First Born

Next month there is to be a wedding, the daughter of one of my dearest friends, and I will attend with a mixture of awe, confusion, pride and wonder. I was in the hospital waiting room the night she was born and it hardly seems possible that she can be this close to being a bride

We sat, four of us, smoking, stitching, talking in snatches and waiting. It was a huge event, this first born child, and we were anxious and impatient. A child was about to come into the world, lives were about to be changed forever though of that, we had only the dimmest sense. The baby showers were over, the endless conversations over names were finished, the social circle was about to be enlarged and dear friends were about to become parents - the world as we knew it, was in evolution. There was no way to look down the road and see the various changes ahead, even if we could have, we wouldn't have - we had no real concept of the enormity of what was happening or the plan that was in place and would unfold.

She was a beautiful infant and grew first into a precious toddler, then an outgoing little girl, then a bright and popular teenager, then a poised, polite, classically pretty young woman with a ready smile and a generous heart.
She takes after her mother - girly with a love of fashion and shopping, very traditional and aware of southern etiquette, and a taste for the good things in life. She is social and comfortable to be around and has grown into her upbringing with common sense, a touch of satire, a belief in goodness, and a love of family - all the things that will one day make her a good mother. I've watched her struggle with loss beyond words, with pain and the innate unfairness of life, with sisterly quarrels and boyfriends and everyday life, with going off to college and learning to drive. She's made all the transitions and made them smoothly and has become an adult in the blink of an eye and I still can't comprehend how she could've grown so quickly.

I have wishes for her - joy, to make her marriage all that she hopes for, trials to keep her strong, hardships to insure that she avoids complacency, children so that she can pass on the love she has learned, no struggle too hard to overcome, tears when needed and laughter every day to keep her balance. These are the things I will think of as her godfather walks her down the aisle to the man she is marrying, but I will always miss the little girl she used to be. It's nice that the sparkle and mischief in her eyes in her eyes is still there to remind me.

Mais Oui

The hardest part of learning new things at my age is breaking old habits and finding memory space to install new ones.

Take typing - looking at the keyboard is second nature to me and I'm finding it next to impossible to remember to return my hands to the starting position. Each day I spent a half hour practicing and it seems that I make no progress. I watch as the words are close to their correct spelling but close only counts in horseshoes and I tend to make the same errors over and over - f's for d's is the most common followed by mixing up the shift and caps keys, followed by trying not to see the tab key as the arch enemy of the keyboard. I watch in awe as friends type with lightning speed, error-less and looking over their shoulder or talking on the 'phone at the same time and again I regret refusing that high school typing class in favor of conversational French. Repetition, they tell me with encouraging smiles, repetition, practice, patience. It will come.

I can't imagine what possible use I thought Conversational French would ever do me but at the time it was romantic and collegiate and only six of us were chosen for the class. English was disallowed from day one - our teacher believed that to learn we had to be emeshed - and he spoke with a liquid fluency and ease that we all envied and tried desperately to emulate. Now I can't remember a single sentence except Dancez avec moi, ma petite chou, a phrase that simply doesn't offer itself up in routine conversations, although it is marginally helpful to be able to comprehend a customer who asks for a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape 1957.

To be intentionally chosen is perhaps all the motivation it takes to make a poor choice, especially if you are young and foolish and have no concept of consequences. Wine and small cabbages aside, the typing class was a far more practical alternative.

The Fragile People

She is a fragile child.

It took her mother years and countless procedures and tests to conceive. There were miscarriages and fruitless efforts that took their toll and when at last she came into this world, she was a blessing beyond words. She has been protected, indulged, and loved since before she was born and now she is almost a young woman - tall and slender as a blade of grass, model-beautiful and graceful, a dancer, a determined student, her mother's hearts delight. There is still a childlike quality about her, an innocent, shy vulnerability - her feelings are out on front for anyone to see and are hurt easily. She has never heard a severe word from her parents and she is growing up in a harsh world that I fear will try and harm her. The sheer unfamiliarity of a raised voice or an angry look can bring tears. It can be an unkind world for the fragile people with nothing but goodness and trust for armor. Reality has a way of being cruel to them, trespassing on their upbringing and intruding into their view of things with a bitter force. This beautiful child, so doe-like and gentle, is at risk from all that surrounds her so her mother comforts and shields her, all the while wondering if she is doing right.

Children are not the only fragile people though - as I was driving home from work tonight, I heard screaming and barely avoided running down the man who streaked in front of me, crazed and cursing and howling like an animal.
I stopped at the corner drugstore and as I was leaving, he was being escorted out by a petite but firm cashier with an angry look and a can of mace. A police cruiser met him as he ran toward the intersection and though he resisted and fought like a madman, he was subdued, and still howling, was handcuffed and unceremoniously thrown into the back of the police car. Whether high on drugs on simply out of his mind, he was damaged and fragile though it was, at first glance, not something I recognized. His frailty was hidden beneath madness and fear.

We often try to disguise our fragile side. Arrogance hides insecurity, sarcasm masks uncertainty, coldness is a shield against shyness and schizophrenia a retreat. It might be better if we could all wear "Handle With Care" labels.

