Road Trips and War Stories

On the day we met Whiskey Two Shoes, the apple blossoms were in full bloom and The Valley was ablaze with color and sunshine.

Ruthie and I had borrowed Hubie's rattletrap, convertible Volkswagon for the trip and it was glorious to wheeze and wind our way toward Annapolis. The very real possibility of car trouble only added spice to the journey, I'd assured Nana that morning, not to worry, we were among friends. She hadn't been convinced but she'd reluctantly given in.

Call when you get there, she'd insisted and we'd carelessly agreed then in the sheer joy of the drive, promptly forgot until we were well past the Digby town limits. Ruthie thought she remembered a tiny store somewhere around Bear River, one of those dusty, dim little places that sold two for a nickel cigarettes and chewin' tobacco. Its homemade shelves would be cluttered with mouse traps and chocolate bars, fishin' hooks and little tins of aspirin, dulse for the tourists and cellophane wrapped stale bread. There'd be an old sittin' bench on the front porch and a scarred up cooler of icy water for the pop, maybe an unpainted picnic table and a roughened bench or two - if it were prosperous - but mostly just a shack on the side of the road with its back to the ocean. If it had a name at all, it'd be called Mac's or Curt's or some such and it might or might not have a old, hand cranked telephone mounted on the back wall.

The one Ruthie remembered was called Saulnier's (underneath the rusted license plate type sign hanging crookedly over the door, someone had added “Sundrys, Bait, Cold Drinks” in sloppy block black paint) and it was almost exactly as we'd expected.  It was a weatherbeaten, old relic of a place, the kind people throw together to have somewhere to go and pass the time rather than make a profit. Instead of a picnic table, there was a sideways cable spool and a couple of upended barrels off to one side. One one barrel, a scrawny, sleepy eyed black cat sat grooming his whiskers and giving us a disdainful look. On the other, sat an Indian, an exceptionally tall and slim figure in boots, worn jeans and a dark, denim vest. He was playing solitaire. His gray hair was in braids past his shoulders and his brown skin was leather smooth, the color of maple syrup. He might've been not yet forty or goin' on sixty, I thought. When Ruthie called out to ask if there were a 'phone inside, he didn't get up, exactly, he unfolded hisself, gathered up the playin' cards and the cat in one easy gesture, slipped the deck into his pocket and set the cat on his shoulder.

Nickel a call, he said and nodded the little store, Help yourself.

Lord a'mighty, Ruthie whispered as she slid past me, He's near tall as a damn tree.

The cat twined around the Indian's neck and settled itself like horseshoe. There was no need of claws to hold on, I saw, despite his height, the man's steps were as sure, light, and silent as snow falling and the cat was clearly at ease. We followed them inside, paid our nickel and made the call to Nana, enduring a brief but really only half hearted scolding for being so late. The cat and the Indian seemed to have forgotten we were there. That done, it was time to get on the road again. Ruthie dug up a quarter from her jeans for a bar of toffee for herself and a Jersey Milk for me and we headed outside and climbed back into the little Volkswagon. She was about to turn the key in the ignition when we heard the screen door open and close and the Indian called to us to hold up. We watched as he lifted the cooler lid and reached into the near freezing water, pulled out two bottles of Orange Crush, snapped off their caps one handed, and walked to the car.

'Preciate you comin' by, he said in that sippin' whiskey smooth voice and handed each of us a dripping bottle, Stop by on your way back.  Cat don't mind havin' company.

It might've just been the shadows but for a half second I had the not very reasonable idea that I knew the man from somewhere. There was a hint of something that might've been the start of a smile in that ageless face and the idea was heading toward a faint memory when the dusty little car coughed and sputtered to life. Ruthie capably shifted gears and we roared off in a cloud of dust and gravel.  

When we told Nana about him, she smiled in a faraway kind of way.

Whiskey Two Shoes, my grandmother said thoughtfully, I declare I ain't thought of that ol' halfbreed in a dog's age.  Why, if I'd knowed that was where you was, I reckon I'd have saved myself the worry.  He fought with your daddy in France, you know, and Ruth, your mama was right there with'em.  'Fore she met yer daddy, acourse.

The idea that I knew him took a sudden, sharp downturn into an long forgotten war story about France and three friends, a soldier, a Canadian Armed Forces nurse and an Indian persuaded to fight by the promise of whiskey and a pair of new shoes. Ruthie knew the story same as I did but we'd only ever halfway believed it. They'd fought and survived but there just wasn't much romance to it, so we thought, war wasn't in our experience and France was a world away. Yet here on a soft summer day with the apple blossoms all in bloom, here it was and the mystery only deepened when we carried the message home. My daddy, fence-mending in the back pasture of the farm, listened patiently and then gave us his trademark give-nothing-away smile. Over the counter as she counted out penny candy for one of the Albright children, Aunt Jenny blushed prettily and got such a faraway look in her eyes that she lost track and had to start all over again.  As far as we could tell, even Nana thought she'd said too much and scolded us for asking too many questions.

