House of Cards

On Saturday nights, if you were over 40, didn't dance or drink - at least not to excess - you could always find your way to play cribbage at the Legion Hall.  And if you were very brave or very foolish. you took on Israel Pyne.  And invariably lost.

Uncle Izzle was tall and lean with bright blue eyes, wavy white hair and a neatly trimmed beard,  He had been, according to my grandmother and several other equally respectable island women, quite the ladies man in his prime and had not only aged well and handsomely but had lost none of his charm.  He was a lifelong bachelor, well into his seventies and had slowed down some - Ain't we all, Nana would say with a wistful look -
but he hadn't lost his touch with women or with cards.  He played bridge, canasta, gin rummy and most versions of poker but cribbage was his game of choice.  He never turned down a game and there wasn't a single Legion Hall regular who could recall his losing a match.

Damned if'n I know how he does it, Uncle Shad muttered sourly one night after he'd had one too many Molsons,
Jist don'e seem natural to have that long of a run of luck.

You reckon I cheat, Shadrach?  Uncle Izzie asked, real friendly-like but those blue eyes hard like steel.

Ain't what I said, Israel, Uncle Shad replied mildly, I reckon I jist ain't never know'd a man so lucky.

Powerful diff'rence 'tween luck and skill, Shadrach, Uncle Izzie observed with a cold smile, Powerful diff'rence.

Shad considered the words while the rest of us all wondered who would back down first, then he shrugged.

Mebbe so, he finally said, mebbe that's jist exactly so.

You could feel the tension dissipate and most of those who'd heard the exchange declared it a draw.  No one stayed enemies for long on the island.  In a village of less than 400 year round residents, there just weren't enough of us.

Sometimes when Nana would send me to the canteen to fetch a box of kitchen matches or a pint of sweet cream, Israel Pyne would be there, holding court in one of the scratchy leather booths.  He taught us some of the simpler card tricks, two different kinds of solitaire, a bunch of kid card games and the delicate architecture of building a house of cards.  His hands were leathery and bruised with age but sure and steady as the cancer that was slowing taking his life.  He'd survived two heart attacks by then and a mild stroke - they were called "shocks" in those days - but it was the cancer that finally killed him.  Most of the magic in his hands died with him but there are still a few of us left who can build a mean house of cards.

He was laid to his final rest in the tiny cemetery beside the Baptist chucrh on a late summer afternoon, in his fancy boots, button down vest and black frock coat.  Uncle Shad, Uncle Willie and four of the Sullivan brothers carried his coffin.  Nana and the respectable ladies tossed flowers into the grave but the men threw cards from a brand new deck.  They did it discreetly and before he thought better of it and had to hide it, even the preacher smiled.

 

Clara's Roses

Nobody on the island had as green a thumb or as a strong a love of growing things than Miss Clara. She had what the ladies called "the touch" when it came to vegetables and plants and flowers - especially flowers - and during the frozen winters, she mourned for the light and warmth and greenery.

Might oughta build a greenhouse, Uncle Len casually suggested one late January evening, Little lumber, little glass, mebbe some insulation, and you'd have roses year 'round.

Clara had never grown roses but the idea appealed to her.  

You ever build a greenhouse, Len?  she asked thoughtfully.

Cain't say as I ever have, the old man shrugged, but I don't 'spect it'd be much diff'rent than building' anythin' else.

Clara thought about all that winter, sent to Halifax for a "How To" book, paced out her little plot of land and planned how to clear it, studied roses til she knew every color and variety, learned about soil and cultivation. And one fine spring morning, she went to see Uncle Len.

Reckon I'd have you draw up some plans for that greenhouse, Len, she told him.  

Reckon I know'd you would, Clara, he said amiably, Come sit a spell and I'll fetch'em.

The lumber arrived not long after, two pick up trucks full all the way from Dartmouth and by the time the framing was up, The Prince John had docked at the breakwater with its cargo hold piled with layers of glass, each carefully sandwiched between layers of insulation and straw.  It took a caravan of young island men to haul the glass, one sheet at a time, over Cow Ledge and down the often treacherous, narrow path to Clara's but not a single piece was damaged.  She happily gave each a brand new dollar for every trip they made, two (and an icepack) to Johnny when he missed his footing and wrenched his ankle so badly but still managed to save the glass.  Len and Clara oversaw it all from the veranda, drinking lemonade and eating gingersnaps, examining and going over the blueprints, cheerfully bickering like two old crows.

The finished product was a marvel of simplicity and minimalism - a pristine structure of wood and glass, placed where the sun would reach it most of each day and encased in a tight wrap of clear, strong plastic.   A floor of flagstones had been meticulously laid to withstand the weather and provide drainage and the plastic as well as the glass panels on the slanted roof could be removed come summer.  Clara was delighted.  She set out to order potting soil and plant food, a new wheelbarrow and an extra pair of gardening gloves and went to work.
By summers end, she had African violets, lilies, hibiscus, ivy and ferns everywhere, a thriving pair of orchids and of course, her roses - red, white, yellow and pale pink - the little greenhouse was a blaze of color and so it stayed all that wretched winter.  Each Sunday, Clara would cut and wrap a bouquet of roses, climb on the painted pony and no matter the weather or the depth of the snow, deliver it to the Baptist church where James would place it on the altar for all to see.

