To The Manor Born

The line to the pharmacy counter was six deep and it took me a minute to recognize the older woman in front of me. The years hadn't been kind to Miz Adelaide – she'd gained a considerable amount of weight, her skin had turned to crepe paper and her once lustrous bleached blonde hair was wispy and balding in places. What hadn't changed was her uppity, self importance – that was still very much intact. She complained and whined about being made to wait to everyone that would listen. She drummed her once perfectly manicured nails on the rim of her shopping cart and tapped her foot in annoyance. She shifted her weight and tried to peer into the pharmacy as if demanding to be acknowledged. Every impatient and put upon gesture was accompanied by a hugely audible sigh but nothing was working. I'm not proud of it, but I was enjoying the moment. I could recall the hundreds of time I'd waited on her in the photo store and seen exactly the same behavior, the same old money'd arrogance and entitlement. In some ten years of weekly visits, she'd barely bothered to learn my name. Even so, I didn't want to risk being recognized so I was careful to keep my back to her and keep my smile to myself.

I'm smart enough to know that how I feel about women like Miz Adelaide is more about me than them but I'm a grudge keeper and think that forgiveness is mostly overrated. As a general rule,

I'm happy to be overlooked except when I'm not. More than once I've had the thought that age clarifies your outlook, not always in a good way. There's a fine line between service and servitude and women like Miz Adelaide cross it without a backward glance or a second thought. Again, I'm not exactly proud of feeling she's earned this particular moment in the pharmacy line but I'm not exactly ashamed either.

She reaches the counter and immediately initiates an argument with the cashier, petulantly complaining about the wait, the lack of efficiency, the price of the prescription and the overall state of the country, which in her opinion is disgraceful and completely the fault of anyone who didn't vote republican. She persists in this shabby tirade well after the helpless cashier (who I suspected wasn't even old enough to vote) has apologized several times, then snatches the pharmacy bag out of the poor child's hand and jerks her shopping cart out of line, plowing directly into the cart of an unsuspecting shopper who happened to be passing. There is, of course, no apology offered, instead she glares at the hapless woman then storms off down the

makeup aisle, looking perfectly prepared to mow down anyone who crosses her path.

“White trash,” a voice behind me says distinctly.

“Sing it, sista,” a second voice adds.

It was a crossroads moment that could've led to a minor riot or at the very least an ugly scene. It could even have led to a conversation. Instead it led to laughter, only a trickle at first, but then a full out wave. Strangers grinned at each other and shook their heads with something very close to pity. Even the pharmacy staff smiled although discreetly. The woman shopper who had almost been run down flashed a thumbs up sign and what could have been a thoroughly nasty incident turned into a small victory for civility and unity.

You can't be beaten by something you laugh at ~ Jonathan Harnisch

Storms

The storm hit just after 4 in the morning with a tremendous shotgun crack of thunder and a protracted series of lightning that lit up the sky like white neon. The little dashshund woke with a start and gave a small whimper before burrowing deeper into my side. The tiny one, fast asleep above my head, barely stirred. The rain came, hard and cold and falling fiercely, tearing the newly blooming azaleas to shreds and bending the crepe myrtles like so many paper straw wrappers. A second crash of thunder set the walls to vibrating and now thoroughly terrorized, the little dashshund yelped and frantically began to dig his way beneath me. I reassured him as best I could, speaking softly hugging him tightly and pulling the blanket over both our heads. It took several minutes but eventually he began to relax, tucking his whole head under my chin and holding on for dear life. After awhile, it got me to thinking about how little comfort we can sometimes offer those we love, especially perhaps when they need it the most.

I had visited my friend, Jean, earlier the day before and come away feeling helpless and worried and depressed. She'd had steroids with her last chemotherapy treatment and was chatty and perky and cheerful enough but she looked beaten up and unhealthily thin. She moved with a fragile unsteadiness and had trouble following the conversation. The skin on either side of her throat was red and raw from the radiation and she kept a cold compress wrapped around her neck and shoulders. It chilled her so she'd tucked her hair under a loosely fitting green knit cap and wrapped herself in a thick shawl. The overall effect was frailty and weakness - I was reminded of a child playing dress up in clothes several sizes too big. We talk and tell stories, make up silly jokes, plan the places we will go when she's well and can taste food again. I tell myself anyone would look like this after 4 weeks of daily radiation and weekly chemotherapy. The doctors tell her, so she tells me, that she's tolerating it well and there is every reason to hope. Maybe so, but there's a part of me that sees shadows in this sweet little house. Granted, they're hiding in the corners for now and there are days when they seem to be gone entirely but

I can't shut them out completely. I'm afraid for my friend and for myself and I despise my helplessness.

