The old woman came across the pond in a pirogue, paddling in smooth, graceful, hand over hand motions and picking up debris. She wore gold spectacles and a flowered sun bonnet.
Good morning! she called to me, scooping up a discarded water bottle and a Walmart plastic bag from the surface of the water. Protesting ducks quacked their annoyance with her and a startled turtle on a floating branch dived for cover with a soft splash. Fine morning, don't you think? It was just after eight in the morning, already in the high 90's and personally I thought the heat and humidity were god awful unbearable but it was too early and would've taken too much energy to argue so I nodded. She smiled at me, snatched a styrofoam cup off a clump of weeds and captured a mangled soda can with one quick flip of her wrist. The pirogue came dangerously close to shore as she reached for a scrap of newspaper wrapped around a fast food wrapper but at the last moment she deftly reversed her course and continued her way downstream, calling good naturedly over her shoulder, Don't litter, will you, dear! The last I saw of her she was retrieving a rusty tin can from the weeds - she rinsed it out several times before adding it to a green mesh bag of trash balanced in her lap and paddling on her way, sun in her face, ducks ahead and in her wake, no piece of offending trash too small to be ignored. The pirogue disappeared around a bend silently and smoothly, leaving the barest of ripples behind and the small environmental activist cheefully gathering up the trails of indifferent and uncaring humans too lazy to walk the dozen steps to a trash barrel.
I walked further down the bayou, passing strutting geese leading parades of ducks and other geese to the water,
passing old fishermen with tin cans of worms and cane poles, sitting on overturned plastic buckets and squinting against the sun. Children carrying cellophane bags of stale bread skittered on the banks under the watchful and amused eyes of parents, a young couple holding hands and pushing a stroller walked by and early morning joggers, undetered by the heat or humidity, panted past. The geese on the sidewalk, heads tucked beneath their wings in slumber, slept on.
I hadn't thought about the hope chest in years but as I cleaned out the rabbit hutch and poured fresh cedar chips, the smell suddenly took me back to a summer afternoon in my parents bedroom. I could see every detail down to the nautical patterned bedspreads and the dust bunnies
The chest sat against the wall in my parents' room, usually covered in piles of linens and forgotten drycleaning. The first summer I stayed home from Nova Scotia, my daddy launched a full scale cleaning effort and he began in his own room. Curtains were pulled down, blinds removed and thrown in a bathtub of bleach, every pane of glass was scrubbed and polished inside and out. Dresser drawers were emptied onto the bed, their contents sorted and replaced neatly folded. We stripped the beds and laundered everything - sometimes twice - jewelry boxes and book shelves were gone through, the floor was swept and mopped. The hope chest stood untouched until the last.
It was a traditional piece, full sized and lined with sweet smelling cedar. It should have contained the things a mother passes to a daughter when she becomes a bride, things that represented the promise of a new life - embroidered linens and towels, crystal glassware, a wedding dress. And it did. We lifted these things out with care, gently placing them on the bed, my daddy often smiling and telling me what he remembered about them. I felt a slightly eerie sense of intruding into something private and intimate, until we came the empty bottles - the labels peeling off, some with caps, some not - gin bottles, vodka bottles, bourbon bottles, scotch bottles. And stacked neatly in one corner, a half full bottle of sherry and two six packs of Budweiser.
My daddy froze in mid-reach, his face tight with anger, his hands shaking slightly. He stared at the secret stash for several seconds and I felt a familiar fear in my belly. Thinking I might be sick, I backed away, no longer wanting any part of the old hope chest or it's contents, no longer wanting to watch his face. I watched him close the lid with gentle awkwardness and sink back onto his heels, covering his eyes and cursing under his breath, How dare she? Goddam it, how the hell dare she? He turned suddenly and got to his feet, delivering a vicious kick to the side of the chest then looked at me as if he had forgotten I was there. I was crying and he took a huge breath before telling me, We'll finish this another day. Though his voice was soft and the words gentle, there was pain and shock underneath. He brushed past me and started down the stairs in slow, measured steps, one hand gripping the rail like a vise. I fled for the security of my room and locked the door behind me, as if it would keep the ugly truth away.
My mother returned in the fall and with typical willful blindness noticed nothing. The secret of the hope chest remained a secret and was never mentioned again. When I graduated high school that fall, my daddy gave me a small version, almost a miniature hope chest, made of the same fine wood and lined with the same cedar. For your wishes, he told me with a sad smile.
Cameron was the last child of ten born to Mary and Alfie Allbright, the sixth boy and the only one with dark hair and brown eyes. By then, Mary was showing the strain of motherhood and this last child broke her in spirit and body. One fine summer morning, she packed a small suitcase and caught the early ferry, headed for the mainland and parts unknown, leaving Alfie with a houseful of children, a bad back, and no idea where to turn.
