The View From The Bar

He was dressed in the obligatory black with a red bandanna across his forehead and mirrored sunglasses hanging from his teeth, slouched across the bar, thick knuckled and grimy hands clutching a beer.  He gave me a sloppy grin when I ordered a last Coke and leaned toward me.  Take my pitcher, Red, whaddya say.  Buy you a drank or three.  It was two in the morning and I was tired and sweaty, about to pack it in.  The last thing in the world I needed was a drunken biker whispering sweet nothings in my ear in a smoke filled bar.  I turned and tried a friendly smile.  It's late, I said, and I've packed my gear.  Maybe next time.  


Music's still playin', he persisted, How 'bout a dance?


Reeling slightly from the alcohol fumes but trying to maintain my smile as well as my distance, I thanked him but declined and reached for my Coke - without warning, one hand with the texture of old barn wood closed on my wrist.  C'mon, Red, he said a little roughly, One for the road.  


I instinctively jerked back and his grip tightened.  Then from out of nowhere, there was a pool cue between us, resting lightly on his forearm.


You're trashed, Butch, a new and quiet voice said mildly, Now let go the lady.  I ain't gonna tell you twice.


I looked around to see a second biker at the end of the pool stick, a taller and heavier version of the first with more silver chains, gray pony tailed pulled over his jacket collar, and clear eyes.  He tapped the stick on the bar, grinned at his buddy.  Easy, big man, he said with just a shade of warning in his gravely voice, We don't wanna dance, not here.  The first biker hesitated for a fraction of a second then shrugged, let loose my wrist and muttered an apology to me.


 Reckon I sometimes forget my manners when I drink, ma'am, he said gruffly, No offense.


None taken, I replied and resisted the urge to give him a genuine smile.


He reluctantly allowed himself to be led away in the direction of the pool tables but still managed an over the shoulder backward glance.


Reckon you don't play pool either, do you?  he called.  The second biker gave him a friendly cuff on the back of the head and I just shook my head and laughed.  


Know when to give up and you'll save yourself a heap of trouble.

Just Say Thanks

Silly or not, it's taken me most of my life to learn to accept a compliment.


Gracious doesn't come naturally to me and I tend to be suspicious or self-conscious when someone says something nice.  I glow on the inside but on the surface I'm tense and embarrassed, fearful of letting them know how much it means to me and always unsure that I've earned it.  Praise, I've come to learn, is an easy gift to give but a hard one to receive.


Of course, it's a lot of work to keep myself insulated, and it never occurred to me that someone else might feel the same until I heard from my cousin, who it seems, shares this very same feeling.  This opened the possibility that there might even be others - who knows, there might be a community or an army of them - who struggle with it - and it was a surprising thought.  Who we are and what we show to the world is so seldom what we really are, I thought, how many people are keeping the same secrets I am?  How many others feel as frail, as insecure, as foolishly self-aware or as shy as I do?  How really different are we all?


Sometimes, a wise and very dear friend wrote to me, You just have to tolerate the fact that people love you.


So......
Thanks.

Fuss & Focus

I don't exactly know why but for me, birthdays have always been tests of endurance - a matter of wondering how much attention I can stand before I snap or worse, run for my life.  I envy those friends who can be gracious and good natured when the spotlight shines on them but I'll never be one of them.  In many ways, we are what we learn - and I never learned how to easily accept people being nice to me.


I was ridiculously touched by the effort and thoughtfulness my friends put into this celebration - there was a cake and there were gifts and music, even a continuously running slide show of photographs that I'd taken.  All these people gave of their time and talent (not to mention hard earned money) to be part of it and thank you seemed so inadequate that it nearly made me cry.  And therein lies the conflict - how to withstand the focus and be grateful for it at the same time.


Most photographers would, I think, admit to a certain shy streak.  The lens is a shield, a kind of insulation, a device of distraction.  As long as it's between me and my subjects (friends included), I feel protected and not bound to pretend.  Without it, I feel vulnerable and defenseless and ordinary.  Given the choice between invisibility and being noticed, I'd opt for invisibility every time but with trusty Nikon in hand, I can take part, can step into things I would normally steer clear of.  


And so I cut the cake and opened the presents, consented to the fuss and focus, tried to remind myself that the dear people surrounding me were actually friends and not a smiling firing squad.  I said my thank you's and hugged them all, then hurried back to the safety and camouflage of my camera.


I was raised to believe certain things about myself.  They weren't true but I didn't know that and to this day there are circumstances that trigger a negative response, a return to the child who was so unworthy and so in the way.  The simple truth is that it's easier to believe the bad stuff, easier to remember the familiar old songs.  When it comes to self worth, I'm still a work in progress and although I may never be completed, I keep trying.  


It's slow work.