Meanwhile, my dear friend, Tricia, has been thoroughly leveled by a gastrointestinal bug. I find her wrapped in a blanket and huddled miserably in her recliner. She looks like – forgive me, Tricia – death on a stick, thin, colorless, fragile and cold, too sick to move. Just like Jean, there's nothing I can do to comfort her or ease her pain and this harsh helplessness gnaws and grates on me like an abscess. There is an almost chronic weariness in her dark eyes, a sense of futility in the circles beneath them. She looks haggard and beaten and racked with pain. A few days later when she rallies - just a little – I wonder at her tenacity and will. I feel grateful and guilty all at the same time, so glad we are such good friends but at odds with myself for not being able to share or at least ease her suffering. It strikes me that the unfairness of how life treats us is a cold hearted bitch indeed and I make a mental note to remind myself to be more aware and appreciative of my own circumstances.

God has a plan, Jean tells me, and it's not ours to know. The agnostic in me thinks it's all a sad, man-made fiction but the part that wants to believe hangs on for dear life.

Tar and Feathers

According to Cap, who delivered the news with a grin and a shake of his head, Mary Louise found out about Ella Ann on Tuesday, Ella Ann found out about Mary Louise on Wednesday, and on Thursday, Travis Prime hastily packed a bag and took off for parts unknown.

“Boy was waitin' on the first crossin',” Cap reported, “Dancin' around like the devil was at his heels and catchin' up fast.”

Nana was unsympathetic. “You lay with dogs, you get fleas,” she said coldly, “Boy never did have the sense God gave geese and neither of them wimmen is blind or stupid. They was bound to catch on sooner or later.”

“Reckon so,” Cap nodded, “Never did unnerstand it myself, all the boy's ever had was them good looks and he'll grow outta them.”

“Good looks and good sense don't always end up together,” Aunt Pearl shrugged, “Leastways he was smart enough to run.”

Aunt Vi sighed. “I s'pose so,” she said sadly, “But I ain't sure he's smart enough to keep goin'.”

On the scandal scale, it was enough to keep the bored villagers talking for a few weeks but, most everyone said, it wasn't much to write home about. And then on one warm summer afternoon,

Ella Ann and Mary Louise happened to run into each other at the post office. They could've ignored one another. They could've had a catfight right in the dusty street. They could've glared and turned their backs. They even could have been frostily polite to one another and left, as the postmistress pretty much expected they would do.

“You jist never kin tell 'bout folks,” Thelma told everyone who would listen, “Who'd a thought to see them two walk out arm 'n'arm like long lost friends! Gon' be a bad day for ol' Travis Prime, I reckon.”

And indeed it was. To the village's bewilderment, Mary Louise and Ella Ann united, pooled their resources and hired themselves a private detective from Halifax to track and locate Travis. It didn't take long before he was found, waiting tables in a down and out diner in a more down and out section of St. John and pretty much living out of his beat up old '47 Chevy. The entire island was on edge with anticipation - the Sullivan boys made a killing taking odds on what the women would do – and it seemed like overnight, the ordinary little scandal caught fire and no one was talking about anything else. Breach of contract and alienation of affections became popular phrases, but both came in a close second and third to tar and feathers. Rumor had it that Travis, feeling rightfully anxious, lit out - sold the Chevy for a song, signed on to an Alaskan bound tramp steamer - and disappeared. There were random sightings over the years, from a logging camp and a fishing fleet to one promising lead from an off shore oil rig but nothing ever led anywhere. Travis was in the wind and for most of the island, it was good riddance. The silver lining was that Ella Ann and Mary Louise became good friends and eventually bought Miz Hilda's old Victorian house, moved in together and rented rooms to the summer folk. On those warm summer evenings, you could see them in their wooden rocking chairs, watching the sunsets and drinking homemade strawberry wine on the veranda with their guests. Travis's name was never mentioned and it was never proven that the women kept a bucket of tar and a bag of feathers in their shed, just in case.