Second Sight

Darrell and Jeanmarie had been married a little over twelve years when their daughter was born. Jeanmarie gave birth in their small bedroom one late August night and the midwives attending raved about the precious little child with her daddy's bright blue eyes and her mother's golden hair. She arrived with a minimum of fuss, Jeanmarie was up and about the very next day, as proud a mother as the island had ever seen. They named her Miranda Gail and had no idea that she had been born with what was called the gift of second sight, an eerie ability to foresee the future and make predictions with uncanny accuracy. In exchange, she was also deaf and when she was five, her parents took her to Halifax to see a specialist who determined the hearing loss was irreversible but that being a bright, alert and curious child, she would have no difficulty learning sign language and would lead a relatively normal life. Though shattered by the news, Darrell and Jeanmarie gave it their all - they both learned to sign and spent hours with their child, teaching and being taught, patiently coaxing her to learn to speak and communicate. They even taught other children so that Miranda would not feel alone or isolated and after a few years, her deafness was nothing special and no one gave it much thought. She was included in island life as routinely as any child, got into the same mischief and learned the same games, made friends easily and grew into a pretty, gentle, and sweet natured little girl. She did have an amazing talent for finding things that were lost - a misplaced piece of jewelry or a pair of her mother's glasses and Jeanmarie fell into the habit of asking her daughter where a certain something was without really thinking about it - Miranda would close her eyes for a second or two and then lead her mother straight to whatever had been lost - and soon neighbors began dropping by for help with things they had lost but no one paid much mind, assuming that the child simply paid more attention than the adults and had a better memory. Until the evening that the little Russell boy didn't come home for supper, it was nothing special.

Rusty Russell had been playing with friends on the ballfield in back of the church. When dark came and he wasn't back, his mother sighed and sent his brothers out to look for him but although they looked for well over an hour they found no trace. He had been there and then was gone and as the islanders were prone to do, they gathered and organized and and put out an alarm - a missing child was not uncommon and though everyone was sure he had just wandered off and was fine, there was no sense in taking chances. They called his name, went over every inch of the ballfield and the church, went in groups in the woods, called on everyone, but Rusty was nowhere to be found. Miranda, sitting on her front steps and watching all this activity, closed her eyes and frowned then stood and tugged at her mother's arm, pointing toward the woods and urgently motioning Jeanmarie to follow her. Her mother reluctantly took her hand and let herself be guided into the woods and over the hills, through the back pastures to an abandoned farmhouse where Miranda led her to a boarded up well and an unconscious child at the bottom. Bloody and bruised from the fall, Rusty was pulled out, revived and brought home to his much relieved parents who like Jeanmarie, never thought to ask how Miranda had known about the well. Darrell, hearing the story much later that night, did wonder though and after church on Sunday he sat with Miranda in the bed of his old pickup and signed gently, Honey, how did you know where Rusty was? The little girl shrugged her shoulders and looked away. Honey, were you playing by the old well? he persisted but she only shook her head and climbed into his lap, laying her head on his shoulder. Miranda, he signed firmly, how did you know where he was? His daughter hesitated, then touched her eyes with one small hand and pointed toward the back pastures.

There were more curious events ahead - Jeanmarie was about to hang out the wash on a clear, sunny day and Miranda pointed to the sky and shook her head. By noon, the island was fogged in. Lost things continued to be found - keys, Darrell's pocket watch, a pair of work boots. Miranda predicted unexpected company, pregnancies and two miscarriages, the explosion that cost the factory foreman his leg, who would win baseball games, the very day the seal colony took up residence in one of the coves. The islanders began dropping by to seek her advice and by her teens, word of her gift had spread to the mainland and people began writing for help. Being a well brought up young woman, she always answered as best she could and always tried to help, feeling a responsibility to all who asked. When she was in her early 20's, she married Rusty Russell and spent the remainder of her life raising her own children - none born with her gift but all able to hear - and that was more than enough.

The Magic Man

At first glance, you might not know you were looking at an upscale, professional, New York fashion photographer.

He is tall and thin as a matchstick with shiny, perfectly straight 60's hair that flows halfway down his back. He wears a plain, faded tee shirt, bleached out jeans frayed at the cuffs and knees, and Nikes that have seen far better and younger days. Cameras are hung around his neck and over both shoulders and he pulls a worn out suitcase filled with additional lenses, a laptop, and a change of clothes. He smiles shyly and when he speaks it's in broken English with a heavy German accent and while he often has to search for the right word or phrase, he has no trouble being understood. He speaks with his hands and his eyes and the images he captures. Despite his appearance, when you watch him work, it's like watching a magician and you see his gift at once.

The morning is sunny and a little cool for this time of year and he begins immediately. The young, would-be models are anywhere from 6 to 16, self conscious and tightly wound, for many this is their first photo shoot and they are nervous, anxious, and intimidated. They have been dressed and styled and made up, firmly separated from their curious and sometimes interfering parents, many have been awake since dawn and are hungry and fluttery and uncertain. They are coaxed and encouraged, complimented and cajoled, supported and scolded. They are children in a brisk and demanding adult world and they keep their eyes on the ground and their smiles hidden. They feel the pressure of performing and some dig in with a sudden change of heart, tears well up and they want only to go home and back to their playground. Others posture and preen with a self centered pride and confidence, unwilling to take direction or accept instruction. Still others are just having fun. It becomes a circus, an assembly line, organized chaos. And then they reach the young man with long hair and bluejeans and everything changes.

He works quickly and effortlessly, moving with a fast paced grace and agility but always speaking to them with kindness and charm, making small adjustments here and there, changing a pose when needed, checking the light, smiling, and at the last minute, gently adjusting a stray strand of hair from a blushing cheek. Under his spell, they come alive, forgetting their fears and awkwardness, forgetting the camera. Their laughter is genuine, their smiles natural and easy. They have made an unexpected friend and some have even fallen in love. They run for the next wardrobe change and makeup session, enchanted and eager to continue, they could do this all day.

All it takes is a little kindness, a little bravery, a little magic.

