Old Age: A Jar of Preserves & A Pillbox Hat

Miss Beverly was the first patient of the day.

She arrived, as always, a few minutes early, dressed quietly in a two piece navy suit with a polka dot blouse, pearl earrings and navy pumps.  A small pillbox hat sat on her wispy white hair which curled around her ears defiantly.  She gave me a bright smile as she signed in with one trembling hand, the other clutched her shiny, plastic purse with a death grip.  

No one prepared me for being this old, she remarked more to herself than to me, My Stars, how intolerable my handwriting has become!  

You're doing fine, I assured her, Just sign for me at the bottom and come on in.

She's one of the lucky ones, I think.  At eighty-eight, she still has all her faculties and all her limbs, walks unassisted, still drives, and manages to live within her income.   She lives alone, save for an old tomcat she invited in one day, and while this makes her children fuss and worry and sometimes hover, she holds onto her independence as tightly as she does her purse.  Her little cottage in an older and very respectable part of town is paid for and neatly maintained.  On warm spring days, she likes to tell me, when her arthritis isn't too bad, she still gardens a bit, roses mostly and azaleas which need far less care.  She doesn't find life easy anymore, but she does find it precious.  The only thing I've ever heard her complain about is her handwriting - her hands are pale, blue veined and fragile looking, her rings no longer quite stay in place and it's become hard for her to grip a pen - it annoys her to be what she refers to as un-precise in her person.

Oh, well, she says with a resigned sigh, I don't suppose poor penmanship will be enough to keep me from The Promised Land.  Surely the Good Lord will overlook my scrawl but still, my dear, and she gives me a wink, I do miss being able to read my own hand.

She has brought a glass jar of preserves on this visit and a wax papered tin of biscuits.  She hands them to me though the window and makes me promise to see that the doctor shares, it being so close to the holidays.  The label on the preserves is illegible and slightly smeared and, she confesses with a small frown, she can't exactly remember whether she made apple butter or mayhaw - she thinks about this for a moment then shrugs her thin shoulders, as if to say what does it matter - and takes a seat in the waiting room.  

"Old age is like a plane flying through a storm.  Once you're aboard there's nothing you can do." ~ Golda Meir

  

Trials, Troubles & Old Friends

The road to hell, my Aunt Pearl said with a dark glance in her sister's direction, is paved with good intentions.

Stuff and nonsense!  Nana barked at her but my poor and overly sensitive Aunt Vi immediately burst into helpless tears and covered her face with her hands.  Miss Clara, the unintended victim of Vi's latest mail order cosmetic course - this one in hair coloring - stood at the kitchen sink with a towel wrapped around her head and  wailed pitifully.

Good Lord, Clara!  Pearl gave a hugely exasperated sigh, Do stop caterwauling!  It's not the end of the world!

It's not YOUR hair that's green!  Clara protested and launched into a fresh barrage of sobs, And it isn't YOUR turn to sing solo on Sunday!

Oh, for mercy's sake, Nana said, nearly shouting to be heard over the unfeminine racket, This isn't helping a bit! Can we please start figuring out how to fix it!

These four women, all of whom had been friends for most of their lives and seen one another through each and every imaginable trial and trouble, stood in the fading afternoon light in the kitchen and looked at each other uncertainly. These were strong, self reliant, eminently practical women - well, Aunt Vi might've have had more than her share of moments of nervous indecision but on the whole she could be counted upon for a reasonable sort of stability - but none wanted to be the first to admit that green hair was outside their collective experience.  These were women who prided themselves upon their independence and common sense, trusting that most if not all problems came with solutions - it was a matter of knowing where to look and what to look for.  Defeat in the face of adversity was unthinkable, an unacceptable outcome, a travesty.  These were not women who were accustomed to failure on any level - island women were fighters and survivors - they endured hurricanes and bad marriages and blizzards and ungrateful children and epidemics. I knew this because I'd heard the stories for as long as I could remember.  They had, however, never been confronted with green hair.

Well, Nana began to muse, bleach got us into this so that's no solution.

Food coloring?  Vi suggested timidly.

Dye?  Pearl said thoughtfully, What color cancels green?

Clara, dear, Aunt Vi's voice was shaky but determined, Clara, please, dear, try not to become hysterical.

This was too much for Miss Clara who whirled on poor Vi and tore the towel away, displaying a shock of green ringlets, falling all the way to her shoulders.  Her eyes were on fire.  Hysterical?  she repeated shrillly, HYSTERICAL?  I look like an asparagus!  All I need is salad dressing, you dimwitted old hag and YOU did it!  She snatched up Nana's cast iron skillet and raised it over her head, advancing on Vi with deadly aim.  With a start I realized the meaning of the phrase "Murder in her eye".

Oh, for heavens sake, my grandmother exclaimed with a mild curse, Clara, put that down this instant!  You know I haven't seasoned it yet!

From the pantry door I watched as the kitchen fell suddenly silent and Miss Clara, pausing in mid swing, turned to look wild eyed at Nana.  What?  she asked a startled voice.

