Ramblin' Jack

The man with one leg stood at the back door and in a whispery, course voice, asked my grandmother if there was anything he could do around the house to earn a meal. Nana have him a long appraising look, sniffed the air for a telltale trace of whiskey, then gestured toward the Lincoln. Car could use a washin', she said tightly, You manage that? He nodded and leaned his crutches against the wood box to struggle out of his tattered backpack. Water's on and there's a hose in the garage, Nana told him, Put things back the way you find 'em.

For the next hour or so, the one legged man hobbled around the Lincoln. He soaped it down, scrubbed off the dirt and caked mud, rinsed it off and then repeated the whole process a second time. The car gleamed in the morning sun, it's windows and trim spotless. Nana watched silently from the kitchen window and as he finished, she began the makings of a meal - eggs and bacon, toast, homefries with onions and fresh coffee. At the last minute, she dug into the freezer and produced a small steak which she set to sizzling in a cast iron pan. The stranger was invited in and given a place at the dining room table where he sat quietly, eyes cast down, and hands still. Thank you, ma'am, were his only words as she placed food in front of him. He ate slowly, carefully, and when he was done he tucked a crutch under one arm and delivered all his dishes to the kitchen, setting them gently on the immaculate counter. Appreciate it, ma'am, he told her, Best meal I've had in a dog's age. Never comfortable with compliments, Nana waved this off and held the back door open for him just before tucking a five dollar bill into his shirt pocket. Got a name? she called after him. Elliott, ma'am, he told her, Jack Elliott. Folks call me Ramblin'' Jack, like the folksinger. He removed the five dollars and laid it in the woodbox with a shake of his head then hobbled around the corner and down the path. She picked up the paper money and put it back in her pocket, a thoughtful expression on her face, then walked to the sunporch and intercepted him at the side door. Reckon there's always some small thing to be done here, if you've a mind. Come back tomorrow. He smiled and tipped his cap, I'll do that, ma''am, thank you.

The next day passed as well as the day after that, and the day after that, and in short order the entire summer, but there was no sign of Ramblin' Jack. Neither of the ferry crews remembered seeing him come or go, and soon Nana discovered that no one on the island recollected seeing him. Passin' strange for a man with one leg, she mused aloud to Miss Hilda at the post office one clear evening. Hilda, nonsense free as always, gave her a stern look, Quite so, Alice, possibly the entire episode was the invention of an overtaxed imagination. Nana glared at her and ordered me to the car with a grim expression. Overtaxed imagination indeed, she muttered as she turned the key in the ignition, Why, that man was as real as homemade sin and a sight better lookin'!

Still, it remained that no one had seen the man and in time he turned into an island ghost. Even my grandmother began to doubt his existence although she shared this feeling with no one except me and as he had faded from my memory, even I was less sure he had been real. It was several years later as I helped Nana sort through and organize a dozen or boxes of correspondence that I discovered the letter - handwritten in Miss Hilda's signature green ink and attached to a yellowing death notice from the Yarmouth paper - it reported the death of Jack Lucas Elliott, 49, from a sudden illness. It detailed his brief life - promising young athlete to competitive swimmer to war veteran to dishwasher - he had lost a leg during his service and left no family. Across the top, again in green ink, was a short and to the point message, Alice, my apologies - Hilda.

The man with one leg had lived, fought, traveled, worked and died in relative solitude and anonymity but he had been real. Ramblin' Jack had mattered if only for one long ago summer morning and one hard earned meal. Had he managed to swim the passage and disappear, I wondered, an extraordinary feat it seemed for a man with one leg, but maybe - just maybe - not impossible. I thought of one of the preachers most oft repeated sayings, All wounds are mended in heaven, everyone is made whole. I still like to think that's true.

A Theory of Mind

Poverty, my daddy was fond of saying, builds character and adversity teaches us to cope. There's no shame in debt as long as you're working on it. As one who worked his whole life to overcome all three, I thought there might be something to this philosophy but I've discovered a more profound truth - youth handles it better.

I think this has to do more with time than chronology. When it stretches out endlessly in front of you, when the future is all there is, when you operate within the illusion of immortality, there is limitless time to succeed and decide which roads to take. You can live on beans and rice as long as you have love, comfortable knowing that this is just the first of many steps. Youth has the advantage of energy and bright eyed optimism, small needs and positive thinking - it can make the weekly trek to the laundromat an adventure rather than a chore, it can turn a slum into a bohemian refuge. It wakes to sunny days no matter the weather and hops on and off public transportation with ease, wasting no worry on possessions or a checkbook balance. Youth panhandles with pride and treasures a carefree life - no ties unless of their own choosing, no house notes or dry cleaning bills, no nine to five restrictions, no fear. Every day is a turnaround day when you're twenty and all of life is a rosy diversion.

I've often thought of what it might be like to re-experience those days, to place my beloved animals in secure and safe homes, to sell my car and everything I own and hit the road with only a camera, a change of clothes and an untroubled mind. I find myself in a knot of conflict - restless but weary, anxious but philosophical, angry but at peace, done but hardly begun. Responsibilities, debt, and the irrevocability of being a grown up are burdens I long to put down. Hitch hiking - a mountain in summer and a stretch of beach in winter - doesn't seem as dangerous as I once thought.

My reality is that you can't outrun your life at twenty or sixty or at any point in between. It's a workaday world even when you think it isn't and I'm too old to run away from home again.....at least for today.

Past the Broken Part

She's gotten past the broken part of being abandoned without explanation, past the fear of the future and providing for her children and keeping her home. She's reached the rage and revenge part, the part that wants to take her husband apart piece by bloody piece and inflict as much pain and suffering as possible - alimony, child support, a public apology, disclosure of his adultery, vindication. She's armed and dangerous with ice water in her veins and not the first thought of mercy - nineteen years of marriage dismissed and trashed, every vow broken and every lie exposed. Nothing short of breaking him totally is going to satisfy her.

It's hard to watch, harder not to take her side, harder still not to offer encouragement and validation. She's been done badly wrong, betrayed and cast off, humiliated and left behind. She never suspected, wasn't prepared, had no idea that her life could be thrown into such total chaos and turned upside down in the time it took to take a breath.

Nothing is quite as final, as irrevocable, as devastating as a breach of trust. A broken promise is a betrayal beyond repair and even that which heals all wounds cannot restore it fully. Faith in another - a husband or a lover or a friend or a parent - balances on experience but shatters when reality comes calling in the form of another woman, another drink, or another lie. You cannot give your heart freely or otherwise if you cannot trust, you will always hold back, always be ready to be harmed, always be brittle. To be betrayed is to carry a burden you cannot put down even if you find forgiveness.

We are frail, imperfect, and struggling. We believe that the emotions of the moment will endure, that love never dies or changes, that a vow taken is endowed with permanence, that relationships never grow stale or musty from lack of care. We turn our attention to other things and get sidetracked with the newer, the younger, the better looking or the forbidden greener grass. No one save the random sociopath sets out to actually inflict harm or take away that which we love and now and then fail to appreciate - life is not nearly so predictable or logical or fair.