Hopes are shy birds flying at a great distance, seldom reached by the best of guns - John James Audubon

A Change of Scenery

Follow your heart, I read recently, But take your brain with you.  I laughed outloud.  I imagine our hearts have all taken us places we shouldn't have gone at one time or another - mine certainly has - but as long as you don't get lost, a wrong turn here and there is just a detour, a small change of scenery.   Even with the very best intentions, none of us lead perfect lives and we ought to be grateful - forgiveness wouldn't have much meaning without a little sin.


Life, art, love and mistakes are all largely a matter of perspective.  I'm not always alone when I'm taking photographs and it never fails to intrigue me how two people can look at the same thing and see it so differently.  Some of us see only pieces of a picture while others see a vista and still others miss the magic entirely.  My best photographs evoke, capture, reflect emotion and mood - if I'm lucky, they speak in their own visual language - each dog or cat, each dancer, each musician is unique to me, a single figure in a single moment of a singular story.  I love photography and I love the effort of finding the essence of a subject.  If I can make you see what I see and make you feel what I feel even in only one of a hundred shots, then I'm more than satisfied.  Amid the smoke and noise and mood lighting, there is beauty.  The suggestion of a little sin, a little wildness or a little passion only makes it more interesting - most likely why I'm so partial to musicians.


Before his life was cut short, my friend Scotty tried his hand at having his own photography business.  As he was far more artist than business man, it failed catastrophically but he never regretted trying.


Every musician I know dreams of a breakthrough to stardom - none have made it but they keep on playing and keep on dreaming.


I've watched restaurants, modeling agencies, specialty shops, and art galleries struggle to survive.  Not a one regrets the effort or would not try again.


Fame and fortune are just not in the cards for most of us - it's enough to be known and appreciated in our own small towns, to live peacefully and work at something we love.  So if your heart leads you, follow - if you don't know where the road leads, that's all the more reason to take it.  You may not reach happily ever after but you'll be glad you tried.  And you might even be a step closer.

Companions

There was a hint of a smile on her face, more in her eyes.  

She was built like a fragile bird, diminished by a long life and a bit on the scrawny side but gracefully dressed in navy blue with a single strand of pearls around her throat and matching earrings. Her makeup was heavy and layered, a bright spot of color accented each cheek and she smelled of dusting powder and lavender. She gripped her walker and slowly approached a waiting room chair, pausing to give us a muted but cheerful hello while her caregiver signed her in then helped her to sit, her stocking'ed ankles primly crossed and her blue veined and trembling hands resting lightly in her lap. She had just turned 97, we knew, and still lived at home, stubbornly resisting her children's pleas for assisted living, happy and clearly well cared for in the hands of her live in maid, turned companion, turned nurse, Isobel. 


Ready, Miss Julia? the nurse asked from the doorway. Gently and capably, Isobel helped the tiny woman to her feet, positioned her hands on the walker, and followed close behind, her eyes never leaving her charge for a moment. Miss Julia moved slowly, eyes locked on the ground in front of her with each step, nodding at Isobel's reassurances that she was doing just fine, no hurry, easy does it, go at your own pace. Once in the exam room, she lifted the little woman into the chair as easily as a feather, then parked herself in a corner chair. She had been with Miss Julia for over forty years, had tended her and Mr. James for all of their married life, there would be no thought of asking her to leave, no expectation of privacy. When the doctor entered, Isobel stood and moved chair side where she took Miss Julia's hand in one of her own and rested the other lightly on her companion's shoulder.


The visit was brief - Doc pronounced her healthy and well.  If you don't go dancing tonight, my dear, it certainly won't be my fault, he told her with a smile, Thank you for letting me take care of your feet.

She smiled back at him and I noticed she was blushing ever so slightly.

I'll bet that good looking man you were married to took you dancing all the time, the nurse told her at the check out desk.  Miss Julia looked up, eyes suddenly welling with tears, and reached a frail hand out to grasp mine.


You knew James?  she asked in a trembling voice, as she always did, and I nodded.


We all knew him, I reminded her, as I always did, He was a sweet, charming and very elegant man. 


And a little bit of a flirt, the nurse added and laughed, We miss him.


Me too, Miss Julia said softly and reached up to give us both a hug.  Thank you, girls, I'm so very glad I came. And just so you know, the man was a dancin' fool, a regular Fred Astaire!  Isobel produced a perfectly folded, lace handkerchief - Miss Julia thanked her and wiped her tears away with a small and very ladylike gesture.  She gave us a last smile and let Isobel lead her out.


If a memory makes you cry, keep it close to your heart.












































  

Worry Begone

Half empty, half full.  It's all in how you look at it.