Late Night at the 7-11

At 2am, there's an odd collection of people at the local 7-11.

A police car is parked prominently at the door, the officer lounges by the ice machine, one hand resting casually on his holster, the other holding a styrofoam coffee cup. I suspect he is more watchful than he appears and he nods to me as I enter. The cashier is making change for a sleepy-eyed teenager in ragged jeans and a black Hard Rock Cafe tee shirt and there are several young women gathered around the coffee machine, all in the telltale uniforms of casino workers - it's impossible to tell if they're coming from or going to work - they chatter like crows on a power line, laughing and bright eyed and loud. A much younger woman comes in with an infant sleeping on her shoulder, a truckdriver with "Mac" monogramed on his navy shirt stumbles through for a newspaper and a cold can of Coke, three young black men try to come through the door all at once, good naturedly pushing and shoving each other and speaking a language I don't recognize. At the beer case, a disheveled and confused looking old man struggles with a 12 pack of Bud Light, unable to coordinate the sliding doors and stay upright at the same time. He trips and falls on his way to the cashier and the 12 pack of beer hits the floor and cracks open sending a dozen beer cans rolling in all directions - the casino women help him to his feet and collect his beer with encouraging words and sympathetic smiles. He mumbles his thanks and leaves, clutching his paper bag of beer and weaving slightly. A professional looking man in a three piece suit enters, carrying a briefcase and checking his watch - he strides to the magazine section, snatches a street map and returns to the counter, tossing a $5 down for a .99 map and doesn't wait for change - like the white rabbit, he is late for a very important date and it shows. A couple approaches, holding hands, and he holds the door for her with a low bow and a flourish - she enters like a queen and curtseys to him, then they rejoin hands and head for the Icee machine, in love and thirsty. A woman in flowing pantaloons with a bejeweled navel emerges from the restroom adjusting her veils and muttering - an enormous brass safety pin holds her shoulder shawl in place and she walks with dignity and quick, sharp steps. She receives no curious looks, no one even appears to notice her as she flings open the door and climbs into a scarred up, old VW bug.

I pay for my cigarettes as a half dozen helmeted, black clad bikers pull up in a roar. The one who holds the door open for me is tattooed wrist to shoulder with a gold stud in one ear and his silverish hair tied back in a pony tail. When I thank him, he gives me a crooked grin and tells me Anything for a lady, ma'am, and gives me a wink. I smile in spite of myself.

It's 2am at the 7-11 and the world is full of night people and unexpectedness.

Lions and Tigers and Bears

When we was in junior high school and riding the bus regularly, the parochial school kids rode along with us, all neatly pressed in white shirts, plaid skirts or pants and blue blazers. They carried backpacks with the St. Joseph's emblem and brown bag lunches and we called them cookies, as if they'd all been cut out and baked from the same mold. They were prim and remarkably well behaved, quiet kids and the chaos of the busrides never seemed to touch them. They were protected and insulated by their uniformity, all cut from the same cloth, all predictable and plain vanilla. We saw them as easy targets, clustered together in their little groups and always standing out. We were not especially nice to them, feeling, I suppose, an ill defined sense of resentment at their togetherness and group sameness. There was safety in numbers in those uneasy school days, safety and a sense of belonging and I think on some level, we realized that and envied it. In many ways, it was an us and them world. Still they were given little slack - teased about their uniforms and catechism, the high school kids would steal their lunches or bus money, and in winter they would be victimized by snowballs. They never fought back, never lashed out, never retaliated and their pacifism only encouraged more abuse. Unlike so many of us, they had learned to turn the other cheek and to their credit, they practiced what they had learned against a never ending stream of bullying and merciless taunting.

By high school, we had all grown up a little and although we all still rode the same bus to school, the atmosphere had calmed. There was still a distinct separation between those who wore uniforms and those who didn't but the teasing had been passed to the next generation and we had no time for such childish games. They went their way and we went our's, riding the same bus each day but not interacting, neither side willing to make a move toward the other. I wonder now what we all missed by this stubborness and pride, what friendships might have formed but didn't, what common interests we might have discovered but didn't.

There's comfort and security in conformity yet it can also breed suspicion and alienation. We should learn to appreciate the former and overcome the latter in all things. A pride of lions may not have much use for a family of tigers, but they're all still cats even if divided by nature or society or competition. Unlike we humans, lions and tigers and bears don't divide themselves along lines of differences or prejudice - lucky them.

Kindling

The back door was open to the morning sun and the warm salt air was sweet. Nana had given me a quarter to fill the woodbox and I was carrying armfuls of wood and carefully stacking them while she hung the morning's wash and the dogs ran about the yard. My mother stood in the kitchen smoking and drinking coffee at the sink - my brothers were fishing off the breakwater, I could hear them yelling back and forth to the incoming and outgoing boats - and the day was filled with promise and sunshine. Nana had taught me to wear work gloves to avoid splinters and how to carry the thicker, heavier pieces first, then the kindling so that the smaller, lighter pieces could be brought to the stove first. She would lay the kindling atop the old newspapers then carefully strike a wooden kitchen match and the fire would catch instantly. Once it was burning steady and bright, she would add several pieces of the heavier pieces and in no time the entire kitchen was filled with a welcoming wamth. Fire, she reminded me each morning, is to be handled with care, respected, and never to be trifled with. It's dangerous to be careless, even with just the kindling.