The trick is to get by it all, intact and with enough reserve to try again. Past the broken part and the revenge part, there is the sweetness of taking another chance and discovering what it's like to be whole again. We may be frail and imperfect and struggling but we are also resilient and redeemable. We have only to build back enough trust to keep on trying and take the next risk. The rest will come naturally.

Human Error

Sorry you're still having problems, the tech support guy - a safe distance away in California - told me reassuringly, I know how frustrated you must be.

Unless you're spending a third of your every day trying to access software and convince the people you work for that you are capable enough and bright enough to type in a simple password, I doubt it! I snapped at him and while I immediately regretted my tone, it made me aware of just how close I was to the edge. I take my work and ability to do it well seriously - having it compromised on a daily basis infuriates me and makes me feel like screaming. Sorry, I told him, without meaning it the least little bit, But I'm at my wits end here.

Three hours of my day had been spent in a futile confrontation with technology that had left me drained, enraged, defensive and worn out. The software, designed to make my life easier and more productive, had clearly become the enemy - Washington crossed the Delaware with less hardship - I was tired, behind in my work, unable to answer the doctor's questions, and seriously at odds with continuing what now appeared to be a useless war with no chance of prevailing. I wanted to be done with it, had in fact been halfway to the door when the call from California finally came. Cut your losses, a voice in my head was saying, There are other doctors and other jobs. Another voice, that of reason and calm protested, That's anger talking, it said, you're overreacting to all this nonsense. Take a breath and settle down.

It's a rare occasion when I follow my own advice but in this case it seemed the only available course. I re-took my seat in front of the hated monitor and began answering his questions, punching keys as directed, and glaring at the screen as if I could evaporate it with a death stare. I watched as he attempted to log in under my name and saw the results - locked out each and every time. A small sense of satisfaction came over me and I began to relax, at the very least someone else now knew that it wasn't simply a case of inadequate or careless keyboarding.

The following morning, due to whatever adjustments he had made over night, all was well. I logged in easily and trouble freely although I preferred to believe it was the effectiveness of the death stare.
Feeling vindicated and proven innocent, I went about my day, level headed and marginally more tolerant of the presence of the evil technology.

I was never moved to such emotional chaos by an abacus and yet I still learned to count.

Thought Control

I hope you never get old, my young coworker at the wine shop remarked to me.
I'm already old, I told him as a flash of sciatica worked its way across my lower back.
But you don't look it or act it, he said with a sideways grin, I mean, you don't think it.

And therein lies the key, I thought to myself, out of the mouths of babes and just two days shy of my 62nd birthday. The sciatica passed and I got to my feet although with a little more effort than it used to take. Lately I've been noticing that it's easy enough to drop down to achieve a particular camera angle or snatch a piece of debris off the floor, but I'm a little slower to get back up. When I sit crosslegged like an Indian, which I can still do, I pay a price. While everything still works, my muscles and joints are sometimes out of sync with my mind but I'd still rather wear out than rust. Nobody gets a lifetime warranty anymore, I think to myself, but I'm not expired quite yet.

In days gone by, old was aprons and sensible shoes, a basket of knitting, hair in a bun. My grandmother often said she looked and felt every one of her 60 plus years, had in fact, earned her white hair and wrinkles through struggle and hard times, child rearing and domesticity. She moved like an old woman, thought like one, and became one. For whatever reasons, aside from a very few expected parts that don't work as well as they once did (knees and memory), a touch of chronic bronchitis (self inflicted, to be sure), and a little leftover sciatica (the only legitimate work related failure), I am in ridiculously good shape - no arthritis, no broken bones, no migraines, deafness or exceptional vision loss, no internal breakdowns. For this, I am profoundly grateful - but mostly, I want to believe that my body's well being generally follows that of my mind and that it will pretty much keep up. If it's a delusion, it's one I'm hanging onto.

I loved my grandmother dearly - I just don't want to turn into her quite yet. Imagining her reading this philosophy, I'm pretty sure she would either a) tell me to get over myself, b) approve profoundly or c) give my ears a proper boxing. She may have looked a little like Mrs. Santa Claus - didn't they all - but she hadn't much patience with my flights of fancy. Her inner child was born grown up.

Shotguns and Stolen Vegetables

On a clear, sweet summer day with the wildflowers bending in the breeze and the ocean dancing with the sun, a shotgun blast shattered the sleepy morning air. It was followed by a high pitched yelp of pain, a stream of curses, and the sound of running footsteps - up the path at breakneck speed came Willie Foot, clutching a live, upside down and wildly protesting chicken in one hand and a good sized head of lettuce in the other - he darted past me, stumbled and fell and several tomatoes tumbled out of his pockets along with a summer squash. The chicken, recognizing opportunity when it was handed to her, immediately fled into the blackberry bushes and Willie abandoned his vegetables and took off like a shot, up the driveway and across the strawberry patch. Only seconds later, Old Hat appeared on the well worn path, shotgun still smoking. Seeing the strewn about vegetables, she raised the gun to her shoulder and sighted on Willie, now halfway to the turn on The Old Road and still running for his life. Realizing he was now out of range, she lowered the weapon with a violent curse, her face dark with rage, her ragged breathing reminding me of steel on steel, like my grandmother sharpening knives. At that moment Nana rounded the corner, broom in hand and a scowl on her face. In one quick glance, she took in the situation from the vegetables to the chicken squawking in the blackberry bushes, from me crouched in the corner of the side steps to Old Hat, bent over trying to catch her breath and still muttering profanities. Hattie! she yelled, loud and sharp, What the Sam Hill is going on here?

Old Hat straightened up and it suddenly occurred to me that she bore a striking resemblance to Mammy Yokum from the Lil' Abner comic strip. This made me laugh out loud and the tiny little woman whirled on me, glaring like a thundercloud. Hattie, my grandmother said, her tone firm with warning but no threat, Put that old relic down before you shoot your damn fool foot off and sit down before you have a heart attack! When the old woman hesitated, my grandmother's tone sharpened, Now, Hattie! she snapped. At that moment, John Sullivan materialized as if he had dropped from the sky. In one swift motion he snatched the shotgun away and wrapped one arm around Hat, lifting her clean off the ground and pinning her arms securely to her sides. Be still, he said calmly, and all the fight went out of her at once, she sagged like a bedraggled Raggedy Ann doll. My grandmother closed her eyes and exhaled a long breath, one hand on her heart, the other still holding the broom. Both she and John began to laugh when the flailing chicken emerged from the blackberry brambles, fluttering and cackling among the ruined vegetables.