Whiskey Two Shoes is a friend and a good man, she told us shortly, And that's 'bout all you need to know.  

Ruthie and I pondered this.  She suggested they'd been heroes or black marketeers, maybe even spies or doomed lovers like in "Casablanca" but in the end it was something we were never to know.

There's no end of mystery in this poor, old mortal world and maybe it's better that way.  

The Course of True Love

Before I've even reached the front door, the noise coming from the sunroom tells me I have a very unhappy dog. The little dachshund is crying and the sound is not just loud but pitiful. When I come around the corner and open the gate, he rushes past me and all I see is a dappled blur.

Seconds later he rushes back, carrying his stuffed lamb, and careens past me and out of sight under the corner table beside the loveseat. There's a flurry of celebratory squeaks – and a low throated growl when the kitten gets too curious – but he won't be coaxed out and when I peer around the loveseat, all I get is a thoroughly baleful look. Clearly, it's my fault he's been separated from his beloved Lambchop all day. No good will come of my pointing out that Lambschop is his toy, ergo, his responsibility. I decide to take the high road.

When I finally convince him to go outside, he takes Lambchop.

When I put down his supper dish, he puts Lambchop down right next to it and eats sparingly, keeping a watchful eye not on his food but on his toy.

After supper and another quick run around the yard – again, with Lambchop – he settles back into his corner niche and falls asleep with Lambchop neatly tucked between his paws. Now and again I hear a muffled squeak and when next I look, he's sleeping with his head resting on the lamb like a pillow and one paw protectively stretched over it.

Before I leave the next morning, I make dead sure that Lambchop is on the right side of the gate.

You should never get in the way of true love.

The Company of Drunks

The guitar player comes stumbling and weaving into the bar, braying obscenity riddled greetings like a constipated mule and finally crashing into a chair and falling flat on his face. Before he hauls himself up, I quietly pick up my camera and move to a different table. When it comes to the company of drunks, I'm in favor of distance. The farther away I am, the better I like it.

There's no getting away from his obnoxiousness though. Someone buys him a beer and he launches into a loud tale of the night before when, in his own words, he was “wasted like a white boy”. This is said with high pride and met with humor – tinged brightly with envy – and a sort of grudging admiration and it sets the stage for the next round of drinks and several competing stories. I'm put off by people who brag about getting drunk and sloppy and stupid and though it's relatively early, I decide to call it a night. Someone puts a hand on my arm and asks me to stay long enough to hear the drunk sing.

He's real good, I'm told.

One song, I agree and reluctantly pull my trusty Nikon back out.

It goes about as I expected. He staggers on stage then can't quite find the key or the microphone, drops the pic, forgets the lyrics, changes songs in midtream. He finds it uproariously funny. I find it too painful to watch.

I suspect it'll just make one more good drunk story tomorrow but I don't want to be around for the ending.  Everyone's attention is on him and I slip out unnoticed.

Winnie & the Whisperers

After two years in a techincal college in St. John, Winnie Tibert graduated with honors and came home for good. There was, her startled parents saw, almost no trace of the girl they had sent away and to the absolute delight of most of the boys her age - and the abject horror of most of their mothers - Winnie had become a full fledged, certified and astonishing capable grease monkey.

Gone were the long skirts and Peter Pan collars, gone the gawky shyness, gone the sad resignation that she would never marry. The new Winnie, taller and filled out, had a sparkle in her eyes. She wore grimy overalls over plain white tee shirts and kept a pack of Export A's in her hip pocket. Her hair was short and touseled, slicked back over her ears, often carelessly stuffed under a baseball cap or tied with a colorful bandanna. Nonie liked to faint dead away the first time she heard her child cuss.

Winifred Eugenia! she gasped, holding one hand to her heart, I never! Where did you learn such language?

In school, Mama, Winnie said serenely, Carburetor class, I think, but it mighta been in driveshaft, I disremember.

Well, you keep that kinda talk to yourself, child, Nonie shuddered, and don't let your daddy know you know them words, he'll strap you sure as you breathe.

Yes, Mama, Winnie said cheerfully, Reckon I won't tell if'n you won't, and ducked her head back under the tractor engine.

Unsettling as the idea of a girl mechanic was to some in our tiny village, Winnie wasn't one to give up or give in to what some of the old timers liked to call "the natural order of things".  To the dismay of the Ladies Auxillary, she wouldn't conform to the wife and mother role, refused to learn to knit or mend or cook.  She defiantly wore blue jeans and a feed cap to church and quite scandalized Nana's quilting circle by laughing so hard she broke into tears at the suggestion that she wear stockings and proper hat.  She could light a kitchen match with one rough flick of a coarse fingernail, chain smoke indelicately, drink like a fish and cuss like a sailor.  Most shocking of all, while she drew the car crazy boys like moths to a flame, she showed no interest in finding a husband.  For the village women, some practically honor bound to marry her off, this was the most worrisome thing of all.  They planned and plotted and match-made, and when it all failed, they began to whisper.