During the moments when I let worry overtake me, the world turns a little dark.  My mind focuses on the negative - no insurance, no savings, a seven year old car, bills I won't live long enough to pay, not enough memory to absorb a changing workplace, no possibility of retirement.  I feel like I'm on the long road of what ifs with the chance of injury or illness lurking at every intersection and disaster in the making - the a/c could fail, the roof could cave in, I could slip and break a hip or simply keel over from too much chocolate and nicotine and not enough green vegetables.  The IRS could audit me, I could lose my livelihood, my bank could be indicted or lightning strike the massive pine tree and crush me in my sleep.  When it gets to the pine tree point, good sense usually kicks in and I take a breath and a step back.  There's absolutely nothing I can do about any of these possible scenarios and dwelling on them will only drag me down and depress me.  

Cowgirl up! I hear a voice inside my head say impatiently, Look on the bright side!

I have absolutely no signs of an oncoming heart attack or any other debilitating illness.

The car is running like a dream.

I'd be bored senseless if I were to retire.

The IRS has more important people to worry about.

I can start saving with the very next paycheck.

The pine tree has stood for well over a century.

Worry begone!

Attitude is everything, I tell myself and the little carnival of four footed children who are clamoring for supper.  The cats are loudly protesting from every corner of the kitchen and the dogs are dancing around my feet, the little daschund nipping at my cuffs and giving me deeply soulful looks.  The simplicity of their needs and lives brings me back to reality and I fill the eight dishes, put them in their accustomed places, and stand back to make sure nobody gets out of line.

All they ask is food, shelter, a warm bed at night and someone to love them.  As a general rule, they're almost always smarter and more well adjusted than I am.  Worry begone!

Fish for Supper

My Uncle Ernie was what my grandmother called "a right serious" fisherman.


Fish for supper, Mother! he told my her cheerfully as he slung his creel over his shoulder, gathered his rods and reels and pulled his old cap over his shaggy hair.  I was allowed to carry our lunch in one hand and a bucket of worms in the other.


Down the gravel driveway we went on a beautiful summer day, walked for just a bit on the road and then turned into the dirt road that led to the lake.  The woods were cool and smelled of evergreen and I remember my uncle whistling - there was a spring in his step all the way.  We settled on a grass covered incline under the shade of a tree, a lazy spot close to the water.  Uncle Ernie baited the hooks and cast both lines in easy, graceful movements then pulled his cap over his eyes and stretched out.  I sat next to him, hugging my knees and rocking back and forth, hoping he might smoke his pipe and feeling ever so lucky that he'd finally agreed to let me come along.  I began to chatter and he gave me a stern look.


Fishing is about being quiet, he told me, and being patient.


I hushed, content to watch the lake ripple and shimmer with colors.


In due time, a fish swam by, snagged the worm and took the bait.  Alerted by a small bell at the end of his fishing rod, Uncle Ernie was instantly upright - there was a brief struggle and the clear water turned grainy with sand - I held my breath and then the fish gave a mighty jerk and was free.


Bugger! my uncle exclaimed and reeled in his line, put a fresh worm on the hook and re-cast.  When my line went suddenly taut and the rod began to spin, he grabbed me and put me behind his knees, holding my hands on the pole with a fierce grip and guiding me through the motions.  Amazingly, the fish was landed and he carefully showed me how to remove the hook - the worms hadn't bothered me much but this made my stomach lurch a little.  He deposited it neatly into the creel, assured me I was "a natural" and gave me a broad smile.


The sleepy afternoon passed.  Warmed by the sun, watching the clouds and listening to the woods, I fell almost asleep, only distantly hearing the occasional Bugger! or Gotcha, you old sonofabitch!


When we had what Uncle Ernie judged was enough fish to feed a small army, we headed home.  Fish were sizzling in Nana's old cast iron skillet in no time while Aunt Norma and I began to set the table.  It was then that my daddy asked me if we'd had a good time and I proudly announced the new words I'd learned - in the abrupt silence that followed my Aunt Norma gave a small, startled shriek, dropped a dinner plate and then looked stunned as it broke into a dozen different pieces.  At the stove, my grandmother abandoned the skillet and fixed my Uncle Ernie with what my mother called her wrath of God look - tight lipped, narrow eyed, and not to be trifled with.


Ernest!  she snapped icily.


Uncle Ernie began to stammer, his handsome good looks went a little pale.  Now, Mother...... he began tentatively, edging toward the dining room, I didn't mean ..I mean I didn't realize what I ...I would never.. 


Feeling the doorway on either side, he turned tail and fled.  


You might catch the fish but you don't always get to eat'em.






  
  

Fireworks

It started with a small sparkler, a brief flare of color that fizzled, died and might have done no harm - but within a few hours it had ignited and started a blazing fire.  The families aligned on either side of the flames, sister against sister, mother doing her best to make peace, children caught between.  It was the eve of Independence Day, still daylight, but the fireworks were made of tears and threats, harsh words and ultimatums - they were loud, angry, and desperate, ringing with accusation and blame.