Willie, crazy as a tick as folks liked to say, but not stupid, steered clear of The Point for the rest of that summer - the gardens of the summer people and up islanders were fairer game and the risk of lethal weapons was considerably less. Old Hat's property was declared off limits and Nana took to giving us daily briefings to keep our distance from her. Even though Long John had confiscated her shotgun, She's sure to have another, Nana warned, Don't tempt her.

Most sweet summer days when the ocean danced with the sun and the wildflowers bent in the breeze were peaceful and sleepy. Now and again, madness crept in and made everyone pay attention and be a little more careful, a little more thankful.

Thou shalt not steal, James preached the following Sunday, Especially from someone with a shotgun.

Patience, Practice, Light and Luck

People often used to ask the secret to good photography and I would always say the same thing:
Patience, Practice, Light and Luck. It seemed to me that if you put all four elements together, you could hardly go wrong.

Our journey on this earth is like that as well, a process of learning and combining elements to find our particular place and our particular peace. It's different for all but we do share some common paths and highways - the real trick may be to travel without driving others off the road. Tolerance is too often more an aspiration than a reality, kindness takes more time than we have to spare, and serenity of mind hangs just out of reach. It takes all our will and energy just to not lose ground. The world has become incomprehensible to me lately, an alien place where greed and brutality have gotten a foothold, where corruption breeds and multiplies, where justice and mercy are both for sale. Fairness goes to the highest bidder, accountability only has meaning when it's the end product of being caught and even then consequences fade away for those who need them the most. We have come to a place where we would rather be at war than at ease or at peace, a strange place indeed, barely recognizable and harsh.

It's time to take a step back and concentrate on the small picture, to search for a smidgen of good news amid the bad, of kindness amid the cruelty. I don't find it in politics or religion or the economy. I don't find it in the justice system or the oil companies, the banks or the insurance cartels. Neither the local or national news cover it.

Although usually not a sentimentalist, I do still often think of my daddy's conviction that humankind is basically good and I think it's possible that I'm looking in the wrong places. Turning inward is most always the court of last resort for all of us.

My, but the world would be such a lovelier place were we all to follow our own good advice.

Sooner the wheels fall off,
Longer this world will spin aroud.

Brian Martin

Thirty Miles Out

By daybreak they were thirty miles out onto open water - twice that by noon - and too occupied throwing and hauling nets to even notice the spectacular sunrise. They had headed out in the predawn darkness as they did every morning, up at 4 and casting off by 5, and would not return until late afternoon, when they would not notice the approaching sunset. It was a fine day to fish, captain and crew agreed, and a fine day to be alive.

They happened on the remains of the dory - washed up on what the old timers called The Ledge, an uninhabited and forbidding spit of land surrounded by jagged outcroppings of rock - on the way home, just past Seal Point. It lay on it's side with a jagged hole in the keel, hung up on the rocks and being battered to and from by the tide. As there was no sign of life, they might have kept going but for the sound of a dog barking. Rusty shaded his eyes and peered toward the shoals - sure enough, above the small wrecked boat, a big old yellow dog stood, barking and prancing about on the kelp covered rocks. Rusty turned The Alma sharply, never stopping to think how the dog came to be there or how exactly they would effect a rescue - getting too close would certainly cause his own vessel to to be lodged on the rocks, no one on board was a strong swimmer, and taking their own dory in might end in its loss and no dog to show for it. Cutting the engines, he dropped anchor and called the crew together - the dog paced anxiously back and forth, more frantic with every passing minute. Tide'll get 'im iffen we don't, Rusty muttered as the crew called, coaxed, whistled, shouted encouragement and slapped their thighs all to no avail. Fetch me a rope, boy, Rusty finally said reluctantly, Could be he'll meet us halfway.

They drew lots for who would make the cold swim then fashioned a harness. Davey, Rusty's youngest, slipped into it and wrapped a makeshift sling over his shoulder then plunged into the unforgiving water. He swam like a maniac while the men played out the rope and Rusty watched, hands gripping the railing until his knuckles were white. Davey reached the shoals with rope left over and his daddy breathed a deep sigh of relief as the boy managed to climb out of the water and approach the dog. It took several minutes but he wrapped the sling around the animal's midsection then pulled, dragged and nearly carried him into the sea - the crew furiously reeled them in against the stubborn waves. You tell your mama about this and I'll skin you alive, Rusty warned the boy as they wrapped him in blankets. The dog shook himself vigorously and accepted a half bacon sandwich and a cup of fresh water that Rusty offered then sat at Davey's feet for the remainder of the trip home.

Once on dry land, explaining the dog took some creative thinking - Rusty never being one for telling an outright lie,
told his wife they had simply found the dog on the way in and dismissed her questions about details. Davey was equally elusive and knowing that her husband and son were safe was enough for Lynnie. When the true story was told and she heard it, she offered up a small prayer for the protection of all fishermen and forgave the small white lie. The yellow dog was christened Sonny and from that day forward, accompanied The Alma on every day out to sea and spent each night beside Davey's bed. The mystery of his origin was never solved and the rescue crews who searched The Ledge a half dozen times found nothing except the remnants of the damaged dory. If the sea had taken a life that summer afternoon, as the crew of The Alma mightily suspected, it had spared another. Neither the waves nor the dog would ever give up the secret.

The sea hath no king but God alone - Dante, The White Ship

The Girl With Cinnamon Skin

The bright yellow VW bug careened around the hairpin turn, She's doin' 40 if she's doin' a mile! the driver of the oil tanker remarked to no one in particular, straightened out and zipped down the slip, then vaulted onto the scow, snugly navigating into the small space between the tanker and the mail car, and stopping a scant foot from the edge.

Mac shouted a curse at its approach and made an impromptu leap for the railing, grabbed a tenuous hold on a steel cable and hauled himself to safety while Cap emerged from the wheelhouse like a thundercloud. Holy standin' Jaysus, he bellowed, This ain't no damn speedway! What the almighty hell do you think yer doin'! The door to the little car opened and out she stepped, a girl with auburn hair to her waist and cinnamon skin, spectacularly tall, dressed in a white sundress and barefoot. Beggin' yer pardon, ma'am, he muttered and took a tentative step back while she flashed him a brilliant smile, But you might have a tad more respect for that curve next time, it don't take lightly to that kind of speed. She glanced over her shoulder and then back at Cap and nodded, I'll keep that in mind, she said with a second, slightly less brazen smile, Sorry. The old sailor shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other like a shy schoolboy then tipped his cap to her and made his way back to the wheelhouse, pausing only to shout at Mac, still clinging to the cable. Get down from there, you damn fool, we got a run to make! And shut yer mouth, think you'd never seen a pretty woman afore this!

