Leaving the Dance

On the day I was married, my grandmother gave me a fierce hug and covertly pressed a brand new, tightly folded $100 bill into my palm.

“Always carry a little mad money, child,” she whispered into my ear, “You never know when you'll have to leave the dance alone.”

She patted my cheek, gave my long haired, hippie husband a quick embrace, and carefully made her way down the chapel steps, moving slowly but determinedly toward her latest dark blue and immaculately maintained Lincoln Continental. She was a creature of habit and had been driving Lincolns - and trading them in every couple of years - for decades.

“In an uncertain world,” she often told me, “You need a car you can rely on. Besides, people get out of your way pretty quick if you're my age and in a Continental.”

She was in her late sixties by then and had been in what she called “the flower of widowhood” for better than 10 years, living alone and liking it. My grandfather had been a hard drinking, cold-natured, womanizing bear of a man who ruled his family with an iron fist but Nana had stayed with him, neutralized him whenever possible and made the best of a bad situation.

“Mind you, it was my choice to stay,” she reminded me once, “But I don't recommend it.”

By the time my mother had married and produced the three of us, the world had become more than she could bear so it was with relief that she relinquished the better part of my raising to my grandmother. I lived with her off and on throughout my teens, grateful to miss the worst of the alcoholic sieges at home and appreciative of the peace and quiet she provided. Nana's house was stark but expensively furnished, museum-like with muted grays and autumn browns. Dust was not tolerated, bed linens were starched and changed every third day, the furniture was elegantly uncomfortable and anything that couldn't be made neat and organized was made gone.

Clutter was absolutely forbidden whether you could see it or not - my grandmother was a believer in symmetry and simplicity - the kitchen cabinets were routinely emptied, cleaned, and re-organized once a month and even the refrigerator was so clean it glowed. Dishes were washed, dried and put away in one sitting, waste baskets were emptied daily, and even ashtrays were not allowed to collect more than one or two cigarette butts. Search as I might, I never found a closet or cabinet or drawer or shelf that wasn't in precise order. After her death, when I was inventorying the contents of the old house, I realized it had been obsessive but at the time, it was a comfort. As a child, I longed for order and predictability and sameness – they were the same as safety – and Nana could be relied upon for all three.

She was a small woman, and as all the women on that side family did, tended to be stout although compact. She had short, stubby fingers, tiny feet, and snow white hair and never went anywhere un-corseted or without her makeup. She had her hair and nails done every week, always kept three shades of red lipstick on her dressing table, and never went to bed without a nightly beauty ritual. The idea of women in slacks appalled her and she never really got over my mother's summer bare-legged-ness and flip flops.

“It's laziness,” she scolded, “And it's just not ladylike.”

She didn't mind so much when I took up smoking, nicotine was another habit all the women on that side of the family shared, but she was a demon about the etiquette of it.

“Never without asking permission in someone's home,” she said sternly, “Never at a meal unless everyone has finished eating. And never, ever when walking down a street! People will think you're a …...................well, never mind that, it's just not something ladies do.”

“And if you must drink beer,” she added with a scowl, “Use a glass. Nice people simply do not swig from a can or a bottle.”

With her friends, and she had many, she was generous, good-natured, patient and unfailingly well thought of but she held her family to stricter standards and was inclined to be demanding and more than a little domineering. She and my mother fought like stray dogs over a bone when it came to most small things but when it really mattered, she laid down the law in no uncertain terms. She might allow my mother to rant and rave and try to make her case, but in the end, she shut the argument down simply enough.

“My house, my rules,” she would say calmly, “Take it or leave it.”

I learned to fight from my mother but I learned to win from my grandmother.

She loved Ed Sullivan and Red Skelton equally, was a die-hard Rex Sox fan, had a total crush on Liberace, read the Boston Globe for news and wrapped fish in The Herald. She had no use for any politician after Eisenhower, complained fiercely and often about “the coloreds”, made baskets for the orphan's home every Thanksgiving, and preferred Filene's to Jordan Marsh every day of the week and twice on Sundays. She played no instruments, rarely read anything that wasn't a Readers Digest Book of the Month selection, never walked when she could ride and had no hobbies except for crocheting and knitting. She was a cutthroat bridge player and a dedicated and distinguished member of the Eastern Star and the Daughters of Rebeka with a lifelong love of tradition and ceremony. One of the only really serious battles we ever had was over my refusal to stay in Rainbow Girls. It played out at her small kitchen table over warmed up coffee cake spread with softened butter, so sweet it made my teeth hurt, and fresh strawberries in cream.

“It's elitist!” I argued vehemently, “And out of touch! And silly! Secret signs and rituals and nonsense! I don't want any part of it!”

