A Small Violation

To be honest, I was already in a temper.   

The latest software upgrade had - predictably - disabled our system for two days in a row and every other call was from tech support although none had proven useful.  I was tired from listening to their rapid-fire, third world chatter, tired of repeatedly asking them to please slow down and enunciate, tired of their excuses.  A mental health minute seemed called for - I snatched a plastic bottle of water and a single cigarette and went to sit at the back door - the office was at its usual meat market temperature and I thought a few minutes of warmth and quiet might help.

I didn't notice the old car until it had made its third pass - an ancient and uncared for rattletrap with a roaring muffler spewing exhaust - mismatched doors and duct tape holding the rear windshield together.  When it stopped in front of me, my heart sank.  An old woman climbed out, bent and limping and toothless, an old rag wound around her filthy hair and toe-less house slippers on her talon-ed and dirty feet.  The ragged edge of a torn slip hung beneath the hem of her grimy house dress and her ill fitting sweater was stained and faded with age.

Ma'am! she called out to me, Ma'am, you have 'nuther one?

I knew immediately that she meant my cigarette and shook my head.

No, I told her as she advanced steadily, Sorry.

She was so close I could smell the cooking grease and unwashed clothes and when she reached out one gnarly old hand toward me I almost flinched.

Den kin ah have your short?  she asked.

I've lived in the south for a good many years but it still took a second or two to make sense of the words.

Kin ah have your short, she repeated, 'fore you be finishin' it?

I looked at her, then at my cigarette, then back at her.  Was she really asking for my half-smoked cigarette, I wondered, and then realized that not only was she asking, she was expecting.  A twisted old hand with chewed up and dirt rimmed nails was inches away from me making grasping motions.  Somewhere deep in my belly, surprise, disgust and revulsion had a brief, acid-filled battle - an image of my mother surfaced and for an instant I thought I might gag - then the need to put as much distance between me and this sad, nasty, old woman kicked in.  I  shrugged, handed over what was left of my Virginia Slim Menthol Light and scrambled back inside, not exactly hurriedly but not taking my time either.  I didn't want to see her making her way back to the battered old wreck in the parking lot.  I didn't want to think about what would make a person so brazen that they would accost a total stranger for a cigarette.  Hey, look!  I imagined her saying to the driver of the car, There's someone smoking!  Let's get her!  Did they prowl around back doors and loading docks in search of victims?  Was her whole appearance a put on to gain sympathy?  Did I look like someone who wouldn't make protest?  I felt - ridiculous as it sounds - as if I'd been somehow violated. I've smoked for something over fifty years.  It's a vile and dirty habit, I'm not proud of it, and not a day goes by that I don't wish I'd never started (that's addiction for you) but nevertheless, there are rules.  You can, between good if not intimate friends, ask for a drag off someone else's cigarette.  You can bum off a friend and although more rarely, sometimes off someone you barely know.  You can panhandle for a cigarette but not the one someone else is in the process of smoking.

Not much of an infraction, I told myself as I scrubbed my hands in soap and hot water and added hand sanitizer for good measure, but I still wanted to wash it off.

  

Car Notes

It doesn't happen often but one or twice a year the finance company that holds the note on my little car neglects to send me a monthly payment demand notice.  It's annoying because this means I have to call them and go all through all the security nonsense and voice mail obstacles before someone will give me my account number and their payment address.

I explained this to Ryan, the polite and engaging young man at the finance company, and in record time he provided me with my loan number, gave me the mailing address, assured me it hadn't been the slightest inconvenience and wished me the very best day anyone could hope for.  I made myself a note to mail the check first thing in the morning but as sometimes happens, the next morning was mayhem and half over before I remembered.  I snatched an envelope and hurriedly scrawled the address on it, added a stamp, and walked it to the mailbox, not wanting to miss the morning pick up.  It was the next day before I realized I hadn't put the loan number on the check and cursing my forgetfulness, had to make a second call.

I explained this to Annie, the neither polite nor engaging young woman at the finance company, and asked if she would note my account with my telephone number and call when they received the check.

We don't do that, she said shortly, It's automated.

What is? I asked pleasantly although I could already see that this was going to end badly.

There are no people receiving checks, she said impatiently, You'll have to call back or stop payment and send another one.

If, I said carefully, still managing to be civil and not take the bait, there are no people, you must have an awesome automated system.  What exactly happens to checks you can't identify?

We hold 'em, she snapped and this time she made no effort at all to conceal her contempt, You can call back after it's had time to get here.

Well, I said calmly, determined to ignore the red flecks of rage that were beginning to drift across my field of vision, Since none of this would be happening if you'd sent me a monthly bill, perhaps there's some room to make an accommodation here.  At some point, an actual person must.....

We don't do that, she interrupted and it was very close to a snarl.

I counted to ten, took a breath, reminded myself that she wasn't worth it.

How extraordinarily unhelpful you've been, Annie, I said slowly and so sweetly that it made me a little queasy,

Thank you sooo very much.  And hung up.

That was when I looked up and saw our little nurse laughing so hard she was in tears.

In the words of Bette Midler, I told her and smiled in spite of myself, Fuck'em if they can't take a joke.

Pepper Wars

I don't like pepper on my food.  Never have, never will.

During the last days of my second marriage - when we were speaking at all - I repeatedly asked my husband not to put pepper on my steak.  He repeatedly ignored me.

It might've been because he thought I should like pepper on my steak.

It might've been because he thought I would come to like pepper on my steak.

The truth was, that he liked pepper on his steak in much the same way as he liked always knowing better than anyone else and having a better way of doing just about everything.   He didn't care in the slightest about my likes or dislikes but he did enjoy making decisions for me.  Until the night when I heaved an entire prime rib, plate and all - ruined and blackened with pepper - in his general direction and snarled that the dogs could have it.  I'd reached my limit of being dismissed and ignored and bullied and while it was a waste of a fine prime rib, at least it got his attention, albeit briefly. 