Truth was, as they all knew, she was way past pretty. She stood at the railing for the crossing, wind in her hair and sun on her face, making no effort to avoid the salt spray or shade her eyes. No one knew who she was or why she was there and she offered nothing to satisfy their curiosity. A stranger in their midst, and a dark skinned one at that, was a mystery - the school teacher had told of meeting such people in the mainland cities but no islander had ever expected to actually encounter one, certainly not one in bright, yellow car and driving like hell was on her tail.
Mac approached her to collect the crossing fare and she handed him a crisp dollar bill - when he tried to thank her, he found himself unable to think of the familiar words and blushing all the way to the roots of his hair, he nodded and fled. By the time the ferry docked across the passage, the little yellow bug was rev'd and ready to go, waiting only for the flaps to be put down before it roared off. A little less than five minutes later, word of the stunning girl had spread like a runaway fire and reached The Point as well as all points in between. The village buzzed with the news, a black girl in a white sundress driving the oddest little yellow car, was tearing down the dusty dirt road like a bat out of hell - speculation was rampant.

Oh, for heaven's sake, my grandmother said as she slammed down the telephone, It's the nurse, come to take care of Victoria - they said she was a colored girl from the hospital in Halifax. Miss Victoria, reaching for the penny jar she kept on the top pantry shelf, had lost her balance and fallen, breaking her hip in two places and shattering her elbow. Miss Violet had decided a live in nurse for the summer would be money well spent as Victoria was inclined to be demanding at times and out and out unreasonable at others. She had called the nursing service and made arrangements the week before and if the issue of skin color had come up, she'd paid no attention. Thus, Alyssa Marie arrived on the island and despite Miss Victoria's loud and sometimes shockingly graphic objections, thus she was to remain until September. The sundress gave way to a crisp, starched, snow white uniform and a navy blue cape. White stockings and crepe sole shoes covered the bare feet and her hair was neatly tucked into a twist and pinned with a seashell barrette. The bright yellow bug rarely left the driveway and became an object of intense scrutiny - island boys favored sleek and sharp edged Chevies and Fords, long, lean, loud - and this small, shiny little car seemed like a toy to them. Besides, Nana said dryly, It gives 'em an excuse to hang around the house.

If Alyssa Marie thought anything about all this attention, she kept silent, caring for Miss Victoria every day with quiet efficiency and kindness. Labor Day came and she packed her things, donned a blue silk pants suit, let down her hair, and caught the morning's first ferry run. The yellow VW took the curve on two wheels and roared away toward the mainland, out of sight in a matter of seconds but leaving behind a little mystery, a little imagined romance, a little new found tolerance.

A Kitten in the House

She is curious, playful, fearless, adventurous and into everything she can find. She's learned her name and responds and at night she leaps into bed beside me, announcing her presence with a high pitched but delicate squeak of a meow. Nose to nose with the black dog, she refuses to back down even when warned away by a lip curling, low growl. At her approach, the small brown dog watches her with wide eyes, having learned not to wag her tail and invite an attack but rather stay still and hope she will be unmolested. The black cat, an expert prowler and pouncer, hides around corners and on top of tables, waiting for the opportunity to spring and initiate a wild chase while the tabby and the other black and white cat stand back and watch, philosophically resigned to this youngster's presence. The half persian narrows her eyes and strategically retreats, willing to share her space only at meals. Such is life with a new kitten - rowdy, surprising, joyful, unexpectedly comical and always a tiny bit on the edge. I patiently snatch her away from a dish of pearl necklaces, replace the pictures she knocks over, pick up the cup of pencils she spills, detach her from the couch she climbs with razor like claws, rescue her from the edge of a sink of soapsuds and untangle her from a basket of laundry that she has pulled onto the floor where it falls on top of her and traps her. I scold, lecture, and fuss and all the while she pretends to listen while in reality, she is planning her next assault - there are waste baskets to be overturned, cushions to be carried off, paper towels to be ravaged and shredded and of course, curtains to be scaled like a rock wall on a playground. I see all this in her eyes - she is on a mission of mischief and is undeterred by danger or discipline or consequences. Such is life with a new kitten - loud, funny, messy, a little out of control and always a tiny bit on the very brink of disaster. Don't you ever sleep? I demand of her as she discovers a bookcase and begins a carefully organized campaign to pull each and every book off and onto the floor. She gives me that misunderstood, unappreciated look and twines around my ankles, purring sweetly and lovingly and then spying a squirrel on the fence outside the window, is off like a shot from a cannon, vaulting onto the breakfast table and headlong into the mini blinds, where the entire mess comes apart and she and it tumble to the ground. Nothing is hurt save her dignity - the squirrel is long gone, and the kitten walks away with head held high and tail switching. The mini blinds are not as fortunate and they lay in a heap of broken slats and tangled cords, one more minor casualty of life with a new kitten. The shower curtain is next to go - it comes down in an avalanche of vinyl and metal, crashing into the porcelain with ear splitting force as a small, black and white blur rushes past me in the hall and toward the kitchen where just minutes later I find her, looking innocent and deceptively uninvolved. I begin to wonder if we will all survive her kittenhood - she is just six months old, a far distance from the quiet, affectionate and dignified cat I hope she will become. The urge to wring her little neck passes as she slips into my arms and curls up for a brief nap before resuming the great adventure. These small moments of peace make it all worthwhile.

The Company We Keep

At first glance, I might have taken him to be a homeless person - I was downwind and could smell the grime and urine, sour coffee and whiskey emanating from him. He was filthy in ragged, ill fitting jeans that hung on his hips, a torn and stained once white t shirt with circles of sweat under his arms, and a pair of used up, mud splattered Nikes. He walked with a limp, hunched over and more feeling than seeing his way. His hair hung limply, oily and unwashed and his skin shone with sweat and the pallor of a long time sickness. There was a stench of vomit about him and worse, the smell of neglect. When I was a child, my mother kept a basket of unwashed clothes beneath the bathroom sink. They grew damp with mold and stiff with inattention and smelled like the filthy rags they became - this memory sharpened as I watched him struggle with his keys, balancing a plastic bag of groceries on one scrawny hip. Once in the car, he pulled a bottle from the bag and held it to his mouth for several seconds - scotch, I suspected - and an off brand at that. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands then started the car and pulled away. It was just after nine on a sunny and hot Saturday morning.

There had been a time when we were coworkers and close friends with common interests - music, photography, animals - we spent time together easily and often and were frequently mistaken for a couple. I paid little mind to his drinking as it seemed to be limited to evenings out, heavy but hardly out of control, certainly nothing to be concerned over. I only began to worry when I realized that a stop at the liquor store was a regular feature of his commute home and by the time I took a second look, I was shocked to discover all that I had not noticed before -
his color was not good, sometimes he forgot to shower, his speech was not always clear. He began coming in late and leaving early and having trouble with mornings. There was always plausible denial - he hadn't slept well, he was coming down with something, the washing machine was on the fritz, the water heater broken. It all seemed distantly familiar and I finally realized that I knew this dark road far too well, I'd been down it before. There was no real choice except to step back and watch this downward spiral from a safe distance.

Seeing him that Saturday morning gave me a shock and confirmed my worst fears - this was a man barely functioning, far down the path of self destruction, as someone had recently said to me, Too far gone to be helped.
It wasn't a secret anymore.