I said I haven't seasoned ..... my grandmother began and in that one moment, all four women realized the utter absurdity of the scene.  Miss Clara replaced the skillet, Aunt Pearl began to laugh and slipped one arm around Aunt Vi.  My generally humorless and strait laced grandmother dissolved, laughing so hard she was forced to lean on the counter to remain upright.  I watched all this from the narrow doorway of the pantry and imagined I would never understand grown ups.

Red and green make brown, I said at last and all four women looked at me.

In my coloring books, I added, red and green make brown.

And indeed they did.  There was a long and animated discussion before they settled on ketchup - it was the proper color and Nana said tomatoes were acid-y.  It might counteract the bleach, she declared, And if it doesn't, Clara, you can always be a side dish.  This struck them as hilariously funny and they started laughing all over again.

The pantry offered a full bottle of ketchup and I watched in amazement as they bent Miss Clara over the sink and Aunt Vi lathered in the entire family sized bottle while Nana and Pearl chattered cheerfully.  There was a brief debate about how long to "leave it in" but Vi logically said that half an hour should do as it was the same amount of time she'd left in the bleach and coloring rinse.  Clara carefully wound a fresh towel around her sopping head and all four women retired to the sun porch for tea.

A half hour later, she was once again bent over the kitchen sink while Vi, eyes squeezed shut and mouth moving in silent prayer, rinsed for all she was worth and Nana and Pearl hovered anxiously.  Remarkably enough, it worked - well, after a fashion - towel dried and combed out, Miss Clara's hair had turned a new and mostly acceptable shade of brown.  Studying the result in the dining room mirror for several long minutes, Clara finally pronounced that it would do.

Nothing anyone would remark upon, Aunt Pearl agreed after a critical survey.

With a hat, no one would notice a thing, Nana said firmly.

Never again, Clara, Aunt Vi fervently swore, I promise! And she grinned a little sheepishly and crossed her heart.

A Good Place To Be

Funny how life comes at you.

Recently, an old friend from the childhood I spent on a small island in Nova Scotia connected with me and sent me to a site about the life and times of the village where we grew up.  There were names and pictures of people and places that sent me reeling with nostalgia and sweet, sweet memories.  I scrolled through page after page, often fighting back tears and feeling incredibly lonely for those summers by the ocean.  Simply put, there has never been a time in my life when I was happier - though I was from away, it was and will always be home.  It calls to me still, reminding me that time is not as endless as I once thought, that I need to go back and recapture those memories on film, surround myself with old friends, lost loves, and salt air.

More powerful is the realization that to me, those summers meant serenity and peace and innocence.  Life was - and still is for those who stayed or returned - cleanly simple and straightforward. 

The house at The Point is still there, still a stone's throw from the water, still almost exactly as I remember it except that it's no longer in the family, a fact which saddens me enormously.  Many of the people I knew and loved are gone but the village remains and I still dream about it.

We were different.

Younger.

With all the time in the world.

And in a way, we still are.

Island life fed my soul, gave me roots and a sense of belonging.  I  learned the value of community and friendship,  how people could come together and form a united front, the way in which friends and neighbors got along.  Houses and cars were never locked and if someone was in need, everyone knew and responded.

There were no luxuries, none of the things I took for granted when we left - no paved roads or fancy cars, no color televisions, no department stores or dinner parties.  

It was just home and a good place to be.

“Sometimes memory is the only gift we give ourselves and the only hope we have of finding our way home.” ~ Harley King

I'm going back one day because my heart never left.

The Black Powder Panic

In a famous scene from "Casablanca", Claude Raines as the Chief of Police, is ordered by the occupying Nazis to close Rick's Cafe.  Just prior to being handed his winnings, he exclaims - very tongue in cheek and in that elegant, edgy accent -  the following:

"I'm shocked - shocked! - to discover gambling is going on in this establishment!"

In the wake of three explosions - two last month and one as long ago as June, 2011 - the EPA, ATF and our local parish sheriff's department have suddenly uncovered a million pounds of black powder being improperly stored at  an army ammunition depot turned National Guard facility not far from the city.   They are, so they say, shocked, stunned and dismayed at this discovery.  The danger to life and limb is unclear but as a precaution, an evacuation has been urgently recommended although not made mandatory while the explosives are moved from their current home - cardboard boxes on wooden pallets out in the woods - to secure bunkers in an undisclosed location.  

Judging by the extent and the doomsday tone of the news coverage, you might think that a hidden cache of nuclear weapons and radioactive waste had been discovered next to a schoolyard and that authorities had acted within nanoseconds to protect the public.  You might even think that the existence of the explosives had gone undetected for the last several decades - that it had been a well guarded secret, an intentional cover up by a greedy, danger be damned, profit minded company.  You might even think that no one who could've done anything to correct it ever had a glimmer of the danger, that everyone except the offending storage company was innocent as newfallen snow.  Yep, you might think that.

So the hazmat teams suit up and the trucks roll, businesses reluctantly close their doors and anxious families pack up and leave.  How exactly, I wonder, do you go about moving a million pounds of explosives, where do you take it in a weekend's time and who pays for the lost revenue, the upset lives and the frightened children.

