Sophie

It was - to paraphrase a famous literary line - a gray and stormy day, only in the 40's with a nasty wind and rain coming down in sheets. Sitting in the middle of the street - well, huddled would be more accurate - was one of the most pitiful sights I had ever seen, a small white dog, drenched to the bone and shaking like a leaf, sitting in the pouring rain and crying softly. When I knelt and called her, she came running across the grass timidly and I gathered her up and brought her inside, ran warm water in the bathtub and dumped her in. From their kennels, my own dogs let loose an ear splitting stream of protest and abuse but I was committed. I removed her collar and tags, shampooed her thoroughly and dried her off with a soft brush and the hair dryer, gave her water and a dish of food. The cats circled warily, curious but cautious, while the dogs went loudly mad with excitement.

Her tags gave me her name - Sophie - and her address and telephone number, several blocks away. After leaving a message for her owners, I settled her on the couch with my own dogs. There was much pushing and shoving but no growling or biting and after several minutes, all three dogs were sleeping peacefully - remarkably! - nose to nose. Sophie's owner arrived not long after and I handed her over almost but not quite reluctantly, hoping that it was a one time thing, hoping that they were good people who wouldn't really neglect her or be careless with her. I always want to hope that.

Acts of God

Why do people have to die? I asked the new Sunday school teacher. He smiled at me with the tolerance of age, It's God's will, he told me kindly.

Why do people have to die? I asked the priest. That's not for us to question, he told me firmly.

Why do people have to die? I asked my fourth grade teacher. Why do you think? she asked in return.

Why do people have to die? I asked my grandmother. Nana frowned and said, How in heaven's name should I know? Maybe God isn't paying attention.

Why do people have to die? I asked my daddy. He lifted me onto his knee and stroked my hair, a gentle gesture, then kissed my forehead. I think, he said softly and in all seriousness, it's to make room for someone else.

Only the last answer made any sense to me - it seemed reasonable then and it still does. There's a small bit of comfort in the idea that we make room for others, that we use the space and time that is lent to us and then pass it on. It's not good enough, of course, nothing really ever is in the matter of death and dying, and there are times when my grandmother's answer seems more apt - acts of God and nature can be unbearably cruel and sadistic, passing the understanding of even those with perfect faith - but for a child, a simple but straightforward answer is often best.
Possibly it's the best answer for us all.

Mark Twain wrote that "Land is the only thing they're not making more of." Limited space is comprehensible, easily demonstrated, and pretty much everywhere we look no matter how old we are. We should use it well, wisely, and leave it better than we found it. Like time and life, we will give it up one day.

What happens after? I asked the the Sunday School teacher. Why, we go to heaven and have life eternal with Jesus and the saints, he told me somberly.

What happens after? I asked the priest. Have faith, he said.

What happens after? I asked my fourth grade teacher. What do you think happens? she asked in return,

What happens after? I asked my grandmother. Nana frowned and said, You'll find out when you get there.

What happens after? I asked my daddy and he smiled at me and shook his head. I don't know, hon, but it happens to us all so whatever it is, you won't be alone.

A Whirlwind of Negative

As months of the year go, February is my least favorite. The weather tends to be dismal, the paychecks smaller and I feel caught in a gray area between a winter storm and the coming spring - not knowing what to expect from this nasty tempered and unpredictable month. The leather jacket and long sleeves I begin the day with are suffocating by lunch, yet by sundown I'm shivering. I dislike this randomness, this up and down-ness of weather, these dark mornings and darker nights. Depression and doubt are strongest in February, waiting in the shadows for the opportunity of an unguarded moment - the chance to spring into my head and create a whirlwind of negative. October is a sad maiden, melancholy and wistful, but February is a vile tempered old crone, made of menace, sour milk and mood swings.

I battle this creature with music and antidepressants and as much sleep as I can find, trying to keep warm and dry and not give in to the temptation to hide until April. But there is a starkness to this month, a lean and mean quality that makes me think of old men in shabby overcoats and bread lines, empty streets and deserted buildings, the homeless in search of a heating grate, too thin cats and bare tree branches. Everything about this wretched month is pitiful, chilling and too long in passing. There is no inspiration in February.

Spring will come and these feelings will fade. The old crone will be banished to some isolated corner where she will grumble, threaten and make idle threats but no one will listen because by March the birds will be singing and the crepe myrtle will be making its annual comeback. My poor old neglected lawn will turn green once again, despite my total lack of maintenance, and the wild roses will bloom in my neighbor's garden. Scrawny cats will turn fat and sassy once more and I will barely remember these days of half light and uncertainty or how they made me feel.

On the other hand, without the dreariness of February, how could we ever truly appreciate the color and sweetness of April? Let the whirlwind swirl and make its mischief while it can - the weather gods made this a short month for a reason.

Canadian at Heart

The far away softness of a morning train whistle intruded into my dream, faint but persistent, like a memory just out of reach and still out of focus. The curtains fluttered in the early ocean breeze and I could hear seagulls arguing over scraps, the throaty hum of a boat engine leaving the breakwater, and the steady rhythm of an axe splitting firewood. These were the sounds of summer, of home and growing up, of comfort in knowing where I was and belonging.

Outside the small motel cabin, the sun was breaking through and burning off the fog, revealing a bright blue sky littered with hazy clouds. I imagined I could feel the day beginning to warm, nearly sense the dew evaporating on the grass and the chilly ground heating up. The train whistle sounded again, closer this time, and from the other side of the trees I could just make out the silhouette of a locomotive as it slowly wound its way from The Valley, keeping to its schedule as it always had. You could plan a life around the Canadian Pacific, my grandmother had often told me, And you'd never be late.

It was late August and there hadn't been much traffic on the road from Yarmouth. The familiar villages were now behind me - Church Point, Bear River, Weymouth - I had taken my time driving, having no particular timetable to keep to and suspecting that it might be years if not a lifetime before I would find myself on these roads again. I had breakfast in Digby, watching the scallop boats come and go with the tides, then slowly headed down Highway 217, "The Digby Neck" as it was commonly known. I was thinking of how many times I had made this trip, through Gulliver's Cove and Little River, and Sandy Cove and finally to the extraordinary hairpin turn at East Ferry, where the road unexpectedly ended at the very edge of the ocean and more than one carelessly overconfident driver had plunged over the guard rail and been taken by an unforgiving tide. After one particularly spectacular night time crash, I remembered Uncle Shad telling Nana that it was a miracle anyone ever survived - Them whats lived to tell the tale, don't, he said grimly, It'd be temptin' fate to brag and it don't make no sense to try and outrun your own timetable.