Until recently, I thought I was done with this kind of mindset but I hadn't reckoned on ol' Ace's arrival at the workplace.  Now it seems I have to fight the same battle all over again although of course this time it isn't about pepper or steak but rather about paperwork and forms, policies and the way things work.  It's about sign in sheets and clipboards and changing procedures out of arrogance.  And it's about manners, about calling someone 20 or 30 years older by their first name without being invited to.  It's about unsolicited change based on arrogance and despite the fact that it compromises the process.

I watched him take 40 patient encounter forms off their respective clipboards and lay them in a sloppy pile on his desk where he then re-attached each and every one when the patients actually arrived.  He felt no need to explain this curious and slightly roundabout method of getting from point A to point B.

I watched him dump all our sign in sheets into a trash barrel.  Presumably, he has a better design in mind but he didn't mention or produce it.

I listened to him call an eighty-one year old nun he'd never met before by her first name.

And I was the one who had to explain to a patient who'd been told to come right in (and did) why there was no one in the office and the door was locked because ol' Ace - so eager to be seen as a go-getter and better than the rest of us put together - hadn't bothered to ask which office he would be coming to and the patient arrived at the one some 70 miles away.  So sorry.

After this miserable day finally ends, I come home and try desperately to let go of my anger.  Condescending,
egotistical, controlling, I think.  Secretive to the point of paranoia, I think.  A bully with women and a coward with men, I think.  A blatant and shameless liar, I think.  He moves and talks as if in an LSD kind of daze and responds to questions with a vacant, slack jawed stare that makes me think of people who climb clock towers with rifles.  And yet I have to find a way to work with him or call it a day 'cause I can't shoot him.

But I might could hire someone.

Art on Fire

On a warm March afternoon, a handful of artists gathered on a hillside in a city park, built a fire and began burning their art.  The concept was a metaphor - clean house, make room for the new, purge and move on - but the flames were real enough.  There was a good deal of cheering and chanting encouragement as canvases were smashed and torn and laid in the fire.  The smoke, probably toxic as someone observed, swirled and floated on the light breeze, the ashes accumulated quickly, the heat spread like sadness.  I remembered I'd read that the event had been inspired by the passing of a California painter and the recent deaths of three local artists, all of whom had left behind a body of work but no instructions for its disposal. 

We are not what we used to be, a painter friend of mine pronounced solemnly, We let go of the past.  We do not leave our work to be a burden to our friends or family.

Each piece had a history and a story and each artist recalled it clearly, when it had been done, what the inspiration for it had been, where it had been exhibited and for how long and what the reactions to it had been.  They recited the details quietly.  As each piece went into the fire, I realized I was torn between admiration for their actions and a fuzzy sense of sorrow.  I am usually merciless with material possessions and feel no sentimentality at all about tossing them out with the dust they've gathered but no part of me goes with them.  This was somehow different, a little right and a little wrong.   I thought about the photographs I've taken over the years and knew I would never be brave enough to see them destroyed.  I've lost track of some and still sometimes grieve, wishing I'd been more careful, more discriminating about who they went to.  The negatives are long gone, lost in the shuffle of living, divorcing, moving from one state to another.  They may mean nothing to anyone but me but it makes me sad that they can't be re-created.

It takes a special kind of courage to create art.

It takes a special kind of of courage to let it go and watch it burn.

Hands Off

Most of us trip and stumble through life, never knowing when the ground will gave way and leave us suspended in mid air.  The best we can hope for is to learn from our mistakes, improve our judgement and values, be more careful, and do as little harm as possible.  All the rest is serendipity, happenstance, luck of the draw, if you will - all other words for God, some would say - nature doing her thing, my atheist friends would counter, random, meaningless and as futile and escape-proof as a perfect circle.

I see pain in a friend's eyes but she will not be drawn out and because I love her and this is not something she wants to talk about - she says so clearly but with some effort - I respect her decision and don't press.  And though her worry and sadness lodge in my throat like a rough edged stone, I can't think what to say to her.  I don't understand what it is to be a traditional and loving parent, to have children that will always be a part of you, to willingly want to make their pain your own.  For better or worse, I just don't come from that kind of family.

It's hard to watch a friend hurt and stay hands off but sometimes it's exactly what you need to do.

Cross Talk & Brandywine

Ruthie and I, playing jacks in one end of the sunporch where the linoleum was slick and easy on the knuckles and we weren't in the way, listened closely to the conversation from the other end where my grandmother and her cronies were playing bridge and hotly contesting the most recent bid.

Six spades! Nana had cried in alarm, Damn, Vi, have you been sippin' from the cider barrel again?

We can make it, Alice, Aunt Vi protested but weakly, I've been practicin'!

Aunt Pearl laughed softly at this and Nana snapped off her glasses and gave her a glare.

No cross talk,  Miss Clara admonished them mildly, neatly laying down her hand and reaching for the pitcher of iced coffee, Let's remember, we're all ladies here.  She poured, drank, wrinkled her nose.  

Alice, haven't you got.....

You know where it is, Nana said absently then groaned when Aunt Pearl easily took the first four tricks.  Clara adjusted one errant row of playing cards, earning a distracted slap on the wrist from my grandmother, then briefly left and returned with a slim, half full bottle of Canadian Gold.  She delicately added a capful to her coffee, re-took her seat and leaned back with a contented sigh. 

Traffic was light on The Point that afternoon but each passing car got its full share of attention.  All four ladies turned at the sound of an engine - identifying the vehicle and often adding an editorial comment - then returned to the game.