Surely, Miss Clara, he would say with a smile, tis your labor but the good Lord's design.

And Clara, who had never put her faith in pridefulness or its evil sister, false modesty, looked at her roses and fairly shone.

A year or so afterward, Uncle Len took sick - powerful sick, his only daughter who had come from the mainland to care for him said - and to no one's surprise, he didn't last the winter.  His was not the only grave Clara tended in the old cemetery but it was the only one with year round roses.

Flight

No, my grandmother announced as she latched the screen door from the inside and gave me one of her most withering glares, no seagulls in the house.  This is where I draw the line.

The limp, injured bird gave an indignant squawk and tried half-heartedly to nip at my fingers.

But it'll die! I wailed.

Nana would not be moved.

Then  it'll die, I reckon, she said coldly, Ain't like there's a shortage of gulls, now is there.  They's nasty, filthy
diseased creatures and.....

I burst into tears.  

The bird struggled.

She relented some. 

I reckon you kin take it to the woodshed, she finally said, mebbe Rowena kin do something for it.  If it don't die first.  But you're to change your clothes and wash your hands in lye soap after, you hear me?

I made it a nest of kindling, old towels and sawdust, brought it a tin cup of water and some bits of salt fish.  It lay on its side and regarded me with suspicious, beady eyes.  I didn't think it would last the night but the next morning when Rowena arrived to doctor it, it seemed better and when I opened the woodshed door it rushed at us with a flutter of wings and a loud, unhappy caw, then promptly fell over.  Rowena quickly snatched it up and before I could blink had wrapped her hands around its body and wings.  It went immediately still and after a few more moments, she set it down in her lap and I watched in awe as it relaxed.  She talked to it softly and stroked its wings, probing its sides and underbelly gently but thoroughly.

I declare, she said after several more minutes, I do believe she's been shot.

She lifted the gull with both hands, peering into it's feathers and brushing them backwards with one thumb.

Ayuh, here it is, she announced and I saw a tiny indentation in its side, barely visible and ringed faintly with dried blood the color of rust. Pellet gun, by the feel of it, she added, and there was more than a hint of disgust in her voice, One of those Sullivan boys, I reckon, target practicin' on whatever was handy.

Can you fix it? I asked anxiously.

Most likely, she told me and gave me a reassuring smile, Fetch me your grandmother's sewing scissors, the little ones, some tweezers, a bottle of iodine and some cotton balls.  


I was already running when she called after me, And some rubber bands, thick ones or some ribbon!

We sat in the summer sun and I watched her tie the gull's beak with a length of ribbon, snip gently at its feathers until the wound was exposed and then pull out three pellets.  When she was done, she dipped a cotton ball in iodine and pressed it against the gull's smooth side, holding it firmly and reciting Bible verses in a soft, calm voice.  The gull stayed bewilderingly motionless.

Beasts and birds ain't got language like us, she explained, So it don't matter what you say to'em.  All's they hear is your tone of voice.  But, I reckon, they do know a kindness when it's offered.

That was in late June.  A month or so later, Rowena came back and pronounced the gull ready for release.  

Don't hold her too tight, she warned me, Jist so she won't go until you're ready, then throw her into the air with both hands, like you was throwin' leaves or mebbe snow.  She'll know what to do.

And she did. 

She unfolded her wings and soared out across the passage, circled Gull Rock, came back and dove gracefully toward the tide, then flew straight and level across the whitecaps, finally turning toward open water.  We watched  until she was just a speck against the blue summer sky.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my grandmother, watching from the window and trying not to smile.

  

Kittridge and Cooper: Magic for the Common Man

“Funny,” my cousin Gilda remarked once the sudden sun shower had exhausted itself, “I don’t remember seeing that before.”

Like all the shoppers in Portsmouth Village on that late Sunday afternoon, we’d run for cover when the storm hit and she and I had ended up under the eave of the elegant little stationery shop. The rain had been dense enough to be blinding albeit brief - nothing more than a sun shower, really but with an awesome fierceness to it - and the quaint cobblestoned streets had fairly run rivers for a few intense minutes. 

“Come on,”Gilda said with an impatient tug at my elbow, “Let’s go in.”

Kittridge and Cooper, the scarred wooden sign in the dark window read, Magic for The Common Man.

I held back, pretty certain that before the sudden sun shower, the sign had read Kittridge and Cooper, Where Modern Cinderellas Shop.  The small cottage, totally in keeping with the romantic 18th century ocean-side mall of which the City of Portsmouth was so proud, reminded me of a mushroom with its uneven, curving lines and low slung, sloping roof. It was like something out of a fairy tale, something you might find at the end of a very narrow path after a very long trek through very dark woods. I had a wildly improbable vision of witches and unicorns, of half-man, half-beast creatures, of things that go bump in the night and turn children into pug dogs. 