Across the passage, Tiverton sat in the afternoon sun, a picture postcard of a tiny fishing village. Bait shacks lined the coastline and a dozen or so dories rocked on the whitecaps. A Nova Scotian flag waved from the old post office building and a small circle of old men mended nets on the end of the wharf. After Tiverton, there would be Central Grove at the halfway mark, two or three houses and a lily pond and you were past it, and then I would be on the top of the hill that overlooked Freeport - green and blue and sparkling from the square to The Point - a picture I can still see if I close my eyes and wish hard enough. The small white church on the left, just below the cemetery, the cove at high tide, Curt's candy store by the schoolhouse, the baseball field. The road stretched out like a shimmering ribbon, down for a ways, then flat for a ways - past McIntyre's and the dance hall, past where the post office used to be, then gradually rising up toward the sun and around a gentle, downward curve to where I could see the Sullivan's house and the remains of Willie Foot's, Uncle Len's pale green gingerbreaded one, and at the very foot of the hill, down a steep gravel driveway with a strawberry field on one side, what was once Nana's beloved summer house. It sat, almost untouched by time, just as I remembered, overgrown with high grass except for the shortcut path which led from the top of the driveway to the front road. Knowing that a new generation of villagers still cut through to save the long hike around the curve made me glad - Nana had always fussed about this minor trespassing but never with much conviction or heart. John Sullivan's boat was gone, replaced with a shiny aluminum storage shed, strangely out of place in the weeds and debris. There was not a remnant of the canteen and the ferry slip looked to be new. Sparrow's old house still stood but appeared empty and badly neglected while wildflowers grew in place of Old Hat's chicken wired garden.

Despite my citizenship, I will always be a Canadian in my heart.

Second Hand Dishes

He spent his life collecting things - original signed art works, statues, French furniture, designer apparel - gathering them together in a showplace home in an upscale neighborhood, surrounding himself with the finest beauty and art. None of it offered much comfort when the money ran out and the bills came due and onto the auction block it all went, to pay the light bill and buy groceries.

There is an intense sadness to this, a reminder of how wealth cannot buy happiness and a lesson about the value of things. Those who live the highest, fall the lowest, my grandmother might say, and material things are still only things, no matter their pedigree or market worth. They can't buy a good nights sleep or a contented soul, can't fill the real emptiness of a life gone badly off track. They may be a long way from cinder block bookcases and second hand dishes in a four story walk up but in the end, they're still just things - passing from hand to hand, house to house, and finally being sacrificed for utility bills, a carton of cigarettes, a gallon of gas or the next fix. Image, as my grandmother did say, Don't feed the bulldog.

The public will descend like a flock of crows picking over the remains. They will examine and inspect and hand over their cash for all these treasures, carting them off in pick up trucks and suburban suv's. They will chatter, judge and appraise, bargain, barter and complain at the prices, not realizing or perhaps not caring that these things constitute the measure of a man and his flaws and failings. If fortune should smile, there may be enough profit for him to start again - if he has learned the lessons of things, he may succeed again, even though it's a long and rocky road back.

Smart Money

My friend Michael - unsentimental, fussy, intolerant and often meticulous to the point of prissy - has been adopted by a cat.

This unlikely pairing happened during the recent storm when a black cat appeared on his doorstep and brazenly slipped through an open door and immediately made himself at home. Michael, only half as hard hearted and unsympathetic as he would have people believe, fed him a corn dog before depositing him back into the snow - but the cat, being a cat, was still there the next morning and complaining loudly about his treatment - so he was let in again. No special menus here! Michael told him firmly and produced a slice of pizza, You eat what I eat. And so, several cat toys and one litter box later, begins the journey.

This budding relationship may or may not succeed. Cats are accustomed to getting their own way, they dislike being shooed away, they assume that nothing is off limits and dismiss obedience as an unworthy ambition. Michael is not a fan of accommodation in any form and has always lived alone, unfettered by obligations to anyone but himself. The introduction of a cat into his household changes the equation and may very well disrupt the balance of power dramatically. In the battle of man vs cat, early in the game as it may be, the smart money's on the cat.

Sunshine, Alka Seltzer & Hot Soup

All I could see from the window was white.

Four days of confinement with aspirin, cold medicine, a raging bout of bronchitis and hours of restless half sleep had finally made me delusional, I decided and crawled a little deeper beneath the covers. It looked all the world as if the outside world was blanketed in snow. Not to worry, I croaked to the small brown dog through a violent coughing spasm that stole my breath and racked my already sore ribs, It's just the moonlight playing tricks. She whined softly and didn't appear to be convinced, burrowing closer between me and the pillows, shivering slightly. Struggling to breathe through a haze of congestion and a headache that refused to give an inch, I closed my eyes against the brightness and tried to ignore the cries of the cats - they sounded hungry which wasn't possible in the middle of the night, I told myself - and then the dim and muted sounds from the television in the next room began to slowly penetrate my fogged in brain. School closings? Weather advisories? Another coughing fit struck and I pulled myself upright, gasping for air and suddenly feeling blinded - all I could see from every window was white. A television voice was warning of ice on bridges, power outages and the perils of winter driving. It was then I realized it was full morning and I was in hell.

I dragged myself to the kitchen, to the aspirin and alka seltzer and kleenex. The dogs followed anxiously and when I opened the back door, the black dog bolted out, skidding on the snow covered deck and into the yard, joyous and curious at the same time, exhilarated and eager. The entire landscape had altered - everything was covered in snow, shrubs were flattened and tree branches were hanging on the ground with the weight of it. It was still falling and there was that eerie stillness in the air that I remembered from New England storms. The small brown dog took one quick look, sniffed the icy air cautiously, and then scampered back to the safety of the bed. It was a reaction I completely understood.

As the temperature climbed during the day, I listened to the snow sliding off the roof - each miniature avalanche sending the black dog into a frenzy and the brown dog deeper into the bedclothes - and said a small prayer for sunshine, alka seltzer and hot soup.

The Fate of the Other Shoe

It lay on its side, just on the outer edge of the passing lane, forlorn and misbegotten, muddy soled and abandoned, its yellow laces blowing in the breezes of the passing cars - a sad and solitary workboot, discarded and defenseless, alone and at the mercy of the traffic. Had it been a suicide, I wondered - the final tragic act of a desperate shoe - or perhaps an accident, caught in a gust of wind and blown out of the back of a pickup, not missed until it was too late. Had it tumbled out of an overfilled trash bag or been the victim of a would be shoe thief. And where was its mate, its companion on the road of life, its partner for all the miles - did it grieve in some dark closet or lay buried in some odiferous landfill? Would I perhaps drive by it a little further down the road, passing it like some ragtag hitchhiker and ignoring its pleas for a ride? Would I even notice it?