A cynic might be suspicious but personally I'm shocked - shocked! - to finally have all this come to light.  A million pounds of black powder concealed in plain sight for over 60 years and no one - well, except for the locals and the guards and the hunters and businessmen and the National Guardsmen and the newspapers and the military - no one knew.    

Wonder what whoever wrote that line for Claude Raines must be thinking.

Focus & Forgive

Focus.  Forgive.  Let go and move on.
We are all so much stronger and braver than we imagine - we just don't always know it - or as a friend recently shared with me - whatever doesn't kill me had better start running.

Focus.
If we're fortunate, there'll be someone near and dear to point this out to us.  No matter how troubled the time, no matter how deep the wound, life does go on and we do mend - maybe not today or tomorrow, maybe not next week or even next year - but healing comes to all of us.  It's in our nature to survive and do all sorts of things we never dreamed possible.  There's always a choice to be made, always a chance to stop, look both ways, and change direction.   Sometimes I wonder if the first step isn't to stop looking in the mirror and look into the eyes of a friend instead.  Get a new perspective and see what they see rather than what you've come to expect or what you imagine you are.  Even if you don't agree, it'll give you something to think about, to practice, to focus on.  Learn to stay focused and time will pass, things will get better.

Forgive.
Start with yourself.  Dollars to doughnuts, you're your own worst critic and you likely deserve a break.  But for mistakes, we wouldn't learn much "sliding down the razor blade of life" as Tom Lehrer so inelegantly sings in one of his satires.  Go easy, pay attention to what you demand of yourself, be sure it's reasonable.  Give others the same consideration.  Don't judge too lightly, too harshly or too quickly.  Be fair, be patient, be generous, be kind and when you fall short, give yourself a little slack.  Time will pass, things will get better.

Let go and move on.
There's a lot of territory to cover between surrender and acceptance, a whole lot of ups and downs and uneven ground to navigate.  We all hold on a little tighter and a little longer at the prospect of unhappiness or loneliness or suffering.  We resist change for no better reason than the uncertainty and disruption it may or may not bring into our lives.  We deny and bargain, fight and make up, step forward and step back, and dance away, all to maintain position and keep chaos at a secure distance.  We treasure the illusion of control, never seeing that it's a magic trick, a little emotional sleight of hand designed to make us feel grounded and more or less safe.  We're afraid of losing our footing and falling - we forget that when we fall, instinct takes over and we get up, as many times as it takes.  Let go of the bad stuff.  Leave it behind and move on, time will pass and things will get better.

Truth is stranger than friction ~ Jimmy Durante

Fast Food & Relatives

My friend, Michael, who owns and operates his modeling business from his home, calls me and is sputtering with indignation and nearly incoherent - he is in his dressing room preparing for an interview with a prospective client when he notices a battered old car pull into his driveway.  Four young black people loudly emerge, a full two hours early - they are dressed for lawn work and each carries a crumpled paper sack of fast food and a grubby plastic container of soda.  They slouch their way to his front door and lean on the doorbell and he swears he can smell the obnoxious odor of fried fish and cooking grease all the way on the second floor.
This offends his senses and he descends the stairs, in his dressing gown and with no make up, and throws open the heavy front door, fully prepared to evict this low rent trash from his property.  When they tell him they are there for an appointment, he is overcome with surprise and shock and makes no attempt to hide his distaste, although he assures me, he is gracious - in his way - pointing out that anyone who arrives two hours early and has the effrontery to bring his whole ragtag family, cannot be welcomed and further, that as this is clearly his HOME and he has not asked them to lunch, he CANNOT BELIEVE they would have the indecency to imagine that he would allow them to bring their nasty, fried food inside and further, even if it weren't his home, HOW STUPID DO YOU HAVE TO BE to think he would see them under such circumstances.

They protest that no one told them they couldn't bring family or food and he coldly informs them that THIS IS AN INTERVIEW NOT A GODDAMN PICNIC and with a grimace, orders them gone.  They linger, trying to argue and sway him but he stands firm.  WE WILL NOT GET ALONG, he tells them and gathers his silk robe around him with a dignified swirl.  BEGONE BEFORE I SET THE DOGS ON YOU.

I am in tears at this sad tale, laughing so hard I can't speak, and he gives me his best imperial glare and demands to know what sort of person comes to an interview in unclean clothes and brings fast food and relatives and what has the world come to and finally WHAT THE HELL IS SO FUNNY.

This only makes me laugh harder.

The world is a hard place for people with high expectations.

Dark-Thirty

Now and again I feel the need to hibernate, to lock the door and unplug the telephone and simply wallow in sleep.  Long weekends are perfect to indulge this small sin - to retreat and thoroughly shut out the world for a few days - to give all my time and attention to my little ones and have absolutely no routine or rules to follow. 
It's wanton idleness in its grandest form and I revel in it, though of course it wouldn't do for every day.