It weren't long before the whispers reached my Aunt Vi and that was when, not to put too fine a point on it, things went to hell in a handbasket.  My soft spoken, fluttery and ever accommodating Aunt Vi who looked for the good and kind in everyone and kept her thoughts to herself became unafraid.  She'd defended Winnie before but only in the relative safety and privacy of Nana's sunporch.  No one was prepared for her to storm into church on a clear, warm Sunday morning and deliver an angry and quite fierce lecture on gossip, personal choice and loving thy neighbor.

I'll not name names, she warned a shocked and slack jawed congregation, Not this time, but you know who you are and you ought to be flat 'shamed of yourselves.  This be one of our children and I ain't gonna stand by and listen to you judgin' what you don't understand!  Ain't nobody without sin in this house, ain't nobody so good they couldn't be better and fer damn sure, ain't nobody got the right to be throwin' stones!

You could have cut the silence with a knife.  

Aunt Vi stepped off the dais and defiantly walked the length of the aisle and out the church doors, her shaken husband at her side.  They were small, slight figures - not in the least remarkable - but they walked proudly.  

Aunt Pearl, in her Sunday best flowered dress and dainty veiled hat, was the first to stand, slip out of the crowded pew and follow.  Then Aunt Jenny.  Then Miz Hilda, Miz McIntyre, Miz Clara, Wilfred and Nonie and finally, my grandmother all rose and followed suit.  I had no clear idea of what had just happened but I dutifully trailed after them, painfully self conscious that most eyes were on us, guiltily wishing that a hole would open up and swallow me with each step, but suspecting that even if one did, I was likely to step around it.

It wasn't much of an uprising but it was enough to put a stop to the whispers about Winnie and although there was some spotty speculation about what Aunt Vi might be adding to her morning coffee, it didn't come to much.  Later that summer, having conquered all the mechanical worlds the island had to offer, Winnie was offered a job at a small but select small engine repair shop in Bear River.  She packed up her newly rebuilt pick up truck, tossed a battered suitcase into the back and jumped at it.   To no one's real surprise, she was a partner in five years and a full owner in ten. 

Each year on her birthday, Aunt Vi sent her a new jumpsuit from the Spiegel catalogue with her name neatly embroidered above the pocket.  And not a soul whispered about it.

Something You Tell Yourself

My grandfather - a blustery, domineering and quick tempered beast of a man who scared the wits out of me more often than not – was roaring. The toast was burned, the dogs were underfoot, the coffee was cold and the kids were loud.

ALICE! I heard him bellow like a bull moose, ALICE! CAN'T A MAN EAT IN PEACE?

Nana hurriedly chased the dogs outside and scuttled to salvage the toast and bring fresh coffee.

Ain't no need to shout or throw a tantrum, CB, she told him mildly, Sit back down and calm yourself.

Damnable house is like a circus! he snapped, Dogs and kids everywhere and not a goddam decent meal to be had! And my goddam good for nothing daughter still asleep! They're her dogs and her kids and I'm paying for it!  Ought to send all their asses packing!

Settle down, CB, she advised him cooly, remember your blood pressure. Ain't nothin' gon' be fixed by you yellin' yourself silly over burned toast.

It was good advice but unfortunately not my grandfather's stock in trade. He was a man who favored top-of-your-voice tirades, usually laced with obscenities or profanities. I wasn't sure I knew the difference - the point was that he was loud and often abusive – and he got his way by threats and bullying and the occasional back of his hand. No one but my grandmother seemed able to handle him and when he got liquored up, which was frequently and thoroughly, even she washed her hands of him, relying on my daddy to come and drag his sodden body home and to bed. My mother, I used to reflect, at least came by her own alcoholism honestly.

I was helping Nana wash the breakfast dishes when my grandfather finished. He lit a Camel and announced he was going to take a walk, giving me a healthy slap on my backside as he passed through the kitchen. I nearly jumped out of my skin but he just laughed, gave me a laviscious wink and slammed the screen door so hard it made my grandmother wince.

Never mind, she told me quietly although I noticed that she didn't meet my eyes when she said it, He don't mean anythin'. His bark is jist worse'n his bite.

I didn't think so and deep down, I didn't think that she did either.  It was just something you tell yourself.

Point of Honor

I drew the line at chess.

I'd learned gin rummy and cribbage, made a stab at pinochle, and suffered through several agonizing and unsuccessful sessions of my daddy trying to teach me bridge, but I drew the line at chess.

No, I said stubbornly, I'd rather have a tooth pulled.

It's not as hard as you think, he assured me, let me explain it.

I shook my head, bound and determined to ignore his disappointed look and hold the line. I'd have done most anything to please him but chess.....it made my blood run cold.

I don't have the mind for it, I said.