Deciding that this was a little grim, I considered other explanations. My daddy had often quoted me his theory that for that every single shoe at the side of the road, there was a one shoed man, searching and anxious to be reunited. He also thought it was possible that these orphan shoes at the side of the road might be the innocent victims of a one footed man, who, hating to be reminded of his handicap, had ordered the unnecessary shoe out, much like Lady Macbeth - Out! damned spot, Out I say! - he would cry in his best Shakespearean voice, only substituting shoe for spot while he fiercely rubbed the soles of his dress shoes together. When he asked my opinion of this latest theory, I had told him I thought it was unlikely but theatrical and he was so pleased he immediately launched into the remainder of Lady Macbeth's lines, finishing with a cackling, Yet who would have known the old man to have had so much blood in him! His last theory was my favorite - Alien abduction! he declared, So swift and efficient that only one shoe was left behind!

It fell off during the struggle, no doubt, my grandmother remarked with a small smile.
Exactly! he cried and with a sweeping gesture he removed an imaginary hat and bowed to her. She laughed and threw a ball of yarn at him, Oh, go on with you, you fool, act your age! but I could see she was pleased to be included in the game.

The discarded workboot faded in my rearview mirror and passed out of sight, just another silly shoe at the side of the road. Whether it had come to be there by happenstance or deliberate act, I would never know. It would hang on for a few days and then one morning I might or might not notice that it was gone. Single or otherwise, I'm glad not to be a shoe.

Fred & Ginger

Put on your dancin' shoes, Alice! Uncle Shad called coming through the back door unannounced with the dogs at his heels, I'm takin' you on the town!

My grandmother scowled at him. You drunk, Shadrack? she demanded crossly and he laughed and gave her a bear hug then twirled her around and slipped her apron over her head. I'm celebratin', Alice, and you're helpin'!

Uncle Shad, a small man with china blue eyes and a ready grin, had lived with his common law wife for more than thirty years, regretting every hour but too obligated to leave. She was a scrawny woman, made of hard bones and harder feelings, a complainer and a nag with a hot temper and an acid tongue. At one time, she had been a slim and pretty thing, courted and sought after, but island life had not been kind and the only thing Shad was dug in about was leaving the island - he gave in to her every demand but on this he would not be moved. The bitter quarrel was now in its 31st year and showed no signs of exhausting itself. That morning, he told Nana, she had finally packed her belongings and caught the first ferry, headed for greener grass and more friendly pastures - she had, he admitted, taken every cent he had in the world but it was a small price, all things considered, and he was happy to pay it. Got me a last $20 dollar bill and I'm a free man, my girl, so let's go show those youngsters a thing or two about dancin'! To my utter astonishment, my grandmother agreed, changing out of her house dress and apron and slipping into ruby red shoes, an ankle length black skirt and a sequined blouse. They left for the dance hall arm in arm and laughing like teenagers.

It was said that they danced the night away to Hank Williams, Sonny James, and Patsy Kline - tirelessly strutting their stuff to Jerry Lee Lewis and waltzing everyone off to the floor to Jim Reeves' "He'll Have To Go". By the end of the night, Nana shed her ruby shoes and danced barefoot, her sequins glittering and her petticoats flaring. I had never seen this side of her, didn't even know it existed, and I was torn between being proud and humiliated. In the end, proud won - Nana and Uncle Shad made too handsome a couple for anything else.

The days following the amazing dance were grim with recovery, aspirin and arthritis rubs. Nana hobbled for nearly a week, her ankles swollen, her shoulders and neck stiff with pain. Shad wasn't seen for three days, taking to his bed with hot water bottles for his joints and poultices for his feet. I hope it was worth it, Mother, my own mother said with a snide look, You could have broken a hip or had a heart attack.

Keep your sour grapes to yourself, my grandmother told her tartly and added more epsom's salts to her foot bath.

Legacies

The shock of hearing the word cancer and the name of a dear musician friend of mine in the same breath stuns me and leaves me feeling betrayed and outraged, furious at the unfairness of fate, and helpless. It's a combination I've heard too often with people I care for, people who have lived good lives and who deserve far better. There is an emptiness without them.

I listen to the meant to be comforting words about how it's not how long you live but how well, about making the most of the time you're given and making a difference, but they're hollow. They don't compensate for the loss or the pain and no matter what you may leave behind, it isn't the same as staying to finish what you've started, not the same as being here for those who love you. The missing never really ends although with time it may lessen. Given enough time and practice, you can learn to live with anything, my daddy would say, and while that's true, it's still an obscenity to be taken before your time, an affront to the lives you have touched and changed. Those we love are never gone if we keep them in our hearts, I'm told, but it's cold comfort - a legacy, no matter how impressive or soul stirring it may be, is still not much more than a memory, not touchable or huggable, not there to listen or share or bring solace. I treasure my memories but would trade any one of them, anytime, for the real thing - maybe it's this more than anything else that we all have in common. To be left behind is an experience we all understand and at the same time can't begin to comprehend.

Cancer doesn't care about memories or legacies, about families or friends or suffering, about the music that might not be be played, the poetry that might never be written, the art that might never be exhibited. That falls to the rest of us along with the process of keeping company with the illness, of smiling when we want to cry, of having faith despite the odds, of being there to witness these lives, imperfect as they may be. No refunds, no returns, no exceptions.

So we will gather together, make music, raise money for hospital bills and doctors and chemotherapy. We will comfort and be grateful for each other and try not to look too far ahead. It won't be enough but it will have to do.

The Boy Who Lived in the Barn

Jonah's entry into the world and the tale of the boy who lived in the barn was a story Nana loved to tell.

He had been born, so island legend said, under an evening star in the aftermath of a blizzard so fierce that the snow drifts reached halfway to the eaves of the old house, preventing his daddy from being there and even keeping the midwives away .Nina was attended to by her own hands and she brought her son into the world with exquisite pain and unwavering determination, cut the cord with her pinking shears, then wrapped the baby in blankets and lay down to die. And she might have, Uncle Shad said, ' Cept for the horses wakin' up that boy.

The horses had become restless during the night and woken the boy who lived in the barn, a young drifter who helped out with chores and kept an eye on the stock. In the after storm stillness with the snow heavy and bending the trees to the ground, with not the slightest sound except the far away ocean, he listened to the horses whinnying and pawing at their stalls and then he heard the baby cry. The boy climbed to the window in the loft, forced it open and listened - the cries were steady and desperate and the horses were becoming more and more agitated. With no particular plan in mind, he saddled one of the horses and managed to open the barn doors enough to pass through - the horse immediately sunk to his flanks in snow but somehow they made a narrow path to the farmhouse. He found Nina and the wailing newborn and without the first idea of what to do or how to do it, he washed the baby in warm water and wrapped him in clean flannel, then still holding him, covered Nina with clean blankets, re-kindled the fire, and heated up soup. He settled the child in the crib while he took the horse back to the barn and then trekked back, warmed milk in a saucepan and filled a bottle. The boy who lived in the barn spent the next three days caring for the baby, for Nina, for the horses - guided only by instinct, common sense, and prayer. On the third day, Rowena and Miss Hilda arrived with linens, herbs, firewood, two bottles of brandy and a basket of food. They were stunned and amazed to discover Nina, conscious although in need of a bath and shampoo, the baby asleep in the boy's arms, the fire blazing and the smell of cooking. Well done, young man! Miss Hilda exclaimed with a rare smile, Good show!