“Come on!” Gilda pinched me back to reality, “Good God, we’re in Portsmouth Village in the middle of the day! This is 1959! What can happen?” 


I thought a lot could happen in a place where a sun shower could turn an upscale clothing store into a magic shop but she was petulant, stamping one small foot on the cobblestones and giving me the patented Gilda-Glare. More resistance would just provoke an argument - I’d never won an argument with my curious cousin in my life and didn’t think it was likely to happen now - and she was already at the old wooden door. If I let her go in alone, I thought dismally, I’ll never hear the end of it and if something wonderful happens, I’ll have missed it. Wishing I hadn’t noticed that no one else was window shopping or strolling through this little corner of the Village, that it appeared to be, not to put too fine a point on it, deserted, I reluctantly crossed the cobblestone street. Gilda smiled, one hand on the old fashioned door latch, the other waving me on. The old oaken door swung open without so much as a respectable creak or a groan and we crossed the threshold. A single sliver of sunlight darted past us but once inside it retreated quickly, there one minute and gone the next, swallowed whole, I thought, it’d never had a chance.

From the outside, the cartoonish, little toadstool-like cottage had seemed remarkably cozy and small but from the inside the dark space appeared to have doubled, tripled even. Not only that, I saw with some apprehension, it seemed to have sunk - there were windows, grimy and mostly obscured - but the view was street level. If someone had been passing, you’d have seen feet and ankles, maybe the bottom hem of a raincoat but not much more. Had there been steps that I hadn’t noticed, I wondered, but couldn’t bring myself to look over my shoulder and check. In places where a summer squall can change a boutique to a magic shop, there are some things it’s better not knowing.

“Come see!” Gilda was calling to me, “They have magic wands!”
“You must be over eighteen to purchase a wand,” a voice that came from everywhere and nowhere and seemed to float on the musty air decreed, “But we do have rather a nice selection of sleight of hand tricks, if I do say so myself.”

“Welcome to Kittridge and Cooper,” a second voice, equally as shimmery and insubstantial added, “May we show you young ladies something?”

The first voice had startled me badly but it was the second - so close I was sure I could feel its breath on the back of my neck - that nearly made me jump out of my skin and skitter a little frantically towards Gilda. She gave me an impatient look and a sharp Grow up! punch to the arm when I ducked behind her but it didn’t help my shivering. Peering cautiously over her shoulder, I saw two figures slowly emerge - no, materialize, almost glide - out of the half-light. They looked like eggs in formal attire, I thought with relief and surprise. Both were short, stocky, bald as cue balls and tightly tucked into their clothes - white tie and tails just like Fred Astaire except they somehow looked painted on, like elegant Easter eggs - both were smiling, stubby little arms clasped behind their backs. Identical twins, I realized, mildly disproportionate, probably eccentric, certainly harmless. Dwarfs, another voice whispered inside my head, malformed, possibly mad as hatters, surely dangerous. All the same, there was something vaguely familiar about them, something almost comical.

The one on the right took a small step forward and made a formal but stiff bow. 

They don’t bend, I thought distractedly.

Of course not, Gilda thought back snappishly, They’re eggs!

I would’ve told her not to be rude but then I understood that she’d spoken only in my mind. I didn’t have time to reflect on this before one of the little men began to speak aloud.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the egg-shaped little man said somewhat grandly, “I am Kittridge Solomon and this is my brother, Cooper.”


“Cooper Solomon at your service,” the one on the left said and made the same stiff bow, “How do you do.”

Tweedledee and Tweedledum, I suddenly thought, from Alice in Wonderland, how had I not seen it before. Would a monstrous crow be next, I wondered, or was it already here, keeping the little shop so shadowy and dark. Except that it wasn’t, I suddenly saw, it had brightened considerably since we’d first come in. I could now see the cluttered shelves and the dusty display cases quite clearly. There were empty birdcages, mannequins in capes and wizard hats, stack upon stack of leather bound books, small wooden cabinets and oversized chiffarobes, baskets of small powder packets and an entire section of vials full of assorted colored liquids. The last seemed to have a life of their own, rocking and churning like waves on a miniature ocean. They shone with fluorescent backlighting, the colors blending and glowing like a tiny lightshow. Gilda took an uncertain step in their direction and one of the brothers stepped smoothly to intervene.

“Let me show you our herb collection,” he said softly, “I’m certain we have something to intrigue you.”

“But first, we must have tea. To your very good health,” the second brother added, “Nothing puts you right like a good herb tea.”

I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t seen the tea table before but there it was, small and rounded and set for four with a small, copper tea kettle cheerfully whistling among the plates of scones and individual iced cakes.

“Such a treat to have company,” the first brother said kindly while the second held Gilda’s chair then mine and smiled agreeably.

Gilda allowed herself to be seated but she was frowning at the seemingly sudden appearance of the tea table. Never one to take the long road when a short one would do, she came directly to the point. “So,” she asked casually, “Is this real magic?”

The brothers exchanged a glance, half amused , half carefully discreet.