Of course you do, he countered, You're letting it intimidate you.

I sighed, shook off the accusation, said no again. More firmly.

He frowned, the corners of his mouth turning down almost severely, his eyes slightly sad. Then he shrugged, packed up the chess set impatiently and put it away without another word. He might've been just disappointed but it was hard not to think he wasn't also just a little bit angry.

I choked down the urge to apologize and returned to my crossword puzzle. He didn't exactly pretend I wasn't there for the rest of the afternoon but he didn't initiate anything with me either. I struggled – feeling guilty one minute and manipulated the next – but I didn't change my mind. It was silly and prideful, I suppose, but somehow it had become a point of honor.

Growing up is hard, love, otherwise everyone would do it – Kim Harrison

Poolside

My friend Michael unpacks the plastic kiddie pool and begins the lengthy process of filling it with water.

Well, he announces as it begins to take shape, It's official.

What's that? I ask, fending off the old pit bull who suspects I have treats in my pocket and soothing the little chihuahua as he gets too close.

Michael looks around at the uncut grass and the half finished flower beds and back to the plastic pool with the colorful array of sea creatures painted on the sides. It really is one of the tackiest things I've seen in a long while and even though I'd made the original suggestion that a pool would help the dogs cool off, I hadn't been serious, had never dreamed he would actually spend money on one, never mind set it up in the side yard for all the world to see.

We're officially poor white trash, he sighs, Lord help us all when Mama sees this.

It isn't as bad as all that, I tell him, though of course it is. The grand old house has seen better days. The roof needs repair, the paint is peeling, some of the shutters are hanging on by a thread. There's an upstairs door that would be carried away in a strong wind and a downstairs one that's hanging on by broken hinges and the grace of God. The once elegant interior with it's antique furniture and oriental rugs has fallen prey to neglect – and of course, dogs – the floor buckles in several places, the wall to wall is torn up clear to the matting, the pristine crown molding is badly chipped and flaking. The old air conditioning units are operating on a wing and a prayer, the stove hasn't worked in years, the windows are painted shut and none of the doors close properly. The financial crisis of several years ago was not kind and the business has never fully recovered. The glory days are gone and the old Michael with them.

The pool fills and fulls out and the puppy inspects it briefly then climbs over the side and dives in headfirst. Michael, in his ancient madras shorts and blue button down shirt, unshaven and looking like an unmade bed, steps in after him.

In many ways, I like this new Michael better.

Vocabulary Lesson

Cocksucker! I heard my brother scream loud enough to shatter glass and rattle me awake, I'll fix you!

The dogs sat up in alarm and began growling, there was a crash and something hit the other side of the wall so hard it set the mirror over the chest of drawers to vibrating and then I heard my mother's footsteps on the stairs. I suppose it was a reflex but I jumped out of a bed like a scared rabbit and jammed a hardback chair under the doorknob, as if I could keep whatever chaos was about to break out on the other side, then crawled hastily back into bed and pulled the covers over my head. Listening to the fight sounds and the footsteps thundering past my door gave me butterflies and I found myself wishing desperately that my daddy hadn't left the day before. My brother's violent streak had a way of mowing down anyone who got in his way. I'd never forgotten his pushing me down the cellar stairs at home or the time he stripped naked and ran across the front lawn through the snow just because he didn't want to go to bed. I was young but not so young that I didn't recognize some hazy form of mental illness though at the time I just called it evil.

There was a second crash and then the sound of a door slamming into something equally solid. I envisioned shattered, splintery wood and was thinking there'd be hell to pay for that little bit of mischief when things went deadly quiet just before erupting all over again.

I'll get you cocksuckers for this! my brother screamed, I'll get you both!

My other brother was now wailing, my mother was yelling, and it all became incomprehensible.

The screaming brother let loose a flood of curses and then fled. When I heard him stumble and nearly fall down the stairs, I imagined/hoped his dragon-like breathing would trigger an asthma attack and he might die- no such luck - then it was quiet again.

It turned out that the fight had been over a shiny, silver cap pistol, a nasty little toy that Nana

had forbidden in the house, and that one brother had accidentally broken then hidden under his pillow where the other found it. In a family where sharing was pretty much a foreign concept, it was more than enough to set off a violent confrontation. The pistol itself came to a bad end – Nana hammered it into pieces when she got home – and both boys forfeited a week of allowance and were summarily grounded. It meant a week of relative peace. When I asked my grandmother what cocksucker meant, she generously offered to wash my mouth out with soap. I decided to let it drop.  There were, after all, dictionaries for such things.

Empathy 101

I know how it will go before I even pick up my cell phone.

I will tell him that I have no internet or landline. Again.

He will fumble, mumble and scratch around until he finds his script, then will ask me all the questions I've alrady answered. Twice.

A little more fumbling and mumbling and scratching around and then he will tell me - as they always tell me - that the problem is in my equipment.

It goes exactly as I anticipate.