On the fourth day, I decide it's time to at least make an effort at being productive.  At dark-thirty, somewhere around 4am, I throw off the covers and trail the animals into the kitchen.  I drink a bottle of chocolate milk, light a cigarette, and begin filling food bowls.  The dogs and I step outside into the darkness - chilly and very quiet at 4am - and while they wander the yard, I plan my day, making a mental list of what's to be done before I can return to my snug, little nest in the sunroom.   After three days of solitude and total inactivity, it's more difficult than I imagine to wake up and plug in my motivation.  

This, I tell the little dashchund, is how it starts.  One day you're a productive, tax paying citizen and the next you're living under a bridge.

He yawns.

It takes until noon to get things in order.  Litter boxes changed, laundry done, dishes washed and put away, a quick dusting and even quicker vacuuming, all done with a certain half heartedness, just a means to an end.  I realize, only a little sadly, that I've had enough solitude - exactly enough to be ready and almost (not quite but almost) anxious to rejoin the world and go back to work.  Aside from the television, I haven't heard the sound of a human voice in four full days.  It's been a good rest.

The sun goes down, the streetlights come on and the dogs and I curl up on the couch for a final nap.  All's well that ends well.

Thanksgiving, 2012

Another Thanksgiving is just a few days away - I get my usual share of invitations and turn them down as gracefully as possible, thankful for the offers and not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings, but anxious to sleep late and spend a peaceful, solitary day with my animals and maybe a memory or three.

Even after all these years, I'm no fan of family and  certainly not one of family holidays.  As a child, they were to be endured if not feared and as an adult - in the suffocating embrace of a supposedly intact and openly loving family - I thought I might be strangled.   In hindsight, both extremes seemed as equally unhealthy as they were different.  In one, I tried to manage and deny the emotions. In the other, I tried to copy and manufacture them.  I've found it's far easier on my peace of mind to have to do neither.  Truth is, that without my camera to shield me, even a small crowd gets on my nerves and makes me want to seek a quiet and out of the way corner.  After an initial smile and hug, I'd rather not be noticed at all.  When a friend recently told me that what she liked most about my photographing her was not being aware I was even there, I took it as high praise.

There's something to be said for family traditions, I suppose, but honoring and keeping them alive when you'd rather be somewhere (anywhere!) else is hypocrisy.  So while I thank everyone who so kindly invited me into their homes, I'll keep to my own traditions - sleeping in with the little ones and enjoying a day off to myself, a day when I don't have to follow a routine or even get dressed and have to leave home.

It won't be the day I remember at my grandmother's with the white linened table set for nine and tiny sherry glasses of apple or tomato juice at each setting.  

It won't be the elegant restaurants where we went when she was too old and too weary to cook.

It won't be the sunny and exquisitely formal dining room with my first husband's family, all silver candlesticks and servants gliding in and out from the kitchen.

It won't be the shaky card tables at my mother's lake front cottage with store bought everything.

But it will be mine.

And just as as afterthought......as needless as it is, I can't help but be a little grateful for the primal if slightly comical urge that my married friends have to worry over and feed single women on these kind of holidays.   That at least is a tradition I can accept.

Pretend With Me

Since The Cat Who Lived in the Garage has moved on - perversely, I  miss her - I find myself worrying about the remaining felines who prowl the neighborhood.  It's 40 degrees and there's a light covering of frost on the grass but they're out and about anyway.  If they mind the cold, they don't show it much.

Mostly they're non-approachable, long and lean, wary and suspicious of humans, gradually turning feral.  A few of my neighbors regularly leave food out for them, some try and trap them, but on the whole their presence is accepted and ignored, just a small, sad part of the city landscape.  Like the poor, they are always with us, throwaway animals that survive the traffic, the weather, the hunger, and even the owners who turn them out or leave them behind.  If I could, I would feed, shelter and love them all - they've done nothing to be treated so cruelly.

As it happens, The Cat Who Lived in the Garage has not gone terribly far - the little dachshund is an intrepid escape artist and if I'm not watching carefully, will tunnel under the fence or squeeze through an impossibly small opening - as he did this afternoon when I turned my back to unload the washing machine.  I tracked him to the adjoining yard and discovered him exploring my neighbor's back porch while a familiar grey and white cat observed him, unnoticed, from the safety of the back fence.  She gave me a careless glance then without a sound, gracefully descended onto the yard and indifferently strolled past both of us and into the neighbor's utility shed. The little dachshund never had a clue and when I called, he trotted right to me, perfectly willing to give up his temporary adventure in favor of the promise of an early supper - he likes to escape and explore but shows no interest in wandering very far - even so, I scold him gently before blocking off his latest escape route.  He pretends not to notice what I'm doing and I pretend that he won't do it again.

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.” 
 Kurt Vonnegut 

  

Random Acts of Friendship

I've never asked for or accepted charity in my whole life and always thought it was a blessing.  I suppose I like to think that I can overcome things with patience and time and sheer stubbornness but now I find that a savings account would be far more practical.  I'm ashamed to admit that this latest round of disasters has me too depressed to think clearly.  I can't even seem to get angry.