For the most part, the village took a dim view of her desertion in the line of duty. They didn't mind her leaving Alfie so very much, but abandoning the children was considered next to unforgivable and against all the rules. A sort of day care was set up by the Women's Auxillary where the youngest children were farmed out to other families during the day and the village women each took a day to clean and cook for the family. After a few months, Alfie stepped up, designing a schedule of chores for each child, learning to manage his time and provide for his remaining family. He found work in the factory and was - after several lessons - able to cook basic meals. The girls pitched in with cleaning and laundry and the boys worked the tiny farm and watched over the younger ones. It was not an easy time but the children were kept fed and clean, the farm made a meager profit, and Alfie was able to hold his head up in the village and face down the loss of his wife with a small measure of dignity and pride. Admirable man, Miss Hilda told my grandmother, Adversity does build character, I should say.
Of all the children, only Cameron hadn't known his mother. He had no memories of her, no reminders or pictures and his brothers and sisters were forbidden to talk about her. He was a brooding and restless boy, a loner always on the prowl, always in search of something intangible and missing. The more Alfie tried to steer him away from the subject of Mary, the more persistent he became. Did she leave because of me? he asked over and over again and Alfie would shake his head and turn away, too fragile to face his youngest son's fears and too decent to tell what he thought might be a lie. We'll talk about it when you're older, he would say weakly and Cammie would grit his teeth in frustration. He was sixteen when he left to look for her, twenty-two when he came back.
In all the years that followed, he never spoke of his time away to anyone and no one knew where he had been or what he had found, if anything. He kept his silence, never married, and the mystery of his mother's flight remained a matter of speculation.
Simply put, there are not always answers to be found.
The table was set with crisp white linen and gleaming silverware, wine glasses sparkled, everything meticulously laid out for the dinner party. Extra maids in uniform darted about doing last minute chores and making last minute preparations. A dozen or so bottles of wine and champagne were brought from the cellar and set on ice in shiny silver buckets, candles were lit and lights dimmed. A fire had been laid in the den and several guests in black tie and tails gathered about it, cocktails in hand, chatting like old friends. Not a single thing was out of place, not a single carefully arranged rose would have dared to wilt.
I don't remember what the party was actually for, only that I had lived in dread of it for days, praying uselessly for a migraine or an outbreak of some wickedly contaigous disease - an out of town emergency would've served nicely but I couldn't manufacture one that would've deceived everyone. My husband, a spotlight seeker of the first magnitude and totally at home with his family's wealth and status, dismissed my fears as petty nonsense. Having been born and raised in privilege, he took it all for granted and reveled in the attention while I could only cling to the fringe, sure that I would be unmasked as lower middle class, out of place and certainly undeserving. Smile! he snapped me, Mingle! They won't bite you! My mother in law appeared in a gliding swirl of green satin and emeralds and took my elbow firmly. Come, darling, she stage whispered in my ear, You look lovely, let me introduce you to the mayor and his wife. I frantically reached for a glass of champagne from a passing silver tray and tried to steady my nerves and pretend that I couldn't hear my heart thundering like an avalanche of logs. Escape seemed like a faraway dream but I held onto the possibility for dear life, as if drowning in this sea of elite.
Rescue came from an unexpected source - an amazingly chubby and short statured little man with a full head of hair and an impressive beard, smoking a pipe and wearing a tweed suit - shockingly out of place in the formally attired room - smiled at me. There was something in that smile that suggested resignation and familiarity, a hint of satire at the social circus going on all around us, something that was very much like reality. I smiled back and he got to his feet and gently took my arm, suggesting that we get some air.
This was my sister in law's husband, a forensic pathologist who would one day become coroner for the parish and who would die all too young, leaving behind a cloud of suspicion about his work. But on that night, he was an outsider who recognized another outsider and did something about it. It's not an easy family to marry into, he told me, but you'll get the hang of it if you decide to stay. And now to practicalities, he relit his pipe and exhaled sweet smoke, Do you know your silverware?
We talked until dinner was served and then he deftly altered seating arrangements so that we were side by side. I paid attention to the silverware, accepted wine sparingly, kept my hands in my lap and was comforted knowing he was next to me, taking up social slack and being charming, managing to include me in conversation and making me feel entitled to be at the table. Among all the gltter and gold, I had found not just a kindred spirit, but a friend.
Though usually the strongest of allies, Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi waged war over fish chowder for one entire summer, refusing to speak to one another when they passed, refusing to be in the same house with each other. The sisters had come to an impasse over canned milk, Aunt Vi being for it and Aunt Pearl being against. Neither was willing to give an inch over the recipe and Nana predicted violence by Labor Day.