I ask if he's sure there's no outage and am postively assured not.

I tell him - sweetly - that he's full of shit, that in all the time I've had this sorry exuse for service that the problem has never once been in my equipment.

Oh, he wants to know, you've had issues in the past?

I've had issues since day one, I tell him, as you would well know if you'd bothered to look it up.

He makes the usual responsibility-evading excuses which I know by heart and then offers to schedule a technician visit.

It's pointless to argue so I agree. Based on prior experience, the odds are excellent that whatever outtage he doesn't seem to know about will be fixed by the time the technician arrives anyway and it's gotten to the point where I enjoy wasting as much of their time as I possibly can. We go over it one last time – I believe in giving morons every opportunity to hang themselves – and he confirms a technician visit between 1:00 and 4:00 that afternoon.

No chance he won't show? I persist.

Absolutely not, he assures me, Thank you for choosing.......

I hang up before he can finish the inflammatory thought.

At 4:30 when there has been not the first sign of a technician, I gather what wits I have left and make a final call, fully prepared to cancel every shred of this wretched service. Dispatch has put the service call on hold, I'm informed apologetically, it seems there's an outage in my area and they fully expect service to be restored by the end of the day or first thing in the morning. They are so sorry I've been inconvenienced.

It's so exactly what I've come to expect from them, that I don't even lose my temper. I calmly tell him that the service is a disagrace, that they lied from the start when they promised fibre optics in an area that has no fibre optics – some folks might see it as bait and switch, I point out – that the speed they promised has never materialized and that the reliable service is a joke.

And is it policy to cancel service calls without informing your customers? I demand, Are you really that inept or do you just not give a damn? Because those are the only two options.

He retreats to Empathy 101, assuring me he completely understands my anger and frustration, that the situation has been mishandled. He's sorrier than he can say that I was given bad information, he realizes how unfair it was, he promises me service will be restored as soon as humanly possible and he offers me credit for the outage and the missed call. It's all straight out of the “How To Handle an Angry Customer” playbook, designed to disarm, pacify and not further alienate me. And it doesn't work.

Nice try, I tell him, but none of that gives me my internet back or a single reason why I should stay with you.

He agrees and to his credit he's the only one who has the good grace not to thank me for choosing AT and T.

A pox on them all.

The Ransom of Ezra Pyne

One of the first stories I remember my grandmother telling me was how Ezra Pyne had been so small when he was born, that he fit into a shoebox.

I knew he'd been a frail child, slightly built and breakable looking with pale, translucent skin and deep set, hollow-ish dark eyes. While the rest of us raised havoc with our childhoods, Ezra watched from the sidelines, never far from his mother's watchful eyes and worried admonitions.

Ezra, stay out of the sun, she would remind him endlessly, Ezra, don't run, don't go near that dog, don't cut through the strawberry patch. Ezra, don't pick up those shells, you'll cut yourself.

Don't play in the ditch, Ezra, don't forget your nap, stay where I can see you. Be careful you don't get a splinter, Ezra, watch where you're walking. Don't handle that cat, how did you get this bruise, don't go barefoot, let someone else bait your hook, time to go, Ezra, come away from the water, it's time to go.

Sheltered and overprotected to the point of being suffocated, Ezra fought back as best he could, wavering between resistance and retreat. As often as he shook off his mother's well meant hovering, he snatched it back.

Boy don't know whether he's comin' or goin', Nana sighed, Ain't no wonder he's taken to drink.

Likely come to a bad end if'n he don't cut them apron strings, Aunt Pearl said sadly, Cain't drink that away.

I notice it don't keep him from tryin', Miz Clara remarked dryly, Makes me want to shake some sense into him.

Independence is a hard enough fought battle for a happy, healthy child, the women all agreed, but for a sickly one living in the shadows, it's all uphill and a treacherous climb. Defeated and reeled back in at every turn, the frail child had grown into an angry young man and the angry young man into a dark and solitary figure who spent his days alone and brooding in a booth in the canteen. How and where he spent his nights, no one knew. He was thin to the point of emaciated, silent as a grave, grimly unapproachable. He shunned company and people had learned to let him be but he hadn't counted upon Miss Hilda and her friendship with his mother.

I find myself in need of assistance, young man, she announced with a sharp rap of her riding crop that rattled his glass right off the table and sent the cracked plastic ashtray flying, And you appear to have considerable time at your disposal.  Come with me, if you please, Mr. Pyne.  We shall soon put you to rights.

Ezra, bleary-eyed and confused at this unexpected assault, gave her a wary look but didn't move except to draw circles in his spilled Molson's.  Hilda cleared her throat impatiently and none too gently lifted his chin with her crop until he was forced to look at her.

Come, come, Mr. Pyne, she snapped, Midday drunkenness is hardly a virtue in one so young!  I have need of a groundskeeper and you have significent need of gainful employment.  A fair day's wages for a fair day's work, I always say.