There goes Lenny Smallwood, Miss Clara remarked as a dusty old pickup chugged its way past, Man doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground but he sure can grow sweet corn.

Heard tell that Lily's expectin' again, Aunt Pearl mused, You'd think that field would be barren by now.

I heard tell it mightn't be Lenny's, Aunt Vi said in a low voice, That's why he's drinkin' again.  

Speakin' of which, she added with a blush that went all the way from her throat to hairline, Gloria Grace is home again.  They say she give it up.

That'd be three, my grandmother said with a bitter smile, You'd think she learn a thing or two.

Walter says he's gon' tie her ankles together if she can't keep her legs closed, Pearl remarked, Just like calf ropin'.

Don't be vulgar, Clara said, That's insultin' the calves.  All four women howled with laughter.

There was a screech of brakes and a rusted, two tone Chevy came round the corner.  For a fraction of a second it was on two wheels - paralyzingly close to the battered guard rail - then it bounced back and straightened out, speeding past in a storm of dust and sprayed gravel.

Those Sullivan boys, Aunt Pearl sighed, Ain't one of 'em don't drive like a bat outta hell.

Gon' miss that turn one of these days, Clara agreed, They'll be scrapin' him off the rocks for days.

Ayuh, Nana said, ain't got the sense God gave a gull.

Aunt Pearl gave a sudden victory whoop and threw down a final card with a flourish that made my grandmother wince.  Thirteen tricks were neatly stacked in front of her.

Grand slam, Alice! she shouted in triumph, Pass that damn brandy!

Aunt Vi cringed in her seat.

So much for your practicin', Viola, Nana snapped, I declare you ought to stick to Parcheesi or Uncle Wiggily!

Clara patted Vi's arm gently and tsk'd in disapproval at my grandmother.  You'll do better next time, dear, she said, It's only a game.  Here, buck up and have some brandy.

Ferry's in, Vi muttered distractedly as a sudden flurry of traffic appeared on the road.  An oil tanker was first off, rumbling past with it's bright red ESSO sign shimmering in the afternoon light.  It was followed by a pick up truck, a renovated station wagon with wooden sides - trailing feathers - a gleaming green Volvo with New York plates, and lastly a low slung and new-ish black Ford with the familiar insignia of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police on the side.

Mounties! the ladies exclaimed almost in unison, the bridge game immediately forgotten as all four gathered at the windows like a gaggle of chattering birds.  They watched anxiously as the cruiser went slowly by and rather than take the curve and head up island, continued onto The Old Road toward the cove.  At the same time the telephone rang - as telephones would be ringing all over the village - Elsie's old switchboard lit up like a Christmas tree whenever the law arrived.  It was, Sparrow liked to say, the maritime equivalent of Paul Revere's ride, a veritable network of islanders banding together to warn the bootleggers and the unlicensed drivers of a possible intrusion.  Stills would be shutting down all over the island and the young boys in their boosted up, makeshift hot rods would be pulling into the nearest driveways.   Nothing bound the village so much as a little illegality.

Alright, girls, Nana announced, Elsie says it's just a routine visit.  Where were we?

We were cleanin' your clock, Alice, Aunt Pearl crowed, I don't wonder that you've forgotten!

Pearl, my grandmother said testily, just deal the damn cards.  Daylight's burnin'.

And it was.  The sky over Brier Island was deepening and beginning to turn pastel as we watched the ferry making its return trip.  The bridge game continued until supper was on the stove and the brandy bottle was dry.

Know Your Enemy

Until he lied and threw me to the wolves to cover his own ass, I'd never really thought of him as an enemy. Eccentric and a little weird, yes.  Sometimes bizarre, yes.  Arrogant, temperamental, hot headed and about some things not too bright, yes.  A bully and a two faced coward who turned hostile and mocking when he didn't get his way, yes.  Always prepared to evade responsibility, yes.  A clown but not an enemy.

In retrospect, I should've seen it coming and been better prepared but the lie was big, bold, convincingly told and effective.  It was, I realized too late, a well planned and perfectly executed set up.  The enemy - a far slicker bastard than I'd ever imagined - was elevated to hero and I cursed my own stupidity for my part in it. So be it, I told myself, at least now I know what I'm dealing with and I can make sure it doesn't happen again. 

I've met my quota of forgive and forget. 

Noise With Dirt On It

After six hours of punk rock and metal, I'm so far outside my comfort zone that I doubt ground seeking radar and a trail of breadcrumbs could bring me home.  I'm still not sure of the point of the music, aside from the volume which is deafening and the lyrics which are raunchy, but what strikes me the hardest is the age and demeanor of the young musicians and their fans.  They slouch around between sets, chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes, guzzling Red Bull and raving about the music - every other word is a familiar obscenity and it soon becomes faded and harmless - just another overworked old adjective, as if there were no others in the English language.  On the dance floor, they scream and wail and chant and body slam into each other like freight trains.  At some point, it strikes me that these are just children - acned, extravagantly tattooed and pierced, ragged and rebellious - but still just children.  Oh, my God, I think with sudden and despair laden shock, I'm turning into my mother!  The realization hits me like a slap in the face and clutching my camera like a shield, I scramble outside to the parking lot to breathe and come to my senses.  Think of the passion and energy you're seeing, I remind myself harshly, You were eighteen once too!

It almost works until I recall being eighteen - Nehru jackets, love beads, a hint of weed, a forgotten war - and protest songs by the likes of Phil Ochs and Arlo Guthrie and Tom Paxton.  We were wating for the revolution and we not only sang the songs, some of us tried to live them.  I can't reconcile the protest music I knew and loved (still do) with the angry, illogical, hysterically loud cacophony shattering my eardrums.  That was satire and activism - this is the definition I read recently of a boy - noise with dirt on it.