The Third Grave

The air was heavy with a misty, left over rain and the sun wasn't making much progress when I realized the little dachshund had found yet another new way out of the yard. I snatched my keys, threw on on my Nikes and left to go retrieve him. I found him on the lawn of my next door neighbor, sitting still and quiet beside the body of one of my favorite neighborhood cats. It felt as if someone had rammed a knife into my chest. I led my little one back, returned with a towel to wrap up the small, lifeless body and carried him across the street to his home. It was just after seven on a gray-ish Sunday morning and I hated to have to wake Amanda but it'd have been far worse for her never to know. I had to ring the bell several times and listening to her dogs barking from inside, I wanted desperately to give up. She finally answered the door, still rubbing sleep from her eyes and hushing the dogs, frowning at the bundle in my arms.

“Hey,” she began, “What's up and who is............” and then she saw and crumpled into a heap, shaking and sobbing. It was several minutes before she was coherent and all I could do was hold her beloved cat and wait. Words are cold comfort at times like this.

It'd have been unforgivably cruel to bring up the fact that this sweet natured animal would still be alive if he'd been kept inside but it was a thought I'd had about Amanda's cats dozens of times. This is the third one she's lost to the outside world and for the sake of her two remaining inside/outside cats, I had a fierce urge to grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her. I didn't do it, of course, you don't beat up someone who's just lost a beloved animal. Not even when it's the third one, not even when there may be a fourth or fifth.

Later that afternoon, we dug a third grave in the rain-softened ground in her back yard. It was impossibly sad and both of us were in tears. When we were done, we hugged briefly and I walked home slowly to gather my own little ones and be grateful for them.

Three Cookies and a Diet Coke

The line of hopeful wannabe models stretches out the door and around the corner. They are tall and short, black and white, blonde and brunette, thin and family sized. It's going to be another three cookies and a Diet Coke for lunch kind of day.

They have been clearly and specifically told to bring a current photo. Many don't.

They have been clearly and specifically told not to bring their entire family of 12. Many do.

They have clearly and specifically been told what to wear. They ignore the instructions.

They have been clearly and specifically told we will not see children under 6 The 3 year old twins and their parents leave in a huff.

They have clearly and specifically been told about being punctual. I turn away the three who stroll and slouch in a half hour after we start. They decide to argue and it almost turns heated but when I point out that if they can't be on time for an audition, how could I expect them to be on a time for a job, I prevail and they wander away like a herd of lost sheep.

With a little help from Michael, I manage to get them all signed in, seated, and more or less paying attention. He teaches them the basics of posture and a runway walk, then they all read a tv commercial, even the ones who obviously don't consider literacy a benefit and after a quickie question and answer session, we're done.

One or two have the height, one or two have the drive, one or two have the personality, one or two even have the resources but when it's all said and done, we hope for a shining star but settle for a festival of ordinary. Broadway and Hollywood will have to wait for the next crop of starry eyed dreamers.

In the meantime, maybe I can get a decent lunch.

Chickens & Charity

Rain or shine, fine or fogbound, Wednesday was the day Nana made her sick calls.

We packed the old Lincoln with a half dozen or so food baskets, cleaning supplies, a couple of boxes of books and magazines, some odds and ends and second hand clothing, and headed out to make the rounds. Sometimes Aunt Pearl or Aunt Vi or Miz Clara came with us, on rare occasions we picked up Uncle Len or John Sullivan to help with small repairs. If there were children on the list, we would try to include a used toy or game and even would bring one of the dogs. It was what Nana called, OUR CHRISTIAN DUTY.

“What goes around, comes around,” she assured me firmly, “Everyone needs a little charity now and then, whether they want it or not.”

I learned early that charity and pride don't always walk hand in hand and sometimes OUR CHRISTIAN DUTY was not as welcomed as we'd have liked. My grandmother was undeterred by the rare doors that were not thrown open for us and would just leave her care packages on the porches and move on.

“You can't take away folk's pride,” she told me with a smile and a shrug, “Sometimes it's all a body's got left.”

“Pride don't put food on the table or keep the lights burnin',” Miz Clara would observe sourly when her knock on the door wasn't answered but Nana ignored her and checked off another name on her list.

“Returned or not, Clara,” she chided her gently, “Ain't no harm in kindness.”

“Mebbe so,” Clara replied ruefully, “But it ain't no one way street neither.”