When he still made no effort to move, she leaned in closer, wrinkled her nose at the fumes, and firmly took hold of his shirt collar.

Perhaps, Mr. Pyne, we all heard her say with an iron-like coldness, I have failed to make myself clear.  I do not approve of soddeness and sloth and self-pity.  They are not enviable qualities and will not be rewarded here or in the afterlife.  You will accompany me of your own accord or rest assured, I will not hesitate to drag you out by your whiskey drenched heels!

Ezra blinked, shook his head, tried to focus.

Silence, Mr. Pyne, Hilda said briskly, implies consent.  On your feet or on the floor, young man.  I leave it to you.

Miz Elliott, one of the Albright boys called cautiously, Miz Elliott, ma'am, he's been here since yesterday mornin', I ain't sure he kin stand never mind walk.

That being the case, sir, then please have the goodness to convey him to my automobile, Hilda ordered, if he protests, you may restrain him and if he protests further, you may confine him to the boot for the journey.

Whatever you say, Miz Elliott, someone snickered, He ain't likely to notice nohow.

It wasn't, needless to say, something that could be kept quiet and the entire village knew about it by sundown, including my grandmother who paled when she heard.  

You were there? she demanded, roughly shaking me as if the truth would fly out from between my shoulder blades, You saw it happen?  Hilda kidnapped the boy?

Now, Alice, my Uncle Shad said mildly, kidnapping is a harsh word, it was more like.......

An abduction?? my grandmother howled, A hostage taking?? What exactly was it more like, Shadrach??

It were more like a relocation, Uncle Willie assured her, For the boy's own good.

Wild eyed and alarmingly red in the face, Nana threw up her hands in disbelief.  Well, now, she shouted at the calmly defiant old men, don't that jist make all the difference!!  

Alice, mind your blood pressure, Uncle Shad said helpfully and she snatched the nearest thing she could lay hands on - a fringed "We Love Digby, N.S." throw pillow - and pitched it at him violently.  Shad ducked and the pillow hit the shelf behind him with such force that it rocked the old ship's clock mechanism into a premature chiming which, in turn, startled the dogs who began a chorus of protest with Lady running frantic figure eights around Shad and Willie and Fritz trotting off to the sunporch with the pillow securely between his teeth.  Between the shouting, chiming, barking and general mayhem, no one heard the knocking on the back door and no one noticed that Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi had arrived, bearing sponge cake and sun brewed lemonade for the Ladies Sewing Circle.  At first, the two women froze, then Fritz appeared, generously lathered in stuffing with pillow fringe draped in and around his muzzle.  Pearl and Vi began to laugh, Shad and Willie followed suit, and finally my grandmother - outmanned and outgunned, so it seemed - joined in.

Ezra Pyne woke up two days later in the small room next to the stable, hungover and smelling hay and horse manure, but more clear headed than he'd been in years.  He spent the remainder of the summer planting, mulching, weeding, seeding, and flower tending for Miz Hilda and became so proficient at gardening that in September, Miz Clara took him on to help with the maintenance of the cemetery.  It wasn't enough to turn his life around but it did give him one good season of dignity and a little peace of mind.

Done

That there's evil in the world is not new. That so much of it is currently concentrated in this country might be.

Once we decided, as a society, a government, and a country, that killing kids was ok, there really was no going back.

We're anxious and willing enough to protect the banks, the pedophiles, the pharmaceutical companies, the NRA and other hate groups, the churches and the serial killers. We don't really mind so much that our justice system is broken beyond repair, that lack of health care is killing people, that all politicians care about is increasing their profit and maintaining their power. We've chosen the kind of country we want. We don't mind that politicians are sold like penny candy, that right wing religion is poisoning us or that sheer hypocrisy has run the fabric of this country ragged. We don't just embrace that some lives matter less than others, we celebrate it.

Worse, we act on it.  And the very politicians and pastors and people who publicly despair, smile smugly and cheer us on.

So spare me your thoughts and prayers for the victims, your peace and love platitudes, your rainbow coalitions, your ideas that good will overcome evil and love triumph over hate. Spare me your public moments of silence and candlelight vigils on courthouse lawns.

Get off your ass and do something or shut the fuck up.

We're better than this, I hear you say, with every horrific scandal and each new mass murder.

No. We're not. Not anymore.

If you want a moment of silence, have one for this country and what it used to be.  Buy the gun, sell the vote.  It's too late to go back.  As for me, I'm done.

A Mouse, A Mixmaster, A Mess

It began with a wayward mouse and a bowl of pancake batter.

In a moment of domesticity, my mother - possibly as a result of going to bed sober and waking clear eyed and clear headed - decided to make pancakes for breakfast. My grandmother, in her defense, a little under the weather from a summer cold, reluctantly agreed but still felt the need to remind her how to crack the eggs and measure the milk properly.

My mother sighed heavily but it was just routine sparring and I didn't think much about it. I didn't know that not too far in the future I'd come to understand exactly how she felt. At times I wonder if it might've made me a little more charitable.