I thought of that laundry basket again and remembered that my daddy had simply thrown the entire mess into the washing machine. In a half hour, the stench and stiffness was gone - he gave the bathroom a scrubbing with bleach, aired it out and pronounced it good as new. Things are rarely too far gone to be helped but it's not so simple with people. When the only company we keep is alcohol, it takes more than a little laundering.

Trips & Falls & Badges of Honor

The problem with going barefoot is that if you get up in a hurry and aren't watching your steps, you slam into a chair leg and break your toe. Between tears and curses, curses won - hands down, as it were.

The following morning I looked at my toe - swollen, turned outward and crooked, painful and turning several shades of yellow and purple. What was your hurry? I asked myself dismally, Look what a moment's carelessness has gotten you. I struggled into shoes and hobbled about, not sure whether I could successfully lay blame for this on the chair leg or not. Each step sent up a small protest of pain, reached my brain and announced itself. More curses followed.

It's a small thing, really, a little toe and was what really annoying was that I had done it to myself, a simple matter of not paying attention to one step was going to mean days of aggravation and impaired mobility. It was my first broken bone since childhood when I had taken a running start and leapt into a discarded refrigerator box, catching my foot and falling rather than sailing clearly over as planned. A trip to the emergency room followed, where my fractured ankle was set and put in a cast. Later that same year, I had reached for a fouled off softball and ended up not only missing it, but having my ring finger bent backwards until it snapped, thereby creating another ER run and a splinted finger. Both had been, in a sixth grade kind of way, badges of honor - a broken toe at this point in my life was just foolishness.

On the bright side, if there was one to be found, I did have nine other toes - I spend my days mostly seated in front of a computer - and I do work for a foot doctor. And, if this had happened to Cousin Linda, it would've meant a day long session in the ER, complete with blood transfusions.

Grudgingly, I had to admit it could've been worse. The xray showed no fracture and within 24 hours the soreness had dissipated ( although the bruising and discoloration remained ) and I was walking almost normally, provided I was careful. It was a tiny but significant reminder that we are all fragile creatures - physically, emotionally, spiritually - and that we should pay attention on the journey and be mindful of each step, especially when traveling a short distance and being barefoot. Next time, I told myself in my grandmother's best reprimanding voice, It might be a hip. No badge of honor, that.

Water's Edge

Lantern light reflected off the still water and threw shadows through the cypress trees while clouds passed in front of the moon. At the end of the dock, a solitary fisherman sat, casting and smoking, smoking and casting. It was intensely quiet, a poetic sort of night full of moonlight and shooting stars and the soft scent of magnolias and newly cut grass. A cream colored cat with sable brown markings materialized from the rushes at the edge of the water and delicately made its way up the flagstone
path, with a velvet tread. It stopped a few feet away from where I sat on the steps of the cottage, gave me a brief and inquisitive look, then melted away into the shadows without a sound.

Across the lake, I could see a neat line of houseboats, some dark and just silhouettes, some with soft colored lights strung across their bows, all safely tied up and tethered for the night like a row of sleepy horses in shuttered stalls. A single sailboat, its lone mast rising toward the clouds, rocked a slight distance away. There were signs of life all around me, but they were signs of peace and rest. From the steps I watched a young couple at the picnic table, arms about each other and unaware of their surroundings - they kissed, drew back, kissed again and then walked slowly away from each other with frequent over the shoulder looks - in my mind, I could hear their goodnight smiles. The very night air was content.

Such nights come rarely and such serenity should be treated with respect and gratitude. Life can be anxious, fast forwarding at a breakneck pace with no time for quiet thoughts or reflection. Busy, late, and over burdened displace the evening gardens where cream colored cats stroll and the water and the shore meet in harmony. I knew this night would not come again and I gave it up with a sense of sadness, holding the memory as best I could for morning.

I thank you God for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes. ~e.e. cummings

Congratulations, It's a Girl!

On a rare afternoon off, I decided to make a quick stop at the duck pond. Braced against a tree, I picked up my trusty Nikon and focused on a white bird picking his stork-like way through the water - I was just about to press the shutter when I felt the slightest pressure on my left shoulder and when I turned my head I discovered a half grown, black and white cat, sitting calmly in the Y of the tree and, I swear, grinning at me. Oh, no, I said aloud, Don't even think about it. But of course, it was already too late - the moment that small white paw had touched my shoulder, fate or destiny or karma or the gods of soft touches had begun celebrating.

On the drive to the vet, the kitten lay quietly in my lap, purring. Congratulations, it's a girl! Doc laughed after pronouncing her fit, worm and flea free, and about 5 months old. She had purred her way through the entire exam. The scene at home was predictably less serene with the existing cats scattering anxiously at the first unfamiliar meow, the black dog -sensing new prey - immediately moved to insatiable and frantic curiosity, and the small brown dog overjoyed at the prospect of a new friend. Chaos ensued and I cursed the gods of soft touches.

The following morning things were slightly more calm. The new arrival, having spent the night in the bathroom contentedly asleep on a towel in the sink and with her own private litter box, yawned and stretched and climbed into my arms. Hunger, being a great motivator, the other cats ate cautiously while the dogs circled and whined. Nobody got hurt and I deemed the first communal gathering a moderate success. Kenneling the dogs, I left for work with all five cats peacefully sleeping, albeit lightly and in different rooms. What I would come home to was less sure but cats are civilized creatures and I felt confident that they work out new territories and coping skills without my help.

By the second day, she had made friends and allies of both dogs and was on her way toward peaceful coexistence with her new siblings. There were still brief and random flashes of hostility - made up of far more posturing than actual menace - all to be expected in the process of introducing and integrating a new face.

So much for attrition, I think to myself as a new scuffle breaks out and then resolves itself as quickly as it had started. Tolerance and acceptance come far less quickly in the human world.

Annie's Ghosts

Annie had been, her mother admitted, a difficult child - fragile but stubborn, shy but curious, withdrawn but adventurous. She had cried long into the winter nights and would not be comforted by a bottle or a lullaby or the old standby rocking chair in which Mary Evelyn had soothed many a child before her. When she was able to walk, she found more hiding places that anyone thought the old house possessed and disappeared for hours at a time without a trace, refusing to answer her mother's frantic calls and submitting to her punishment - locked in the attic for the same amount of time she had been missing - without the first tear. She talked to ghosts, she began telling people, spirits who knew her name followed her about, and at this Mary Evelyn gave in and signed the papers sending her away. Bewitched, she complained bitterly, The child is bewitched.