The boy studied his feet shyly. T'wasn't me, m'am, he said slowly, The horses knew somethin' was wrong.
Rubbish! Hilda snapped back, Don't be immodest, boy. She looked askance at him ( What's a scants, Nana? I interrupted and from the sunporch my daddy collapsed in a fit of laughter. It means suspicious, hon, he called,
probably the way your grandmother is looking at you right now.) before beginning to unpack bread and butter and glass jars of chowder. Rowena gathered the baby up and hugged the boy, Get some sleep, she advised him kindly,
You've earned it.

By the time that Josh got home another two days later, everyone knew of Jonah's birth and how the boy who lived in the barn had cared for him and his mother, likely saving two lives and generally being regarded as a hero. Wanting to thank him, Josh made his way to the barn only to find the stalls mucked out, the horses fed and watered, and the boy gone. No one remembered seeing him leave, Cap didn't recall him crossing on the ferry, there was no note - he had simply up and vanished, no easy thing to do on a twelve mile long island - and it was to remain an enduring mystery.
As all good mysteries should, my daddy said with a wink.

One for The Cat

The black dog - bred for rat killing on barges, insatiably curious and with a strength of purpose that would've felled the walls of Jericho with no need of a trumpet - found the one weak spot in the latticework and stubbornly squeezed her way through, crawled under the house and emerged in the front yard. She gave me a careless over the shoulder look and then took off through the hedges, darting into the neighbor's territory - the game, as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote, was afoot.

I followed, alternately cursing and calling her name despite knowing that it was a waste of time and breath and that she would return in her own time. I watched her trot across the lawns and driveways, exploring scrubs and telephone poles, piles of leaves, fallen limbs. Everything interested her until she caught sight of one of the neighborhood cats and then in an explosion of energy, she vaulted over a fence and bore down on the unsuspecting feline. The startled cat immediately turned to flee but the dog was too quick and cornered her on a window sill - she growled and hissed and let loose a scream of fury that turned my blood cold - then with a daring and accurate swat, she turned the tables and in one deadly move had raked open the dog's muzzle. The surprised dog retreated instantly and the cat leapt to a tree where she perched with her hackles raised, still fiercely shrieking and spitting with contempt.

I gathered up the black dog, now confused, pitiful and not in the mood to protest, and carried her home, soothing her with reassuring words and a soft tone, resisting the righteous urge to say I told you so. I cleaned the wound and settled her on the couch where she lay her head on my knee and concentrated on looking sorrowful for the rest of the night.

It's a shock to discover that you're not the meanest sob in the valley.

The Next Try

A wild man on stage, in outrageous costumes with a feather boa around his neck, performing his heart out and rocking til dawn - afterwards he lands back in the ordinary world and reality greets him with hard facts. The magic of the night is over and the day is harsh with past due bills, no sugar for his coffee, everyone angry at him and no place to go except for an escape into a drugged up haze. It's a short term solution and it only takes him so far but he reaches for it with shaking hands and a desperate kind of eagerness. There is no pain being high and the world softens and is kind, filled with pastel promises of success and praise, happiness and freedom. He fades out slowly, letting the drug do its work, silencing the voices that nag and scold at him, cry for him, and beg him to come back.

There is great sadness in this man as there is in all that lose this particular battle. Talent is not enough, children are not enough, even music is not enough to fill the void. The irresistible urge to use overcomes the best intentions and erases the most resolute promises - sobriety, when and if it comes, is difficult and a constant fight, requiring 24 hour vigilance and hard, draining emotional work. It does not bring about instant satisfaction or fame, does not solve problems by itself,and doesn't repair broken lives, instead it brings a sharp focus to everything we would rather not see, a focus that can be unbearable on a daily basis. It offers a lifetime of temptation just at your fingertips.

How can they not see they're self destructing? I demanded of the after care counselor at an early session while my husband ranted and raved and detoxed on the alcoholism ward two floors above us.

Consider things from their perspective, the counselor told me patiently, They have no responsibilities, no needs except their next drink or drug. There's always someone to pick up after them, bail them out of jail, make excuses, put them to bed, clean up their vomit, pay their bills, defend and protect them. Who wouldn't want to hold on to that?

This reasoning, perverted as it was, made a certain kind of sense to me. No one sets out to be a drunk, this kind and gentle man reminded me, But once you're there and hooked, there's always a reason to stay. It's a disease, not a choice.

And so addiction takes another man down and a little farther away. I try to remember that each attempt at sobriety, even when it fails, teaches us something and improves the odds for the next try. I always pray for a next try.

Mrs. Rittenhouse and Staff

Each August 1st, the island prepared for the arrival of Mrs. Rittenhouse and her family, her collection of show dogs, and her staff. It was very much like the circus coming to town.

The vacation home sat high on a ridge at the end of a dirt road overlooking the ocean from the back and the entire village from the front. Every window of the glassed in porch sparkled like a diamond by the last week in July, each room had been aired and given fresh linens, floors had been scrubbed, the lawn manicured, the garden planted, the kitchen stocked and the woodpile re-arranged. Mrs. Rittenhouse was particular and spared no expense to see that everything was in readiness for her annual visit - rich widows from New York were in short supply for the tiny village and her influx of cash fed many a family through the following winters. At one time or another, most every year round resident had put in his or her time on the house - although an intensely private and withdrawn woman, the Widow Rittenhouse was generous to a fault and the rewards of even part time employment with her were well worth the effort.

She came from upstate New York, Buffalo, some said, and why she had chosen Long Island was a long standing mystery. The house had been in her family for as long as anyone could remember and so it was thought that she was connected to the village in some long forgotten way - speculation being a popular and free pastime - but no one really knew her roots and neither she nor her family nor her staff were forthcoming with any manner of detail. She kept in touch only through telegrams, once to confirm her arrival and once to convey her thanks. Aside from that, she was never heard from and seldom seen, although as Nana pointed out, every village funeral was remembered with flowers delivered from the mainland - anonymously sent, no card, but originating from upstate New York.

During her month long summer stay, neither she nor her family ventured far from the house. When something was required, a well groomed servant might make an appearance at the post office or McIntyre's. The family lived quietly and apart - even the dogs were too well trained to stray from the property. Mrs. Rittenhouse conducted what little business she did by telephone, always courteous, always gracious, but never public, and the children kept to themselves, rarely seen except at a distance. The islanders respected their way of life and never interfered although the talk was fierce on Saturday nights at the barber shop with everyone having a different theory of why the widow came and what went on for the single month she was there. The likeliest to know turned out to be Willie Foot who was summoned once a week to wash the caravan of cars but poor, demented Willie with his crossed eyes and color of the month hair wasn't one to carry tales, A fact that Avery Rittenhouse knows perfectly well, my mother declared with a nasty smile, He's the perfect choice. For his part, Willie washed all the cars, then fully clothed, would turn the soap and water on himself and emerge drenched and sudsy and make his way home singing, pulling his wagon of rocks behind him, two brand new America five dollar bills pinned to his pocket.