A minor disagreement - arising when the village's only dairy cows unexpectedly went dry in May, another story altogether - began when Aunt Vi couldn't get milk for her fish chowder and after exploring all options, was driven to purchasing a small can of evaporated milk from McIntyre's. She told no one about this, fearing that her chowder would be tainted by the store bought ingredient, and was delighted to discover that the chowder was actually improved. Even her sister Pearl commented on it and Vi, in a state of high excitement, driven by the success of her radical and daring experimentation, confessed over supper. Pearl immediately backtracked, horrified that their mother's sacred recipe had been tampered with, and refused to take another spoonful. When Vi refused to apologize, Pearl departed in what Nana called a "high dungeon stomp", taking her blueberry pie with real cream topping with her and vowing never to darken her sister's doorway again.
The small sisterly spat rapidly evolved in a full family feud with each woman soliciting support from other island women and enlisting husbands and children in the dispute. By June, both were furious at the other's perceived stubbornness and intractability and the war was on with mutual family and friends being dragged in feet first. By July, sides were being chosen, long time favors were being called in, name calling and civil unrest reigned unchecked. Pearl called her sister an evolutionist, the worst insult she could imagine, and accused her of taking liberties and shortcuts. Not to be outdone, Vi immediately responded with charges of isolationism, claiming her sister followed rules like an obedient sheep. Progress, she maintained, was inevitable. Pearl went white and proclaimed her sister a closet communist.
In August, the tiny mainland paper picked up the story with a headline reading CANNED MILK WAR ERUPTS BETWEEN LONG ISLAND SISTERS: SACRED RECIPE UNDER FIRE. Miss Hilda, astonished and disgusted, promptly arrived at our back door in her riding boots and tweed jacket, walking cane in hand. Alice, she informed my grandmother briskly in clipped, no nonsense British tones, This has exceeded the bounds of civility. Be good enough to get your coat and accompany me.
Both sisters had been brought, under protest, to the village church, where they were informed, they would remain under the watchful eyes of Miss Hilda, my grandmother, and for good measure, the minister, until such time as they each saw fit to reconcile and resolve their differences. I will not tolerate this unwarranted attention to a matter of dairy products any further, Miss Hilda said calmly, You will leave as sisters and friends or you will remain until....she paused for a surreptitious glance at the minister who diplomatically nodded and lowered his eyes .... until hell freezes over, she finished with a sharp rap of her walking stick, Do I make myself abundantly clear?
The sisters - stubborn but aware that Miss Hilda never made idle threats - came to their senses and declared peace, even managing to agree that perhaps there might be room on the island for traditionalism as well as innovation as long as both were held in reasonable check. Two kinds of chowder would learn to live together and two sisters would be re-united.
Stubborn to the last, Aunt Lizzie refused to go the mainland hospital.
She had, according to her own words, not been able to leave her makeshift single bed in the kitchen for years. It was a mystery how she managed to cook and clean and keep the fire going in that one small room, how her white hair was always washed and woven into neat braids, how she never appeared to want for anything. When we made our obligatory visits, she received us gratefully and demanded news of everything. Nana said that late at night, under cover of darkness with no one about, shadows moved in the house, a figure passed from window to window, from downstairs to up and back again. Lizzie, she said with a knowing wink at my mother, appears to be selectively bedridden. What a miracle! And she would shoo us off to play outside.
One early morning, having seen nothing of the shadows in the night, Nana packed a basket of warm muffins and trudged next door. There was no answer to her knock so with typical determination she forced the hook and latch and calling Lizzie's name loudly, barged right in. The kitchen was uncharacteristically cold, she told us later, and there was Lizzie, laying on an armful of kindling and stone cold dead, one hand clutching the blankets from the tiny bed against the wall, the other still wound around a candle lying in a spill of wax on the shiny linoleum floor. I'll be damned if she wasn't smiling, my grandmother told Aunt Pearl later that day, Deader than a two day old mackerel and still smiling.
There was no family left so Nana and Pearl and Vi organized a small funeral and saw Lizzie well planted in the church cemetery. John Sullivan was recruited to bring flowers and Uncle Len saw to it that there were mourners at the grave, picked up and returned home in his old pickup, each given a new $5 bill for attending. Miss Rowena came down from her home on the hill and sang nearly all the verses to "Shall We Gather at the River" before being shushed by Miss Hilda with a sharp poke of her walking stick, No need to be excessive, dear, Miss Hilda remarked in her clipped British tones, Three verses is adequate indeed.
After the service, tea was served in the parsonage and Lizzie's long life was examined, celebrated, and mourned in quick order. She had been an invalid since her early 20's when her husband, a ship's carpenter, had died from food poisoning, a tainted batch of scallops some said, ingestion of arsenic others suggested since he had been known to beat her regularly and without mercy. After his death, she had taken to her bed and had never been known to leave her house again, content to allow the outside world to come to her for more than 60 years. We all mourn and move on in our own way, the pastor was heard to say, she won't be allowed to withdraw from the Lord.
There was a quiet chorus of amens.
Make do with what you have, my grandmother advised me with a scowl, it's no good taking on the world.