True enough, our choices are so much our own that we sometimes forget the collateral damage.  So busy are we fighting fire with fire, matching and overshouting each hurtful word, that we wander off target and use anything we can think of as ammunition.  Original disagreements turn poisonous and any legitimate point we might have been trying to make gets lost in the noise. 


The children listen, not knowing which way to go and trying hard not to cry.  They may not comprehend the language or the issues, but they completely understand the emotions, especially the angry ones.



It seems to me that we can always choose to fuel the fire or do our best to put it out.  


We do too much of one and not enough of the other.  And only the fireworks are left.

The Girl from Uncertain

She belts out a song like nobody's business.

With a thick mane of red hair, a guitar slung over one shoulder, and a voice that can go from tender love song to bar room brawl in an instant, the girl from Uncertain puts on a show.  Sometimes it's the lyrics that make her smile, sometimes it's the company, sometimes I think it's just that she's alive and singing, making each moment a celebration.  She doesn't hesitate or show fear or back off and as I get to know her better, I come to understand that it's how she lives her life - brazenly independent, determined, learning with every mistake and always coming back stronger.


She's on her 7th marriage, I'm stunned to discover, eight years now and still holding - a record, she tells me with a genuine grin and a shake of that amazing hair.  She can drive an 18 wheeler or operate a forklift, wait tables or arrange flowers.  She's a graphic artist with her own sign company and remarkably has two grown children - married at seventeen will do that, she says with a hint of pride.  All in all, she's a windstorm of talent, courage, confidence and survival, a woman of strength.  I suspect she gave up regrets a long time ago in favor of moving on, choosing to dwell on the good parts and downplay the bad.  


The women in my life who have inspired me all know a little something about adversity and getting past it.


My friend Tricia - we've known each other for the better part of thirty years and my trust in her is absolute.  She scolds, worries, advises, praises and is always there, no matter what foolishness I've gotten myself into.


My friend Iris - we've known each other pretty much since we could walk.  When I need logic and a push in the right direction, when I get lost in a fog, she's like a lighthouse.  Our memories go back a very long way.


My cousin Linda - reconnecting with her these past few years has taught me about tenacity, courage, self pity, and tolerance.  She's nearly the last of my blood family, a source of endless encouragement and understanding.

These are the women who have faced and conquered it all - divorce, widowhood, long term illness, social stigma and motherhood.  They are bright, funny, articulate and wise and each is a source of strength to me, living proof of what can be accomplished with determination, hard work, patience and no small amount of confidence.



Believe in what you can do.
Do what makes you happy.
It's easier than you think and worth every single second of effort.












  

Dead Eyes

Her fall from grace has been swift with as many ups and downs as any high class roller coaster ride.  After her husband's desertion, she slipped effortlessly into an abusive relationship - ended it and found another with an old high school sweetheart.  She remarried within weeks and has been paying the price ever since - her children are now estranged from her, her sister refuses to listen any longer, she's at war with her mother, and her job hangs by the thinnest of threads.  It's tragic and painful to watch.


Might as well talk to the wall, the doctor says wearily after his latest closed door chat with her, At least the wall hears me.


She emerges from his office dry eyed and blank looking, seemingly untouched and unmoved by the session.  She no longer meets your eyes when she speaks, she shuffles about the office like a robot, smiling less and never laughing.  She's there and yet not - the chaos of her personal life has overwhelmed her and she's simply shut down.  Because it has to be done, her sister and I pick up the slack, finishing her tasks and double checking her paperwork - any ability to be accurate is long gone and she's far too distracted to follow through on even the smallest of details.  Her cell phone hums incessantly and she ducks into an exam room to text her answers, leaving her work untended and patients waiting.  When the doctor catches her, she accepts the reprimand with dead eyes and no defense.  I doubt she even hears it. 


The atmosphere in the office is tense and suspicious, seething with gradually building resentment and wrapped in a transparent layer of anger.  We're weary of the drama, the closed door meetings, the threats and distrust and the escalating stress.  She's rejected all offers of help and turned silently defiant, certain that we don't understand her, and more, that we're all against her.  I can't help but suspect that a part of her knows the truth about the man she married so hastily, knew it at the time and chose to bury it.  And now, having traded her children and family and self respect for his company, she has no protection save her denial.  


How do you know that? the doctor asks me.


I don't just know, I tell him with more honesty than I once thought I'd ever have, I remember.


Alcoholism isn't a spectator sport. Eventually the whole family gets to play ~ Joyce Rebeta-Burditt

Quick! Make a Wish!

On rare occasions, my daddy - a lifelong Luckies smoker - traded in his cigarettes for a pipe.  He packed it from a pouch he carried in his back pocket and lit it with a wooden match - drawing and exhaling the sweet smoke until it caught.  He became philosophical at such times, often telling me it made him feel wise, able to think deep thoughts and appreciate the stars.