I'd never seen her look more absolutely stricken and to this day, if I could take back just one conversation with her, I think it might be that one. She was flawed and imperfect but she loved me, mostly without conditions, and I should have been kinder.

I was living out of state when she died but made it back for the funeral and spent a couple of nights in her house. I was struck by how little the perfect order of things had changed. I bought a coffee cake and a stick of butter and sat at her kitchen table, careful to wash up when I was finished and leave no crumbs on the red and white tablecloth. I imagined her sitting across from me, smoking a filter tip Kent 100, tapping out saccachrine tablets for her coffee and telling me all the reasons I should be a Rainbow Girl. I took a deep breath and agreed.

And then I left the dance.

New Math

I plunk my single box of $12.99 hanging folders on the counter and the cashier rings it up.

“$24.94,” she tells me.

I slide my card into the machine and then it hits me.

“Wait,” I say, “How is one $12.99 purchase with 9% sales tax $24.94?”

She glares. Gives an indifferent shrug. Tells me to remove my card. Doesn't tell me it's my fault but I know she's thinking it. I narrow my eyes to read the credit card capture machine and it's clear as day:

Hanging folders $12.99

Tax $1.95

Total $24.94

“New math?” I inquire without even trying not to be sarcastic.

A second, angry glare and a second shrug. She clears the machines and grudgingly re-rings the sale.

“$14.94,” she tells me finally but I notice that she won't meet my eyes.

No explanation. No apology. And most definitely, no “Thanks for shopping Office Depot”.

It doesn't even surprise me anymore.

Lock Down

After months of intermittent sticking and freezing and generally giving me trouble, the lock on the front door finally gives up the ghost and seizes up completely. No matter how much I coax it, the mechanism won't budge and the key won't be removed. I call the locksmith and try to focus on the fact that it's a lovely, warm spring afternoon and that the door being open is doing no harm. It's the rare optimist part of me searching for a silver lining, I suppose, while the far more powerful pessimistic part of me is screeching that it's going to cost me an arm, a leg, and possibly my appendix.

Optimism comes hard to me in these days of despair over political chaos and a country I fear is deteriorating before my eyes. I see a future without clean air or safe water, where the rich will rule exclusively for their own kind, where there will be oil rigs polluting the oceans and national parks, where the marginalized will be the majority and skin color will determine your rights, your safety, and your very existence. The criminals win a little more each and every day and we're turning numb from the commonness of it all. Racism, corruption and ignorance have taken over. It doesn't trickle down anymore, it floods from above and washes over every right and honorable accomplishment. It cannot end well.

The lock, of course, is nobody's fault but my own. It was inevitable that it would fail sometime and I should've had it fixed months ago but I'm forgetful and easily distracted by more faraway disasters waiting to happen. Still, I'll bet if I thought long and hard enough, I could figure out a way to blame it on the current administration.

At least I still have my appendix and a mostly intact sense of personal responsibility.

Midgets & She Beasts

“Where have all the pretty people gone?” Michael moans when he sees the latest submissions.

The morning's registrations are not promising, mostly a parade of midgets, she-beasts and wannabe gangsters, all feeling entitled to be models. They are tattoed and pierced, barely literate, and overflowing with fat they like to call proportion. They have bad teeth, worse skin, and grubby nails.  Farm animals would have better odds at runway careers.  I've seen flatbed trucks with better fashion sense.

Upon discovering that looks, talent, training and work are required, most will fade away. Some will have parents who will laugh at them and then rein them in with a fierce jerk. Others will be smugly confident and offended by our lack of interest. But some will come strutting in with their movie makeup, gel'd hair and boudoir heels. They'll chatter and smirk through Michael's runway demonstration and then walk like uncoordinated hunchbacks. If they can read, they'll stumble through their scripts as if their mouths were full of marshmallows and every multi-syllable word were in Arabic. As they leave, they'll offer limp handshakes, refuse to make eye contact and forget to say thank you. The call backs, what few there are, will be a nightmare.

They'll ask that we send them contracts and then ignore them. We'll leave messages and they won't have the common courtesy to return the calls. Those that do will plead poverty and want a deal. On a good day, Michael will explain the cost is what it is and wish them well. On a bad day, he'll tell them that we are not the Make A Wish Foundation and hang up. If we're lucky,

we might get one or two who are serious, who have potential, and whose families are willing to make the commitment. If we're very lucky, it will be enough.

It's a small slice of what the world is like now, I suppose, but telling. When it comes to following instructions, people don't read and if they read, they don't comprehend, and if they comprehend, they don't care. All I seem to see is lazy, entitled, spoiled kids being raised by lazy, entitled, spoiled parents. They want instant gratification and stardom but aren't willing to do the work. They've perfected the blank look. They want a free ride. And more's the pity, they all end up on our doorstep.