The woodshed itself was the size of a garage and filled to nearly overflowing with neat stacks of wood. The scent of it was magic to me, a clean, sharp smell like a forest or a cedar chest. Inside we played jacks or dominoes and even a few forbidden games of Spin the Bottle. The cat from next door had her kittens there, owls nested in the eaves, and sometimes we would see a wild fox dart through on a hunt for mice. I kept treasures there - a diary,
stolen cigarettes, shells from the beach and dried flowers, letters from home, Jersey Milk chocolate bars and thick rectangles of sticky, sweet McIntosh toffee wrapped in red plaid paper with bright gold trimming, so rich and sugary that it was all but forbidden. It was kindling of another kind - the small secret things of growing up and experimenting with defiance and disobedience. Adults never came to the woodshed and it became a private place, a children's place, a hideway, a fort, and a refuge. I spent rainy afternoons just inside the door, making circles in the sawdust and reading while I watched for the fog to come in. The lighthouse on Peter's Island would gradually disappear into the mist, one small piece at a time, and the steady sound of the foghorn would blow all afternoon and into the evening. Westport vanished and sometimes I couldn't even see the house or the flagpole. Sound changed and became muted and non-directional as if it were coming through layers, walking its way through the weather with a slow, measured pace. Nana would open the back door and call me in and the kitchen would be ripe with the smell of homemade pies and fresh coffee.

The next morning would dawn clear and bright with no trace of the fog except for the dampness on the kindling I carried. Would that people could self correct with so little effort.

Swimming With Sharks

My brothers and I were in grade school when my mother decided it was time for us to learn to swim. The swimming pool at the YWCA was bright blue with chlorine and gave off a fierce scent of chemicals that made my eyes tear and my throat itch. The pool room was cold and wet and hollow with noise, the sounds of voices and splashing water bounced back and forth on the walls and hurt my ears. My mother handed us over to an instructor and walked away.

It was a new experience and though I felt mildly wary, I don't remember being afraid. We entered the pool as directed and followed instructions - both my brothers took to it immediately but I hung back, not ready to join the fray and not completely trusting of them or the teacher. After that first lesson, they were both practically swimming like eels and jeering at me for swimming like a stone. The instructor assured me that it was perfectly safe but I began to feel shut in and trapped in a waterstorm of screaming children and blue water with no ground beneath my feet. I fought the water and when he let me go to try a stroke on my own, I panicked and went under, breathing water and choking, flailing and seeing my brief life flash before my eyes. There was no dignity in drowning in the YWCA pool but for a few seconds I was sure that would be my destiny. He brought me up gasping and desperate for air, coughing up chemicals and shaking with shame, my eyes burning and my throat raw. The second time was worse since I now knew he would let go and I tried to avoid the water but it flooded into my nose and mouth and I went down in a swirl of airless terror, blinded and unable to breathe. The third time I didn't fight, sinking calmly and holding my breath until I reached the bottom of the pool, then exploding with fear at the water above me and my inability to reach it. I went deaf and became only dimly aware of where I was, then he pulled me to the surface and into the fluorescent lighting and wet air resounding with my brothers laughing and taunting. Enough for the first time, he finally said and let me climb out and run for the safety of the dressing room.

There were several more excruciating swimming lessons, different instructors worked with me and tried a variety of methods, there were more group sessions and even one on one private ones in a quiet, empty pool but in the end nothing worked and I was sorrowfully deemed unteachable. My mother was humiliated and furious and my brothers had ammunition that would last them years. I was simply grateful it was over.

There were other attempts over the years - dear friends and husbands would shine with confidence but fail and shake their heads, my daddy would try and give up with a smile and a philosophic hug, but I never learned to swim and after a time I accepted it as a limitation and not a defect. There's a world of difference between the water above and the water below.

Cheap Sangria

When young, we were cheap drunks.

A last minute party was thrown together at someone's apartment, almost always a walk up, and we gathered to eat snack food and drink cheap sangria and solve the problems of the world with the arrogance of youth and the certainty that we could do a better job. We hung banners from the windows, protested against ROTC on campus and the war, smoked joints and woke the following day with headaches and regrets. We worked for peace, for candidates we believed in, and we dismissed the older generation with ease. We had slogans and protest songs and were part of a greater good that our parents didn't understand. We sat in and we marched, wore tattered jeans and feathers, we were about change and creating a better, safer, more free society. We scorned marriage in favor of open committment, celebrated sex, promised not to judge ourselves or each other. We worked but only at jobs we saw as worthy and apart from the establishment. Our heroes were folk singers, our values humane and our lives uncomplicated. We reveled in the disappointment of our elders at our lost causes and our youth. We favored communal living and universal health care, sought a more equitable playing field, vowed to never surrender our idealism or compromise our ethics, situational though they were. And we never learned much from our mistakes or defeats except to try harder - there was too much we didn't know or refused to accept. We spent weekend mornings with the old veterans at work in their Victory Gardens, pulling weeds, picking vegetables and listening to stories of France and the invasion at Normandy. We gave spare change when asked, donated what little we could afford to the homeless, traveled by bus or subway and took vows of integrity and sincerity to music and friends. Though we didn't know it, we were like each prior generation, we felt brave and misunderstood and driven to want to make a difference.

We were cheap drunks, quick to criticize and fight injustice as we saw it, tolerant to an extravagant excess, poor and mostly happy. Life had many surprises and changes waiting down the roads we would travel and looking back would become a luxury. Cheap sangria gave way to good scotch, idealism grew and matured into realism, marriage beckoned and divorce followed, our liberalism made a long, slow right turn and then we were grown and living in the world we had vowed to change but which had changed us. Some of us stayed on the path of conviction and some wearied and sold out, some took the experimental drugs a few levels higher and drifted away into addiction, some died and were mourned, some succeeded and some failed. The ordinary-ness of life was too much for some and too little for others.