Not every man can carry off a pipe, you know, he remarked one evening as we sat on the side porch, You were very discerning to know that I was one of them.


Indeed, I said and laughed.  I had to admit a pipe smoker always made me think of words like distinguished and professorial and even discerning but I also knew that since it had been a gift from me, he was likely to smoke it just to please me.


On this night, he leaned back on his elbows with the pipe between his teeth, making a handsome silhouette if you overlooked the paint stained khaki pants ( he'd spent the day whitewashing the flagpole ) and the shabby, sleeveless t shirt.  He studied the stars as if expecting them to speak - a quiet, soft spoken man still searching for peace in a very loud and unruly world - and pointed out the constellations to me, tracing their outlines for me and sighing at the cosmic wisdom of it all.


God did good, don't you think, he asked softly.


He did, I agreed.


Just over the lighthouse, a shooting star blazed by and he sat up in a rush, losing his grip on the pipe and sending a small shower of sparks into the night air.  Quick! he said urgently, Make a wish!


Startled, I looked up to see the tail end of the star melting away.  I made my wish - for more nights just like this one - and then it was gone.


My daddy pulled out his tobacco pouch and re-packed his pipe, went through the whole process of re-lighting it and settled back on his elbows again, long legs crossed at the ankles and face turned upward.


They're not really stars at all, you know, he said eventually, just chunks of rock and space dust burning up in the atmosphere.  I don't guess that've made much of song though.


Guess not, I agreed companionably.


When you wish upon a rock....he sang then shook his head and laughed dryly, Nope, just isn't the same.  


Tendrils of smoke swirled and drifted through the warm night air and we stayed and watched the stars until my mother called for me to go to bed.  I went reluctantly, not wanting to let go of the perfect night, the pipe smoke, or the handsome silhouette of my daddy against the star filled sky.


Funny how often we don't recognize a memory in the making.

Spirit Chasing

Spirits flit around like shadows in the almost dark, always just at the edges of awareness and keeping out of sight.  They're shy creatures, made of memories and knowing that they can be dispelled by the light of reality.  Still, every now and again, I think I see one - as if in a dream, they drift past me then dart back into the half light.  Some I would like to chase and capture, most I would prefer to chase down and beat senseless.  When they speak, it's in whispers so no one but me will hear.  They nag and gnaw at me like a dog worrying a bone, trying to drown out the positive energy with doubt and fearfulness, with plain old uncertainty.  They lie with absolute conviction.


I diminish them with faith, with optimism, and with accomplishment and they back off grudgingly.  But in the way of spirits, they retreat only to wait and watch for the next opportunity.  


Things change, I tell them, I am not the child you knew back then and you don't frighten me.  I give you no power over me.


It was not always so easy but thanks to good friends, good examples, a 12 step program and a lot of having no other choices, I learned to fight back.  The spirits still rage at times, raising the specters of resentment and anger.  They whisper in my ear and tempt me when I'm vulnerable, taunting me with self doubt and promises of revenge.  They do their best to keep me from trying with nasty warnings of failure and shame.  They still win the occasional battle but on the whole, I can chase them off.  One battle, I remind myself, doesn't lose the war.


I suppose we all have these spirits and demons at our heels but when we turn and confront them, despite their sulking and spitting, they eventually slink away.  


We make them - we can unmake them
We give them power - we can take it away.
We live with them - we can live without them.


The past is a ghost, the future a dream and all we really have is now ~ Bill Cosby

Under a Yellow Sky

Just after 6am and the morning is already steamy hot - I think I could cut the air into slices and serve it like birthday cake.  The patch of sky I can see through the trees is yellowish and threatening, probably filled with rain, just waiting for its moment.   Summer in the south means suffocating heat and god awful humidity, weather advisories and warnings.  This is hurricane season when nature loses her temper and hail the size of marbles can rain down in June.  Contrary to what we all brightly tell visitors, you don't get used to it - you just wait it out, praying for a river breeze and the air conditioning not to fail.


Whether it's age or hormones or just the slow decline of my naturally sunny disposition, I don't know, but I mind the heat more than I used to.  I'm reminded of my mother - always sweating and short tempered as soon as the weather turned, too exhausted and miserable to do more than sit and fan herself.   Even before she began menopause she lived in a kind of perpetual hot flash from May to October, self medicating with alcohol and a variety of over the counter, useless aids.   By the time full on summer arrived, all we could do was follow my daddy's example - stay out of her way and hope for the best, a breeze off the lake perhaps or a new window unit.  You never knew when a small rain cloud would turn into a hurricane.



