the back door and discovered the argument hadn't waned but rather heated up. I stopped long enough to find a jacket and went back to walking, making do with what I had to escape and wondering when it would be safe to go home. The mysteries of mother vs daughter are eternal.

Sad Eyes and Eager Tails

Hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable.
Professor Marvel to the Tin Man in "The Wizard of Oz"

I have always preferred most animals to most people and so .....

I avoid adoption days at our local pet store like the plague. Animals in cages prey on my rescue and maternal instincts too forcefully and my better judgement melts when confronted with sad eyes and eager tails. Each warm, furry body cries out to me to be held and cared for, cries out for deliverance, and it takes every ounce of will power I have to turn away. Even so, the sadness stays with me for days, the images of small, hopeful faces invading my dreams and intruding into my mind. It's too hard on my heart.

Practicality, however, has to rule at some point - there is neither space or money enough to take on more nor time to spend with them. Love them as I do, I'm at my limit and even one more would drive me into distraction if not bankruptcy and outright madness. Like human children, there is no end of worry, care or cleaning up. Unlike human children, they do not leave the nest and make their way in the world but rather stay utterly dependent for all their lives. Litter boxes must be changed, food and water bowls constantly overseen, vaccinations and tags faithfully provided. Boundaries must be enforced, disputes arbitrated - vigilance can never be relaxed lest one get locked in a closet, trapped by a nail snagged on the curtains, or slip stealthily through an open door. The battle against fleas is endless and expensive and heaven forbid that one or more might consider eating a lesser brand of cat or dogfood. I'm convinced they can read labels. The last straw is when litter box training is inexplicably forgotten and there is no choice but to rip up two rooms of carpet in favor of easy clean laminate, an expense I am ill prepared for and do not willingly make.

Then I remember that the time comes when all things living leave to make room for the next, that these dim witted and dependent little ones will not always be overhead and underfoot and in the way and I gather them to me, hoping for forgiveness and knowing that I will miss their warmth and nonsense.