Each September 1st, Mrs. Rittenhouse and staff departed as quietly as they had arrived, with no ceremony and no goodbyes. The house on the ridge was closed up and left to the current caretakers - the tall grass overgrew the path to the front door and weeds and wildflowers swayed in the wind, as if no one had ever been there.

Risk Management

His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles and a kind of Come hither, but not too close look settles on his features. He winks at her but it's an empty promise made mostly of memory, no future in it. They have come to the inevitable Just good friends part, a place of no regrets, no repeats, and no turning back. There is a trace of sadness in these moments but only a trace - there is still chemistry between them although they rarely speak of it except with a now and again shared look or a hug and in spite of this sense of longing, it's still a happy ending. All things, good and bad, have their time and place. They last however long they last then grow into something else or drift away.

Unlike a good many men, this one strayed with considerable effort, the thought of jeopardizing his family or bringing harm to his wife always with him. He literally put his life into her hands, trusting that she wouldn't betray him, that she would let go when the time came. While she was lost the very first moment she saw him, his feelings took sorting out and had to have time to build. She suspects that giving in took him a little by surprise and she knows that it caused him conflict. With time, she'd gotten over every man in her life - having learned something from each, having given to and taken from each. Some lasted only a night or two, some went on for years. Some wounded her and some healed, all came and went for reasons beyond her understanding, bringing equal shares of joy and heartache. But after ten years,she confesses she's beginning to wonder if this is the one she will not get over or perhaps simply doesn't want to. These memories aren't fading or getting fuzzy with the passing of time. He pulls up a chair next to her's and gives her a grin, a kiss, and a diet coke. It was good while it lasted, he says and she shakes her head and smile at him, this gentle, weathered, and weary man with a spark of mischief in his eyes and an inexhaustible spirit. No, she tells him and smiles in spite of herself, It was perfect.

There is an element of risk in every relationship, a possibility of being hurt or disappointed or left behind. Some of us outgrow people we love, drift apart from years of sameness, give in to a restless sense of curiosity, or maybe we just seek a change of face. Others settle in for the duration and live happily ever after. Some of us dive in with eyes wide open, some on a wish and a prayer. However we live, we endure and keep seeking, leaving risk management to the brokers and insurance salesmen.

No risk, no reward.

I'd rather die tryin' than never have tried at all - Jed Marum

Shacked Up in the Valley

The news spread like wildfire - Jeremy had left his wife, Annie Mae had left her husband, and they were shacked up in the Valley, Rutting like weasels, no doubt, Aunt Pearl informed the ladies at the weekly quilting meeting and Aunt Vi gasped, Pearl! My grandmother rounded the corner of the stairs and gave me a quick swat on the behind, Scat! she ordered firmly, This ain't somethin' you need to hear.

My daddy was on the side porch, paint brush in hand, giving the steps a final coat of white paint. What's rutting? I asked him and he paused in mid stroke, Why, it's when deer ....he began then caught himself and gave me a narrow eyed look. It's when deer are hungry and have to search for food, he finished, turning his attention back to the steps. What's that got to do with weasels? I persisted with the innocence of a ten year old and he sighed, I'll explain it you later. I made one final effort, What's shacked up? and he broke out laughing so hard that he dropped the paint can, spilling paint over his shoes, the steps, and a good sized patch of grass. Instead of getting angry, he laughed even harder, sliding helplessly to his knees and into a puddle of paint. I remember thinking I would never comprehend grownups.

Domestic abuse was not a concept I understood well enough to give a name to but I did know about bruises and black eyes and that Annie Mae had always seemed to have them. Nana said she was clumsy and accident prone, that she needed help but wasn't ready to admit it, that you could only help those willing to help themselves - but there was something in her tone that was like steel, hard and unforgiving, something that clearly said this was a subject high on the off limits list. Annie's husband was not allowed in our house and I had seen my grandmother refuse to speak to him when they met at the post office or at McIntyre's. Annie herself seemed weighted down with sadness, old before her time, wearied and worn out at nineteen.

Jeremy had married at seventeen, doing what island folk called, and this I did understand, "The Honorable Thing". The baby was premature and had not survived past the first week, leaving Jeremy shattered and his wife embittered and shrewish, her natural state, if my grandmother was to be believed, Houses built on sand don't last, she was fond of saying, Takes more'n honor to make a marriage.

And so, a trapped and unhappy young man and a battered young woman had met, joined forces, and run away. Alone, they had been isolated and helpless - together they had overcome circumstances, fear, gossip and even tradition. Now and again, my grandmother said with a satisfied smile, Things that are meant to be, actually are.

Chaos, Change, Courage

Change brings about chaos as naturally as dogs draw fleas. Stepping over the line requires courage and a reserve of faith that I frequently find myself lacking. I watch in admiration - and horror - as those around me move and shake to the new technologies of cell phones, printers that serve every conceivable office need, tracking systems, laptops that show movies, synthetic music, cars that talk back to you. Life has gotten more virtual by the decade and I am still in the land of the rotary dial. I refuse to sacrifice the comfort of familiarity and old friends to progress, no matter how tempting and time saving the world has become - I limit the on line world to one computer, old and out of date, but doing its job and keeping in its place.

As machines and technology renovate and re-invent life as we know it, important things fall by the wayside. Spelling is a lost art, no one prints pictures anymore, voice mail is the law of the land. What with all our labor saving, instamatic devices, it's near impossible to find a real person answer a simple question. I suppose we do all this to make life better, to free up our time for other things, like inventing more technology, but in human terms, our individuality is getting lost in the mix, as if we are being contoured and shaped to fit in and keep pace. What will the end of this race toward progress bring, I wonder - assuming that at some point, we do reach an end. And ultimately, who wins.

Being brought up on a small island in a tightly knit community influences my outlook, I know. The outside world was not welcomed there and people did things the way they had done them for years without questions or curiosity. New was suspect whether in people or devices or food or habits - eccentricity was valued and accepted and given room to grow, modernity was a stepchild from away, approached with great caution and closely inspected before it was allowed to take root.

Chaos and change are often too closely knit together to see where one ends and the other begins.

Speaking Roles

You'll understand when you're older.

This was much favored advice when I was growing up and trying to comprehend my family. It saved my daddy from painful explanations of his own failings as well as my mother's often bizarre behavior. It allowed my grandmother room to distance herself from her own daughter by virtue of procrastination. Ideally I suppose I was expected to figure things out for myself and then adopt the family's code of silence but for reasons that I can't explain even to myself, I opted for a speaking role.