I knew it was a callous thought, but there were times I thought that on some level she might've enjoyed her suffering.  If nothing else, I was positive she liked the attention and deference it afforded her - it reinforced her concept of center stage, of being the main attraction.  She was an unpredictable old drunk, much like a gathering storm under a yellow sky - might blow itself out and pass harmlessly by - or might make landfall and wreak havoc.


Never trust an unmarried woman, a travelin' salesman or a sick lookin' sky, Sparrow used to say, Ain't a shred of conscience in any of 'em.


After building and biding its time all day, the storm struck in late afternoon - the wind sheared through the trees like a tornado, bowing, bending and finally snapping limbs clean off.  The rain began gently but within minutes was coming down in torrents and then there was the hail, slamming violently into the deck and the driveway, sharply bouncing off the roof like metal pellets out of the sky.  The cats ran for cover and the dogs began to whine anxiously.  It was over in a matter of minutes.


Red sky at night, sailor's delight.
Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.


There was no rhyme for a yellow sky.  Deservedly so.

Think Quiet

Sometimes all we need is to learn is to think quiet.


I walk into the house after work and am greeted with a symphony of sound that makes me yearn for a spa day.The cats twine around my ankles, anxiously meowing all in different keys and the dogs - the black one howls like a banshee, the small brown one beats on her kennel door and cries, and the little daschund sounds as if he's being beaten senseless.  For a half second, I consider pretending that I've entered the wrong house and making a hasty exit.  The noise is deafening and discordant and oh, so welcome.


After everybody's fed and watered and let outside, peace descends - the cats groom themselves then find places for their after dinner naps while the dogs all gravitate to wherever I am and curl up as close as they can get.  In minutes, the whole circus is content and fast asleep.  And so the days and evenings go, chaos and quiet taking turns.  The next morning there is a fierce thunderstorm raging overhead and knowing the dogs will never venture out, I reset the alarm and go back to bed.  But an hour later when it still hasn't passed, I throw on some clothes and make a run to the car for the umbrella - then drag three protesting little bodies into the back yard for as long as I can stand.  They're miserable and wet and anxious about the thunder but they try their best and once back inside, after I towel them off and give them a biscuit, they burrow in the bedclothes and go to sleep again.  Not ten minutes later the storm is over but too late to do me much good.  I take a quick shower, dry my hair, and hop back into bed for a nap while the curlers heat up.


Here's a trick I learned from living with my animals - learn to think quiet in the midst of chaos. Sanity and reason can prevail if you don't join in.

Praise, Don't Punish

Might've been the thunder I imagined I heard.
Could've been the single and silent lighting strike that I dreamed split a jagged line across the sky.
But more'n likely, it was the soft whine and anxious, gentle throat kiss from a small daschund that woke me.  As soon as I stirred from sleep, he pounced like a tiny tiger. 


Out?  I asked sleepily and he nudged my neck fiercely, his entire body quivering with anticipation, his every ready, set, go! movement an encouragement.  I pushed aside the covers and stumbled out of bed - it was quarter after three in the morning.  On the deck it was just beginning to rain and the air was hot and still.  I watched him disappear into the shadows, then emerge in a proud strut, enthusiastically covering his tracks and looking  pleased with himself as he trotted back to me.


Good dog!  I told him and stroked his ears, Good dog!


A few hours later that same morning, as I cleaned up a mess he had not woken me for, I reminded myself it was about praise, not punishment - about practice and consistency and reinforcing good behavior - not so different than raising a child, I told myself.  Praise builds up and strenghtens, makes you  proud and determined to do better.  Punishment tears down and singles out flaws, makes you feel unloved and worthless. 
None of us hear good job! nearly enough, not as children, not as adults.


Patience, I said aloud, Aside from stain and odor removers may be the greatest gift we ever find.


The storm that had been so perilously close at hand at 3 am had dissipated and passed by.  The sky was clear and light although the air was heavy and close with early morning humidity.  It was going to be another scorching day. I let the dogs out one final time before I left for work and watched the little daschund find a patch of leaves and lift his stubby back leg.


Good dog!  I told him again and gave him a hug.


I was rewarded with a kiss and a look from those shining, innocent brown eyes that words can't describe but  any true dog lover knows well - it warms your heart and reminds you that every life is a gift and should be treasured.


Praise, don't punish.  It makes all the difference.


 What a good dog!
 Barbara Woodhouse

The Search for Shiloh

Between the rocky cliffs that fell off to the ocean and the tree line of the Westport woods, deep in the lonely shadows where not even the dogs would go, there was alleged to be a cave that Shiloh called home.  He had, so folks said, retreated to it in childhood and had never left.  He lived in complete isolation and independence, talking to the trees and befriending wounded animals but, Nana assured me, it was only a legend - no one had seen him in decades - and despite the dire threats of what could happen to a foolish soul venturing into the dark, no one had ever turned up dead or even gone missing for long.  The children knew better, of course, but their tales of a wild eyed man in rags who walked with wolves and sheltered injured creatures of all kinds were written off to imagination and childish fantasy.  No one paid them any mind but no one attempted to prove them wrong either - a fact the children were well aware of though the grownups preferred to overlook it.