Nana was knitting and had run out of a needed color. As the nearest yarn shop was a two day ride away, she was forced to improvise - after some mild cursing and color matching, she decided to blend two shades of blue but it meant tearing out a good deal of her work and she was clearly distressed at the wasted time and effort. She disliked busy work and hated not getting things right the first time - her perfectionist streak wouldn't allow her to cut corners, even if only she would've been able to tell the difference. This particular afghan was spoken for, headed for the latest church bazaar to raise money for new choir robes and knowing that her work would be sold only increased the pressure she felt for it to be absolutely right and snag free. My mother thought it silly to be so invested in an afghan and said so, No one's going to appreciate it anyway, Mother, she said with a touch of bitterness and Nana gave her a withering look. You, of all people, have the least right to judge what people do and don't appreciate, she said warningly. And they were off. Deciding that I knew the gist of the argument and how it would go, I called the dogs and set off for a walk around the Old Road.
It was a Saturday night in August, the tide was in and the sun was nearly down with no sign of fog.
I walked past the breakwater and toward the village square - past the dance hall and the picture show, past the barber shop where a line was already forming for the Saturday night shaves and haircuts. McIntyre's was closing for the weekend and a handful of last minute customers were gathered on the steps in a small cluster, killing time and idling. The dogs raced toward them, eager for attention and the men obliged with welcoming, open armed gestures, men and dogs all mixed together in a tumble.
I turned down the offers of a ride back to the point and resumed my walk. The dogs followed, running into and out of the ditches and up and down the slopes on either side of the road, investigating trees and fences and muddy water with equal enthusiasm. By the time we reached home, the sun was nearly gone and there was a cool breeze off the ocean - there was a promise of stillness and serenity in the air, a quietness that only certain summer evenings could bring. There was peace until I opened the back door and discovered the argument hadn't waned but rather heated up. I stopped long enough to find a jacket and went back to walking, making do with what I had to escape and wondering when it would be safe to go home. The mysteries of mother vs daughter are eternal.
Hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable.
Professor Marvel to the Tin Man in "The Wizard of Oz"
I have always preferred most animals to most people and so .....
I avoid adoption days at our local pet store like the plague. Animals in cages prey on my rescue and maternal instincts too forcefully and my better judgement melts when confronted with sad eyes and eager tails. Each warm, furry body cries out to me to be held and cared for, cries out for deliverance, and it takes every ounce of will power I have to turn away. Even so, the sadness stays with me for days, the images of small, hopeful faces invading my dreams and intruding into my mind. It's too hard on my heart.
Practicality, however, has to rule at some point - there is neither space or money enough to take on more nor time to spend with them. Love them as I do, I'm at my limit and even one more would drive me into distraction if not bankruptcy and outright madness. Like human children, there is no end of worry, care or cleaning up. Unlike human children, they do not leave the nest and make their way in the world but rather stay utterly dependent for all their lives. Litter boxes must be changed, food and water bowls constantly overseen, vaccinations and tags faithfully provided. Boundaries must be enforced, disputes arbitrated - vigilance can never be relaxed lest one get locked in a closet, trapped by a nail snagged on the curtains, or slip stealthily through an open door. The battle against fleas is endless and expensive and heaven forbid that one or more might consider eating a lesser brand of cat or dogfood. I'm convinced they can read labels. The last straw is when litter box training is inexplicably forgotten and there is no choice but to rip up two rooms of carpet in favor of easy clean laminate, an expense I am ill prepared for and do not willingly make.
Then I remember that the time comes when all things living leave to make room for the next, that these dim witted and dependent little ones will not always be overhead and underfoot and in the way and I gather them to me, hoping for forgiveness and knowing that I will miss their warmth and nonsense.
People step up for one of their own and the music community is no exception.
On a muggy summer afternoon in August with the temperature in the 100's and the streets feeling like a sauna, a downtown restaurant opened it's doors for a friend. Waitstaff and bartenders and cooks all gave up a precious Sunday afternoon off and donated their time, loyal customers each paid ten dollars at the door then bought tee shirts and raffle tickets and plastic bracelets. Musicians poured in, carrying guitar cases on their backs and lugging amplifiers and keyboards and electrical equipment in the blazing heat, all for an old friend and former bartender who's eight year old son was in a cancer ward in Memphis, all for one of their own.
There is, as my friend Blue says, a fellowship among musicians. If you are part of it, you give your time and talent freely when needed. You show up, and you play for free, trying to help offset the astronomical expenses of cancer treatment or long term illness, parking tickets or legal costs. Competition turns to compliments, friendly rivalry to harmony. Instruments and equipment are shared easily, one musician praises another, and all act together for the common cause - there is rock and blues and country, cover songs and originals - all played to a standing room only crowd.
In the long run, the money raised will probably only be a drop in the bucket but the efforts of those involved will be remembered. Friends, music, medicine and prayer are strong weapons.