If ever there was a time for faith and internal fortitude, this is it but I don't seem to be able to find much of either.   This too shall pass, I tell myself, and One day at a time and a regular litany of other clever, little trite but true sayings that rattle around in my head.  I remind myself that there are people without enough to eat, without water or shelter or jobs, without a computer to categorize and complain about their misfortunes.  And I wait for that small voice to kick in and tell me to be grateful, to trust, to persevere, but lately that voice has been as silent and useless as the broken central heat and air.

Or, as I discover later in the same day, maybe I haven't been listening hard enough.

Help arrives first in the offer of a loan for a new central heat and air system.  I am so stunned by this generosity that I'm caught between being speechless and in tears.

Secondly, friends arrive and within an hour of my being home, the latest electrical crisis is resolved and the gas fireplace is working in the event of another loss of power or heat.  I don't know how to thank them, not just for the repairs, but for the kindness.  

Thirdly, a musician friend asks that I let her organize a benefit to help cover some of the substantial debt. I very nearly choke on my own pride at this generosity but manage to swallow hard and accept the offer.

Asking for help comes hard to me.  I value my independence and am accustomed to solving my own problems.
But there are times when the wall you're up against won't budge and the rock is pushing so hard it curls your toes.  That's when you discover the true meaning and blessing of friendships.  I'm not sure I deserve it or that I will ever be able to repay these kindnesses, these random acts of friendship.  But I'll try.

Nana's Table

Once a week or so during the sweet summers we spent on the island, Nana would pack the old Lincoln with empty paper bags and an apple basket or two, and we would drive just a little ways up island to Lily Smith's farm for fresh vegetables - tomatoes right off the vines, cucumbers, curvy squashes and sleek onions, new potatoes and peas and best of all, Lily's finest sweet corn.  Supper would be an extravaganza.

We shelled and husked all afternoon while waiting for the boats to come in and never once thought of it as work.  When the sun began to go down, she would give me a quarter or fifty cents and a few pages of old newspaper and send me to meet the incoming boats where the fishermen would wrap up fresh scallops or a piece of haddock or even a couple of lobsters.  I carried these delicate prizes proudly and carefully, never giving in to the temptation to hurry or run, even though the live lobsters rustling and waving their pincers  scared me half to death.  I didn't like to think about that part of it - it had been a shock to discover that they were alive when Nana dropped them into the oversized kettle of boiling water and I still felt guilty.  It was, to my child's mind, an enormous sacrifice and a fearful way to die although I always managed to overlook their suffering by the time I took my place at the table.

The meal would be leisurely, lengthy and country elegant - Nana would never allow a butter substitute or store bought bread, frozen berries were forbidden when we had a strawberry field and a blackberry patch just outside the door, and the thought of artificial whipped cream made her cringe.  My grandmother set a real table with real ingredients and no short cuts were allowed.  The sun would be down by the time we finished and  left the table, staggering and groaning through the clean up, wanting nothing more than to collapse into soft chairs and sleep, but Nana had never left dirty dishes overnight in her entire life and she never listened to a word of protest.  We wrapped leftovers, washed and dried the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, reset the table for breakfast, stoked the old stove - and only when she was satisfied did we drag ourselves off to quiet corners to recover.

Personally, if you can't toss it into the microwave or pick it up at the deli, I'm not inclined to take the time or trouble - odd, considering where I come from and how I was raised but there it is. 

We all set our own table, choose who will sit at it and what to serve.  It's a feast - if we want it to be - no matter who's in the kitchen.  Don't forget to say grace.

Sour Grapes

The morning after the election brings a number of wildly enthusiastic postings about the outcome and a vicious surge of hateful, toxic, right wing ones.  Quite a few republican friends seem to want to leave the country and I'm overwhelmed with an urge to help them pack.  I respect their right to disagree, even to be be bitter and poor losers, but to be labeled a "traitor" because you don't share their political agenda is offensive.  For the first time that I can remember, I block the worst of them - let them spew their poison and racism elsewhere - they're entitled to their opinions but I don't have to listen.  And the country will survive this hatred and snarling disrespect just as it always has, although it does make me yearn for the literacy and intellect and reasonableness of the north.  I sometimes think that my part of the country values hypocrisy and superficial courtesy more than it does tolerance or equality.

I drive to work with a sense of relief and celebration, passing the clutter of now irrelevant Romney/Ryan signs still stubbornly standing in the front yards of the mansioned streets.  Living in the south often feels lonely to me - in my heart, I suspect that there are still too many of us that have never completely gotten over the Civil War - but the votes are in and it's time we all began respecting the rules and the results and most of all, the rights of others.  Equality extends to all regardless of race, income, gender, sexual preference or political party.

If that doesn't suit you, you don't have to stay.  I really will help you pack.

Karma

It's always less trouble to take the low road, to smirk and say I told you so under the guise of understanding and self righteousness and call it karma.  But karma comes round, often under the guise of justice, and anyone could be its next victim.  Life has a habit of evening things out in the end and if we ignore those in the most need - because they have hurt our feelings or not lived up to expectations or shown themselves to be dangerously flawed - we may regret it.  To be sick is not to be evil and if you haven't lived another's life, you might want to think before you publicly condemn and name call.  Karma works both ways.