Nevertheless, I spend the morning organizing the audition materials and making sure I have enough of everything for the inevitable handful of too-good-to-follow-the-rules twits that will show up without having confirmed and the equally inevitable late comers who can't be bothered to be on time. When Michael tells them that “taking direction” is critical and wonders aloud if they can't be on time for an audition, what would make him think they'd be on time for a job, they'll squirm a little in their seats.  I'm a fan of comeuppance and petty and small minded as it may be, such moments make me smile.

Despite being specifically told to arrive no more than 10 minutes early, they'll start showing up an hour early.

Despite being specifically told not to bring their entire clan, they'll show up in packs.

Despite being specifically told we won't see anyone under 5'8 for runway, we'll get a dozen 5'1's and they'll all want to argue.  Others won't be able to fit through the double doors.

Despite being specifically warned about chewing gum and cell phones and crying infants, they'll have all three.

The afternoon isn't much better.

Directly underneath an ad that clearly states we're looking for women 5'9 and taller, are no less than 14 applications from women 5'4 and under. 

I have to explain to one starry eyed young mother that no, a picture she has on her cell phone is not the same as a hard copy photo.

A young Texan wants to know if he will have to come to Louisiana or can he phone it in.

Can I bring my 6 month old to the Parents Only session, another wonders.

One tells me he's his lifetime dream has been to be a "faction" model.  Another shares with me his belief that he's been called by God to model.

Lack of pretty people is only the tip of the iceberg.

Old Friends

When we got to the last house on Lovers Lane, we could see Miz Loretta on the porch that overlooked the bay. Her bare feet were propped up on a wooden milk crate and she was settled comfortably in her old rocking chair, scratching the ears of an an enormous old tabby cat who was stretched out in her lap and surrounded by a half dozen sleepy-eyed others. All except the old tabby turned tail and scattered at the sight of us. Miz Loretta just smiled and beckoned us in.

“They don't take much to strangers,” she said soothingly, “But they's good company for an ol' woman in her declinin' years.”

“You ain't no more declinin' than I am, 'Retta,” my grandmother told her gruffly and laughed,

“Age is jist between your ears anyways.”

“Mebbe so, Alice, mebbe so. But I swear, the arthritis in these ol' joints don't know that.”

“Any day above ground....” my grandmother began.

“Is better than a day below,” Miz Loretta finished for her, “Ayuh, I expect that's so.”

I was struck by how much alike these two women were. Both were short and stout, white haired and wrinkled. Both were longtime widows, prone to wanting to have their own way and testy when they didn't get it. Both liked to bicker in a companionable sort of way and both were fans of order and routine. They protected their privacy and their emotions fiercly. Neither liked to be rushed, overruled, or caught off guard. And though I didn't know it then, both would live into their 80's, independent and alone - one felled by a sudden heart attack and one succumbing to the effects of a stroke - but on that day, they were just two gossipy, old women enjoying the lazy summer sunshine and the easy conversation of longtime friendship. We ate chicken salad sandwiches and fresh tomatoes, drank iced coffee, played a rousing game of gin rummy and sensing no danger, one by one, the cats began returning. They came slowly and cautiously, peering 'round the corners of the porch, hoping for a tidbit of chicken salad which Miz Loretta would stealthily slip them when she thought Nana wasn't looking. My grandmother, who rarely failed to notice anything, witnessed each of these small favors but chose diplomacy and said nothing. It could have been her way of avoiding a silly spat but I chose to think it was a benefit of a longstanding friendship.

The sun was well on its way to setting and the sky had turned pastel when we left, leaving Miz Loretta with a porchful of cats and the old tabby still snoozing in her lap.

“Next time I'll have to try salmon,” my grandmother mused as she navigated the old Lincoln down the the dirt drive to the main road, “I 'spect them damn fool cats would prefer it to chicken salad.”

Diplomacy is a two sided street, I decided, and said not a word.

Cat Watch

It was a little before six and still dark when the tree came down. It took two to three seconds and at first I thought it was the trash truck with some serious brake issues. There was no great crash, no shock wave when it landed, just a few seconds of grinding and scraping and the little house across the street suddenly disappeared behind a massive, multi-limbed old pine tree. It slashed through the roof like a knife through butter, demolished the front porch, doors and windows, and avalanched itself across the yard and the width of the street. By the time I'd pulled on my Nikes and thrown on a sweatshirt, other neighbors were already there and Amanda was on the verge of hysteria.