Indulge me, Mother, she said in a voice that fairly dripped with sarcasm, It's pancakes. I hardly think I need an instruction manual to make pancakes.

Use the mixmaster else there'll be lumps in the batter, my grandmother replied as if she hadn't heard, and don't forget to grease the skillet or it'll stick.

It's a reflex, my Cousin Elaine observed when it was all over, I'm forty-two and she still doesn't approve of how I make a bed.

Nana was in the pantry slicing bacon and I was curled up beside the stove with the dogs when the  mixmaster - a double barreled and oft times temperamental old monster - roared to life. Both dogs tensed with alarm and I remember thinking it was as loud as an outboard motor and only a little less bulky.

Jan, Cousin Elaine, who had poured herself a cup of coffee and gone outside to admire the day, called, Do you need kindling for the stove?

My mother didn't answer and for one or two pre-mayhem seconds, I thought she hadn't heard.

That was when the mouse appeared in the doorway to the living room and suddenly darted across the linoleum floor. The dogs panicked and went scrabbling after the poor creature and my mother, screaming bloody murder and flailing desperately to avoid him, jarred the whirring mixmaster with an elbow or maybe a knee as she tried her best to climb into the sink. Pancake batter was flying like fall out - gobs of it striking the walls, the ceiling, the stove, the windows -

and my unfortunate grandmother as she emerged from the pantry. She skidded on a patch of it, lost her footing and went down like the proverbial ton of bricks, all the while cursing a blue streak.

Turn it off! she was shouting, Jeanette! Turn it off! Unplug the cussed thing!

It was Cousin Elaine who saved the day. My terrorized mother was still shrieking and Nana was still cursing when she came through the screen door, arms raised to shield herself from the still flying batter. She ducked and took a tumble but managed to haul herself up to the counter and wrench the plug from the socket. The mixmaster fell blessedly silent. There was no sign of the mouse or the dogs. I looked from my grandmother, still on the floor and furiously snatching at the pancake batter in her hair and on her glasses, to my mother, cowering half in and half out of the kitchen sink and spattered from head to toe, and finally to Cousin Elaine, calmly sitting on the floor and brushing batter from her blue jeans and denim shirt.

Well, ladies, she announced, Guess we'll have to re-think breakfast. Then she winked at me and fell out laughing.

By then the entire house was stirring and I could hear the dull but frantic thumps of footsteps on the staircase. Nana's sister and her husband, two other cousins, my daddy, and last but not least, both of the dogs all poured into the kitchen, looking concerned, relieved, amused and mystfied. I think we all knew better than to laugh but it was a sight and while Cousin Elaine had gotten hold of herself for the moment, one look at my grandmother set her off again and it was contaigious. It seemed nobody except Nana and my mother could not laugh.

For Christ's sake, Guy, my grandmother snapped, Quit yer gawking and help me up! Jeanette, will you stop that godawful caterwauling! And somebody put those damn dogs out!

My daddy got her to her feet and after she checked for and found no broken bones, she slapped his hands away, reached for a new apron, and glared at us.

Jeanette, she said in a voice that would've frozen hell, Git down. Fetch a mop and a bucket of water. And for the love of God, will you shut up! The rest of you clear outta my kitchen and be quick about it. You want breakfast, it ain't gon' be served here but the canteen's open. You kin jist carry your sorry selves down to it.

The wrath of God was in her eyes and we obediently filed out. The last I saw of my mother that morning, she was climbing awlwardly out of the sink and off the counter, smears of pancake batter clinging to her hair and chubby cheeks and hanging on her housedress like caterpillars. The last I heard from my grandmother - right after she banned my mother from the kitchen for a week - was that there was nothing funny about pancake jokes, she considered the matter closed and expected no future mention of it, and heaven help us all if there was as much as a whisper of it from or to anyone on the outside. No one doubted for a moment that she meant what she said but when Cousin Elaine ordered pancakes at the canteen and then suggested we take some home for Nana, we laughed until we cried.

Turns out pancake jokes can be funny after all.

Wagon Train

It's kind of like the story of David and Goliath meeting an episode of Wagon Train.

The old pit meanders outside and finds a patch of warm grass. He lays down and rolls onto his back, luxuriating in the sunshine and fresh air and then out of nowhere, the puppy rushes him like a freight train, madly running in circles around him, ferociously nipping at each and every moving part and barking loud enough to wake the dead. When the pit's had enough, he lumbers awkwardly to his feet and joins in the game by snapping his considerable jaws, producing deep,

operatic bass growls and loping around the yard, chasing and then being chased. The rules seem to be whoever gets distracted first wins so it's no surprise it's so often a draw.