Annie grew up alone in a small, empty room - much like the attic - and was released at the age of eighteen, a strange and pale child with haunted eyes. She found work as a maid and slipped into an anonymous, quietly regimented life, living in a small room and keeping to herself as she had been taught. She took her medication faithfully though it dulled her senses and made her hazy and she never missed a day of work. She had no visitors and made no friends and when Mary Evelyn came to see her, she locked her door and refused to answer, leaving her mother angry and confused at her ingratitude. After all I've done to help her, Mary Evelyn complained to my grandmother over afternoon sherry, It's a fair sin to treat me like this. My grandmother sighed, You sent her to an asylum for 12 years, she told Mary Evelyn pointedly, It changes people.

I was thirteen the year Mary Evelyn keeled over in the corn crop and fell dead in the stalks. She was alone by then, her children spread all over the provinces and their daddy having been gone for years. The funeral was held in the small church on a chilly October morning and only Annie came, standing in the back, a thin figure in a simple black dress and veil. She accepted condolences passively and at the graveside she stood apart from the mourners and spoke to no one save the banker. A few weeks later, a "For Sale" sign appeared on the old house. Land o' mercy,
Aunt Vi told Aunt Pearl, She stayed long enough to see Mary Evelyn put in the ground and then just up and disappeared! The shame of it! Aunt Pearl, no less scandalized but by nature prone to disagree with her sister, shrugged, Family's a blessing and a sorrow, Vi. Come, let's have a cup of tea and you'll feel better. Nana hushed them both firmly and sent me to gather kindling for the stove.

Annie never came home again. A retired couple from New York bought the old house, gutted it and rebuilt it without an attic, opting for an open floor plan with beamed ceilings, panoramic windows and sky lights. Driving by, Nana would shake her head and smile, A house without an attic, she told me, Can't be any ghosts in there and I reckon Annie would like that.

Life in a Butterfly Garden

If only life were a butterfly garden ....cool and sweet and filled with fluttering, fragile creations. Color and patterns would be everywhere, like a moving mural against a background of greenery and blue sky. There might even be a waterfall in the distance and we would move through it all with delicate footsteps, awestruck by what God and nature can provide. If only life were poetry, filled with reason and rhyme and spoken in its own rhythm for no more purpose than the beauty of the words. I would want to stop time in such a place and touch the flowers - this would be a resting place, a place to heal and be restored and take away the memory.

Though not of butterfly gardens, I have memories of such times and places - sand dunes as far as the eye could see, side by side with the ocean. Seagulls soaring against a skyline, pond lilies growing wild by the side of the road, a cat with a heart shaped face sleeping against my shoulder. Waking to the silence of the first snowfall and a perfectly designed landscape that suggested sleep and peaceful dreams. The scent of a particular cologne, the sound of a harmonica wailing, the family of foxes we happened upon in the tall grass on a late summer day. The day I first discovered Anne of Green Gables, my first taste of red velvet cake, being carried away by a Stephen King novel, Pete Fountain's clarinet, the magic of a morning in Memphis or a night in New Orleans. My first sight of a small gray and white tiger cat named Tiffany and all the animals that came after.

This is my butterfly garden, small and fleeting moments that are attached to my memory like perfect sunsets or the flash of a heat lightning strike - clear, sharp, as if they happened just yesterday. They will not come again. Life in a butterfly garden would lose its magic if we were to overstay our visit.

Attachments

We all have them, the things or places or people that keep us grounded. Leaving them behind or watching them slip away can be like being ripped out by our roots and carelessly thrown aside, all the more so when it's not our decision.

A house you've grown up in can be that way - even if you leave it behind, you expect it will always be there in time of need. You can close your eyes and see its details room by room, remember its warmth and comfort, the color of the paint or wallpaper, the furniture, all the first things that happened there, how each picture hung on the wall, the music that played and how the sun came through the windows. To know you can't return is bitter. And yet, it's still just a house, just stone and lumber and design and memories. Surely, the emotional contents are of more value - the things you can take with you and hold in your heart.

I stand in the driveway, feeling the sun and listening to the ocean, knowing that strangers now live there, people I don't know who can't possibly appreciate the importance of the house or the connection I feel to it. I feel dislocated and displaced and terribly sad, as if I have lost something dear, a part of me I thought would always be there is now in someone else's hands. No one asked me about letting this old house go, it was there one minute and gone the next. The voices of my grandmother and my daddy are gone as well, the quarrels silenced, the laughter too distant to be heard. There is a sense of betrayal here where once there was permanence and great joy. It's time to move on, I know, a home is more than bricks and favorite rooms and forgotten voices, more than just childhood.

The grass in the front yard is high, the windows cloudy with dust and salt spray, the path to the road overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. Here I came of age, fell in love a half dozen times, learned to read, came to understand baseball, took my first pictures of the boats in the passage. Here I grew up, beside the ocean, summer after summer and sometimes into the fall. Here is home, no matter how much distance there is between us, no matter how many years away I may be.

There have been a dozen houses since, moves and marriages and changes, some of my own making, some not. My attachments to things and places and people formed, were broken, and formed again. The house has stood through it all, weathering storms and surviving intact and unchanged - this is my foundation and so will it always be.

Passin' Through

It was a warm night and the three of them and the dog were sprawled on the sidewalk just outside the bar. My first thought was how young they were - two boys and a girl, all in ragged clothing and looking a little worse for wear. The dog came to me immediately and the girl was quick to point out that he was friendly. She had come into the bar earlier in the evening with two empty water bottles, had them filled, and slipped out - I'd barely noticed her. Now, she cupped her hands and poured water into them and the dog drank politely then nuzzled her neck in thanks. Her name's Venus, one of the boys offered and at the sound of her name, the dog cocked her head at him. We're just passin' through, m'am, the girl told me although I hadn't asked, Can you help us out? The dog looked up at me, hopefully I thought though I knew it wasn't really so. Where ya'll going? I asked and the girl grinned, California! Of course, the voice in my head remarked, where else? It's always California or Florida - sun, sand, a beach to sleep on and easy times.

I don't quite know why - it might have been their youth, their slightly dirty but innocent faces, the 60's image that they evoked or it might have just been the dog - but I dug in my pocket and handed over a ten dollar bill. Good luck! I told them and found that I really meant it. Thank you, m'am, they called after me, We really appreciate it!
I knew I would miss that ten dollars but even if it had been misspent, the gesture had made me feel good. Whether given or received, small kindnesses tend to do that.

Maybe they'll find a beach and easy times, maybe not. Maybe they'll get jailed in Mississippi or Alabama where free spirits are suspect. Maybe they'll make it all the way through and call home somewhere on the road. Maybe they're runaways or local kids with an knack for panhandling - whatever their travels bring, I wish them well.

Oh, and m'am, the girl called after me, Just so you know, we always feed the dog first!

Nice touch.

Caprice & Whimsy

Named for a whim, Caprice came into the world on a warm summer evening in August. The waiting was over just after midnight and the midwife proudly delivered her into her mother's anxious arms while her daddy took a final sip of store bought whiskey and then swore off it for life. Got to raise me a girl, he proclaimed with a flourish, ain't gonna be likker'd up no more, Carrie, honest I ain't. Caprice's mother gave him a weary smile, having heard such promises before and knowing from experience that good intentions don't always come to pass.