Out of jail, ashamed and repentant, ten days sober.  It's a rocky start and all I can do is pray that it's enough to build on and begin again.  Most everything that mattered to him is gone - home, job, music, friends - sadly, the odds are not in his favor and will diminish if he doesn't reach out so we keep him in our prayers and try to stay cautiously optimistic.  I think - I hope - that these things are not gone forever, that those he damaged might, in time, understand and forgive.  There is no logic or reason to addiction and in recovery, actions speak louder than words.  It's a tragic but certain reality that not all losses are reversible - some people will be hurt too deeply to ever again risk getting close.  Others will be too angry or offended or frightened or tired.
Some will simply not believe in redemption and some - those who jumped ship early and took such pains to warn those who didn't - well, they'll just keep their distance and smugly expect him to falter and fail.  And perhaps he will.  Or perhaps he'll be one of the fortunate ones, kick the habit and get his life back.  Either way, it will hurt none of us to be a little kinder.

I found comfort and courage
in bottles of whiskey
but let me tell you, friend,
that the life is pretty risky ~ Guy Clark

Willie & the Whiskey

After a brief stint as a bus boy on the mainland - by and large unsuccessful as he frightened the patrons with his crossed eyes and multi-colored, untamed hair - Willie came home again and reclaimed the ramshackle and neglected old house with it's caved in roof and broken windows.  He was so short and the grass was so tall that he could easily come and go without being seen, so no one noticed the discarded whiskey bottles and he slowly but surely drank himself into a near coma.  He slept during the day and at night danced naked by candle light or prowled around in the grass, singing snatches of dance hall tunes.  How he had gotten the whiskey remained a mystery but it was suspected that his sister Elizabeth, who was on friendly terms with several of the island bootleggers, kept him supplied.  No one dared ask in exchange for what, it was too frightful a prospect.  On the morning Old Hat discovered him asleep in her sheep pen, naked except for a pair of laceless old boots and a battered fedora, The Point woke to a shattering shotgun blast, then another and another, all before the factory whistle had blown.  Hattie chased him clear to The Old Road before she relented with one final and precisely aimed load of buckshot - by then Willie was howling and everyone from Uncle Shad's to Sparrow's was awake and watching.

My grandmother, caught in the act of removing a fresh batch of corn muffins from the ancient stove, was so startled she dropped the muffin tin.  What in heaven's name.....she began and then cursed colorfully as muffins scattered on the linoleum floor and the dogs arrived in tandem to snatch them up.  Was that a gun? she snapped, the muffins forgotten ( though there would be hell to pay later ) as she ran for the sunporch.
Jan, was that a gun?

My mother, still in her robe and slippers was casually smoking a cigarette.  Indeed it was, she said mildly, 
Hattie's after Willie again, Lord only knows why.

Well, don't just stand there!  Nana yelled, She's likely to kill him with that damn scattergun!

Not my affair, my mother said mildly, It'd just be one less village idiot.

My grandmother cursed again and ran out the porch door just in time to see Willie vault one handed over the guard rail and disappear down the treacherous incline.  Hattie stood defiantly, panting for breath with her smoking shotgun still sighted and I had an absurd image of ducks in a shooting gallery and began to laugh.

Hattie!  my grandmother yelled, What the hell are you doing?  Put that damn gun down!

Old Hat, all in black and as always reminding me of Mammy Yokum from Li'l Abner, slowly lowered the gun, spit    venomously and glared at my grandmother.

Missed the damn fool, she hollered back, Reckon my eyes ain't what they used to be...but the day's still young!

Hattie, you know you ain't supposed to be shootin' off that thing, Nana yelled impatiently, Somebody'll call the Mounties again!

By then I'd reached the guard rail and slipped over it but although I could see all the way to Gull Rock,there was no sign of Willie, dead or alive, naked or otherwise.  I did imagine that I could see a battered old fedora caught on a rock but it was a long way off and it might've been no more than a clump of dirt and twisted grass.
Old Hat and my grandmother were still in the midst of a somewhat spirited argument, but Nana seemed to be winning and after another minute or two, Hattie lowered her shotgun, shook off my grandmother's grip and headed back the way she had come, grumbling to herself with every step.

One of these days, Nana sighed, she really is goin' shoot him.  Right between those crossed eyes, I 'magine. You know, she's a much better shot than she lets on.  She gave me a stern look and a sterner still pat on the backside.  Fetch me a blanket from the cedar closet and we'll see iffen we can't find him 'fore he drowns and gets washed out with the tide.

With a little help from the Ryans, Willie was located, bruised and dirty and asleep in a dry docked rowboat, a half empty bottle of whiskey clutched in hand and naked as the proverbial jaybird.  The Ryans wrapped him in the sweet, cedar-y smelling blanket and volunteered to drive him home - Nana didn't even protest the loss of the blanket - although she did threaten to make short work of the dogs for the loss of the muffins and she banished them both for the rest of the day.

She didn't speak to my mother for two days.