But, I tell myself, the world is an offering and I'm here because I don't want to be stuck in a musical box and I surely don't want to see my mother's face when I look in the mirror.

Banging and body slamming is not my kind of music and while I'd prefer to simply shut it out, there's nothing worse than a locked up mind.  These are children - smoking, cussing, inked and pierced children - looking for their places, for self expression, for a sound that speaks to them.  When I was their age, I'm pretty sure I was doing the very same thing.

Tolerance is not really a lived virtue; it's more of a cerebral ascent ~ Krista Tippett

Oh, my wounded ears.  I hope so.



  

Not in My Neighborhood

The gunfire is uncomfortably close.

It's a Sunday night and the shots ring out with an eerie and unfamiliar clarity, followed by an unpleasant screech of brakes and the sound of a gunning engine.  Firecrackers, I think to myself, but instinctively I know better although I don't know how I know.  I haven't heard gunfire since I was a child and don't think I've ever heard pistol shots except once a very long time ago, but still I know.  In a matter of minutes, less time than it takes to dial 911 almost, the neighborhood is filled with sirens, flashing lights and fear.  Uncharacteristically, the dogs are indifferent to the commotion, they barely raise their heads even when a police car slowly cruises by, its searchlight carefully trained on the front of each house.  It turns out to be a drive by shooting in the next block, a mere two houses and two yards away, and while there's some property damage, no one is injured and the shooters make a clean getaway.   The neighborhood will likely not recover quite so quickly and there are bound to be aftershocks in the neat little rows of houses so close to my own. I've never felt unsafe before, I realize, and sleep is longer than usual in coming this night.  Gunfire, I discover, will do that to you.

The thought that it might have been targeted is unnerving but the thought that it might have been random is even worse.

The following morning's social media postings report that it was an isolated incident, possibly a case of mistaken identity.  The police investigation is on going, the assailants will surely be apprehended, we are encouraged to not overreact.  It makes for good press, I suppose, but I find no reassurance in the statements.
The idea that a carful of gun-toting thugs would invade and shoot up a quiet little street that decorates and puts up Christmas trees on the sidewalks each holiday season unsettles me.  

If they'd shot at my house, the little nurse tells me with a smile I don't quite like, they'd never have gotten out alive.

Somehow not the answer I was hoping for.

A Clint Eastwood Moment

He is tawny - a lusciously cream colored coat with rich brown points on his face and tail and Paul Newman blue eyes - he's also enormous for a Siamese and he lays into the equally large orange tabby like a threshing machine.  They are wrapped up together on the front lawn - shrieking and wailing like the last two survivors of the end of the world - they snarl and tumble and roll around, not even noticing me as I come down the front steps.  I shout at them to break it up but it's all flailing claws and gnashing teeth and obscenities and neither pays me any attention.  Reluctantly I reach for the water hose, give the faucet an extended twist, and advance upon them with steely determination.  

Fair warning!  I shout but they are too intertwined to hear.  Dirt and fur are flying and I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.  I step even closer, press my thumb into the end of the hose and douse them both with an icy spray of water.  The tabby breaks free and makes a mad dash through the crepe myrtle, slashing through the latticework and diving under the house.  The Siamese gives a final, defiant yowl, turns on me with his back arched and hisses nastily.  I, however, am in the midst of a Clint Eastwood moment.  I wave the hose like a deadly weapon and meet his eyes without the first flinch.

Are you feelin' lucky, punk?  I ask and take a step toward him.  Apparently he's not - he gives a last growl and then turns tail - running through the scrubs and into the yard next door but still somehow maintaining his dignity.  Again, I'm struck by his size, which is considerably larger than our average neighborhood cat, and his gracefulness which is tiger-like.   I've never seen him before but I have a suspicion that he's only just begun.

There's a new sheriff in town, I tell the orange tabby who has taken a tentative step out from under the house and is watchfully sitting among the branches of the crepe myrtle, You'd better be watching your back.  He blinks but says nothing, casually lifting one paw to groom his whiskers and pointedly not looking to his left where some distance away the Siamese is sitting like a statue.

I love cats.  They're all about attitude and spirit and independence, things I admire greatly, but sometimes a cold shower is the only reasonable solution.





  

  

Take A Number

We passed through Centreville on a sunny late spring morning with the tide at its highest point and the fields of wildflowers in full bloom.  Gulls soared overhead, shrieking a welcome and the ocean rippled with white capped waves.  In the tiny harbor, the fishing boats were at rest, rocking silently with the motion of the ocean and secure in their moorings.  Like so many villages, it was picture postcard perfect.

Gus's Good Eats sat at the end of the breakwater - a landmark of sorts - dilapidated and in sore need of paint and carpentry but still churning out breakfast, lunch and dinner every day of the week save Sunday, even in the harshest of winter storms.  The poor old building sagged in places, the roof leaked, and nobody but Gus could manage the ancient wood stove but business thrived, especially in summer.  Tourists lined up for cardboard containers of lobster salad, scallops swimming in real butter, homemade chowders, sweet corn grilled in its husks and still warm bread.  There was no menu except for breakfast when you could have the No 1 (bacon and eggs) or the No 2 (ham and eggs), both served with or without toast.  Gus's only rule was that you had to take a number from the rusty old check machine which sat prominently under a hand lettered sign that read TAKE A NUMBER.  Sitting at one of the worn out old picnic tables, Nana and I watched as a family of tourists approached the counter, waited patiently for several minutes - they could clearly see Gus through the smeary glass as he could them - and then commenced to knock on the window, softly at first then a little more loudly.  Then a little impatiently.

Gus looked up, shrugged, put down the cast iron skillet and walked deliberately to the counter, slid open the glass window.