“THERE'S A TREE IN MY HOUSE!” I heard her screaming, “WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?”

Our yardman/neighbor from down the street took a firm hold on her shoulders and gave her a thorough but not unkind shaking.

“AMANDA!” he yelled, “BREATHE! YOU'RE OK!”

She came back to herself, looking around the way you do when your world becomes suddenly imcomprehensible and you're sure you're in a grotesque nightmare.

“Oh, my God,” she moaned, “Oh, my God, what happened?”

“Where are the animals?” someone asked quietly and this, far more than the shaking, cleared her mind. Still sobbing, she began an accounting, both dogs were safely in the back yard and all but one cat was found. The yardman sat her down gently and led her through what needed to be done immediately, forcing her to concentrate and focus through the chaos. Within an hour, the city had sent an emergency crew to clear the street, the insurance company had been called, a tree service was on site and the sound of chain saws filled the air. Someone set up a circle of lawn chairs in the driveway next door, someone else arrived with coffee and doughnuts. By noon, a portable dumpster was in place and a bright blue tarp had been pulled securely over the roof. That afternoon, the vet clinic picked up the dogs for boarding and the street was clogged with friends and family coming by with offers of help, catfood and litter and plates of barbeque.

The entire block was on Cat Watch for the one still missing feline and the collective relief was intense when, 4 days later, he strolled casually through the front door, hungry and complaining but completely unharmed.

Happy Easter, one and all.

Saying Goodbye

Emotions, whether positive or negative, always seem to lead me to writing. I consign my feelings to language and hope for the best. This afternoon as I sit in this shabby little house without the small brown dog on the bed behind me, the sense of loss is acute. For fifteen and a half years, she was my shadow and my most devoted friend. And this morning, I bundled her into her favorite blue flannel blanket and took her for her last car ride.

She was eight weeks old when she started coming to work with me at the camera store. She spent her days in a dogbed on the sales counter and brought smiles to even our most curmudgenly customers.

“What is she?” people would ask and we would smile and say, “Her mama was a Yorkie but her daddy was a travelin' man.”

Customers brought their children to play with her while they shopped and the dog bed was always full of stuffed toys and treats and tiny designer sweaters. She recognized faces and voices and easily won over anyone who stopped by. She was petted and cooed at and given kisses. It was the best socialization you could've asked for. She was patient and gentle, affectionate and always perfectly well behaved. She never got in the way, rarely barked except in greeting, and never turned down an opportunity to be walked or held or admired. She was a sweet natured charmer of the very first order, a happy, healthy and confident little animal, so well adjusted and so little trouble that I was sometimes absent minded about her. I never thought about a time when she wouldn't be with me.

At her next to last annual vet visit, she was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. She'd developed a persistent cough, not much more than a nuisance really, but over the next few months it got gradually but steadily worse. She began losing weight, her bright eyes began to dull, and though she still played with the cats and slept on my pillow every night, she tired

more easily and her sleep was often interrupted by a coughing spasm. In the last few days, I watched her struggle to breathe and slow down to the point of being willing to be carried. She was unsteady on her feet and overnight had become fragile, her belly swollen and tight, her coat rough and lackluster. A tumor the size of a marble suddenly appeared on her back leg. The coughing spells had stopped but there were other things waiting and I knew it was time. I think she did too.

I found myself automatically filling three food bowls tonight and after the two remaining dogs came in from outside, it took a minute to realize that she wasn't coming too. I slept badly, painfully aware of the empty space on my pillow, missing the sound of her gentle snoring in my ear. The house is still filled with animals but there's an emptiness to it that wasn't here yesterday. It's going to take some time to get used to.

So it's true. When all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.

Erin Bucchianeri

Last Days

It's just shy of 4 in the morning when the small brown dog begins to cough, trying to clear the fluid from her lungs. It goes on for five painful minutes and leaves her shaken, short of breath and anxious. It leaves me trying to pretend it wasn't as bad as it sounded but in my heart I know I'm losing her. It leaves me praying to a god I'm not even certain exists that just this once, could You not take her in her sleep.

I promised myself - and her - that when there were more bad days than good, I'd let her go but each time I think we're there, she rallies. It's been fifteen and a half years and she's still active, reasonably agile, perky enough to play and even chase the occasional cat. At the same time, the coughing spells come more often, last longer, and are more severe. When they pass, I comfort her as best I can.

Of all the dogs who have shared my bed and board, she is the most ordinary and at the same time, the most exceptional. She's always been a naturally happy animal, even tempered and remarkably easy to train, calmly tolerant of every new addition over the years, friendly to strangers and patient with children. She's never been destructive or aggressive or even mildly bad mannered. At times, she was so laid back and well behaved, she was easy to overlook. Nobody ever accused of her being pretty but there has always been something endearing about those long legs, Dumbo ears, doe eyes and wild hair. She made friends of everyone she met and it was impossible not to love her. She charmed people. She's earned her rest.