Second Helpings

Always in search of a silver lining and the sun behind the clouds, I sign the second repair ticket for the furnace with a sigh - another $350 - and idly muse that I won't live long enough to pay it.  If so, at least I won't be here to feel ashamed or guilty.  Meanwhile, the temperatures have risen and the house is warm enough to be comfortable - not cozy, not snug, not toasty, but comfortable - before I go to bed I set the space heaters to 68, plug in the small brown dog's heating pad on my pillow, and remind myself it could be so much worse.  This is not how I envisioned this time in my life but it's what I have and I'm still grateful.  Mostly.

Before all this nonsense began, I found myself downtown on a mildly chilly Saturday afternoon, at a benefit for a local musician whose medical bills were threatening to force him into bankruptcy.  Late in the day, standing outside on the sidewalk, I noticed dozens and dozens of ragged people beginning to congregate in the vacant parking lot and cluster around the donated picnic tables.  They came in ones and twos, on crutches and in wheelchairs and walkers, carrying bundles and paper sacks, milling about aimlessly.  They were black and white, young and old, cheerful and downhearted, wearing or carrying everything they owned.  Two white vans pulled up and double parked, dislodging volunteers from Catholic Charities - a handful of young people began unloading plastic containers of food and coffee urns, paper plates and plastic cups.  They worked quickly and efficiently in the late afternoon light and soon the tables were filled with crock pots of red beans and rice, gumbo, loaves of bread, green vegetables and sweet rolls.  The homeless formed a crooked line and waited, joined hands and bowed heads for a brief prayer.  Then each took a steaming plate and found a place to sit.  There were a lot of smiles and good natured conversations and second helpings - each came with a blessing and a few encouraging words, an empathetic but by no means pitying hug.  It was an enduring memory, this stark collection of opposing images - happy yet sad, upbeat yet tragic, cold but heart warming.  Remembering it made me feel ashamed to have complained so mightily about a lack of money and a short lived lack of heat.

How foolish we can be not to see fortune when it's all around us.

Lessons from Jail

Lately I've begun to feel like I'm stuck in a small room with a radio playing a bad country song.  Over and over and over.  Everything seems to be about broken hearts and cheating, breakups and bar fights, getting drunk and being thrown in jail.  Well, I think to myself, it's tragic and melodramatic but at least it's colorful rather than dull.  I've never visited anyone in jail before and I hardly know the protocol - until now it had never occurred to me that I'd ever need to know - but life is full of surprises.  After all, I was the one who bought that til death us do part thing.  Twice.

I suppose it's just one more reminder that when it comes to people, it's hard to know what we're truly all about.  Here is a gifted musician, bright and quick witted, well educated and generous of nature, a cat lover with a steady job and a ready smile.   And here is that same young man, wild eyed with rage, vindictive and menacing, out of control and spitting poison with every breath.   Like Dr. Jeckyll after drinking the elixir, he revealed another personality - filled with hate so stunning that it took my breath away.  Disintegration was quick to follow and in a matter of weeks the woman he loved so dearly ordered him out, the newspaper fired him, and friends fell like dominoes.  After a nasty fight in a local bar, he was arrested and jailed without a dime for bail and human nature being what it is, the popular opinion was that since he'd brought it all on himself, he could rot.  He had driven away or threatened to hurt so many people that not a single, solitary soul was willing to step up to his defense.

A handful of people take pleasure in this fall from grace but the majority are simply saddened and bewildered.

I want to think we would all reach out to a friend in need, that there's enough kindness and empathy in us to want to help someone in deep trouble.  But I also know that feelings are fragile things, easily bruised and delicate.  Spit on an offer to help once too often and you may not get another.  There are times when we're defeated before we start and we distance ourselves for the sake of peace of mind and security.  We walk away because to stay risks our own well being.

My heart, however, tells me he needs a friend and that I need to make time to be one.
   

  


   

Nearly November

After a night spent fully dressed and under as many layers of covers as I could find, I come to grips with the thoroughly disagreeable fact that the heat is not going to fix itself.  Despite being in a sweater and wrapped up in a blanket, the small brown dog's teeth are chattering and she can't stop shivering.  More bad luck, it's Sunday and the bill will be astronomical.  I pull on long johns and two hooded sweatshirts and start the cleaning chores.  The tiny flicker of hope that physical activity will keep me warm vanishes when I realize I can barely feel my fingers. 

It's nearly November but the weather only turned yesterday.  I can see frost on the grass and the deck is covered in dead leaves.  A fine time for the heat to go out, not quite as bad as losing the air conditioning in August when the temperature locks in to 100 degrees, but close.  All I can see of the small brown dog is the tip of her nose - the other two sleep and keep watch - they're blessed with thick coats and stronger, tougher constitutions.  Would that I were more like them.

Not long after I call, the repairman arrives - a cheerful and attractive man who's only defect is his lack of optimism.  He crawls under the house, tool belt jingling, and after the first hour the feeling of dread that's been building in me begins to grow feet.  I'm trying hard to banish the thought that anything that takes this long is bound to cost prohibitive and when he finally emerges and tells me a figure, I nosedive into as deep a depression as I've had in years.  Worse, unless I'm willing to pay an extra few hundred dollars, it needs to wait until tomorrow and even then there's no guarantee that the parts will be readily available.  The long chill begins and the small brown dog gives me a look that breaks my heart.