Take a number, he advised them and walked back to the stove.

The tourists looked around, nodded to Nana and me, looked around again.  The wife frowned, gave her confused looking husband an encouragingly sharp jab in the ribs.

We're the only ones here! the husband protested against the glass but not before giving his wife a narrow eyed glare, We'd like a menu!

A scowling Gus put down the skillet a second time, wiped his hands on his grease stained apron, and walked slowly back to the counter.  My grandmother began to snicker, trying unsuccessfully to disguise it by holding her paper napkin over her mouth and manufacturing a cough.  Gus slid open the window, leaned out on his elbows, twisted his face into something like a grin.

Ain't no menu, he snapped, And ain't no service less'n you take a number.  The glass window slammed shut, leaving the tourists looking a little dazed.

But we're the only ones here.....the husband repeated helplessly.

The wife, a substantial woman in a loud sundress and a fiery looking sunburn, roughly elbowed her thin and slightly frail looking husband aside and adjusted her matching tote over her shoulder with a jerk.  She planted her sneakered feet and with one tightly fisted hand, rapped so sharply on the window that the glass rattled and a small shower of paint flecks mixed with dust randomly flew about.  

And there, my grandmother muttered with a profound sigh, goes domestic tranquility.

What followed was, as Nana liked to emphasize in the frequent re-telling, an impressive display of speed, agility, and elegance.  Gus closed the distance between the back of the kitchen and the front door in two seconds flat, pausing only to exchange his apron for a double barreled shotgun, and roaring out into the open like a wounded bear.  The startled tourists flew in every direction, reminding me of a flock of geese out of formation and squawking protests.  The tourist wife and husband collided and she lost her grip on her garish tote - it slid off her ample shoulder and fell to the ground - makeup, a wire hairbrush, a family sized plastic bottle of aspirin, a handful of coins and several crumpled Nova Scotia maps spilled everywhere.  Gus took aim and with one ear splitting blast blew the forlorn bag and its entire contents to smithereens.  It was hard to tell whether it was the tourist wife - diving for cover and considerably less than dignified - or the gulls that shrieked the loudest. 

I ain't gonna tell ya again, Gus said calmly as he waved away dirt and dust and little pieces of paper floating in the smoky air, Ya hafta take a number.



  

All Things Being Relative

You don't appreciate what you have til it's gone.

For the two days that the kitten is at the vet's to be spayed, the house is eerily quiet and composed.  The sense of watchfulness that we have all become accustomed to is missing and the silence is unnerving.   It's peaceful and calm but it's not right, not exactly in balance with that one small element of chaos absent.  I leave early to pick her up, anxious to have her back home, and the moment I free her from the carrier and her little feet hit the floor, mayhem breaks out.  As expected, the adult cats spit and snarl and swat at her but the dogs go wild, landing on her in an ecstasy of welcome and excitement.  Hello, chaos, welcome home.  Since she's only been gone 48 hours, domestic relations are re-established shortly after supper and by the time everyone gathers on the bed, there's relative harmony.  I stretch out among this collection of cast offs, trying to find enough room to be comfortable without causing any undue disturbance.  Cats curl up behind my knees and perch on my hip, dogs lay claim to all the pillows.  The kitten is the last to arrive - she launches her small self with a distinct little mew - landing with a soft thud directly on top of the little dachshund.  He stretches, yawns, and shifts his position to make a place for her and both are asleep in a matter of minutes, her head resting on his paws and his on my shoulder.  

The thought comes to me that all things being relative, love and chaos are somehow linked, that on some level, you can't have one without the other.

There's more than a little madness in sharing life with three dogs and five cats.  I think in terms of animal care - how long can I leave them alone, is there enough dry food left, did I lock the back door - and of course the ever popular, oh, Good Lord, another vet bill.  And I confess, there are mornings when I envy those friends who are not at the mercy of such thoughts.  They have clean houses and nice things and get to come and go at will.  They shop for actual groceries at the grocery store.  I doubt they make weekly resolutions about cat hair on the curtains and dog art on the windows.  It's unlikely they replace vacuum cleaners every few months (knock on wood) or worry overly much about carpet stains, shredded furniture, or broken venetian blinds. They know what it's like to sleep in on a Saturday and come home at the end of the day to a mayhem-free house.
I, on the other hand, make it a point to dust and scrub and polish without my glasses.  If I don't see the dust bunnies, they can't call my name.

Love and chaos.  That's relativity.

Pass the Excedrin

Kee-rist!  my grandmother liked to say when pushed past her patience and trying hard not to throw something.

I know the feeling.

For reasons I can't fathom, once your check numbers make into the 5 digit range, my bank drops the 1st digit on the bottom part of the check.  This means that the check number on the bottom doesn't exactly match the number in the upper right corner - not rocket science to decipher - but more than adequate to stump the fine folks at Rite Aid and their check verification service.  

It's not within their parameters, the cashier tells me with an indifferent shrug, We can't take it.

I protest and ask for a manager - pointing out that every other pharmacy in this city, every grocery store and every department store, even the post office - all take my checks with barely a second look.  The manager, a squinty eyed, chubby little gnome in bifocals and a stained polo shirt, listens to his cashier and hands me back my check and ID with a muttered and bored, Sorry.  In return, I gingerly hand him back the little Rite Aid plastic bag with my medication in it - he takes it uncertainly, reminding me of the dog walkers I see carrying their little plastic bags of poop and this gives me a minor but very definite thrill of satisfaction - and I walk out.  

The second night, I'm feeling optimistic so I try Walgreen's.  All goes well until the unsmiling and defensive cashier begins to ring up the sale, at which point the computer has some sort of technological seizure and it's suddenly All Stop.  With no back up plan for this kind of glitch, it takes just under 25 minutes for them to sort it out and I wind up paying three times Rite Aid's price.  There is no apology offered for the delay.