I loved my daddy's family dearly and was stunned and angered by my mother's relentless criticism of them. She called them names, demeaned their faith, made jokes with her friends and complained that she had married into a tribe of illiterate and unworldly hillbillies. She considered my teachers too young or too old to be in charge of classrooms, overly curious and interfering custodians who should stick more to teaching and less to molding minds. She condemned my friends for having working mothers, ambitions of college, for being Catholic or Jewish or Italian, for being only children or one of many which indicated a lack of self control. The world was firmly set against her and her bitterness and bigotry grew and flourished as she aged and became more isolated, more angry, more self willed. She sought to blame others and look for solutions in alcoholic hazes, never making the first attempt to change or apologize or take responsibility. You'll understand when you're older, my daddy would tell me, as if that explained it all and exonerated her. And us.

I protested this easy out with hate and resentment, determined to see her defeated and crushed. One day, I told myself, she would beg for forgiveness and I would withhold it and see her suffer. Sorry would be a day late and a dollar short, as Nana liked to say, and though it might only be one battle, one victory, it would matter immensely,
I held to this with each unfair punishment, each lie, each stream of abuse and each moment of shame. She was, I discovered, incredibly easy to provoke and I took pride in being able to make her lose her temper. She would threaten me with grounding or a beating and I would laugh at her, call her a fat, drunken, old slut, incapable of caring for anyone but herself and her next drink, then outrun her and her cursing with ease. Hate had become a habit and understanding when I was older was a poor peace offering - it was a bribe, designed to deflect and change the subject.

I brought all I had learned to my second marriage, watching history repeat itself with a sense of impotence and inevitability. In some ways, I understood all too well, in others I would never become older enough. Even so, I still believe that a speaking role is better than a walk on. Find your voice and make yourself heard. Shout if you have to.

Sketches, Husbands, and Other Artforms

Didn't intend to outlive four husbands, Aunt Nita told my grandmother cheerfully, Reckon I can still git me another.

Nana paled slightly at the suggestion since the fourth coffin was barely covered with dirt and a handful of townspeople were still at the scene. Hush, Nita, she whispered, He's hardly cold! Nita laughed good naturedly and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. Alice, she said briskly, You need a drink.

Aunt Nita was in her early sixties then, an ample woman with comfort written all over over her. She wore her hair to her shoulders and rouged her cheeks, favored hoop earrings and bright lipstick, and had been known to polish her fingernails before she went to church, a practice which scandalized the local women. More appalling, she wore high heel shoes and sheer stockings from a store in Halifax - Mrs. McIntyre had nearly fainted at the suggestion that she order such things from the Spiegel catalogue and Nita was obliged to make a trip to the mainland herself. It was said that she stayed in a grand hotel and took her meals in the lavish hotel dining room. And mind you, Aunt Pearl had told Nana meaningfully, She doesn't eat alone. Aunt Nita was, in the words of the islanders, a spectacle.
Nana, what's a spectacle? I asked and my grandmother blushed before giving me a swat and reminding me that little pitchers have big ears.

Nita had married - in relatively short order - a local scalloper, a dairy farmer from Annapolis, a dance instructor from no one was quite sure where, and the captain of a Yarmouth tug boat. Each had taken up residence with her in the house she had inherited 'round the cove, a grand, three storied affair with a glassed in porch and an attic studio in which Nita herself painted colorful and some said garish sunsets and ocean scenes, filled with passion if not talent. She often packed her paintings and drove them to a gallery in Halifax where tourists admired them for their primitive feel and were more than willing to part with their money to drive one away. This mystified the islanders to whom a lighthouse was merely a lighthouse, certainly not something to hang on a wall, but Nita loved her art and dismissed the criticism with an airy wave of her hand, Everybody's a critic! she told Nana, Especially if you're making money. When she grew bored with coastlines and waves, she began experimenting with portraits - pencil sketches and charcoal drawings of the locals - unexpectedly good work that pleased and surprised everyone.
Soon she was considered less of a spectacle and more of an slightly eccentric artist. She sketched my friend Ruthie with an armful of new kittens, Sparrow in his rocking chair, half asleep in the morning sun, Long John baiting hooks by lantern light, Uncle Hubie, chin in hand, considering his next cribbage move, my grandmother with a pan of biscuits still steaming, even Willie Foot collecting his rocks. She came to the schoolhouse and drew the children, did an entire series on the choir, was there with sketchbook in hand just before Aunt Lizzie died and within minutes of several newborns arriving. She neatly rolled each picture up like a diploma, wrapped it with ribbon, and gave it away with a smile of satisfaction. This was something the islanders did understand and by the time she had decided on her fifth and final husband - an unemployed house painter she met in Bear River - the village had been won over and captivated. There was not a single word of protest, not the first snipe.

Getting along in the world is very often as simple as discovering a common interest with those around you. One sketch, one story, one song, or one adventure leads to another and soon you are accepted. And you don't have to forfeit your soul, Aunt Nita told Nana with a gleeful grin, Just a tad of your differences.

Millie's Courtship

Millie lived two doors down from us, on the other side of Aunt Lizzie. She was the youngest girl and last born child of her family, a pale and delicate thing in frail health from the beginning, prone to frequent illnessess, unexplained fevers and housebound for most of her childhood. She lived and learned through books that the islanders collected and brought to her and Jimmy made a point of visiting three times a week with her lessons, bringing magazines and newspapers and old copies of The Readers Digest. Like to never have seen a brighter or more curious child, he told my grandmother, She eats up book learnin' without half tryin'.

After hearing that Millie loved music, Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi took up a collection one Sunday and brought her a used turntable and a stack of 45's. Nana found an old portable radio that she took to Dev who repaired and rewired it for free and Uncle Shad added his prized picture book of classical composers - everything was neatly packed in a picnic basket and delivered on Millie's birthday, along with a two layer chocolate cake from Miss Hilda and a gallon of homemade ice cream from Bill Allbright and his wife. The old house rang with music and celebration and Millie was even allowed to sit on the porch for a brief time and join in. Sparrow came by, producing a small furry ball of a puppy from his overalls pocket and carefully placing it in Millie's lap. Reckon everybody needs somethin' to care for, he told her gruffly, He won't eat much, he'll be good company on rainy days and he'll watch out for you. Millie hugged the puppy and then hugged Sparrow's neck fiercely, her eyes shining with tears and the old pirate kissed her cheek then turned abruptly and made his exit. Ain't much for birthdays, he muttered, Damn fool nonsense if you ask me.

Millie named the puppy Seeker and as Sparrow had said, he didn't each much, he was the best company on rainy days, and he rarely left her side. Millie made it to twelve, then fifteen, then in the blink of an eye, twenty - a slender, dark haired young woman with a pretty smile and a soft voice. By that time there was a second Seeker and she and the dog were often seen on the porch together, the dog stretched out in the sunshine and the girl curled up in a rocking chair, a book in her hands and music coming through the windows.