By early afternoon I've made the trip to Sears and bought two ceramic heaters and a heating pad.  With both running at full strength for several hours and the outside temperatures getting into the upper fifties, two rooms are marginally less frigid and the small brown dog is curled up peacefully enough on the heating pad.  I spend the remainder of the day in a nest of blankets in the sunroom, trying desperately to nap and not think about the rate of interest on the credit cards, what the temperature will be come morning, and how best to convince the bank that I'm a good risk. 

I know other people have more serious troubles.
I know it could always be worse.
But on this miserable, nearly November day, I swallow my pride and admit I'm too weary, fed up, and depressed to care.

Last of the Litter

It's hard to comprehend that it was nine years ago that I happened on the small brown dog, last of the litter, sitting and shivering in a milk crate outside our local Petco on a blowy Sunday afternoon.  Her siblings had all found homes that very day and the human that had brought this disreputable clutter of pups to give away was tired and cold and about to give up.  Don't look, don't look, don't look!  I told myself as I approached the doors, but of course, I did look - she was barely a handful of wild hair with pleading eyes, light as a feather and looking miserable and half frozen and lonely, some unfortunate mix of terrier and Lord only knew what - and I was done for the very second our eyes met.   God granted me no immunity from such sweet, sad faces.  No reason or common sense prevails at these moments and the fact that I already shared my life with five cats and two dogs was eminently forgettable.  I scooped up her tiny body and tucked her inside my jacket for the ride home and have never regretted it for even a second.  This month, on Halloween, she turns nine - and since she spent the first two years of her life on the counter of the photo shop where I worked (winning hearts with no effort at all and delighting customers of all ages), people still remember, still ask about her, still smile when I tell them she's doing just fine.

These days she spends most of her time sleeping and playing with the little daschund.  She's a naturally friendly but timid animal, loving, sweet natured and eager to please, exceptionally well behaved.  I often wonder if she misses the daily car rides and the steady stream of people as much as I miss having her with me.  At times during those couple of years, it was hard to tell who was being socialized.

Being a small dog, nine isn't quite over the hill and she'll be with me for several more years.  I'm glad for each day.  She's more like a cartoon character than a movie queen but then beauty is in the eye of the beholder and as I tell her frequently, we can't all be Liz Taylor.  Some dogs are meant test you to your limits and some are 
just meant to bring you joy.

On balance, I always get the best of the bargain.

Taking Out the Trash

There's no other way to put it.  After six months of abuse and denial and intimidation, police calls and warnings, under threat of eviction and unemployment and loss of her children, she finally unraveled.  There were tears and hugs and apologies and self recriminations - later in the day there were search warrants and restraining orders and an eventual arrest.  It was all very touching and highly emotional but whether it was real is yet to be determined.  I'm afraid this little drama is only act one.  For the moment, her job was saved.  Her children would be able to sleep safely and securely.  Her family welcomed her back with open arms and she'd been granted another chance.  But this is sickness, deeply rooted and powerful and very, very stubborn.  It's not over by a long shot and the road back is going to be long and littered with obstacles.

It was late in the afternoon when word of the arrest reached us.  He didn't, as the deputies suggested but didn't expect, go quietly and resisting arrest was added to the list of the charges just as more drama and chaos were 
added to a day already teeming with both.  I felt a twisted satisfaction at the thought of his being read his rights and led away in handcuffs - predator had finally become prey - and a part of me hoped they'd taken him down hard, had perhaps inflicted a little of his own back.  As it turned out, they had -  he'd fought like a typical hyped
up junkie and ended up being tasered twice before he was subdued and thrown none too gently into the back of the police car.  By the time the drug dog was done going through the house the following day, the deputies had uncovered the outstanding warrants from Mississippi and Alabama as well as a record of felony convictions and prison time, everything from robberies to credit card fraud to assault and battery.  Bail was upped to $100,000 in less time than it took the ink to dry on the police reports.

Not surprisingly, the threatening calls began the same day - his mother and sister joined forces but weren't bright enough to realize that we could "star 69"  their calls or far seeing enough to think we would report them.   A deputy returned the sister's call and we listened in awe as he told her flatly that if she continued, he would be more than happy to have her arrested and make arrangements for her to be brought here - where, he added in a soft drawled  afterthought, she could be really close to her brother.  There were no more calls.

That such people exist in the world is not news to me.  That they take advantage of and prey on the innocent and the desperate is fact.  That they succeed so easily and often is tragic.  The only thing that shocks me is that one of them got close enough to touch my life, even superficially.  I've never been on speaking terms, however briefly, with a career criminal before and I find it unsettling - not to mention disappointing.  I suppose I was expecting a little flair, a hint of mystery or casual charm rather than white trash with with bad teeth and a greasy ponytail.

And so, act one concludes with the villain in jail, the evil exposed and neutralized, the children safe and their sadder but wiser mother picking up the pieces with a new found determination to repair and rebuild.  Today I saw her smile and heard her laugh, really just naturally laugh, for the first time in months.

It's a good sign.
At least that's what I hope.