“Spells, potions, herbs, enchantments,” one said serenely, “Not for everyone, oh, my, no.”

“Yes,” Gilda insisted, “But is it real?"

“It is,” the other brother said, “If you believe, naturally.” He poured more tea from a kettle that I was sure should’ve been empty by now. “And if you’re of age, of course.”

“Of age?” I ventured, surprising myself with my own boldness.

“Of age,” they said together, “Eighteen, to be precise. Oh, my, yes.”

By the time we’d finished our tea, the shop had turned dim and shadowy again. In the yellowish and hazy streetlamp light seeping in from the windows, the harmless, egg shaped brothers began to look less like Tweedledee and Tweedledum and more like characters from some dark, unkind fairytale. It was, Gilda and I thought together but separately, time to go. We politely bid the brothers goodbye and they each bowed, thanked us for coming and saw us to the door.Back on the cobblestone streets of Portsmouth Village where the sun was high in the sky, it was inexplicably bright and warm and crowded. There was not the slightest trace of a recent rain. 


“Let’s go in,” Gilda was saying, nodding toward the odd little magic shop where only a time warp moment before there had been a clothing boutique with a fairy tale-ish name. There was a sudden heat shimmer in the air, a fraction of a second when I closed my eyes and sensed the earth shiver, nearly vibrate. It sighed. Deeply. Almost audibly. When I looked again, I saw a simple painted cottage with window boxes of wildflowers and a garden gnome on each side of the door. An etched wooden sign hung above the door.

Kittridge and Cooper, it read, Where Modern Cinderellas Shop.


The display windows were full of cartoon figures in pinafores and Little Lord Fauntleroy suits. A colorful red haired Raggedy Ann doll sat astride a brightly painted rocking horse, Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs were having tea with a mermaid. A unicorn slept by a quiet pond near a willow and a green-faced witch on a broomstick was silhouetted against a yellow paper moon. Rainbows and stars hung together, suspended by almost invisible filaments of wire. Cinderella herself was stepping out of a royal coach on the arm of a handsome prince. And in the corner, two identical egg-shaped little men stood motionless under the shadow of a giant raven.

I pretended not to notice when one of them winked at me.

Buyer's Remorse

It's not deep, my friend Michael tells me, gingerly feeling the jagged, three inch gash on his forehead, probably won't even leave a scar.


I shrug and think better of telling him that it looks like a blood stained lightning bolt and most certainly will.


I've found him at noon, still in bed and in a tangle of sheets, wearing nothing but his designer black briefs and matching socks. He's sickly pale and bleary-eyed, having a bad case of buyer's remorse and a little memory loss. After only four drinks (experience tells me this really means seven or eight, he tends to be revisionist about this kind of thing), he fell either getting into or out of the old Suburban. It doesn't happen often these days (at least not anymore) but this time it's a humdinger, as my old grandmother might say. His skull is cracked, both hands are badly bruised and swollen, his hip aches. He's lost one of his rings, and not just any ring but a family heirloom and quite valuable. I don't just dig for sympathy - I have to dredge - and come up empty-handed.


In a moment of charity ( which, I remind myself, he doesn't deserve) I start the coffee and scratch around until I find the aspirin bottle, then coax the dogs downstairs and out to the side yard. They romp happily enough while I smoke a cigarette and when they tire themselves out, I lead them back upstairs, secure the gate behind them and slip out.


Later that day there will be admissions of stupidity and carelessness, a renewed vow of abstinence. This time, he'll assure me, he's learned his lesson. For a man who's spent his lifetime cultivating vanity - he spends more on a few months of makeup than most people make in a year - there's a karma-esque justice about it all.

Won't scar, my ass.

Christmas in Jail

Every little bout of sobriety teaches you something, they say in AA, you can't help but learn from every failure.

I think of this when I learn that my old friend, Kirk, has been back in jail since early November. He'd bragged proudly and happily about his new apartment across the river - didn't mention he'd been evicted from the old one. Lost his latest new job a month before but led us all to believe he'd been unfairly fired. Was thrown out of his newest band for being drunk and disorderly on stage. And finally beat up his current girlfriend. At her wits end, she'd finally called the police and let them talk her into pressing charges, leaving her brave, broke, and homeless. A musician friend one who'd seen it all before, came to her rescue and took her in, giving her a much needed chance to sort out her life and her next move. I listened to this with a heavy heart, saddened but not surprised. Of all the symptoms of addiction, relapse may be the hardest to overcome and the most heartbreaking. To see someone whole and on their way to healthy then watch as they self-destruct and crumble is at first excruciatingly painful but after you've seen it a half dozen or more times, it's just numbing. You're forced to detach for own survival. Alcoholism, I read years ago, isn't a spectator sport. Sooner or later, the whole family gets to play.


I've never seen the inside of a jail cell and next to a rehab center, I know it's the safest and best place for him, but I can't even begin to imagine spending Christmas in jail. It's too sorrowful and depressing to think about. I visualize small, windowless cells and orange jumpsuits, strip searches and cots chained to blank walls, bad food served on tin trays. And a hollow, self pitying emptiness.