“I reckon we'd be done already if you two old hens would quit peckin' at each other,” John Sullivan remarked more loudly than necessary and both women glared at him briefly and then commenced to laugh.

“Wimmenfolk,” Long John muttered, “More trouble 'n chickens and christian duty put together.”

Visiting Hours

A gentle rain washes away the green pollen mist and a light breeze stirs the curtains at the windows. We sit, my friend Jean and I, and talk about everything and nothing – her cancer treatments, the new temporary dog groomer I've found, how she still misses her husband, what life and the future hold – it's comfortable and easy, sad and optimistic at the same time. She looks tired, a little lost, and her mind sometimes wanders. The radiation has stolen her ability to taste and made it hard for her to swallow. The chemotherapy is rough on her immune system. She grimaces and forces down a glass of gatorade. But her smile is still there – it takes a little more effort and lasts a little less long, but it's still there. This isn't her first battle with cancer and she isn't the giving up kind. I can't help but wonder if I were in her place, would I have her courage and grace or would my faith be as strong. Even facing cancer, there's a touch of mischief in that smile, a hint of the hope and humor that sustains her. I'm not at all sure that I would be so strong or so stubborn.

She's about to start the 3^rd week of a 10 week treatment protocol – radiation five afternoons a week plus chemotherapy each Thursday morning – her doctors are hopeful and her spirits are mostly good although every now and then her eyes cloud over and I can see the worry and the fear and the weariness. They creep around the edges of her mind, beckoning to the dark places we try so hard not to think about. She catches herself, shakes it off, closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe and relax, to meditate and let go.

“My mind needs healing as much as my body,” she tells me. Her voice is thinner, shakier than I like to hear, not quite as convincing as a couple of weeks ago. Seven more weeks of this, I think, will she ever be the same?

We have a lunch of buttered croissants, beef broth and smoothies and the minutes slip by as minutes will do. 

Seven Stitches Later

“This may be a little uncomfortable,” the surgeon says briskly, “I need you to stay still.”

Knowing “A little uncomfortable” really means it's going to hurt like hell, my heart starts to pound like a runaway jackhammer and then I'm totally distracted by the pain. I whimper, cuss and clench the paper sheet in a death grip. I feel branded, like a half dozen red hot pokers were suddenly rammed into the back of my neck. Sweet Jesus, I think, why did I turn down out patient surgery and being out cold? Meanwhile, somebody - good God, it's me - is moaning and while every muscle I have is freezing up, the doctor asks for additional anesthetic. Three times. Each fresh stick and burn feels like a blowtorch. Several more minutes pass.

“Tell me we're almost done,” I plead desperately, “Dear Jesus, please tell me we're almost done!”

“Just a couple more hours,” he tells me dryly just before another white hot stab of pain shoots into my neck and almost immediately I feel/hear/sense/visualize the slice of the scalpel. It hurts far less than the injections and I somehow manage to force my body to relax. Visions of horror movies begin to play in my mind - “The Pit and the Pendulum” is the most prominent – but it's quickly followed by variations of a mad scientist reanimating Boris Karloff as the Frankenstein monster. Scalpels and scars and stitches and dear God, please let me survive this. My last coherent thought is wondering how much pain a person can actually tolerate before they pass out mixed with how fortunate I'm not a spy, I'd sing like the proverbial canary.

 Troop strength?

Not a problem. 

 Names of double agents? In alphabetical order or by country?

Nuclear codes?

Just give me a pencil.

“Am I going to have a hole in my neck?” I ask, not quite realizing how ridiculous the question is.

“Big enough to drive a truck through,” the doctor says calmly, “But I'm going to stitch it up for you.”

“How thoughtful,” I mutter into the pillow, “A surgeon and a comedian.”

Seven stitches and five minutes later, the nurse presses on a bandaid, and it's over. I leave with a script for pain, a return appointment to have the stitches removed, and an urge to celebrate my survival.

An Ewok at the Door

There's no other way to put it. Standing outside the front door, in a navy blue hoodie with a muffler wrapped around his face, our IT guy looks like an overgrown ewok. As unpleased as I am to see him - these website sessions are like learning Arabic from someone who thinks and speaks at the speed of light and assumes I can keep up - it still makes me smile.