And now we are older and wiser and still fighting the battles we've discovered in ourselves.

My Animals and I

All is darkness when the alarm on the small bedside table begins to chirp. Animals scramble awake and scatter for the kitchen and the back door, much like a fire drill. Hungry and anxious to start their day, they don't wait for me but take their places at their food dishes and begin to sing in unharmonious impatience. They have a routine, as do I, and dislike it being altered, as do I. In this and other things, we are much alike, my animals and I.

I did not set out to become caretaker to such a collection of cast offs but I'm easily taken advantage of when it comes to animals and always seem to have a houseful that no one else wants or can care for. I imagine a house without them and see a nightmare of quiet, of order, of peace. They share my bed and my food, they comfort me when needed and love unconditionally when in the mood. I stand between them and life on the streets or in a cold shelter and though at times I could cheerfully sweep them all into a pile and bury them in an unmarked grave, they are my legacy and my children and the reason I keep going. They will never provide for me in old age or sickness, will never help with chores or errands, never learn to pick up after themselves, at times I think they'll never even learn to get along with each other. With each one I lose, a part of my heart breaks, never to be mended, but life without them would be unbearable, this I know as surely as I know anything.

I don't remember ever making a conscious choice not to have children, it was just something I knew I didn't want from the beginning - the two men I married felt the same and it was never an issue. I always knew in my heart that I did not want to do to a child what had been done to me and it didn't occur to me that history wouldn't repeat itself. While I don't regret the decision in the slightest, I do sometimes find myself wondering how life would've been different with children. Then, I walk in the door to the chaos of this circus of cast off animals and breathe a sigh of relief. We don't get to choose our families unless we choose not to have them and in my case, I have all I can handle.

Feet First

What happened to our new nurse? I asked.
People are like shoes, she told me with a frown, when they don't fit, everybody's unhappy.

I remembered someone telling me that you can always judge a person by their shoes and thinking what a silly idea it was at the time. Now, after a lifetime of considering the shoes people wore, I wasn't as sure. They are, after all, the foundation on which we stand, contributing to our posture, our stance, our comfort, our confidence. Perhaps they are like people and must fit to ensure everyone's comfort level. Even though it seems a clearly flawed theory, perhaps it is a basic truth. I wore heels for years, regardless of how long I had to stand on my feet or how far I had to walk. Fashion mattered more than fit, showing off my legs mattered more than I cared to admit, and not matching my shoes to my dress was unthinkable. Long after my feet began to show signs of wear and tear, I continued the practice of heels - through numbness in my toes, through aching arches and heel pain, through tingling and swollen ankles and any kind of weather. I opted for high heel boots in winter and strappy sandals in summer, refusing to give in to age or callouses or cushioning. At days end, a slight limp was natural and worth the price. I wanted to fit with everyone else and shoes were a part of that fit.

I don't care so much about fitting in as I did then. I've come to put a higher value on individuality and a lesser value on the opinions of others. Integrity matters more than it did, as does being free to dress for comfort and my own style, all the way down to my shoes. In a town where the majority of ladies still dress for the grocery shopping, I can be shockingly mismatched and un-put together. Perhaps it's partly my age, partly my sense of (finally!) refusing to conform, partly the long overdue realization that I need to be kinder to my feet. At any rate, I care more about the shoe fitting than fitting the shoe.

Perhaps the next new nurse will be a better fit, perhaps not. I'm trying to tend to my own feet first and making room for others to do the same. Fashion is for the young and fleet but fitting in is up to each of us on our own.

Neighborhood Watch

The azaleas along the parkway were well on their way to full bloom last week - I could see them clearly through the heavy mist of unexpected snow that was falling - big, wet flakes tumbling out of the sky as if shaken from a box of powered detergent by invisible hands. School was let out and the children - there are always hundreds who have never seen such a sight - were sent home in awe and delight. It melted before hitting the ground, of course, but still it fell all afternoon and was declared a miracle. The small brown dog was left unimpressed and unwilling to venture out into this strange weather but the black dog was joyous, running in circles in the yard, barking and trying her best to catch a snowflake, hardly knowing which way to jump. To her, everything is a small miracle to be welcomed and explored, chased, captured or cornered and she knows no fear or apprehension. She is curious, adventurous, filled with the wonder of the world and she revels in it all. Back inside, she resisted my efforts to towel her off, preferring a vigorous shake of her thick coat and a roll on the carpet before taking up her post at the window from which she keeps an eye on the street. She is my own personal neighborhood watch, alert to even the slightest street noise, any car door opening or closing, any sound from a child, every footstep and voice. She has only one speed, and regrettably, no off switch. She is the energizer bunny of continuous running, 18 pounds of pure, speed driven movement, relentlessly on guard and poised for attack, a mix of whirling dervish, cheetah, and perpetual motion machine. She never slows down, never paces herself, never takes a breather. She has terrorized untold pizza delivery drivers, postal employees, fed ex drivers, unsuspecting joggers, road crews, the trash men,
the water department, the meter reader, cable installers, and her fair share of Jehovah's Witnessess - this last with no rebuke, I admit.

When the electrician arrived to work on the ceiling fans, she raced for the front door and hit it at full speed before he'd even had a chance to knock. He took a step backward in surprise and dropped his tool kit, reached for the iron railing to break his fall just as she charged a second time and as the screen gave way and she broke through, he lost his balance and tumbled over the railing and into a heap in the crepe myrtle. By the time I got there, she had him backed up against the latticework, and she was rooted just a foot or two away, teeth bared and snarling in between triumphant barks. I snatched her up and away from him and held her mouth shut, trying to apologize and not laugh all at the same time at the sight of this unhappy workman, a big man, well over six foot and easily 200 pounds, lying in the dirt and picking blossoms out of his hair, searching for his tools, his cap, and his dignity. He refused to enter the house until she was kenneled and he went about his work nervously and surly, finishing and leaving with a scowl.