Thank you, I tell the sullen little girl behind the counter, with as much insincerity as I can summon, I won't be having you fill this again.  I consider making a formal complaint to the manager but decide I've filled my quota of interactions with idiots for the day and wasted enough time.

Service.  I don't expect it anymore but I'd settle for someone who could spell it.

Kee-rist.

The Last Brownie

I could hear it from the front steps.  

Answer me! my mother was screaming, a raw and frantic sound followed by the unmistakable sound of a slap. I found my key and the door swung open - the first thing I saw was my youngest brother - cornered, crying, and shielding his face.  There was blood streaked down his arms and shards of glass in his hair.  My mother, standing over him with a broken whiskey bottle in one hand, was almost unrecognizable with rage. Answer me!  she screeched and gave him a fierce, open handed slap with her free hand.  He crumpled, pawing at the wall and covering his head with his hands.  I had no weapons except my school books but my Business Math was thick and solid and I threw it without thinking.  It struck her shoulder with a nasty but satisfying thud and got her attention.  She turned and took a few staggering steps toward me but tripped on the edge of the carpet and went down in a heap.

Run!  I yelled wildly at my little brother, Run!

And he did, leaping over her like a you would a mud puddle and not looking back.  The screen door protested with an ear splitting slam as it hit the side iron railing and another as it slammed shut.  She was still pulling herself up off the floor, breathing like a dragon and reaching for whatever was at hand - it turned out to be the old black rotary telephone, always a reliable stand by - and I dropped the rest of my books and fled.

What the hell did you do?  I demanded as we ran across the yard and headed blindly up the sidewalk.

Nothing! he panted back, his face was white and there was a bloody bruise on his cheek.  Then, the truth gasped out in time to his pounding foot steps. EXCEPT. I. ATE. THE. LAST. BROWNIE.

I began to laugh, despite the fact that we were running for our lives, despite the angry stitch in my side.
We veered to the left onto the dirt road and skidded to a stop.

Moron! I yelled at him but I was still laughing, Look what you've gotten us into!

Retard! he threw back but aimiably enough, You threw the damn book!

The dirt road - really just a narrow, unmaintained dirt lane, barely wide enough to accommodate a single vehicle and then only if you were prepared to sacrifice your shocks and struts - would one day be a back route to a new and shiny, cookie cutter sub division.  Now however, it was just a mostly forgotten, no-name dirt road that dead ended several hundred feet from Spy Pond.  The pot holes were several inches deep and several feet across - all things considered I thought it was doubtful that we'd be followed but who knew what a drunken, madwoman was likely to do - so we took a few minutes to catch our breaths and then began a slow shuffle down the dusty lane, listening for the old convertible engine and cautiously looking backwards every few yards.

So, my little brother said presently, What are we 'sposed to do now?

It was a good question, I thought, a valid and relevant question,  a timeless and unanswerable question.

Well, we could always call Dad, I said tentatively.

My little brother gave me a dark look.  Oh, right, he said with a bitter-edged laugh, Like that'll do any good.

What about Nana? I asked.

Aw, go play in traffic, he muttered and kicked a good sized rock clear into the ditch.

Fine, dipstick, then you come up with something, I said and flipped him the bird, but we have to go home sometime.

He scowled at me, took aim at another even bigger chunk of rock and gave it a fierce kick.  It sailed over the ditch in a gritty cloud of dust and crashed into the gate of someone's back picket fence.  Discretion being the better part of valor, we ran.

We ended up at the drugstore, drinking vanilla cokes at the scarred up old counter, arguing about what to do next and watching the ancient wall clock.  Six o'clock came and with it, the old Mercury station wagon pulled up to the curb.  My daddy emerged, still in his good blue suit and looking not only considerably older than he had just that morning, but sadly weary.  He saw us through the plate glass windows that bordered Massachusetts Avenue and motioned us out.  We went.  Not willingly, but we went.

We're gonna get it, my little brother muttered to me as the drugstore door closed behind us.  

Not if we tell the truth, I said stubbornly even though a big part of me thought he was right.  I had more experience but he was the one with the bruise and I still thought that might count for something.

We'll talk about this later, my daddy said tiredly, Right now supper's getting cold.

But we never did.  We rode home in a dull silence, picked at cold pork chops and glazed carrots, passed on dessert.  Except for the fresh whiskey stain on the carpet - and the missing black rotary telephone (it had finally succumbed to a fatal crack in the receiver and was casually replaced a few days later with a fancy pink princess model, lighted dial and all), there was no trace of the afternoon's disturbance.  There was also no trace of my mother who had retreated to her darkened bedroom to lay on her single bed with cold compresses on her eyes - another "headache", my daddy said, falling back on an old and familiar lie - come morning, she would be pale and shaky and her eyes would have that haunted, hungover look.  By the time we left for school, she'd be guzzling aspirin and drinking cooking sherry from a faded Corelware coffee cup as if nothing had happened, as if we weren't even there.  And except for the evidence on my little brother's face - swollen cheek and blackened eye, an unwanted but respected badge of honor - we pretty much weren't.

Truth or Consequences

There's nothing like a software upgrade to effectively ruin your day and wreck a reasonably functioning program.  It isn't quite the nightmare of the original upgrade but it beats whatever's in second place.  Essential forms have vanished and no one seems to be able to say where or why or how to restore them, new steps are in place but we have had no instruction on how to use them, things that used to take 20 keystrokes now take 30.   Typically, it takes two full days before tech support even bothers to return a call and still one more before they grasp the problems - their first three so called fixes fail miserably - and this is called progress.