Addiction is a disease and a demon. The longer is feeds, the more it demands. Eventually there's never enough and it kills its host and wounds as many innocent bystanders as it can.


To the precious few who seek or stumble into recovery, Merry Christmas.
To those who haven't, rest in peace.


To my friend Kirk, who I love and am letting go, I hope you find a better way.

Jingle All the Way

I get home early enough to catch the late afternoon light but I haven't counted on how little cooperation I'll get from the dogs. The annual Christmas pictures don't go as well as I'd hoped.


The small brown dog is frozen with terror at the jingle bell collar and no matter how I try to distract her, she just gives me her most pitiful look and cowers. The little dachshund immediately decides that the collars and last year's Santa's hat are toys - that somehow I'm keeping from him - and each time I turn away, he snatches one or the other and trots away. The kitten, the only one I'm able to lay hands on, gives me a look that suggests she might be calling her union rep. Christmas spirit is decidedly in short supply.


Still, I persist and after a couple of hours manage to nail all three. Not my best work, I admit, but it's like Tom Lehrer's "New Math". You might get a wrong answer but the idea is the important thing.


Myself, I'm not much of a fan of Christmas. I turn down the well meant invitations. I don't buy gifts anymore and I quietly hope that I won't get any. I don't decorate. I don't miss the frantic shopping sprees or the cards I religiously used to send. I avoid parties at all costs. I've grown out of Christmas except for the music but, oh, the music. The carols and the hymns - Mahalia Jackson, Bing Crosby, Bobby Helms, Odetta and Handel - they set my soul to fire and bring me peace.


I don't think the small brown dog or the little dachshund know the difference although I'm pretty sure the kitten is a closet fan and knows all the lyrics to Red Sovine's Teddy Bear.


Just as I do.

Two Scoops

It was a fine day to whitewash the side porch.

My daddy donned his one pair of overalls -they'd seen far better days but were perfect for the work to be done - a pair of ragged canvas shoes and hitched his way through the still damp grass to the side yard. He carried a paint brush in one hand, a can of Minwax whitewash in the other and a pack of Luckies in his shirt pocket. He stopped whistling long enough to ask me if I wanted to help and I happily trailed after him, overjoyed at the prospect of being part of such a grown up chore.

Nana had thoroughly swept the steps free of dirt and spider webs and bits of overgrown grass and they were what my daddy called "prepped". I held the can of Minwax white stain with both hands while he dipped the brush, scraped off the excess and began applying the paint in short, even strokes. The splintery old wood seemed to inhale the white wash and I imagined I could hear it whispering "Thank you!" with every coat. It wasn't long before the whole porch was freshly wet and shining. The factory whistle blew promptly at noon and although my daddy wasn't as well known as the rest of the family - we arrived in late May and stayed almost to Labor Day while he was only there for one brief week each summer - each and every factory worker and fisherman waved or called to him as they passed.

Who is that?  he would ask innocently as they trudged by and although I suspected he already knew, I would tell him their names and where they lived and he would nod and smile.

Nana brought us fish chowder and lobster salad for lunch - dinner, as it was called on the island, she reminded us - and we ate in the warm sunlight, washing it down with frosty bottles of pop. Daddy lit a Lucky Strike and leaned contentedly back against the flagpole with both dogs nuzzling comfortable at his side. Nana brought me a plastic pail and sent me to pick blackberries for supper, then pronounced the whitewash well done and gave me a shiny new quarter. My daddy laughed and not to be outdone, handed me a fifty cent piece and gave me a kiss on the forehead.

You can help me paint anytime, he said with a grin and a quick glance at his watch, Now let's clean up and go get ice cream.

We walked the quarter mile to Mr. Thibodeau's tiny little store, in truth, it was just a mud room he'd built on and never used so one summer, just to have something to do, he'd added a few shelves and a rough hewn counter and called it good. You couldn't buy much - cigarettes and snuff, little tins of aspirin, Jersey Milk chocolate bars, bobby pins and pop - but he did sell ginger ice cream and if he was having a good day, an island kid could get two scoops (and a wink) for the price of one. That day was a good day and my daddy and I both walked back home with double scoops.

When you're six and it's summer, some days are just like extra ice cream.

The Right Side

I was raised in a middle class, uncompromising republican home in New England when political code words were only slightly more discreet than they are now.

We did not approve of welfare or the people on it.

We did not approve of integrating the schools and actively opposed busing.

Inter-racial dating was strictly forbidden.

We favored charity when it meant dropping a few coins in the Salvation Army bucket at Christmas or donating a turkey to the New England Home for Little Wanderers at Thanksgiving but the rest of the year the less fortunate were pretty much on their own. Exactly as they deserved, my mother would take pains to point out.

We were encouraged to clean our plates because children were starving in Europe – a safe distance away -and certainly not our responsibility.