I tell myself I will know when her bad days outnumber her good ones. I tell myself I will not allow her to suffer needlessly just so I can keep her with me. I hope I can make that be true.

Just not today.

The Fitzpatricks

If all you have in the way of regrets is that you never got a motorcycle or a tattoo, chances are you'll be ok.  But still. 

 The Fitzpatricks lived in sprawling and mostly neglected triple decker in a down at the heels part of town. In spring and summer, the old house was usually covered up with kids and, much to the consternation of the neighbors, loud and pretty much trashed, pretty much all of the time.

I lost track of how many kids there were actually were - Miz Fitz, as she was known - seemed to churn out one or two a year, regular as Ex-Lax, some said, and it was rumored but never proven that she took in fosters for the monthly support checks. At any rate, the old place looked more like a rundown orphanage than a family home most of the time. The unkept lawn was littered with discarded toys and broken bikes and music blared from the open windows from early morning to late at night. They were a rough crew, the Fitzpatricks, and after a half dozen leather jacketed teenagers took to dropping by on the weekends and congregating on the front porch, the neighbors shuttered their windows, bolted their doors and locked up their daughters.

One of the younger girls, Kathleen, was my age. Since early elementary school, alphabetical order had determined that we would be paired off for fire drills and such and in the early 60's, we were in junior high homeroom together, at least on those days when she actually came to school. We weren't friends but we had known each other a long time and while I had mostly managed to overcome my initial terror of her, I had no idea what she thought of me and to be honest, I was afraid to ask. You didn't mess with someone who had a temper and a killer right hook. You didn't even ask about her bruises. You rode the bus home in silence and walked those twelve blocks - eight to her street, four more to mine - without speaking but still managing to step on every crack. Now and again, she would land with both feet and a grim smile.

“See ya,” I would tell her.

“Guess so,” she would answer and shrug.

It was hard to explain, but I always felt bad watching her walk away. I can still see her plaid skirt with the hem falling out, the sweater with the darned elbows, and the five and dime purse with the broken strap slung over one shoulder. Saddle shoes were all the rage but Kathy wore scuffed up black flats or cheap sneakers. Her slip, the elastic waist held togther with safety pins was always showing and there was usually the telltale bulge of a pack of cigarettes either in her back or side pocket. As much as she scared me, there was still a part of me that felt sorry for her but I'd rather have taken a beating than tell her so.

Gangs were coming into their own by the time we got to high school and some people said it was inevtable that the Fitzpatricks would start one or drift into one. Kathy began arriving at school on the back of a chrome covered Harley Davidson, her arms wrapped around a leather jacketed,

long haired and bearded biker with head to to toe tattoos. She smoked openly, defying the school rules and daring anyone to stop her. Gone were the ragged skirts and patched sweaters I remembered from junior high, replaced with skin tight jeans and scandalous halter tops. Her high school career lasted exactly one week before she was expelled for dress code violations, alcohol, and fighting. I watched her swagger across the parking lot on that last day, saw her climb onto the back of a motorcyle, raise her middle finger to the school and then roar off. I heard she didn't go home that day but the only thing I knew for sure was that she never came back to school and it was the last time I ever saw her. A part of me envied her ride and her freedom.

“White welfare trash,” my mother proclaimed smugly, “Good riddance is what I say.”

The triple decker was sold later that year, renovated and turned into garden apartments far nicer than any of the existing homes around it. The Fitzpatricks quietly moved on, as we all do, but for a long time the sound of a Harley Davidson would make me stop and look around, just in case I might catch a ride.

The Island Way

Aunt Penelope, looking all the world like Mary Poppins with her ribboned straw hat slightly askew from the wind and an umbrella tucked under one arm, nudged the back door open with one high button'd shoe and flashed me a brilliant smile.

“Hello, dear,” she said distractedly, “I need to see your grandmother, if you please.”

“Come in, Penny!” Nana called from the pantry, “You're just in time for tea!”

“Mark my words, child,” Aunt Penelope said as she swept through the door, petticoats rustling and long skirts swirling around her delicate ankles, “Timing is everything in life!”

“Yes'm,” I said obediently, “Everybody's on the sunporch.”