A lifetime of being treated differently - special as her mother had always said, isolated as Millie liked to say - had made her shy, a little frightened, but also anxious to be like everyone else, to come and go without precautions, to explore and discover and participate and be a part of things. She began leaving the porch, Seeker trailing along faithfully, and walk to the breakwater, then round the Old Road, up to McIntyre's and back. On one late afternoon trek to the post office, she met Johnny Elliot's brother, Aaron, who offered her a ride home. Before she had time to say no, she found herself and Seeker in the front seat of an old Chevy, her first ever ride in a car, her first ever adventure - she was giddy and so excited that she was tongue tied and barely remembered to thank him. Aaron, intrigued and as Nana later said, Smitten instantly, said little but the following day the old Chevy pulled into the driveway in a cloud of dust and he emerged with a bouquet of daisies, a tin of cookies still warm from his mother's oven, and his own dog, a small, short legged and shaggy mix of unknown origin named Doc. Neither her dog nor the girl he had come to court ever had a chance.

Millie might have been sheltered and over protected, her body might have been her enemy at times, but when life offered itself up in the form of an old Chevy and an island boy with stars in in his eyes, she didn't stop to think about the past or her mother's warnings. We are all stronger and braver than we imagine.

The Myths of Motherhood

After nine months, she is about to be a mother - young, unmarried, with no concept of what her life is about to become, carrying the child of a man who uses drugs, batters her, steals her money, demands she support him, and spends his time with other young women. All mostly her fault, she assures us with one starry eyed lie after another, defending her abuser has become second nature to her.

She has been shopping for nine months, planning for what she expects to be a perfect baby doll boy-child, an infant she has already named. She dreams of leaving the charity hospital, medicaid card in hand, to a new life of Kodak moments and serenity where newborn infants don't cry or soil diapers, don't require 24 hour a day care, don't need to be fed or changed or watched over. Her vision of motherhood is about lacy baby outfits and fancy baby furniture rather than loss of sleep, medical bills, formula, laundry, or a lifetime of responsibility. It never occurs to her that a man quick willing enough to beat her, just might have no qualms about beating a child and she deflects any suggestion of reality with a bright, nearly forced laugh. Her illusions of motherhood are built on her determination not to repeat her own upbringing, not to treat her child as she herself was treated - she has constructed this fairy tale carefully, molding it to fit the happy ending that she wants so desperately, intentionally not seeing that her prince charming is badly flawed and likes to use his fists. There is no safety in these illusions, no rainbows end to be found even in her own nature, which is impatient, intolerant, critical and flat out bitchy when she doesn't get her way.

Motherhood is not magic and there's no quick start instruction manual. It may not be the first siege of colic or the first few rounds of round the clock feedings, it may not be the first few friends who drift away or the weariness but the novelty will wear off. Motherhood is not for the selfish, playing house with a man you lie for and protect at any cost is a dangerous game, self esteem is not born by producing a child and parenting can't be built on make believe.

Despite being a natural born cynic, I want to be proved wrong here. We have more than enough welfare mothers and battered women, more than enough neglected and abandoned children paying the price for their parents. The pretty and rosy illusions of motherhood fade when reality - or a fist - intervenes and introduces itself.

Men who hit women don't change.
Women who defend and rationalize such behavior need restraining orders and therapy, not children.

Tyranny

Nana had been jumpy all day, as if the very air was filled with something annoying. She was impatient with the dogs, hurried us through breakfast and out the back door, and began stripping beds with a grim and tight lipped urgency. My mother wisely kept silent and asked no questions, making herself scarce in the upstairs, but there was still a sense of an approaching storm although the day was clear and warm and perfect.

My grandfather had arrived that week, bringing with him a tension that we could all feel but not precisely name. My mother turned suddenly timid and hesitant while my grandmother became edgy, filled with nervous energy and an eerie sense of free floating watchfulness. It was an odd, unwelcoming time, almost fearful, and somehow we knew it would be safer to keep from being underfoot or in the way. My grandfather's presence was oppressive, good behavior and quiet were required. Without being told, I began to realize that he didn't much care for children or dogs, that Nana's friends were not as likely to drop by while he was there, and that he preferred the solace of whiskey and cigars to family. He was accustomed to being obeyed and in control, becoming social only when well fortified with alcohol and it was passably strange to discover that while he was respected and a little feared, he really wasn't much liked.

Unlikely as it seemed, this odd pairing of personalities had produced my mother, an only child, deeply troubled and discontented, seeking solutions in alcohol and anger, never making peace with her family and bitter to the end. It was impossible to imagine my grandparents in love or intimate or even young, out of the question to picture them as new parents. Later I would come to speculate that perhaps the pregnancy had been an accident without an easy remedy, that this had been a couple who would've been happier remaining childless. I had often thought the very same thing of my own parents, having heard my mother repeatedly complain how her children had ruined her life and taken from her everything that mattered. As I grew older, I began to suspect that this was little more than convenient scapegoating and that children or not, she would've found a reason to be miserable. She no more met her parents expectations than they met her's.

My grandfather stayed a mere week and when he left, he took the bad air with him. We watched him go, relieved and guilty and admitting to neither - secretly grateful for the return of blue skies and summer, for the freedom to be ourselves. It was a quiet and private celebration for the departure of a petty tyrant.

A Woman of Spare Parts

Aunt Glad - her name contrasted sharply to her personality, Nana liked to say - lived up island, just down the road apiece from Bill Albright, with her flock of dogs. She carried a shotgun, daring anyone to trespass on her property and promising a life of retribution for those brave or foolhardy enough to try. She and Bill had been long time rivals in the business of whiskey making, never caring enough for each other to form what could have been a profitable partnership. She was, he told people, a woman of spare parts - composed of a glass eye, one wooden leg, the heart of a miser and all the rest mean temperedness. Aunt Glad never argued with this assessment - she was a woman to shoot first and eliminate the need for questions altogether.

Had me enough foolish questions to last a lifetime, she complained to her sister and only confidante during a sheep shearing session, Seen me dead dogs smarter'n most folks.

Ayuh, Old Hat agreed, a woman who made a virtue of the economy of speech.

The two women would often sit on each other's porches, shotguns at the ready, jugs at their sides, watching the boats come in and drinking themselves into complacent, contented oblivion. Glad's pack of dogs, thirteen by her latest count, scattered at their feet and slept peacefully among the chickens and sheep. They were an odd assortment of different sizes and colors, long and short haired, terriers and shepherds and some wolf, so Glad claimed, and all were called Rufus. Saves time, she told her sister, Call one, they all come. Old Hat paused in the act of lighting her newest pipe and nodded, Ayuh, she said agreeably and passed it to Glad. Swirls of smoke drifted in the air along with fireflies and mosquitoes and the warm, damp scent of the ocean. From Sparrow's porch, we watched the two old women set up a makeshift table between them and begin a game of cribbage with only the moon to light their play while one of the Rufuses, a black and tan hound mix of indeterminate age and sex began to bay in the direction of the lighthouse. Quit! Glad said sharply and the dog stopped instantly, giving her a forlorn look before trotting to her side and sitting attentively. Down! she added, and the hound immediately laid down, head resting on its paws. Good dog, Glad said, absently stroking its head, Fifteen two, fifteen four, and a pair is six. Old Hat cackled and puffed on her pipe.