We were force fed religion, although only the Baptist brand, and were taught early the perils of having Catholic or Jewish friends. No foreign cars were going to be parked in driveway and no un-waspish company was going to find welcome at our door. When the house next door went up for sale and was purchased by a family with swarthy (my grandmother's word, I had to look it up) skin and a complicated last name, a chain link fence quickly followed because Heaven help the neighborhood, those people are everywhere. They were harmless and gentle-natured Lebanese folks – not aliens, not terrorists, not even democrats – but we weren't allowed to speak to them.

Little by slow, I came to disagree with the house rules and by the time I was a teenager, I was headed for a full on change of heart. My daddy, using the tolerant and overly patient tone of voice he reserved for my mother when she was on her way to an alcoholic meltdown, would tease me and we both pretended there was no serious undertone to it. He liked to assure me that I'd come around once I'd spent some time in the real world. His world sure as hell wasn't mine, I would fire right back. My mother simply doubled down, informed me although we might live in a democracy, it damn well didn't extend to inside her living room and I could just shut the hell up. Political views became one more thing we loathed about each other.

It took some time before I realized that no amount of reason or dissent was going to change their minds or mine and as so many families do, we reached an impasse. Spirited debates between me and my daddy grew just the tiniest bit ugly and angry and my mother threatened to put me out on the street if I ever thought about criticizing Goldwater again. Coming from a woman who considered Joseph McCarthy the second coming and believed the entire moon landing  had happened on a Hollywood sound stage, I couldn't say I was surprised.

There'll be no peace and love bullshit in this house! she screeched at me over one Sunday dinner when she learned I had plans to attend an anti-war demonstration. It was so absurd that I very nearly choked on a a brussel sprout and my poor daddy – having a finer appreciation of irony than I'd suspected – laughed until he cried and did his best to turn it into a bronchitis attack. She gave him her patented traitor's glare and slammed her fist impotently on the table but all it accomplished was a nasty, set-in stain on the crocheted table cloth.

Nana never got over that gravy stain.

Aunt Jenny's Solo

Aunt Jenny had been under her husband’s thumb for the better part of forty years and when he died, there was much speculation about what would become of her.  She’d never paid a bill or managed a checkbook or read a book other than the Bible.  She’d never planned a meal or ordered from the Spiegel catalogue, never learned to drive or pick out her own clothes.  She hadn’t had a birthday party since she was sixteen – the very year she married – and in more than fifty years had never once left the island.  Where to begin, the island women worried, with a woman who never left her home or business except to sing in church.

A widow woman with a daughter ain’t gon’ make a livin’ in the choir, that’s fer damn sure, Aunt Pearl announced grimly, Reckon we need us a plan.

A plan?  Aunt Vi said hesitantly, Why, Pearl, the man ain’t even cold in his grave yet!  Maybe Jenny has a plan.

Jenny ain’t got the sense God give a goose, Clara snorted, Else she wouldn’t of married that no ‘count drunk in the first place.

Aunt Vi started to protest but Nana cut her off with a look and poor Aunt Vi lowered her eyes and folded her hands primly in her lap.

Don’t make no difference how she got herself into it, Viola, Aunt Pearl observed, It’s our Christian duty to help her through.

But how?  her timid sister asked reasonably enough.

By the time Nana swapped out the iced coffee for martinis, a plan had indeed been formulated.  Clara would take on the job of teaching Jenny to drive, Nana would take her to the bank and get her finances arranged, Pearl was to oversee the day to day running of the store, and Vi was relegated to  hair and wardrobe and child care of Ruthie.

The only thing the women hadn’t counted on was Jenny.

She was a tall woman, sturdy looking and stout but rough around the edges with reddened, swollen hands and thick ankles.  Her hips, considerably wider than her shoulders, gave her a metronome-ish look and her cheeks and eyes were sunken with worry and weariness.  Nevertheless, when she met them at the door, her faded housedress was clean and pressed, the seams of her support stockings were straight, her hair – still black as night except at her temples where there were several strands of gray – was brushed and neatly pulled back and she managed a smile.  It was the first hint that the women, well-meaning or not, might have misjudged her. 

I watched as she offered them seats around the dinette table and served coffee and sweet rolls.  I listened as they announced their intentions to see her through this difficult time.  And I learned that some women simply won’t be beaten down.

No, she told them politely, she was grateful for their concern but didn’t need any help.  Ruthie had already taught her to drive – how Ruthie learned, no one dared ask and I thought it best to keep silent about the half dozen or so Sunday afternoons when she and I had met Sparrow at the old gravel pit for lessons – and she had already  made an appointment with the bank.  She’d collected all the bills and papers and carefully organized them and was expecting her sister, a certified public accountant from Halifax, the very next day.   Considering what little business there was, she assured them, the store practically ran itself and she had Ruthie to help out.  In other words, she was and would continue to be just fine, thank you very much.

Well, Aunt Vi said and there was very little trace of her usual timidity, You surely don’t look like no new widow, Jenny.  The boldness of this made her blush and Aunt Jenny patted her knee comfortingly.

Thank you, Viola, she said kindly, Mebbe one of these days you could give me a rinse.