Is he real? I asked Sparrow one evening as we watched the sun setting behind the Westport skyline, Is there really a man who keeps the woods safe?


There was once, the old man answered gruffly, But it was a long time ago.  Now it's just a story to keep the lil' ones out of trouble.


Is he real? I asked John Sullivan as he and his brother baited hooks in the early morning sunshine.


He is if'n you want him to be, John allowed with a shrug, but it ain't a good idea to go lookin'.


Is he real? I finally asked James one Sunday after church, thinking that a preacher would give me a straight answer.


But the minister just smiled and gave me a quick hug.  


Adults were clearly not going to own up to knowing much of anything, I decided, so I would go to the source.  Cap agreeably let me and Ruthie make the crossing on a sunny morning - we had thought it would be safer in daylight, though of course we reassured each other, there was nothing to fear - and once across the passage we walked hand in hand through the village and to the woods.  There, as we stood uncertainly where the sun didn't quite reach, we hugged, took deep breaths, whispered the words of a last minute, just in case spell we'd gotten from Glenda and sprinkled the path before us with magic herbs we'd pleaded for from Rowena.  Then with all the innocence and resolution of eight year old girls trying to be very brave, hoping for the best and as prepared as we could be for the worst, we crossed the line together.

Side Tracked

After months of begging and pleading and a half dozen letters to Santa asking for a Lionel train set, my brother got his wish.  By mid January, he had lost all interest in it and it lay piled up and abandoned in a corner of his closet, gathering dust.  One fine spring night, my daddy packed up all the pieces and took them to the basement, intending to sort them out and give the whole works away to Goodwill, where as my mother remarked a little bitterly, it might find its way to a grateful child - but somewhere along the way, he had a change of heart and ended up spending weeks and then months designing and building a model city for the train to run through.  The entire affair was mounted on a wooden platform supported by sawhorses and to my mother's dismay, when complete it took up better than half the basement - but even she had to admit it was impressive.  There were roads and bridges, trees and tunnels, streetlights and storefronts, all made of plastic and paper mache.  Railroad track wound up, down, and through it all and the train - locomotive, boxcars, flatcars and caboose - steamed cheerfully along its path.  I remember he used black thread for wires, painstakingly woven from one telephone pole to the next, and fluffs of cotton for snow, but mostly I remember the clear mountain lake on the outskirts of town - smooth as glass when the train wasn't running, ice blue and clear - made from Aqua Velva.  Even as a child I realized it was a masterful achievement and my usually modest daddy swelled with pride when he showed it off.


At some point, my mother wearied of the obstacle course she had to run to navigate her way to the washing machine and dryer and she decreed that the train had to go.  My daddy slowly and carefully un-built it all, packing each piece in tissue paper and boxing it up.  I never knew whether it made its way to Goodwill or storage, maybe with Nana's delicate and carefully maintained Christmas village, he never said.


I was long gone by the time the house was sold and I never knew what happened to the material things with the exception of what ended up transported to the lake.   We lose and leave behind the trappings as we move through life, we give up old habits and learn new ones. We have to in order to grow and and progress.    Life doesn't stand still for the good parts or the bad.


For a little while, all the bells and whistles of the Lionel train set consumed our evenings.  Its construction taught us the value of craft and workmanship, of dedication and finishing what you started, of persistence and keeping promises you make to yourself.  Then it taught us that everything has its time.  And finally it taught us that things are only things - they won't help you to heaven or keep you warm at night and you can't measure a life in terms of what you accumulate in possessions.


Sometimes in the stillness of the morning when I hear a distant train whistle, I think of my daddy, that Lionel train set and the city he built for it.  Until then, I'd never thought he'd been proud of anything except his children.














  

Mud Huts & Minuets

Slowly but surely and with a little help from my trusty Nikon, I am coming to like and appreciate the art of dance.