She nodded, handed over her umbrella, and crossed the kitchen and living room in quick, light, spirited steps. There wasn't much to my Aunt Penelope - she stood barely 5 feet and couldn't have weighed more than 100 pounds straight out of the sea - she was tiny all over with a 20 inch waist that was the envy of the island women and doll-like hands and feet that many would have killed for. Worse, she was genuinely sweet-natured, happily married, cheerful to a fault, and impossible to dislike, a modest woman of modest means who was always in shirtwaists and long skirts, always with an umbrella under one arm, always with a smile for everyone she met .In many ways, she had never quite all the way left the 1920's – she tended home and hearth and husband with a remarkable energy and focus and, as the ladies liked to say, Cap'n Jack was in need of all she had to spare.

Cap'n Jack drank. To excess. Every day. He was a bear of a man, towering over his dainty wife by feet rather than inches, easily out weighing her by twice, maybe more. He was as dark as she was fair, as inward as she was outward. He rarely ventured off their four acres, preferring the company of his farm animals to that of the villagers and that of his wife to his farm animals. If ever there was a happy, harmless drunk, it was Cap'n Jack. On the single occasions that one of the island women had gently suggested she leave him, Aunt Penelope had been visibly shocked.

“Leave Jack?” she'd asked, wide eyed with feigned innocence, “Why, I'd sooner die! The man would be as lost without me as I'd be without him! And where would I go, pray tell? I think the world and all of you, Clara, but you'd be best tendin' your own garden and let me tend mine!”

Miz Clara had blushed and protested that she'd meant no harm and Aunt Penelope had just smiled.

“I know you meant well,” she relented, “but I reckon I know what's best for me and Jack. No need for you to worry.”

In the interests of peace, the subject wasn't raised again. The island way was to speak your mind and move on, regardless of how your words were received. It was a valuable lesson.  

I never did know what Aunt Penelope had come for that day. Nana shut the sunporch door and she and the women clustered around the little table by the windows, solemn and serious-faced, speaking in lowered voices for the better part of an hour. When the factory whistle blew at five, they broke up, each woman giving Aunt Penelope a hug and then leaving one by one by the side door. Whatever the crisis had been, it had been confronted, dealt with and dismissed. Unity was also the island way.

Some ten years later, Cap'n Jack's drinking caught up with him, overcame his liver and then in a matter of a week or two, took his life.  He died at home on his four acres with Aunt Penelope by his bedside.  She never faltered, never wavered, never would hear a word against him even after his death and to no one's real surprise, turned down a cemetery plot at the Baptist church and with John Sullivan's help, quietly buried him at the edge of the property, planting wildflowers on his grave and decorating it with driftwood.  On clear days, when the sunshine fell onto the grave, the driftwood shone, the flowers bloomed, and the memories stayed sweet.

"When it comes to lovin' and bein' loyal, " Nana remarked, decades before the concept of denial became commonplace, "I reckon we all see what we want to and pass over the parts that ain't so pretty."

Dollars & Sense

Sign on the stack of copy paper: “2 for $10”.

Cashier (when I pull out one package): "Don't you want 2?"

Me: "No, thanks, I just need one."

Cashier: "But you can get 2 for $10."

Me: "But I only need one."

She sighs and rings up one package and says “9.99”.

Me: "Wait. If they're 2 for $10, why isn't 1 $5?"

Cashier: "You have to buy 2 to get the discount."

I sigh, add a 2^nd package and say “2 for $10 isn't the same as $8.99 each or 2 for $10. You need better signage.”

It's the small, stupid things that break people.

Deadbolts

“You're not sugar,” I tell the work dogs impatiently, “You won't melt. Get your butts out there or there'll be no supper!”

All four look at me with more pitiful-ness than I'd have believed possible. They tuck their tails between their legs and back away from the open door as if the lightly falling rain was laced with some toxic substance.

“It's just plain, old, ordinary rain,” I tell them and give each a gentle but firm swat on their hindquarters, “Don't be such wusses!”

“OUTSIDE!” I finally yell in frustration. I ignore the Dead Man Walking look I get from the old pit and shove him down the stairs then snatch up the little chihuahua and carry her out. The cur dog and the little pit mix follow albeit reluctantly. I am resolute, ignoring their identical expressions of pained resentment and refusing to be drawn into this miserable pity party.

“Useless damn dogs,” I mutter under my breath, “I never saw the like of such useless animals.”

Amazingly enough, all four manage to pee before nearly running me down in their haste to get back inside. They wolf down their dogfood like their throats have been cut and then we go through the whole routine one more time. Cursing the rain, the dog sitter who never showed or called and life in general, I clean up after them, turn on the lights and leave them to their own devices.

The midnight run is a little easier since there's no food involved. They're glad to see me and they trot outside obediently enough. I sit on the back steps and smoke, grateful for the break in the rain and the still warm-ish weather.