Aunt Vi nodded and gave her a shy, thankful smile. 

There was a new voice in the choir that Sunday, a strong and clear soprano, unleashed and finally free.  It seemed she’d been there all along, taking notes, paying attention, being stronger than anyone knew and just waiting for her turn to solo.

The Flagpole

It was hard to hear over the wind and the incoming tide, but it sounded like Uncle Shad and it sounded like he had yelled, Damn it to hell, woman, you be tryin’ to get me kilt?

When I looked out the screen door, I saw my grandmother, apron and hair flying in the breeze as she clutched at a ladder leaning precariously against the flagpole.   The upper half of my Uncle Shad was clinging to the pole while the lower half flailed wildly in search of a rung.  My grandmother, my sedate and uncommonly good-sensed grandmother, was splattered from head to toe in white paint and laughing like a hyena.

Alice!  Uncle Shad hollered, Quit that caterwaulin’ and hold the damn thing steady!

Nana tried, I’ll give her that, but her hands were slippery with paint and the each time she looked up and saw Shad with his overalls half off and his old baseball cap dangling over one ear, she just laughed harder.  One paint stained work boot came flying off and hit the ground with an ominous thud.

GODDAMIT, ALICE!  he roared, THIS AIN’T FUNNY!  SHUT YER CACKLIN’ AND GIT AHOLT OF THE  DAMN LADDER!

A small crowd of spectators had gathered at the foot of the front path where it met the old dirt road but no one seemed inclined to want to offer any assistance.

 

Sit down on her, Shad!  one of the men yelled and the crowd cheered.

When the second work boot came tumbling down and landed like a poor orphan in the blackberry thicket, Nana gave up entirely and half collapsed, arms wrapped around the base of the ladder but still shaking with laughter.  John Sullivan eased out of the crowd and trudged up the path – although I can’t say he was exactly hurrying – and steadied the ladder long enough for Shad to regain his footing and his grip and climb shakily down.  The old man, by then a paint-streaked, nervous wreck, fussed and muttered and shook his fists but Long John just brushed him off and set him on his feet.  My grandmother, who had finally composed herself, had the good grace to apologize but Shad was having none of it.  He gave her a glare, retrieved his boots with as much dignity as he could muster, and stalked up the driveway.

Miz Watson, John Sullivan observed mildly, I ‘spect you’ve had better ideas.

Mind your business, John, she said tartly, Ain’t nothin’ hurt ‘cept his pride and a blueberry pie’ll set him to rights quick enough.

It took two pies and a plate of muffins but in the end, there was no damage done.

Friendship is built on shared experiences and reinforced by adversities.  Sometimes something as simple as a flagpole in need of a whitewash can show you the way.

A Body to Bury

For Christ’s sake, Guy, I heard my mother tell my daddy harshly, Do you have to coddle her?  It’s only a damn squirrel!

She’s tender-hearted, my daddy replied, she found it and wants to bury it.  What’s the harm?

Supper’s on the table, she snapped, It’ll get cold.

It’s hot dogs and beans, Jan, my daddy told her mildly, I think it’ll keep.

I’d found the poor little creature on the sidewalk on my way home from school, it’s small, still warm carcass lying in a clump of grass at the end of the driveway.  A few feet away, our battle-scarred  orange tomcat sat, indifferently licking his paws and looking satisfied.  I’d grown up with the feisty and independent old tom, remembered him before he’d grown into a skillful and deadly hunter, but for a moment I almost hated him.  I’d slid my used brown paper lunch bag beneath the little corpse and to my mother’s horror, carried him into the house.

Dear God!  she exclaimed with a quick backward twostep, It’s  nothing but a rodent!  A rat with a bushy tail!  Get that thing out of my kitchen!

Rusty kilt him!  I told my daddy tearfully, he kilt him!  We have to bury him!

My daddy knelt down and wiped my tears then gently took the squirrel from me.  We buried him in the back yard in a corner by the back fence where the dogs rarely went and made a protective circle around the tiny grave with popsickle sticks and string. 

When I asked if he would go to heaven, my daddy nodded. 

I’m pretty sure he will, he told me, Rusty too, someday.

But Rusty kilt him, I said, beginning to cry again.

Rusty’s a hunter, my daddy tried to explain, and hunters kill things.  You can’t be mad at him about it because it’s his nature.  Do you understand?

I shook my head and this kind man who couldn’t make the pain go away, picked me up and hugged me tightly.

Then just try to remember that they’ll be friends in heaven, he told ,me gently.

It didn’t make things alright but I loved him for trying.

Monday's Mischief

I navigate my way through the prompts at the appliance repair center – all sixteen of them – and am finally connected with a young woman who offers to help me but only after I answer all sixteen questions all over again.  I sigh and try not to feel irritated at the added bonus of a clear language barrier, her incredible slowness, and the general sense that I’ve interrupted her morning coffee break.

We eventually reach a point where she asks me what she can do for me and I tell her I want to make an appointment for service on a washing machine.

Is it broken?  she asks.

I hesitate for only a second.