Having been through this before - the initial upgrade was, not to put too fine a point on it, an absolute debacle - we have no illusions.  We get as much done beforehand as possible and steel ourselves for the worst.
We are not disappointed.  With the upgrade completed, the system reverts to creeping speed, freezing and crashing once an hour or so.  The day takes on a familiar nightmarish quality and once again I find myself thinking about staying in bed and letting someone younger and less demanding deal with all this nonsense. The doctor snaps and growls his way through the morning, almost as disgusted with the system as we are but still, despite our pleas, not willing to step in and make some waves. 

It's a curious thing to me that no one seems able to design a medical software program that actually meets the needs of a medical practice but it's even more curious how useless these designers and sellers become once their system is in place.  Our software rep, an outgoing and lovely young lady who likes to promise far more than she can deliver, courted us for weeks with lunches and training and 24 hour access.  Calls were returned promptly and solutions were found within days if not hours.  We've barely seen her since the program was installed and when we do it's clear that she considers us a high maintenance client, demanding and troublesome and hardly worth her time.  Only the doctor is able to get her attention.  Worse, she blames us for the flaws, suggesting time and time again that everything that goes awry originates with us.

In the midst of this small drama, the surgery center sends us the surgical schedule for the following day and the doctor's case isn't on it.  The nurses frown - they both know that the paperwork had been submitted exactly as required and days before - but a hasty call to the center confirms their fears.  Never got anything, the admitting nurse initially claims.  Later this is altered to We called and told you there was no free time slot.  The story has a certain flexibility, it changes depending upon who we speak to, the one constant being that they bear no responsibility for the mix up.

I don't care whose fault it is, the doctor tells us somewhat grandly, I just want it fixed so it doesn't happen again.

It's an adult attitude, a mature attitude, an admirable attitude.  Especially when you're not the one being accused.

I've worked for years to detach myself from these small resentments and the drama they breed but the nurses and I don't handle this at all well.  It feels too much like a personal attack and we are disgusted and very angry.
The doctor tries to smooth our ruffled feathers, assuring us he knows we all did our jobs despite what the surgery center claims - their history of this kind of error is long and anything but uncommon - but it's not enough.

Let it go, he tells us with a smile, It's not important.

Oh, but it is.

Someone feeling wronged is like someone feeling thirsty.
Don't tell them they aren't.  Sit with them and have a drink.
 ~ Lemony Snicket

Break Out!

The day is cold, some mild sleet is falling, and I'm running late between photo shoots and already frazzled when the little dachshund decides to go visiting.  He finds a weak spot in the privacy fence and in seconds has dug under and through to the other side where he joins up with Buster, my neighbor's bad influence of a Shih Tsu.  There is much celebration before I figure out where the little badger dog has disappeared to - it takes finding the gap between the fence and the ground, spotting the newly turned earth, and finally getting down on all fours to peer under - whereupon I find myself nose to nose with a wildly excited Buster and before I can react, he lunges forward and plants a sloppy kiss on my frozen face.  I jerk back and slam my head on the bottom of the fence - oh, that's gonna bruise - and I curse loudly enough to wake the dead.  All I get is a glimpse of the little dachshund, running happily back and forth clear across the neighbor's yard.  I call, I shout, I whistle, I coax, but all to no avail except for Buster who eases down on his belly and effortlessly crawls under and through to my side of the fence.  The little dachshund tries to follow but loses his nerve at the last minute and slips through my grasp.  For a fraction of a second I think To hell with it, one dog is as good as another,
but then Buster dives back under the fence and commences a frenzy of barking.  My little badger dog joins in and soon the entire neighborhood is alerted and talking.

With no other choice, I pick myself up and scrape off my jeans, brush wet leaves from my hair, wedge a fallen log into the space between the fence and the ground and trudge next door.  I'm cold, wet, severely annoyed, and in no mood to have no one answer my knock.  The doorbell sets off a second wave of frantic barking but doesn't get answered and my heart sinks when I realize that I'm running out of options.  I make my way around the house and am confronted with a double set of locked cyclone fence gates.  Hoping that I'm not noticed and that no friendly neighborhood watchperson will feel the need to call the cops, I take several deep breaths and begin to climb.  A slideshow of broken hips and ambulances is playing in my mind by the time I navigate the second gate but this is my dog so I persevere and finally reach the backyard.  The little dachshund, now fully aware of how seriously in trouble he is, decides to pretend it's all a game and shies off, it takes a full five minutes to corner and catch him.  It's only as I'm scaling the gates on my way out with a small dog tucked under my arm that I realize how it will look if anyone sees me - the recent rash of dognappings has been very much in the news lately - and the slideshow suddenly speeds up and now includes visions of jail cells and dog owning neighbors with shotguns.  I hadn't the foresight to bring a leash and when I finally reach the front yard I can't help but revert to stealth mode, making a mad rush to my front door with the little dog struggling and protesting in my awkward one armed grip.  

Safely inside - although still half expecting to hear the wail of a police car - I put him down and give him a severe scolding.

Bad dog! I tell him repeatedly, Very bad dog! 

I've never spoken to him this way before and he has the good grace to be ashamed, at least for a few seconds,
then he lies down with his head on his paws, tail still, eyes pleading up at me and the scolding dies in mid sentence.  What if my neighbor hadn't had a fenced yard, I think.  What if Buster had been not a harmless and affectionate little Shih Tsu but a lock jawed killer mastiff with a mean streak.  The what ifs are too terrible to contemplate, I realize, so despite the gnawing suspicion that I'm being had, I scoop him up into my arms and hug him fiercely. 

Promise me no more digging, I say quietly, and we'll say no more about it. 

He rests his head on my shoulder and sighs. 