The next trip is high adventure.

I pull into the driveway only to see the far front door wide open and the cur dog lying across the threshold, casually watching the world go by. When he sees it's me, he stretches lazily and strolls slowly onto the porch, so unconcerned that he doesn't even bark. I slam the car into park and race for the door, terrified of finding the other three missing but as soon as I'm inside, they all appear, greeting me calmly and I suspect, not understanding my panic. There's no sign of any kind of forced entry and nothing is out of place or damaged so all I can think, unlikley as it sounds, is that the afternoon's rain or wind was strong enough to push open a locked door.

Note to self:  Deadbolts.

Dogfight

The fight started over a chihuahua being walked on the other side of the fence and in a matter of seconds had devolved to a full scale blitzkrieg. The work dogs couldn't get to the chihuahua so they turned on each other and the cur dog went down in a bloody heap with the old pit fastened onto his muzzle like a vise and the small pit mix snarling at his hindquarters and keeping him pinned. Blood and tissue were flying, the cur dog was screaming and everything I knew about breaking up a dogfight went clean out of my head. I turned the hose on them and when that didn't work, grabbed the nearest thing to a weapon I could find - a shovel - and began hammering them with it until I could catch hold of the old pit's collar and separate them. The smaller pit mix snarled and lunged at me and I swung the shovel, connected with his face and sent him sprawling into the dirt. When Michael finally got there, I was standing over him with the shovel ready to swing a second time. I was so angry I was hoping I'd broken his jaw.

We patched up the cur dog, washing off the blood, cleaning his wounds and checking for broken bones. A week later he had surgery for a build up of blood in one ear and we sent the small pit mix to Michael's family for a few days to give the cur dog a chance to heal. The house was immediately quieter and considerably less chaotic and I was of the opinion that we should make it a permanent move but Michael missed the wretched little sob and made plans to bring him home after Thanksgiving. It was to be a short lived peace.

It was the second time in my entire life I raised my hand in anger to an animal.

I'm considering investing in a taser.

A Good Run

The words are a gut punch, sucking the air out of my lungs and slamming against my carefully constructed wall of denial until it crumbles. Once again, I feel the now familiar weight of rage and impotence as yet another friend is dying right before my eyes and there's nothing to be done about it. The cancer has taken everything save the faint sparkle in his eyes.

“It's been a good run,” he tells me, his voice weak and wasted, “A little short, but good.”

I force some imitation of a smile and try not to give in to the tears that I feel welling up. What do you say to someone facing their own death? And, I wonder, who comforts who. I find myself desperately wishing I could talk to my daddy one more time. I have an unreasonable idea that he might know the words I'm looking for.

My friend, Charli, brings a tray of homemade soup and tacos and sets it down on the tv tray in front of him, tucks a napkin under his chin and puts a spoon his hand. The oxygen machine purrs quietly and the hospice nurse putters about, checking the morphine solution and counting out pills.

“Eat,” she says firmly, “It'll grow hair on your chest.”

This earns her a small but shaky smile.

Charli and I make useless, chattery small talk, hoping to draw him in to the conversation but I suspect we're both remembering this same kind of day when our dear friend, Blue, was in the same place and we did much the same thing. Even the hospice nurse is the same. Blue was on borrowed time as Bill is now and the reality of it is emotionally and physically numbing. I can't make sense of it, can't begin to conceive of living in this kind of dark place for whatever time remains. Somehow, in some way I don't understand, the dying find a kind of bravery and grace that I've only read about in books. It's up to us to witness and remember.

Pigboy

“Boy's dumber'n salt fish on a dryin' rack,” Sparrow observed dryly as he watched my brother high wire walk along the top rails of the pig sty, “And twice as hard headed. Ain't nobody goin' in after him when he falls.”

And on his second go round, fall he did, tumbling wildly into the filth and muck and wailing as the startled pigs quickly recovered and began advancing toward him. Sparrow watched stone faced, calmly sucking on his pipe. There were six of us on the rickety old front porch and not one of us moved to help.

“You'd best climb, boy,” the old man finally called, “Them pigs ain't been fed yet.”

Cursing and shrieking, my brother clawed his way out, scrambling desperately over the rails and landing on his rump in a heap of mud, leavings and pigshit. I don't remember who started to laugh first but in an instant we were all bent double and near hysterical. My unfortunate brother, dripping, vile smelling and humiliated, staggered to his feet and shook his fist at us before turning tail and shambling off across the back pasture like some awkward, hulking creature. This caused a second wave of laughter and Sparrow had to holler to make himself heard.

“Enough!” he thundered, “Boy got what was comin' to him. Now's time to let him be.”