He wasn't the first and probably will not be the last stranger to tangle with the black dog. I have often suspected her size plays a role in her attitude - being a small dog, she is often not taken seriously and she compensates with frenzied fury, determined to have the upper hand in every situation. Not unlike myself in certain situations.

Proof of Life

Mr. McKay's house was the third one after our's. It sat well back from the street on a tastefully manicured expanse of green lawn and was shaded with mammoth weeping willows and oaks. The circular driveway - the only one we knew of in our section of town - curved gracefully and was lined with great earthenware pots overflowing with flowers and ivy. Matched rattan rocking chairs sat on one end of the wide front porch, a cedar picnic table and benches on the other and the front door was a massive work of wooden scrollwork with a gold lion's head door knocker and latch. The inside of the house was a mystery to us and we did not dare approach it. A shiny black Mercedes was often parked in the back but we hardly ever saw Mr. McKay, his comings and goings were unknown and much speculated upon. We knew only that he walked with a cane, wore a fedora and gray gloves, and was unimaginably old and a widower.

It was a two storied house with a cobblestone path leading from the winding drive to the front steps and heavy, dark curtains across all the windows. Smoke drifted from the double chimneys in the winter - we took it as proof of life - but the curtains were never open and no light ever shone through. Spotlights had been placed along the edges of the lawn and after dark they illuminated the house from every angle. as if to warn off intruders and curious children. No dog ever barked from within, no squirrel or bird approached the empty feeders, no mail was ever left unattended and no packages were left uncollected. Occasionally and always during daylight hours, one of us would find the courage to creep upon the sweet smelling grass and take a tentative step toward the house. This trespassing was met with a sharp, startling rapping at the window but no voice ever called out and no curtain ever moved. We began to think that perhaps Mr. McKay was possessed of a sixth sense that alerted him to unwelcome company and without planning it, we often crossed the street to avoid the house and it's temptations. It wasn't fear, exactly, we called it caution and common sense and deciding to play it safe.

Doctors still made house calls at the time and every now and then an elegantly dressed man carrying a black bag would be admitted for a brief time. Sometimes a nurse in a crisp white uniform, white hose, noiseless white shoes and a starched white cap pinned in her hair with a dark cape over her shoulders was let in. The mailman came and went regularly as did the milkman but otherwise Mr. McKay received no visitors. Once an ambulance arrived, lights flashing and sirens wailing, and we watched breathlessly as the white coated attendants jumped out of the back double doors and ran up the cobblestone walk. Moments later they emerged, carefully but efficiently carrying a stretcher covered with a white sheet, eased it into the back and raced off. Was he dead? we wondered and ran like the wind to spread the news. The ambulance returned several days later, without the lights or sirens, and the stretcher was carried back inside the house with the all-in-white nurse caped nurse accompanying it. This time she carried a suitcase as well as a medical bag.

We never saw Mr. McKay after that and one late autumn day there was a "For Sale" sign among the piles of newspapers and unraked leaves on the front lawn. He had lived a long and useful life, my daddy told us, and had died quietly in his own bed, on his own terms, at the age of 88. When his will was read, he had left all his wealth to The New England Home for Little Wanderers, an orphanage where we delivered Thanksgiving and Christmas baskets every year. Never judge a man's actions until you know his motives, my daddy said with a curious smile and gave me a hug.

Chicken Soup & Solitude

After a bout of illness - in this case a severe cold that lasted for several days and caused me numerous times to wish for oblivion - it's necessary to rejoin the world.

All my instincts told me to give it a pass. The sun was shining brightly outside and I wanted nothing more than to open the windows and let it bring fresh air and warmth to a stuffy and stale sickroom, cluttered with dirty dishes, forlorn kleenex and empty aspirin bottles. I didn't want to move from the couch, didn't want to change kitty litter boxes or do laundry. I was used up and worn out with fuzzy teeth and a leftover headache from coughing and body aches that might return with enough effort. I needed air freshener and a nap although I'd been horizontal for the better part of four days. My hopes for the future seemed to rest with chicken soup and solitude and it was with despair and bitterness that I realized I was out of the former and had no chance for the latter, not with a houseful of restless and confined animals. This is the downside of living alone.

I carefully swallowed a handful of aspirin and drank some leftover juice, testing the waters by sitting upright and waiting to see if the room would begin to spin. The small brown dog gave me a look filled with compassion and hope while the cats circled like unfed vultures and the black dog began to bark and nose her water dish across the kitchen floor. None of it seemed worthy of the effort it was going to take to put things back in order. I was sure a trip to the grocery store would be fatal - indeed, a trip to the kitchen sink seemed beyond my reach - and the pressure in my chest was a reminder that the vicious cough could return at any moment. Still, the darkened house was unbearable, the sick room feel to it was too oppressing to tolerate and I needed fresh clothes, fresh water, fresh thoughts. It was time to get well.

I would begin with a hot shower, I thought, wash my hair until it hurt, and scrub my teeth, find clean bluejeans and a tshirt and slowly begin to pick up the pieces. One litter box at a time, one small area at a time, I would make my way back to the land of the living, stopping to rest as needed, not pushing too hard, not tempting fate or the cold gods who had so unfeelingly laid waste to my organized and usually healthy life. Enough, I thought and then said aloud for emphasis and to convince myself, was enough. The small brown dog cocked her head at me, quivering all over with the possibility of a trip outside and a cookie, and I got to my feet.