No, I tell her, I’m lonely and looking for some company.

This generates several seconds of dead air but she’s a trooper and she regroups.

What’s wrong with it? she wants to know.

I consider telling her that if I knew that I’d likely be a repairman and could fix it myself but that seems unfairly rude.

I consider telling her I was hoping for a service call so that I could find out and have it repaired but that seems a tad testy.

I settle for telling her that I can see the image of Jesus in the army of little green men that have taken over its insides.

More dead air.

Suspecting that she’s considering hanging up on me, I take pity on her and tell her I don’t know what’s wrong with it, only that it isn’t working, and I need a service call.

It’s Monday and she can have someone there on Wednesday if that will do.

I tell her that will do nicely and hang up before I’m tempted to say something I’ll regret.

An Audience of Gulls

The summer I turned nine, my grandmother decreed I was old enough and – as she took great pains to tell me – responsible enough to have my own room.  Not only that, she’d added with a warning glance at my brothers, but I was to be allowed to choose from one of the two tiny, cramped bedrooms at the top of the stairs.

Nana had always slept downstairs in a spacious and sunny room off the dining room with twin beds, a built in chest of drawers, and a real closet.  She kept an overstuffed chair in one corner next to a freestanding full length mirror and the dressing table Uncle Len had built for her between the two front windows.  It was a cheerful room, always neat as a pin and usually warm.  Given the choice of being close to the telephone in the dining room or the bathroom upstairs, she’d chosen the telephone without hesitation.  Besides, she was always the first one up and she liked being just a few steps from the kitchen.

My mother’s room was on the second floor.   It was slightly smaller but had a row of small windows that overlooked the ocean, a small chest of drawers and a re-finished chifforobe against one wall. It had twin beds for when my daddy came and a rocking chair in one corner.

Of the two other upstairs bedrooms, one was barely large enough to accommodate a double bed and a bureau and the other, though roomier, was dark with only a single window and the slanted roof made it impractical for anyone of any height.  Uncle Len had added a clothes rack of sorts – a metal tube attached  horizontally at opposite ends of the walls – for a closet.

You can have either of them, Nana told me, Or you can have the room off the kitchen though you’d have to share when there’s company.

I still remembered my great grandmother dying in the room off the kitchen and though it was by far the nicer of the three, I chose the darker one upstairs.

You keep it picked up, Nana told me sternly, And you make up your bed every morning.  Put your clothes away and no shoes on the bed.  Them’s the rules.  Agreed?

I nodded and crossed my heart.

Oh, and don’t pay no mind to the mouse, she said as an afterthought, It ain’t scratched its way through in all these years and I ain’t lookin’ for it to make no  progress this summer.  You don’t bother it and it won’t bother you.

The mouse and I coexisted peacefully all that June and into July.  He scratched and scrabbled nightly, regular as clockwork, but as Nana predicted, the ceiling remained intact and I got used to waking up with paint flakes on my pillow.  Then just after my birthday, I woke up in the middle of one still moonlit night hearing a violin playing.  It was distant but very clear – Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring – music we’d learned in choir for the Christmas concert.  In the next moment I realized that the pawing above my head had stopped.  I had just enough time to think, Weird, a mouse that likes Bach, before I fell back to sleep.

The next night it was Beethoven’s Ode to Joy and the night after that, something I couldn’t place but was positive was Mozart.

When I told Nana, she patted my head absently and said what funny things dream were.

Several nights later, I made myself stay awake.  The mouse skittered determinedly overhead for what seemed like hours and I was just about to give up when he suddenly stopped.  For a moment there was dead silence and then I heard it – faint but clear as day -  Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, straight out of my music appreciation class.  I slipped out of bed and crept down the stairs in my bare feet, froze when the dogs stirred, then tip-toed past them and out the back door.  There was a moon, hung high and surrounded by stars and the tide was in-between times, quietly readying itself to turn but for the moment just still and almost completely silent.  I walked across the wet grass and down the path, stopping every few steps to listen and glance back over my shoulder to make sure no one was following me.  The stillness seemed fragile somehow and all I could hear was the music and my own whispery footsteps.  I shoved the risk of getting caught further back in my mind and kept walking.

By the time I got to the head of the breakwater and found the source of the music, the whole little adventure was seeming otherworldly and eerily enough, I wasn’t frightened or surprised.  As soon as I saw the gulls – a whole flock of them as far as I could tell -  gathered and rustling quietly in a crude semi-circle around the fiddler, I knew it was Doolittle.  The birds were cooing like doves at his feet, one was even roosting on his shoulder, several more were lined up in neat rows along the pilings and along the roof of the old guard shack.  It was an amazing thing to see, this blind boy, his violin, and an audience of peaceful seagulls but the most peculiar thing of all was how un-peculiar it seemed. 

There were several more dead of night concerts that summer.  I took to leaving the window open to listen and each time the music began, the mouse would stop his chew-through-the-ceiling mission.  He might've just been frightened off but then again, if a blind boy could play a violin and charm birds and a gull could be a music lover, then why not a mouse.