The symptoms of narcissistic personality disorder are as follow:- Has a grandiose sense of self-importance
- Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty or ideal love (megalomania)
- Believes they are "special" and can only be understood by, or should associate with, people (or institutions) who are also "special" or of high status
- Requires excessive admiration
- Has a sense of entitlement
- Is interpersonally exploitative
- Lacks empathy
- Is often envious of others or believes others are envious of him or her
- Shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes
What can be said of a life so empty and useless and selfishly lived that it is filled only by possessions and koi ponds? He cannot pass a mirror without pausing in admiration, cannot speak without bragging, and his character consists of equal parts vanity and self indulgence, held together by alcohol and hair gel.
Now he worships at the altar of a scared pool,
and when he sees his reflection, he is fulfilled.
Bob Dylan
There's nothing quite as inviting as a dusty, dimly lit, disorganized bookshop.
By the Book was just such a place, hidden away on a Portsmouth sidestreet paved in cobblestones and lined with old wooden benches and planters filled to overflowing with ivy and ferns. A small sign hung over the door - G. H. Patton, Prop. - and customers were graciously announced by a tinkling of sleighbells attached to the back doorknob.
Inside there were books - crammed onto every shelf, in piles and stacks, in boxes and baskets, on counters, and in shoeboxes on the floor. There were books wrapped in string, books held together by leather belts, books spilling onto the window seats and books piled on overturned milk crates. There were backpacks of books, layers of books, tiers of books, books in plastic wrap, books covered in fabric, books missing covers. Dust motes floated through the air, there was a scent of spice and from the loft the sound of classical music. Each step of the iron spiral staircase held a stack of books - untidy and in no recognizable order - but placed on alternating sides to maintain balance and symmetry. Mr. Patton, proprietor, retired librarian and esquire, descended the staircase in careful, delicate steps. He carried a paper bag of books in one hand, a newspaper was tucked under one arm, and an unlit pipe was clenched between his teeth, still he managed an apologetic smile and a heavily accented but muted greeting. May I be of assistance? he inquired as he navigated the narrow path to the counter and set about moving a set of James Cain harcovers to make space for a stack of Raymond Chandler paperbacks. Saturday is Mystery Novel Day, he explained with a smile, We always draw a substantial audience and there's a great deal to do. Are you a devotee of the genre? I confessed to a passion for Rex Stout and he beamed at me, Yes, I can see that about you, he said, I have them all, you know. Tea? And from under the counter he produced a small silver tray with a silver teapot, two china cups, and a hotplate.
We had tea and miniature cupcakes with vanilla icing and he talked about being a bookseller and collector, More collector than actual seller, I'm afraid, he remarked as he rummaged under the counter and came up with a small sugar bowl and a tiny silver spoon, They're old friends and it's difficult to let them go. Milk or lemon? He poured tea and tucked a small cream colored napkin into his collar then carefully laid a cupcake and a tiny knife in front of me. I prefer, he told me with a suggestion of a smile, that my books only go to good homes. I replied that it must be a strain on his inventory but he waved the idea off with a slight gesture, Literature, he told me kindly, is the foundation of a civilized society, my dear. I protect it with dust and disorder to keep out the riffraff. Have you read all the Nancy Drew? I admitted that I had and this brought another approving smile and a second cup of tea.
I never saw Mr. Patton actually sell a book although he gave a good many away to regular customers, each wrapped in brown paper and tied with a carefully measured length of string. It saddened him to part with these books but also pleased him to see them go to people who considered them treasures. Every book deserves a good and loving home, he would say firmly, each is special in it's own way.
In the long search for competent help - a process that lasted over some 18 months and brought us a startling and truly unsettling parade of inept, issue-ridden, depressed, and inappropriately dressed young women - we have finally found a grownup. I had almost forgotten what it was like to work with a pleasant, smart, reasoning and motivated adult and I find myself waiting to discover what dreadful flaws we might have overlooked. A secret past, perhaps, or an undisclosed psychiatric illness - connections to the mafia, a biker boyfriend on the side, a criminal history or a drug habit. Experience has taught me to be cautious, to wait and see despite a favorable initial impression.
The restaurant workplace is an entirely different kettle of fish, as my old grandmother would say. Help comes and goes the way the sun rises and sets with different faces appearing and disappearing each week. There is no end of drama, a veritable novel plays out each day and evening among the staff, a ceaseless battle of "he said, she said" and "no fair" and "if that was me I'd have been fired". There are tears and temper tantrums in every corner from the patio to the kitchen, with personal lives intruding and causing unrest and agitation, a small scale civil war over tips and territory is always in progress on some level. On one hand, it's a harsh and unforgiving environment - on the other, it's relaxed and casual, like a friendly gathering of old if slightly competitive friends. There are very few secrets and far too many rumors.