No matter how trivial the illness or how insignificant the journey, no matter how much you would rather not go or how little or large the reward, the first step is always the hardest to take.

The Spirit of Patsy Kline

The lights went down in the small recording studio and the singer/songwriting couple from Virginia took the stage. He strapped his guitar around his neck and began tuning - she reached for the stand up bass, taller than she was herself,
and they began making music together.

Her voice was clear and pure and remarkable. Her fingers plucked at the bass with skill and affection and she smiled often with a Virginia genuineness that immediately won over every member of the audience. He watched her with love shining in his eyes and a quiet, low key pride. They played and sang easily together as two people in love will often do, giving and taking at all the right moments, harmonizing perfectly and sounding as one - original songs of family and small town life, of the adventures of traveling and living on the road, of people they'd met along the way, of performances gone good and bad. He told stories of his grandfather and how certain songs came to be, sad stories and funny ones, all from the heart and related with a gentle smile. They sang bluegrass with a country quickness and authenticity, love songs with heartbreaking lyrics, and old time country and western, peppery with lost love and death on a lonely back road. And at the end they did a cover song or two and when I closed my eyes, I heard Patsy Kline - not so much her voice, but her essence, her spirit, her being. The lyrics to "Crazy" floated throughout the studio and I watched the audience being carried away by the sheer beauty of the sound. At the end there was tremendous applause and the first of three standing ovations.

These two gentle people from a small town in Virginia rang the rafters with a joyous noise.

Picking Up the Pace

There's a certain pace to people and places. A dear friend of mine is like edgy, improvised jazz - always in a hurry, driving fast, walking quickly, and always against the wind. Another ambles, taking his time and taking in the sights. I know people who remind me of classical quintets, stately and slightly understated with suit and tie manners. Others are like ragtime, quirky and upbeat, sometimes lacking harmony but always full of spirit. Still others are seductive and down home, like slow blues. Many are ragged around the edges and seem to be just a little twangy.

Partial as I am to all of them, the slow blues is my first choice and I miss it. Keeping body and soul together with two jobs has forced me to pick up my pace and lately I seem to be running late most of the time and more frantic than I'd like to be. The telephone rings and I have to take a second or two to remember where I am and how I'm supposed to answer.I find myself trying to manage several things at once and feeling like my life has turned into a juggling act. I'm forced to create time for myself, for the music I dearly love, for a few quiet moments and I sometimes feel like a squirrel on a high wire. A new novel by a favorite author sits unread, a sweater in need of drycleaning hangs and gathers dust, the mail piles up unopened. In between runs for kitty litter and cigarettes I try to remember to watch the gas gauge, charge my cell phone, defrost the refrigerator, not run out of coke. There are to-do lists crammed into my pockets and little notes to myself scrawled on backs of envelopes and sticky notes. I'm too scattered to be organized and I imagine that this is how confetti must feel. I despair at the state of the house and am relieved that no one visits.
The windows cry out for washing, the carpeting wants a good steam cleaning, the mini blinds need replacing most desperately and the bathtub needs re-caulking. Outside, the crepe myrtle is completely out of control, growing at an alarming speed and threatening to take over the entire front of the house while the latticework is overrun with weeds and vines. I fear the wild things that I think may be taking root behind it - I know for a certainty that the neighborhood cats have taken up residence in and around the ductwork and underneath the back deck.

So I give up the slow blues in favor of a mad dance with time. I pick up my pace and get on with it, hurrying to get to the next thing and the next place and doing my best not to lose myself in the process. You have to dance to the music that's playing even if it's someone else's selection on the jukebox.

The Night Before

I didn't know what had woken me up and after a minute or two of listening, I decided I had likely dreamed something. Then I heard my brother's laughing, a nasty sound with an evil edge to it, and cautiously I got out of bed and opened my door. There was an unfamiliar scent in the air, acrid like smoke but somehow powdery. Then there was a sound like an enormous firecracker, deafening and echo-y and the smoky smell got stronger and sharper. My brother's laughter turned to howls and holding my breath I pushed his bedroom door open a crack.

He was in his underwear, kneeling on his bed in front of the open window, both hands gripping a hand gun aimed at the trees in our neighbor's yard. He was cackling and his hands shook from the weight of the gun as he aimed and fired again. The noise was shockingly loud and the recoil substantial - with each shot, it slammed him backwards and his hands flew up and hit the bottom edge of the window. A trickle of blood was running down from his wrist and a few drops had hit the sill but he seemed not to notice. He must've sensed me standing there because he suddenly turned and looked over his shoulder, making cold and wild eye contact with me, and I slammed the door shut and backed into my own room, trembling and with a hard knot of fear making it's way from my gut to my throat. Barefoot and in just my pajamas, I climbed out the back window onto the roof and jumped for the yard then ran for the fence. Terrified he would follow me, I hauled myself over and ran for the safety of the nearest porch light then decided that I'd be too easy a target and changed course for the darkness of a row of thick shrubs.

The shooting stopped but I stayed put, too scared to move or think clearly. I heard the sounds of doors opening and closing, of neighbors talking and shouting, the dogs barking and after several minutes, a police siren. Feeling marginally safer, I crept out of the shrubs and approached the fence - I could see the flashing lights of the police cruiser in the driveway and shapes with flashlights moving about but the house had become still, silent and dark. I had an irrational moment of hoping that he had shot himself, that the police would break in and find his bloody body, and that I could return to sleeping with an unlocked door but it was not to be. When the police left and the neighbors returned to their homes, I made my way back across the yard and up the old oak tree to the roof - there were no sounds coming from the house and as quietly as I could I slid back into my room and my bed. My brother's room was dark and totally still except for the flickers of light and muted volume of the television - it stayed on all night.