Much later that night I heard the sounds of Aunt Glad and the dogs passing. It was six miles up island and she was walking, following the path of the moonlight, dogs trailing ahead and behind. I could hear her singsonging, fifteen two, followed by a sharp clack...fifteen four, followed by a sharp clack...and a pair is six! Her wooden leg hit the newly paved road with each step. The woman of spare parts and her dogs were dancing their way home.

Pardon My French

Long before I came to love cats, dogs were, and still are, an integral part of my life.

Having reached the stage of life where I'm letting attrition take its course, it's hard to realize that my two current dogs will be my last. Butterbean, eight pounds of affection, trust, and tolerance, has turned six this year. Maya is twelve this month, a compact, small package of suspicion, wild energy, and uncontrolled curiosity, not on the least mellowed by her age. They're best friends and couldn't be more different. Together with the cats, they make up my family and a good part of my world.

One lives to please, the other to defy. One cuddles, the other squirms. One would lead an intruder to the silverware, the other would take off his leg. They're an odd match, this purebred and this little mutt - but the bond between them is strong, constantly reminding me that different is good, that individuality sets us apart from the crowd, that we all have a place in the choir and that no harmony comes from a single voice, no matter how pure or strong or loud. I suspect congress could learn something from my dogs.

Christmas may well be the only season that this is as easy done as said. One morning this week I listened as a patient ranted about the government, with special emphasis on "the nigger in the White House". He lowered his voice for that particular turn of phrase, I would like to hope he was unsure how it would be received but it's more likely he wanted us to think that he was quoting someone else. Pardon my French, he added as an afterthought, then went on to tell us about the loophole in the health care reform act that would end in his life if he came to be in a hospital on life support. Government ain't got no right to play God, he asserted, No damn right a'tall. Until that moment, this had been a patient I liked, an easy going grandfather of six, polite and friendly. This small glimpse of the man underneath was disturbing and even after so many years in the south, more than a little remarkable.
Racism in this small southern city is a natural fact of life for all too many who are otherwise reasonable and respectable people - people who follow the flag, celebrate their heritage, vote conservative and believe in their own human rights but not always the rights of others.

On the whole, I much prefer dogs to republicans and cats to democrats. Four footed creatures don't care about skin color, gender or getting re-elected.

Morning Music

I woke to something I almost recognized from my piano lessons, Mozart, I thought or maybe Beethoven. It was several minutes before I realized I was listening to a violin, the sound coming through the open window by my bed clearly and sweetly. Pushing the curtains aside and leaning out, I saw Willie Foot sitting cross legged atop Aunt Lizzie's ancient and rusted tractor, a violin tucked under his chin, and a calico cat in his lap. This is a dream, I remember thinking then heard my grandmother's voice and smelled biscuits and honey, a sure sign of Sunday.

The music was fainter downstairs and Nana didn't seem to be paying much attention to it. When I asked why Willie was playing and where had the violin come from, she shrugged and put a second pan of biscuits into the old oven, wiping her hands on her apron and gesturing me toward the dining room. Eat while they're hot, she advised briskly, and don't give any to those dogs! My daddy, already up and dressed and church-worthy, was standing by the window and smoking, watching Willie with a sad, sweet smile. Wonder where he got the cat, he mused idly and laughed at the silliness of the question.

What's all that racket? my mother demanded as she descended the stairs and my daddy sighed. Nothing, Jan, he told her neutrally, Just a madman next door on tractor with a violin. Playing Beethoven. She gave him a scowl, her unmade-up face pale and showing signs of lack of sleep, her voice coarse with contempt. It's enough to wake the dead, she snapped and reached for her cigarettes, Is there coffee?

The serenade continued through breakfast, a mostly silent affair with my mother gulping coffee and aspirin while my grandmother serenely sailed through clean up. My brothers were rounded up and we all - except for my mother who begged off, claiming the music had given her a migraine - piled into the old Lincoln and made the trip to church. Willie had moved on by the time we got back although we could still the violin somewhere in the distance.

In a small village where odd is often the rule rather than the exception, a madman on a tractor with a violin and a calico cat is not at all that remarkable.

Roadside Assistance

The slightly beat up Datsun passed me, slowed, then reversed and backed all the way up. A youngish black man in a baseball cap gave me a grin and called through the passenger window, Need some help, m'am?

He was tall and solidly built, somewhere between 25 and 30-ish, I guessed, wearing running shorts and sweats, white socks and new white Nikes. He walked around my car thoughtfully, as if weighing all the options, then suggested he try and give me a gentle nudge. Don't think it'll work, he admitted, but it's a start. He pulled the Datsun up behind me until his left front bumper made contact with my right rear one - between the two vehicles there was a ditch, wide and gaping, filled with a soft, thick, and slippery mix of clay and mud. I accelerated cautiously but nothing happend. He called to me to stop and made another 360 degree inspection of the car. The left front wheel hung just above the shoulder while the right rear dangled over the ditch, not a pretty sight nor a promising one. Frowning, the stranger shed his running jacket and jumped all his weight into the ditch, his white Nikes instantly sinking in to the mud and clay up to his shoelaces. I'll try and push, he told me with a brief glance at what I knew had been very costly shoes, You give her a very little gas. This failed as well, resulting in a stench of burning rubber and grinding sounds from beneath the car. He climbed up from the ditch, hands on his hips, mud spattered and in ruined shoes, but still grinning. Got a jack? This I indeed did have and after several more minutes of patient working on his hands and knees in the ditch - telling me he had been training for a marathon and gotten first tired, then disgusted with his lack of stamina and decided to call it a day - the jack was in place and the front tire making contact with the ground. Go easy, he told me, just a little pressure on the pedal is all you ought to need. Miraculously, the car moved forward and in a second or two, was on firm ground. The young man folded the jack and replaced it, then wiping mud from his hands, gave me a brilliant smile. You're on your way again, he said. He wouldn't give me his name although I nearly begged, It's not a good deed if there's a reward my daddy used to say. Besides, look at how easy it was!

I looked at his once white Nikes, and the patches of mud on his shirt and knees, one calf bleeding slightly and bruised knuckles. I reached out my hand and he shook it firmly then wished me well and drove off. It's a good start to a new year! he called as he drove past and waved.

There aren't a lot of good samaritans left in the world and it was my good fortune to meet one when I needed it the most. I like to think it's a good sign of things to come.