To this unstable and unpredictable mix, we then add customers who bring all their own demands and expectations to the table. They come in three piece suits, looking down their noses at the wine list and feeling entitled - they come in diamonds and stiletto heels, decked out and impatient for special attention. But they also come in jeans and denim vests, smiling and tipping well - they come seeking advice on wine and actually taking it. They say thank you and wish you a good evening and are a pleasure to wait on.
There is no perfect workplace, no perfect staff, no perfect clientele. Neither are there perfect people or perfect families - life simply does not permit or offer us such extravagances.
St John to Digby was a 6 hour crossing on a seemingly endless blue-gray ocean without the first sight of land.
The old ferry featured staterooms - which we never took, a needless expense according to my frugal grandmother -
a coffee shop, lots of restrooms, and several day crossing rooms consisting of an assortment of chairs and leather couches, shabby and worn down by the thousands of travelers. Nana and my mother knitted or read while we roamed the decks, intrepid explorers on a hunt for the unexpected. Or we napped, lulled to sleep by the steady hum of the ship's engines and the constant forward motion. Sudden bouts of seasickness were rare as we had been making this trip for all our short lives but if overtaken by queasiness, we went on deck, forward to the canvas covered lifeboats to hang on the rails, watch the ocean and linger in the crisp salt spray. We were even allowed on the bridge as Nana knew the captain, a rugged and distinguished old sailor.
Compared to her sister ship - Portland to Yarmouth in 12 hours - she was a tired, old vessel with no fancy dining, no well appointed accomodations, no casinos or nightlife. She was, however, reliable, reasonably comfortable and almost always on time. Best of all, when she docked in the Digby harbor, we were only an hour from Long Island as opposed to the three or four from Yarmouth. So year after year, we boarded and departed the old ship until we felt as if we knew her as well as her captain and crew.
It was a plain and simple crossing with no amenities but it was an important part of coming home.
After a certain age, a birthday is less of a celebration and more of an achievement.
I'm two weeks older than Peggy Fleming, who is, no doubt, in better shape and I work with people all younger, including those who sign my paychecks and who would surely ask, Peggy who? They never saw her skate in competition, never saw her at the Boston Garden with the Ice Follies, alone on the ice with an almost mystical blue spotlight while "Ave Maria" played. The audience alternately held their collective breaths and cheered wildly and it was a performance I've never forgotten. Her final bow moved them to tears.
I don't know how she feels about birthdays but I don't much care for them so when the riotously colored pink, red and purple cake with chocolate underneath was delivered to me, I tried to be gracious, in my own way, and refused to give in to the urge to run or the rush to be angry. It was a sweet and thoughtful, well meant gesture and I did my best to appreciate it - thankfully, no one sang and it was all kept low key - still, it centered attention on me, something I try to avoid at all costs. Figure skaters may thrive in the spotlight but I'm at home in the shadows and anonymity of the crowds.
The pursuit of fame and fortune requires a self confidence and a willingness to risk that I don't possess. You must be willing to put yourself out there for all the world to see, for all the world to talk about. You focus, train and sacrifice with an exhausting intensity, knowing that losing sight of your goal could mean losing ground you will never regain. You eat, sleep and exercise rigidly and win or lose, you smile and start planning for the next time. Everything you do is aimed at success, at being the best, at standing at the top of your profession for as long as you can. When you finally climb down, there is an emptiness in place of the striving so you start all over again - a new career, a new partner, a new challenge - replacement therapy to fill the void left by achieving your ambition.
It's fortunate that most of us are content with simple dreams and small achievements or the world would be a very crowded place with us all scratching and clawing our way to the top.
So Happy Birthday to me and Happy Birthday to Peggy Fleming wherever she may be.
Coaxing, bribery, pleading and threats had not worked so Sparrow looked his old mule square in the eyes. If you won't plow, he said, there'll be no garden. No garden means I don't eat and if I don't eat, you don't eat. Now for the last time, will you move your scrawny, sorry ass. The mule brayed but didn't budge, unimpressed by this show of reason and good sense, unmoved by the logic of Sparrow's argument. Smart enough to know when he was beaten, the old ex-pirate gave up in disgust and began the process of unhitching the animal. The mule brayed again and wandered off toward the barn. Lazy, good for nothin' stubborn old fool, Sparrow grumbled, don't never listen and cain't anybody tell 'im anything. I'm done!
Of course, he wasn't, few of us are regardless of how loudly and vehemently we proclaim it. The old mule had won the battle but Sparrow would try again - giving up wasn't in his nature. Knowing when to walk away or give up on a losing fight must be learned through trial, error and experience and we learn the best lessons from our mistakes, when and if we learn at all.