Except for the fact that my brother got up uncharacteristically early and made a point of taking the trash barrels to the curb before pleading to a sore throat and having to miss school, the next morning was ordinary. No police arrived, no curious neighbors came knocking on the door. I left in a rush, more than slightly desperate for the predictability and sanctuary of the classroom - my daddy frowned when I turned down a later ride and I left him at the window, staring at the trash barrels on the sidewalk, a puzzled expression on his face.

By days end, it all seemed like a bad dream and after a few more days passed, I was able to sleep again although in addition to the lock on my door, I jammed a chair under the doorknob each night. I never turned my back to my brother again.

The Halfway Mark

Having reached and passed the halfway mark of my life, I'm fascinated by the young people I know. They don't know about old movies, old music, don't remember the day JFK was shot or where they were when Elvis died. They don't know about Woodstock or Timothy Leary, flower children or The Boston Strangler. They haven't seen Citizen Kane and don't recognize the name of Margaret Mitchell or Charles Manson. The everyday things I take completely for granted are foreign to them and some ask questions that amaze me - the concept that television was not always color always takes them by surprise, letter writing is unheard of, they can't imagine a telephone with a rotary dial or a home without a computer. They have an eerie propensity toward technology and aren't familiar with terms like "record player" or "pedalpushers" or even "dungarees".

I'm mystified by their music and taste in movies, charmed by their sophistication, impressed with their good manners and appalled at their spelling. On the whole, they are bright, quick to learn and they embrace change and challenge. They make good, responsible and unselfish parents and frequently choose careers that help their communities and offer less financial gain. They are well brought up and gifted, curious and daring to take risks, polite and optimistic. They feel an obligation to make things better and they figure things out on their own. They are artists and dancers and doctors and lovers of animals and fast cars, health conscious and quick witted. They get involved and they vote. They care about global warming and think green, they are brave and confident and eager. They expect to make a difference, they're committed, and they're the future.

To be honest, I can't quite remember being their age or if I was as dedicated or determined but I hope I was. There is so much promise in youth, so many expectations to be realized, how can it not come to pass?

Cammie's Diary

One of ten children of an doubtful marriage, Cammie had started hearing the voices when she was about thirteen, the same summer the Lora Lee and her crew of four was lost. A pretty little girl who trailed after her nine brothers constantly, she drifted away from from them as the voices began speaking to her and was often seen walking alone, head down in deep study as she listened and tried to understand, twisting one blonde pigtail around her fingers and mindless of anyone or anything that passed. She no longer went fishing for eels or collected bottles with her brothers, no longer pestered them to join in their games or hung about as they skipped stones over the incoming tides. She was slowly drifting away on the waves in her mind. Returning from the day's fishing one late afternoon, John Sullivan came across her sitting alone in a dry docked old rowboat, pale and listless and mute. He carried her to my grandmother who brought her around with smelling salts and force fed her hot tea with lavender, but Cammie remained silent, her eyes staring off into the distance, far away and unaware of those around her. Fetch her brothers, John, my grandmother said, there's nought that I can do for her but get her home.

It was uncommonly, almost eerily warm that summer, and Cammie continued to drift, sitting on the steps of her shack and staring out to sea. She often spoke, but only in answer to the voices no one else heard, and the one sided conversations became progressively more distracting and disturbing. She took long walks along the rocky coast, stopping often to listen, nod and then answer with what seemed to be nonsense. Sometimes she would appear to argue violently, shaking off unseen hands and making her small hands into fists to ward off her invisible attackers. She would collect stones and with all the force she possessed, pitch them at her illusions and then stamp her feet in frustration or satisfaction. Leave me be! she was heard to shout, Leave me be! At times she seemed to win these battles, at times she lost and her behavior deteriorated - she would return from her walks bruised and bloody and refuse her mother's attempts to help her, saying only that the blood was clean and needed to dry. She fought fiercely. Her brothers took to taking turns watching her although always from a distance, unwilling to risk getting too close and be seen. People began to be afraid of her and for her - she was found again and again in the dry docked rowboat, still and silent and in a private, unknown world.

At some point that summer, Cammie decided to drown her demons. She wandered away one early evening carrying a small canvas sack of stones, several pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and what looked like a hymnal. At the foot of the hill by Uncle Willie's, she stopped to pick wildflowers then walked around the curve of the Old Road and vanished. Aunt Pearl saw her headed toward the cove, coming home from his shift on the ferry, Cap saw her climbing down the embankment toward the breakwater, and she passed the Ryan house sometime later, setting off the dogs to bark and waking the household. After that, where she went and what she did is a mystery and it wasn't until the next morning that the outgoing boats came across the old rowboat adrift off Peter's Island. The pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were laid out on the seat along with the hymnal, which turned out to be a diary, and there were wildflowers floating toward shore. There was no sign of Cammie. They talk to me all the time, she had written, and they won't go way. They want me to go to the water, to the bottom, to see the ones that never came home. I think they're God. I'm afraid they'll leave me if I don't bring the flowers. They're going to teach me to swim and be a mermaid and bring the other ones home with the magic rocks.

On the sunken Lora Lee found several days later, Cammie's bag of stones was tied to the anchor along with a bouquet of flowers. Although it was presumed that she drowned, her body was never found and the villagers found it easier to believe that she had been transformed into a mermaid, endlessly swimming and searching the ocean for lost fishermen. Perhaps she was.