From the side porch steps, the cur dog (too insecure to join in), the little chihuahua (far too bad tempered) and I (secretly rooting for the pit) watch and wait. An unsuspecting pedestrian coming innocently down the sidewalk provides the distraction. All four dogs bolt for the fence, each desperately trying to outbark the other. They paw at the bars, spray saliva and leapfrog over and under one another. Bodies collide with startling force, the noise is ear splitting and the poor passerby wastes no time scurrying for the opposite side of the street.  Once he's out of sight, a relative calm descends.

Handicapped by weight, age and a sometimes stiff hip that throws his gait off, the pit makes his way back to the steps. He gives me an unasked for (and mostly unintentional) body slam together with a sloppy kiss and goes inside. The puppy turns his attention to the cur dog but their encounter is brief and almost immediately the cur turns and comes racing toward me with the puppy snatching at his hind legs and tail. My part of the game is to dodge at the last second and shush the now visibly upset chihuahua as best I can without risking losing a finger or two. Once her three housemates are back inside, she deems it safe to climb off my lap and take her morning stroll. I close the door behind me so she can mill about by herself, taking her time and keeping a wary eye on me in case the hounds should make an unexpected return.

You never know when the rules may change.

Girls Like Winnie

It was said that on the night Winifred Eugenia Tibert came into this world, her mother's screams were heard clear across Petite Passage to Westport.

Nonie had birthed four boys by then and had thought a daughter would be the simplest of all matters but after thirty hours of intense and non-productive labor - Wilfred had like to walked the soles of his workboots through with worry and even the midwife was looking grim - Nonie was nearing hysteria. Even after Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi arrived, it was another five hours before the reluctant baby finally emerged from her exhausted, over 40 mother.

Had the baby been another boy, his looks would've been unremarkable but in a girl child, it was seen as unfortunate. She was slightly disproportioned and long faced, doomed to be a homely infant, a horsey looking child, and a depressingly unattractive young woman. Wilfred and Nonie loved her dearly but they were realists and could plainly see that the odds of this extra blessing child ever marrying or leaving home were dismally slim. She was, however, bright as a new penny and almost tragically kind hearted, so they decided to send her to the mainland to complete her grade 12 and then to a technical college in St. John where they hoped she would learn a trade and become self-sufficent. It hurt their hearts to see their shy, dreamy-eyed, solitary little girl leave but they were sure it was for the best.

Girls like Winnie need to depend on themselves, Nonie told my grandmother, She can't just skip stones and watch sunsets and collect shells.

She'll be fine, Nana said encouragingly, You'll see.

'Course she will, Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi agreed, Child's smart as a whip, mebbe just a little too sheltered and shy is all.

And she'll be home summers, Miz Clara added practically, Why, it'll be like she never left.

Privately though, they were as my daddy sometimes liked to say, singing another song.

My Lord, Nana said ruefully, I cain't remember knowin' a more ill favored child.

She ain't sought after, that's for sure, Aunt Pearl sighed.

Girl's homely as sin, Clara said a little impatiently, Took after her daddy and that ain't pretty in a girl.

Ain't no need to be cruel, Clara, Aunt Vi said without a trace of her usual timidity, Why, that child's smarter than all them boys put together and a harder worker! 'Pears to me she could use a little more kindness and a little less criticizin'! You ain't askin' me but if you was I reckon I'd say pretty ain't everythin' in this life!

This was so near to a speech for my Aunt Vi that all three women stared at her slackjawed. She blushed to the roots of her hair and nervously dropped her eyes back to her embroidery.

I declare, Vi, Clara finally said, Ain't no call to get huffy about it!

I ain't getting' huffy, Clara Haines, and you surely know it, my Aunt Vi - my sweet, shy as a churchmouse and always tentative Aunt Vi - shot back, color still high and not backing down an inch, I'm jist sayin' they's more important things than bein' pretty!

Girls! my grandmother admonished, rattling her china cup in its saucer and clearing her throat louder than necessary, Pearl, shut yer mouth, dear, you'll catch flies. And Clara, mind your manners. I 'spect Vi's right. Wouldn't hurt us none if'n we was to be a bit kinder.

My Aunt Vi gave her a grateful if trembling glance and picked up her stitching as if it were a shield. It was then I understood she wasn't going to run for a dark corner, that strength can come from the most unexpected places and that timid or not, even the most unsure of us have limits.

Come along, Vi, Aunt Pearl said briskly as she gathered up the tea things, It's getting' on to supper time.

As Vi packed her embroidery, my grandmother cleared her throat again - strange that such a sound could be so meaningful - and with one well placed swing of her foot delivered a sharp jab to Clara's ankle.

Reckon I spoke outta turn, Viola, Clara said grudgingly, Didn't mean no harm.

It was as much of an apology as any of the women were likely to give and my Aunt Vi accepted it.

Never you mind, Clara, she said, I reckon sometimes we all speak 'fore we think.

And just like that the skies cleared.

Let that be a lesson to you, child, Nana said and winked at me, Keep a weather eye on the shy ones.  Quiet ain't always weak and loud ain't always strong.