Children, however, can and do change lives and true to his word, Ellis never took another drink. He dismantled his makeshift still that autumn and repaired the ground with care, building in its place, a play area. A swing set, a treehouse, painted blocks and a tea table for four replaced his whiskey making equipment. He planted daisies all around the perimeter then enclosed the whole works with a child sized white picket fence and small gate. In the spring of Caprice's third year, there were tea parties and puppet shows every weekend - island children came by the dozens for homemade cookies, lemonade and story time when Carrie would gather them all to her and read whatever was at hand - fairy tales or the new Life magazine or poetry. Ellis watched over them all, enchanted with his daughter's every gesture and at peace with the pace and progress of his life.

Carrie's second child was born the year Caprice turned four, another girl as Ellis had hoped, as dark as Caprice was fair. It was the year an epidemic of measles struck the coast and spread with a fury, striking innocent children with malice and often deadly force. Marguerite - who was called Whimsy long before she was actually born - came into the world deaf and as she was a happy and in all other ways normal child, no one noticed until her second birthday.

There were doctors and tests, evaluations and specialists, even talk of special schools and implants. Ellis would've traveled the world and given all that he had for his imperfect daughter while Carrie adamantly refused to give over the care of her child to strangers no matter how qualified or worthy. She'll do fine with us, Carrie insisted, We can teach her. Ellis's face darkened and his well worn hands became fists. But she'll never hear! he raged impotently,
She'll never hear! The arguments went on and on until both were too weary and worn out to continue - neither would compromise or yield and inevitably the strain took its toll. Ellis began sleeping in the spare bedroom and as Carrie made no protest, a bitter and angry cloud fell over the family.

Caprice turned five, then six, then seven and still the battle over her sister continued. Whimsy communicated with gestures and pictures she drew in the dirt and the two grew closer until finally Caprice took her troubles to the schoolteacher - Jimmy immediately ordered a book on American Sign Language and began teaching her - she in turn taught Whimsy - both were quick to catch on and were soon having animated conversations without a word being spoken. Carrie and Ellis watched in stunned disbelief as their little girls patiently, and by example, found a way through the silence that had separated them and over time, they learned as well.

And a little child shall lead them.

A Hint of Tarmac

The old wine master swirled his glass and held it tilted against the light, nodding approvingly and smiling. He breathed in its scent deeply, swirled it again, then raised it to his lips and sipped, swishing it like mouthwash over his tongue and finally swallowing. A perfect concoction, he announced to the small crowd holding its collective breath, It confronts the nose boldly with a muscular assault of graphite and ginger .... gushes over the palate like a shovel full of freshly turned earth. He took a second sip, blowing out his cheeks and closing his eyes. An undertone of acid washed jeans with the most delicate suggestion of mildew and the finish .....it coats like sweetened paint thinner and has a hint, just the most subtle hint, of tarmac. Salute! His audience applauded these generous accolades and promptly formed an orderly line to the tasting table, glasses in hand, while he withdrew an ironed, monogramed handerchief to wipe his overworked brow and polish his spectacles. His work was done.

Servers, all in black and trying hard not to intrude, passed among the guests with silver trays of salmon mousse, melon slices dipped in vanilla honey, tiny finger sandwiches of roasted pork with garlic sauce, and water crackers accompanied by miniature silver thimbles of thyme, sassafrass, mint and wild apple butter. Digesting the scene from the relative safety of the wine cellar - a cheeseburger in one hand and a diet coke in the other - I tried to make sense of all this elite-ness and failed miserably. It was all too much ado about nothing and it reminded me of scenes from"Alice in Wonderland" - the Queen's croquet game and especially the Mad Hatter's tea party. I seemed to have fallen down a very deep rabbit hole indeed. Meanwhile, the wine master ( much like the hedgehog ) appeared to have fallen asleep amid all the chattering guests but no one seemed to notice or mind. The party continued until closing.

Eat, drink and be merry. And all that jazz.

The Short Life of Fashion

The man in the tan sansabelt pants and polyester shirt - his hairpiece just a fraction out place - set a pricey bottle of wine on the counter, gave me a grim look, and ordered me to have it chilled. My pleasure, I told him smartly and hoped to God that he would turn his back to me and return to his table before I broke down laughing. His wife, a substantial blonde barely contained in her form fitting capri pants and push up bra, wore a pasted on, frozen smile that never wavered while her glassy eyed stare seemed to be locked in place. Perhaps, I thought, the result of only having one contact lens in place - the effect of her one blue and one brown eye was startling. I filled an ice bucket and began the process of chilling the expensive chardonnay, all the while trying to erase the image of those stretchy tan pants and those mismatched eyes, wondering if this particular colorful couple might live in a house without the benefit of mirrors.

Let me be perfectly clear - I am a jeans and t shirt gal from the get go and these days spend my working days in scrubs and running shoes. I am not a fashion statement in any language and as a rule do not judge those around me in terms of apparel. But sansabelts? And multi colored artificial eyes? All tied together with arrogance? It was simply too much and as I watched them walk back to the table - well, to be perfectly accurate, he swaggered and she tottered, maintaining a vise like grip on his arm - it was nearly impossible to maintain any professionalism.
Even on those days when I slink into the grocery store in dark glasses and my floppy straw hat, sans makeup or teeth and dodging any familiar face, even on those days I am careful to keep a low profile and stay anonymous. Recognition is to be avoided at all costs and calling attention to myself borders on sin. Not only am I a sight, I am perfectly aware that I'm a sight and prefer to keep it a private matter.

Out of curiousity, I looked up sansabelts - introduced in 1959 and still, much to my surprise, available and going strong some 50 odd years later - just as unflattering and foolish now as they were then. And here I was thinking they had gone the way of sousaphones and nehru jackets.

Then again, possibly I have misjudged the short life of fashion.

One Word Answers

The half persian is a shy and nearly withdrawn cat - black with a silver undercoat, fluffy from head to tail and huge round eyes. She has been in residence several years but is just now beginning to open up. I watch her emerge from under the bed, cautiously take measure of what she sees and decide it's safe, then take a few steps toward me. She is a lovely animal but very much a loner, retreating at the first sign of the black dog, skittering away at any sort of commotion and keeping her thoughts to herself. This is a cat who values privacy, the protection of darkness, and the quiet side of her own nature. She will sometimes curl up in my lap and consent to being stroked but she remains alert and distant. Winning her over has been long and hard won fight but well worth it.

In a prior lifetime, my friend Tricia invested that same kind of effort with me. I arrived in the south wanting only to stay hidden behind a husband and a family name. My social skills were rusted, I distrusted small talk, hated crowds, new people terrified me. I felt I would be discovered if I were to reveal anything about my past and in my heart I knew I had married mostly for the wrong reasons. I worried I would be exposed every time I opened my mouth to speak so silence and one word answers seemed the least treacherous course. I knew I wasn't worth anyone's efforts. Tricia, however, patiently kept on engaging me, pushing me, forcing me - just as she still does - and in the end, she overcame me. It was easier to give into friendship than keep fighting.