My friend Tricia danced as a young girl and my friend Iris took ballet growing up but nothing about it ever appealed to me - like the piano lessons I was forced into, it seemed a silly way to spend time when I could be out playing softball or building a mud hut.  It was, in a word, sissified, something I'd vowed never to be.  When the doctor asked if I might be interested in photographing his daughter's monthly dance performances, I agreed and hoped my reluctance didn't show.  It would be a change of pace from the dark, smoky bars and with any luck there would be stage lighting and good backgrounds.  I didn't expect to enjoy it much but the man does sign my paychecks and having become accustomed to certain aspects of Southern life, I couldn't think of a graceful way to say no.  On the way to the theatre, an unwelcome memory suddenly surfaced -  my twelve year old self in blue velveteen pants, an imitation powdered wig and a blue cap with a white feather, dancing a Chopin minuet with an equally ridiculously costumed and humiliated female partner at our end of the year piano and dance recital.  It was the only time in my life that I'd ever regretted choosing basketball over ballroom dancing.  Never again, we'd solemnly promised each other when the dreadful dance was finally finished and we fled the stage to scrub off the horrendous makeup and change back into regular clothes.  We'd had few friends in the audience that night but word gets around and neither of us wanted to show our face for days.  What, we lamented, could be any more sissified than a minuet?  The horror of it haunted us.

There were, mercifully, no minuets at the performance.  I set my fastest lens on my camera and found a quiet corner where I thought I might capture the best lighting and set to work.  The dancers were young and thin to the point of being malnourished, but they moved with stunning grace, flexibility and unity.  The costumes were colorful but simple, the music often familiar, the smiles genuine.  The more I watched, the more taken I was, I think I knew somewhere but had forgotten that dance requires iron discipline and sacrifices I would never even dream of making.  I stayed for the entire dress rehearsal and was pleased to return for the next performances, each time a little more captivated.


Photographing dancers in fair or mood lighting is a new challenge - learning to wait for the right shot at the right moment, to capture the suggestion of movement while there's stillness - I quickly saw that it was a matter of luck and prayer and overshooting.


Even an old dog can learn a new trick or two and in the meantime I've decided to delete the word sissified from vocabulary.

The Looking Glass Speaks

One perfectly ordinary, run of the mill morning, the looking glass speaks.  Surprise, it tells me, You're too old to die young.


I meet the mirror's steady gaze, noting the circles underneath my eyes, the paragraph marks on either side of my mouth, all the lines and creases and imperfections that show my age - they're not flaws so much as badges - and I find I don't mind nearly as much as I expected to.  If nothing else, I'm a survivor with a stubborn streak.... a little tired, a little broke down but still up and about and able to take a little nourishment in the form of music and photography, friends and my little ones at home.  This Sunday morning is so full of sun, so clear and cool for the last day of May, so perfect it makes me want to cry.  The only sounds are the muted chatter of a squirrel high in the pine tree and the doves somewhere in the next yard.  A redbird alights on the fence for the briefest moment, its bright feathers shining in the sun, its movements quick and delicate.  After a second or two, it spreads its wings and glides smoothly and gracefully off.



I remember the exultation of 21, the trauma and depression of 30, the resignation of 40, the reality of 50 and finally the acceptance and fatalism of 60.  Each decade brought change and challenge, both good and bad.  I said goodbye to old friends and hello to new ones, learned new skills and shed old habits, did my best to adapt to each new situation, wavering between the past and the future while trying to stay in the present.  The scenery and the weather seemed to change with each passing year as did the faces - I searched for something constant and came up empty handed - every day was a day nearer the end than the beginning.


It may be too late for me to be sent to an early grave, but this I know - we become old only when we allow it.


Hail to the rainbow of available hair colors and wrinkle creams and slimming jeans, the anti-aging serums and
lifting creams and all the Jenny Craigs in the world - they will not save you.


On the other hand, nothing says you have to actually listen to the looking glass - it can only see the surface and the surface is always a tad deceptive, always a little more interested in how we appear than how we actually are.  Age is nothing to run from and our true reflections are inside us. 

An Inside Job

One way or another, it was clearly an inside job.


Completely unprepared for chaos, I turned the key and opened the front door and was immediately tackled about the ankles by nine and a half pounds of very excited, very anxious, and very proud of himself daschund - the very same nine and a half pounds I was reasonable sure I'd left in a kennel that very morning.


It appeared that he'd done some redecorating - the bed had been unmade, the sofa pillows rearranged, a wastebasket was upended and there were indications that he'd tried to clean out the guest room closet.  He raced around like a wind up toy, showing off all he'd accomplished, obviously pleased with himself, right down to the tell tale wet spot on the carpet.  I told myself that too much time had passed for him to be scolded and make the connection but the truth was that I didn't have the heart to punish him and spoil his moment.  I let the other dogs out of their kennels and we all went out to the back yard - they went about their business calmly and routinely, while he rushed around the perimeter a half dozen times like a tiny whirling dervish and finally crashed at my feet.


Although I still suspected a fine feline hand in all this, I had no proof and the cats weren't talking -  I didn't like it but reasonable doubt prevailed and I had to make room for the possibility that I hadn't completely secured the kennel latch.  A careless moment perhaps or my sub conscious at work, I wasn't sure, but there was no real harm done and the little one had had himself a fine morning.


This is life with dogs - a little chaotic, a little loud, and a whole lot of love.