Detachment is a process best understood through practice and doing - rather than disengage and cut ties, we step back and away, giving the problem some space and some freedom, not taking it personally, and letting it work itself out without us. If we tend to our own needs rather than try and control those of others, surprisingly often, left to it's own devices, a problem will resolve itself. We are, inherently, fixers - called upon by some inner drive to repair and not at ease with another's unhappiness or black mood. We want to make things better, not seeing that sometimes sadness or pain must be experienced to be healed and that no amount of intervention or well meaning interference will speed the process. Grief, loss, rage and recovery have their own timetables and will arrive and leave on individual schedules - our own level of comfort or guilt will not change the timing. Emotional self reliance comes through the hard times and if we end up in a world of hurt, we have usually contributed to it.
After a day or two, Sparrow went back to the old mule and the garden was plowed up and put in anew. The trouble between them was forgotten and the vegetables came in with a vengeance, sustaining both man and mule through a long, lonely winter.
On an already hot and humid morning, the dogs were wandering idly in the back yard. Birds were overhead and a squirrel or three darted through the tree limbs. It was peaceful and quiet and I was watching the clouds drift by and thinking about the day ahead when the black dog went into attack mode, teeth suddenly bared and barking in a panicked, high pitched frenzy. I looked up to see the terrier from next door cowering in the shrubs and tree limbs piled up behind the garage - for a moment this made no sense - then the black dog charged and I came to my senses in a sudden mad dash for the fence, fearing for the life of this unexpected and terrified intruder.
The next few moments were chaos mixed with crisis. I could hear the terrier's frantic owner calling his name from the other side of the fence but the terror stricken animal was frozen. The black dog was repeatedly lunging at him and howling with fury, other neighborhood dogs joined in the chorus, I was shouting and the small brown dog suddenly arrived and trotted between the two dogs, prancing and barking at them both. Snatching her up with one hand I reached for the black dog's collar and forced her backwards, speaking as softly and as reassuringly as I could while trying to make myself heard above the roar. It was a clear Excedrin moment. Eventually I got both my dogs inside and returned for the trespassing terrier, gathered him up, and tucking him beneath one arm, delivered him safely home. Although my ears were ringing, no blood had been shed during this remarkable invasion of territory and no harm had been done - what might have become interplanetary war had been cut off at the pass and stayed at the level of a minor border skirmish.
Odd how territory means so much to us. For centuries we have fought and died for it, repelled those who would take it from us, guarded and defended with it with actual lives. Be it a hill or a country or a workspace, we do not welcome others into it and feel violated by intruders. This, we say, is mine. You have no right to it. This, we think, is all I control and you will not come in.
Perhaps because we do control so little, we protect what we have and are willing to do battle against those who would trespass, even if it's only the terrier from next door, even if it's only an accidental intrusion. It may be only grass, but it's our's, so keep off.
I have a migraine, she whimpered raggedly, I have to go the hospital. I'll probably be all day.
What she actually had was an ongoing fight with her partner of the last several years and it took precedence over her responsibility to be at work. Being prone to depression and anxiety - and now migraine headaches, it seemed - she's easily overwhelmed and defeated by everyday obstacles and she reaches for the simplest solution. The doctor wasn't buying it but we were desperately busy and there was no time to worry about it - the waiting room was already full and we were behind without having begun. Let's go, he growled and headed for an exam room, chart in hand, muttering under his breath. A moment later he had put it behind him, Young man! he exclaimed cheerfully to the eighty something patient with alzheimer's and bunions, Lookin' good!
Adversity, real or imagined, serves a purpose. It challenges us to dig for resources in ourselves that we might not otherwise find. It shows us what we can do under fire, measures us and tests our faith, stretches our abilities and reinforces our humor and determination. We face up to it and become stronger, more self reliant, braver - or we run and hide, hoping it will go away and find someone else to bother. Real adversity builds character, strength and conviction, the imagined kind makes cowards of us all, too weary to attempt anything and barely having the will to give up.
Rather than leave her problems at the door and put on her smile face, our young nurse arrives each morning with a litany of disasters - migraines, traffic, medication shortages, bad sleep, irritating contact lenses, loss of her cell phone, forgotten chores - she is on a perpetual uphill climb with no end in sight and for the rest of us who are forced to pick up her slack, it seems staged, annoying, and endless. Her days are made up of sighs and unfinished work, reports left undone and stashed in a drawer, clock watching and personal calls, self pity and slights. She reeks of sadness, a profound despair that prevents her from moving on, clouds her judgement, and slows her down. Her emotions reign unchecked and painfully visible. She is undone by a harsh word, overflowing with apologies, and quick to promise that she'll do better. She means well but meaning well and doing well have miles between them. Trying is not nearly enough.
Better to learn to separate the mountains from the molehills and act on the difference. You can't run fast enough or far enough from your own self.
It was a room designed for sleeping and studying.
Two single beds, each pressed up against opposite walls, two small desks each with one small lamp, two sets of wall mounted shelves, two identical chests of drawers, one tiny window. The space was efficient and sterile, much, I imagined, like a convent room might be and the thought of two long years here filled me with anxiety and hopelessness.