She has since seen me through divorces, job losses, and all the rages and resentments of every day life. She supports, fusses, scolds, encourages, praises and empathizes. Her advice - whether I follow it or not - is almost always sound and it's a huge comfort to know that she's on my side. She has stuck with me, restoring my faith in the integrity of friendship and its possibilities and always there with a kleenex, an aspirin, a kind word, or a hug.
Friendship does not come easy to me - like the half persian, I tread lightly and watch for danger around every corner, always careful to hold back just a little, just in case.

No Call for Clowns

The clown woke - as he usually did - hungover, sickish, bleary eyed and alone. He stumbled through a hot shower and a cup of Starbuck's then picked out a fresh costume, slicked up his spiky hair and painted his face. It was then, as he preened in the full length mirror before pronouncing himself perfect, that he remembered he was a clown, overweight, out of work, friendless and idle minded. He had nowhere to be, no calls to make or return, nothing that he needed to do. The entire day stretched out before him and there was no good reason not to take a drink - one would clear his head, two would warm him, three would make him feel normal and after that it wouldn't matter. He carefully Visine'd his eyes before mixing a pitcher of martinis - he was, in fact, an unsuccessful and very bad clown - when the circus had folded its tents and left town they'd left him behind to the mercy of grade school carnivals, traveling magic shows and ultimate failure.

By noon, his outlook had improved. Feeling mildly hazy, grandiose and unaware that he was staggering ever so slightly, he decided to treat himself to lunch and an afternoon drive. He was at home in bars, confident that everyone would recognize him, bound to run into someone he knew. He gorged himself on mussels and imported cheeses, making loud conversation with the bartender and insinuating himself into the company of strangers with each clown card he freely handed out. He sipped his martinis with what he thought was elegance and grace, never fully realizing that his speech was slurring and that his barstool perch was bordering on the precarious. When he saw a familiar face, he didn't just say hello, he hailed with enthusiasm and issued a boisterous invitation to join him. No one cared to be seen keeping company with a drunken clown so no one accepted and after several hours, he made his way out alone, leaving the bartender a generous tip so as to maintain the fictionalized version of his self importance. He might be remembered but he would not be missed - there was a collective sigh of relief as the door closed behind him as well as some pitying laughter and head shaking.

He weaved his way home with the exaggerated care and false confidence that all regular drunk drivers believe they have, carefully keeping to the quiet back streets where there would be the least chance of encountering a police car, still firmly believing that he was perfectly fit to drive.

He shed his clown costume for sharply creased khaki shorts and a Ralph Lauren sports shirt, donned his imported loafers and made a fresh pitcher of martinis before settling on the patio. Without the clown suit and the makeup, without his painted smile, he became what he was - a sad, middle aged, abandoned, lonely drunk, still in search of the circus and the days when he thought he had mattered. It was still light when he finally passed out in his designer patio chair without even the ducks on the bayou for company.

There's no call for clowns without a circus.

Taking Shelter

We are like hurricanes - we gather strength, then falter, change direction, gather strength again. We don't always know where we're headed - whether to make landfall or die out in the gulf and while we swirl and threaten and strut, life goes on in spite of us. It seems to me that there is always a storm waiting to be born somewhere and we have to choose between taking shelter or fighting our way through.

On my personal radar, I discover that most, although not all, of my storms have been brewed internally and that I can determine their course more than I care to admit. Most, although not all, will wear themselves out if I don't take them too seriously and most, although not all, will do just small damage.

I kept Nicky's death this past weekend mostly to myself, not wanting to put it on display, not wanting to have to justify the emotional mayhem it caused me, not wanting to talk about it. I wrote about it, hoping that some of the pain might dissipate, but when it didn't, I came home to my remaining animals and took shelter with them. They know I left with a cat in my arms and returned without one but their lives remain unchanged - even if they knew the pain I feel each time I put out six food bowls rather than seven, they would not understand. Still, I find comfort just in their being.
In that they do not understand loss or grief, they will never know the callousness of hearing the words, It was just a cat, or the well intentioned but slightly mystified, Sorry, usually followed by a quick exit. When you need them the most, words often have a way of not coming easily if at all.

I don't have or own or keep animals - I share my life, my happiness and my sorrow with them. I care for them and tend them as the precious, fragile and temporary beings that they are. In return, they stay by my side as long as God allows then I give them into His care. It was marginally easier with Nicky, his illness was gut wrenchingly apparent and I could not allow him additional suffering. This was no small storm but a hurricane of the first magnitude.

As they are all cast offs or strays or foundlings, I have never been there when they come into the world. It's a hard gift to be there when they leave it but a gift nonetheless.

Happenstance

I came across his picture by happenstance - idly strolling through a social networking site and calling up random names from years ago. He is older, grayer, more filled out, but that slight grin was unmistakable and just as I remembered. It's been over 40 years and we're all grown up now. Would he recall the summer of 1966 as vividly as I do still? And if he didn't, would I really want to know?

I turned 18 that July and he was 20 - we'd known each other since childhood but had never been more than friends. He was the first one to turn up at the back door that year, driving a battered old Ford and easily winning over my grandmother with good manners and a shy smile. I'd had a mild crush on him for the past several summers and when he asked me to the dance I said yes immediately - he was tall and thin and good looking, polite and respectful, what Nana liked to call "a good catch" - she'd known his family all her life and was impressed with this redheaded young man, He's been raised right, she confided to my mother, Takes after his daddy, helps care for all those young'uns and he finished his grade 12, no small thing. Most island education stopped as soon as you were old enough to work and a high school education was a rare accomplishment requiring dedication, hard work, and a curious mind, all traits Nana admired, but mostly I think she was simply charmed by this new young man who tipped his cap, stood when she stood, held her chair and always knocked before entering. She was less sure about the fact that he owned his own car until he pointed out that he'd saved for it for years and that he was too much of a gentleman to use it to his advantage, especially with her granddaughter. We only missed one curfew all that summer after encountering a lost sheep in a thick fog - Nana eventually gave us her complete blessing and years later would still ask about him, wondering if we'd kept in touch. I had to admit we hadn't - I'd heard he married and built a new house but there was 2,000 miles and an ocean between us by then and if there had been a real opportunity, we'd missed it. Come fall, summer loves between island boys and girls from away - no matter how sweet - were consigned to memory, the house closed up for another winter and the last ferry crossing made.

That was my last Freeport summer. There was college and work and real life to be dealt with, new loves waited for us both, choices had to be made and life paths selected. Even so, I still think of him and smile - that final summer with the redheaded boy was the finest and happiest I've ever known. It's magical to be young and in love by the ocean, even if it's only for a summer.