There were repercussions, none of them pleasant.

My mother arrived in a fury, demanding to know how dare we throw her precious child into the pig pen and then laugh at him. Sparrow listened patiently while she ranted and raved and then quite calmly and sternly told her the truth - that no one had thrown his sorry ass anywhere, that it had been his own idea, that he'd been warned not to do it - and that her precious child was a bully and a liar who'd paid the price for his own foolish and stupid behavior.

“He was pushed!” she insisted defiantly, “And you laughed at him!”

“I don't take kindly to bein' called a liar, Jan,” Sparrow said sharply, “ So I'll thank you to git off my property and keep your boy away from here from now on. He ain't welcome and right now, you ain't either.”

I paid for my part in the adventure with a week's grounding but my brother lived with the nickname “Pigboy” the entire summer. Kids made squealing noises behind his back and once someone left a rusty bucket of fish guts and potatoe skins at the back door with a note that read Leavings for a Liar.

My grandmother, who had never doubted Sparrow's word or mine for a second, smiled bitterly and left the foul smelling thing for my mother to find. I just smiled.

Bird of Prey

I watched in awe and disbelief as the owl descended vertically and noiselessly toward the unsuspecting little chihuahua. Then, as he sunk his talons into her fur and made his move, all hell broke loose. The little dog, ridiculously overweight and on her best day, temperamentally more like a piranha than a dog, erupted like a snapping turtle. She twisted like a pretzel, wriggling, snarling and fighting off the predator with everything she had. In a matter of seconds, the owl realized he'd misjudged the situation and was driven off. The chihuahua shook herself mightily and trotted off with an expression of undisguised contempt on her heart shaped face and a few feathers clinging to the corners of her mouth.

What broke my paralysis was the head on collision of two thoughts - first, the realization that her long haired-ness had probably saved her and how lucky that her groomer had been down with the flu this past week and second, the clearly mistaken notion that owls hunt only at night.

I ran for the yard like a madwoman. It was an uncommonly warm morning for January, the trees were littered with sparrows and cardinals and screeching blue jays. A trio of squirrels was doing their high wire act, chattering and chasing each furiously against a very blue sky but there was no sign of the owl.

The little chihuahua, intact and unharmed, played her game of pretending not to hear me calling and continued casually milling about the yard without a care in the world. I found myself envying her confidence and feeling vaguely sorry for the owl.

The Other Side of the Street

It's coming on dark by the time the weekend wraps up and I'm tired and cold and hungry as I make the final turns through my neighborhood and head for the driveway. Lights are burning in most the windows and on front porches and I almost missed seeing the cat - she came out of nowhere, streaking like a shot directly in front of me - I hit the brakes so sharply everything on the passenger seat went flying and for an intense second, I could barely breathe. When I found my voice, it was to curse enthusiastically and at length but also a little gratefully. Another few seconds either way could have been tragic.

It started me thinking about timing and how a seemingly insignificant second here or there can make a difference even if you don't know it at the time. And that led me to the choices we make and how we often don't see where they'll lead. Life, as Stephen King writes in his novel about time travel, turns on a dime. Every step is a crossroad - some clear and well marked, some as treacherous at that miracle of traffic engineering, the New England rotary - where a single misstep can lead to oblivion.

Assuming all goes well, I will enter my 7^th decade this year and I'm still trying to comprehend how it's possible. I'm not even sure I completely imagined living this long.

Some days all I seem to see are empty spaces - friends who should still be here and aren't, children who have grown to have children of their own, husbands and lovers I barely recognize anymore, distant and left over family whose names I can't recall. I feel like a stranger in a world being steadily unmade into an image of greed and hate, wealth and white-ness. I feel like I don't have a place anymore. I feel alone. I'm accustomed to intersections with signs and traffic lights and speed limits and I'm trapped in a New England rotary circle with no safe exit. The cat who streaks mindlessly across in front of me doesn't look both ways. She risks her life with every step and isn't aware of it and I'm beginning to understand how she feels. I can't imagine what could be on the other side of the street that matters so much.

As for me, I feel done. Not depressed or suicidal or ready to give up but ready to stop what my friend Michael calls “striving”. I don't want a new house or a better, fancier car. I wore out my interest in expensive jewelry and designer clothes years ago. Material things make me tired. I'm beginning to suspect that I've told all the stories I wanted to tell and taken all the pictures I have in me. I can't see there's anything left to do. There's something faintly sad about the feeling but there's also something remarkably liberating about it, as if I've made peace with something unknown, something uncertain, unfocused and bound to be bad. It feels like mourning but with an expiration date and not to be morbid, but I can't say I'm sorry that I'll miss the finale.