Releasing the Hounds

There's a chill in the Sunday air as we start February and it rains on and off all day, a quiet, polite patter I can hear on the roof and see on the leaves as they bend over the railing and toward the back door.  Big, fat, and splashy raindrops hang on the branches - they sway and glisten against the dark sky - then fall with soft thuds onto the deck and the muddy ground cover.  The dogs, so eager to go outside that they rush the back door, suddenly turn cautious, carefully making their way off the wet deck and onto the slick leaves with light, little footsteps.  Shivering and looking miserable, the small brown dog returns immediately while the black one, barely damp and hardly bothered, noses her way to the back fence and begins to bark.  The little dachshund joins in, his coarse hound-like voice sounds gravely and very much in charge.  As always, he has to be coaxed back inside - he enjoys starting the chain letter effect of getting all the dogs in the neighborhood talking to one another and then pretending he wasn't involved.

Most mornings, he has to be manually retrieved.  While the other two go about their business then trot obediently back inside and jump willingly into their kennels, he finds a place where he blends in and then calmly sits and pretends he doesn't hear me calling.  I make my way into the yard and spend several minutes trying to locate him - he's perfected the art of camouflage and he sits like a statue - then carry him back inside.  He immediately runs into the sun room and I follow, scoop him up and carry him back to the kennel.
After a year and a half of this slightly comedic routine, I've given up on his ever accepting confinement.  I slip a biscuit through the bars and harden my heart against those sad, pleading, manipulative eyes.  Twice a day, five days a week we practice this little routine and it kills me every time but were I to leave him free, the cats would know no peace and there's no telling what the condition of the house would be at days end.

I'd so hoped that he would see the other two dogs go so willingly to kennels and follow their example but it wasn't to be.  Perhaps he was confined his entire first four years, perhaps he sees it as a punishment, perhaps it's just a naturally occurring stubborn streak, I doubt I'll ever know.

The bright side is coming home at night to an avalanche of welcome.  The moment my key slides into the front door lock, the competition begins - it's an Olympic event for barking and howling - and though it's several minutes before I can even hear myself think, I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Hold onto the chaos long enough and you can tame it a little.  But only a little. 
  

It Ain't Woodstock

The usually bright and airy coffee shop is darkened and crowded with people young enough to be my children. The music thunders and ricochets like heavy equipment, the walls shake and the floor vibrates.  Here in the unfamiliar land outside my comfort zone, I tread lightly - the natives are restless, I don't know the language, the music is like an alien force assaulting my senses - but the crowd loves it.  They dance and applaud and sing along to every lyric then shout for more.  It ain't Woodstock.

If you're not afraid, the world is full of new places, new people, new sounds.  The familiar atmosphere of the coffee shop is transformed - youth and energy will do that - and as always, I'm glad I've ventured out into this world of strangeness and tell myself I should do it more often.  Lyrics don't seem to matter as much as volume and motion, the harsher and wilder the better, but you can't deny the passion or the joyfulness.  I'm not sure if there's any talent here but it seems a secondary and mostly insignificant consideration.  

My mother and daddy had their doubts when, as a teenager, I fell in love with rock and roll.  Compared with today, it was pretty tame, certainly not worth the label of the devil's music and no imminent danger to my young soul.  But it was different - no Mills Brothers harmony, no sweet Sinatra crooning, not even Pete Fountain's blues clarinet - and it was a threat.  My mother saw it as noise and revolution, an integral part of the drug scene and the madness that would surely follow.  She banned it, not understanding that anything she was so violently against would increase its power a hundred fold.  When that failed, she made fun of it, again not understanding that whatever she demeaned, I would defend to the death.  Imagining how she might react to metal or rap makes me smile.  Lamentable but harmless, my daddy said, frowning ever so slightly then going back to his book while my grandmother - a Lawrence Welk and Liberace fan until her dying day - threw up her hands and invested in earplugs.

The following night I drift back into the blues and the sweet, gentle sound of an acoustic guitar, the wail of a lonesome, train-time harmonica.  It's good to make room for the new and the misunderstood, but I wouldn't want to live there.

Three Yards of Drama

I have a bad feeling as I drag out a cat carrier and casually place it on the dining room table, hoping against hope to snare the older black cat without three yards of drama.  He has not been himself for the past few days and I know a checkup is warranted - at 12, he's no longer young - and I'm doing my best not to think about renal failure and the consequences.  All I manage to capture, however, is the kitten who hasn't the good sense to realize the implications of a carrier on the dining room table.  The adult cats scatter the moment they see it.  There's something to be said for age and experience.

I pretend that there's nothing out of the ordinary going on - this doesn't even fool the dogs - and when I'm ready to walk out the door, I nonchalantly scoop up the cat on my way and stuff him into the carrier.  As if to confirm my suspicions, he protests but only half-heartedly and he's unusually quiet on the drive to the clinic.
I'd prefer him yowling about this indignity and it worries me.  He maintains his silence when we arrive, glaring at the technician with a bravado I'm convinced he doesn't feel and it's at that moment when I realize that despite my optimistic assurances and determination not to worry, there's a place inside where I'm preparing myself to lose him.  It's not easy to leave.

The hunger strike lasts two days - through the confinement, the lab tests, the blood lettings, the unfamiliar surroundings - and the vet eventually calls to tell me I can bring him home.  Aside from an elevated white count, they've found nothing wrong except a suspected viral infection.  If he's glad to see me, he hides it well and sulks all the way home.  I try to match his attitude and pretend I was never worried.   

Once again, I've fretted uselessly and lost sleep unnecessarily.  As for the cat, by bedtime all is forgiven and at some point in the night I wake to find him peacefully sleeping, snug between my shoulder and the extra pillows.  I sleep better knowing he's home.