This particular college was faith based - at least in principle - and it regularly turned out crop after crop of cookie cutter people, well behaved, solid, tax paying and rule abiding graduates who went on to become well behaved, solid, tax paying and rule abiding citizens - teachers, architects, engineers, marines and more teachers - people who fit nicely and comfortably in little boxes, who didn't question authority, didn't protest war, didn't walk on the grass. There was just enough space here to breathe, providing you were thrify in doing so.
My roommate, a mousy little thing with oversized glasses, asthma and a gift for silence, was from some small town in upstate New York. She wore flannel pajamas and floppy slippers and studied with a vengeance, often reading the same paragraph a dozen times over - outloud - and making detailed notes. She rarely left the room aside from attending class and bathroom breaks - she would pull on her flannel robe and creep down the hall in the semi dark, reminding me of a cat burglar, then tiptoe back, hoping to be unseen and unnoticed. We had nothing in common apart from being away from home and we spent the months in a quiet and dry stalemate, coming and going in careful solicitude. It was very civilized and considerate. On weekends she had the room to herself as I went home to stay with friends and I suspected that she'd have been more than delighted if I'd found some reason to stay away. We were, each in our own way and for our own private reasons, loners - parts of the out crowd - and we never joined forces or shared stories, never became more then random roommates thrown together by luck of the draw. She wanted to be boxed, gift wrapped and graduated and while I had no clear idea of what I wanted, I was more and more sure that I wasn't going to find it at at this small, catholic minded school.
Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes all the same.
Malvina Reynolds
The old tabby cat curls up in my lap and protests my lack of attention with gentle nudges and a small but softly persistent voice. Eventually she falls asleep, paws twitching randomly, her head resting on my knee and her purr a low, vibrating hum.
She's nearly fifteen now, thinner and less active than when she was young but still solitary and feisty with a strong antisocial streak. She's a loner - independent, reclusive, not inclined to be extroverted, sweet or patient but rather suspicious and watchful, always guarded with her affections. She has little interest in the outside world, never seeking a window perch or showing any curiosity toward the birds or the squirrels. She is a true house cat, needing no more than a patch of pillow and a full food bowl to be content. She doesn't play or prowl, refuses to engage the other cats and dismisses the dogs with a menacing growl and when needed, a swift swat on the nose. She can be very fierce but it's mostly for show - her temper flares and then is almost immediately forgotten. She refuses to waste a gesture or an emotion, she is nearly self contained.
I often wonder if there isn't something about resentful, ill tempered animals that attracts me. The challenge, perhaps, or maybe empathy. Lacking the skills or the desire to get along with our kind, we search for a one on one intimacy with a different species, shunning the attentions of those so like us and preferring our own company. In a crowd, I take refuge behind a camera lens while she simply curls up and falls asleep in a far off corner. We are both there, but apart, maintaining the distance and safety needed for our own comfort. We would rather drift away unnoticed than be part of the noise.
Her ears prick up at the sound of the black dog's nails on the wood floor and she opens her eyes, tensing ever so slightly, back claws extended and the beginning of a growl forming in her throat. But the dog passes by and she resumes her nap. Trust has come hard to the old tabby but for the moment she relaxes and sleeps in my lap, as if she is the only cat in a world made for her alone. It might seem a trifle to those who don't know her, but it is no small thing to gain the love of a prickly natured old tabby cat.
An ounce of intervention, my grandmother liked to tell me, will keep the wolves away.
She had very little use for doctors and through maladies, major and minor, would keep her distance. She favored home remedies whenever possible - castor oil for any stomach ailment, garlic for arthritis pain, vinegar for sunburn, chamomile tea and lavender oil for pretty much anything else from gout to premature graying hair. She kept a full section of the pantry devoted to seeds, foul smelling little bottles of various extracts, seaweed and powders. I hardly ever saw her take as much as an aspirin even on those days when her arthritis flared and her hands swelled so badly that she was near crippled.
My mother dismissed these home cures as superstition and witchery, preferring to rely on pills and other doctor prescribed medications for any and all ailments. The two women clashed often, my mother being prone to take to her bed at the slightest sign of illness, my grandmother refusing to be stopped by anything less than a broken bone. Martyr! my mother would snap. Malingerer! Nana would snap right back. And so it went. They could, it seemed, quarrel over anything - how much salt to add to the pot roast, whether the fog would clear, who would drive to Aunt Pearl's, how many serving spoons should there be on the table, what color of nail polish to use, what direction the wind was blowing. Sometimes these spats blew over, sometimes they took on a life of their own, but they never stopped. Conflict had become a lifestyle. My daddy, often called upon to arbitrate, recognized the folly of taking sides and quietly withdrew to a neutral corner. If you get between them, he advised me, they'll likely both turn on you.
It was a hostile household, two women too much alike to get along, and too different to leave each other be, each determined to have their own way. Any amount of intervention would've been a temporary distraction at best - it made far more sense to try and stay out of the line of fire and hope for a truce.