I've never enjoyed having to do things I don't do well and combined with the fact that brilliant people have a knack for making me nervous, I find myself wanting to wish away the next couple of hours. Computer literacy has always intimidated the hell out of me and everything I've ever learned has been through trial and error or stubbornness and luck. Website design is hard and complex and in a language I can't make heads nor tails of. What is second nature to our IT guy might as well be Mandarin to me. Despite my having expressed these sentiments a dozen times, he waves my uncertainty away and assures me I'm one of his best students. I tell him I feel fortunate to get a word every now and then and he tells me I'm a natural and laughs. I am not especially reassured.

We muddle on for the remainder of the morning with me taking as many notes as I can and hoping they'll make some kind of sense when he's gone.

It strikes me as odd that once upon a time I loved to learn and now I find it an exhausting and nerve wracking experience. I wonder if it's not that my memory banks are full of trivia - a half dozen telephone numbers that mattered when I was ten, the piano lessons I took at eight, the lyrics to “Calendar Girl” by Neil Sedaka, “100 Pounds of Clay” by Clyde McPhatter or from when I was a little older, the complete score to “The Music Man”. All that is fresh and readily accessible but I can't remember three simple steps to add an image to a website unless I've written them down.

No Bad News

“Don't nobody bring me no bad news.....”

The Wiz

We've known each other for better than 65 years. She is my oldest friend and impossibly dear to me. She writes that she's been diagnosed with a genetic mutation that predisposes her to certain cancers. I read her email slowly and carefully, three times in all, and then once more. The spectre of yet another precious friend with cancer turns my emotions into a kaleidoscope and I see all manner of jagged edge'd chaotic colors and shapes. They push and shove and grate against each other violently and I'm paralyzed with not knowing what to write back.

Later that same day, I visit with another dear friend just diagnosed with stage three throat cancer and facing a long, uncertain road of radiation and chemotherapy. We sit by her open bedroom window and talk while a warm breeze stirs the curtains and her beloved dog sits in her lap, looking at her with absolute devotion. The daffodils she planted in the front yard wave and bend gently in the promise of spring wind. I see the kaleidoscope still but it's less raucous and the colors are more pastel. Even so, I can't make sense of any of it.

It's all part of God's plan, my well-intentioned and more religious-minded friends like to tell me.

We're not supposed to understand it, they say with a confident, chin up smile. Be that as it may. It doesn't save lives or bring back the ones I've loved and lost. If there is a God (and agnostic or not, I do want desperately to believe) I can't see that He's paying much attention to this little world. Maybe, so often as I am tempted to do, He's had enough and has just given up. We have, it seems to me, made our own beds. Perhaps He thinks we should lie in them awhile.

And yet, as the poets say, hope springs eternal. How or why is often beyond me, but it does.

And I'm grateful if suspicious.

Another spring is right around the corner.

“The truth is that we know so little about life, we don't know what the good news is and what the bad news is.”  Kurt Vonnegut

Helen Dear

It's probably just as well that we don't always know what stirs a memory. I remember this one as clearly as I remember that bathroom – the water heater was there and the room was always toasty warm. There was a two level linen closet large enough to hold a couple of kids playing hide and seek and a single window, hung low and close to the floor. From it, you could see all of Peter's Island and the rise and curve of the Old Road. The walls were painted in a soft shade of cream with even softer yellow trim. It was a sunny, peaceful room. And there was a musical toilet paper holder.

“Alice,” my Aunt Helen said in a voice dripping with disapproval, “I must say that's the most appallingly tacky thing I've ever encountered. It's so unlike you and I must say I can't imagine what you were thinking of. I am, if I may say so, completely shocked and offended.”

“My dear wife,” Uncle Eddie remarked off handedly, almost managing to turn a laugh into a cough, “You just ended a sentence with a preposition. Whatever this appalling thing is, it must be practically a criminal offense.”

Aunt Helen glared at him, her mouth so grim and white I thought surely she would growl. She didn't but I was sure she wanted to. My gruff and usually down to earth uncle made a hasty exit but my grandmother just shrugged and tightened her grip on her knitting needles.

“Helen, dear,” she said cooly, as always making it sound as if it were one name, “You surely can't have led such a sheltered life to be undone by such a harmless and silly little thing.”

"You can hear it all through the house!” Helen protested righteously, “After all, one does expect a modicum of privacy in certain situations!”

It was then I realized they were talking about the musical toilet paper holder. Each time the roll was pulled on, it played a whimsically cheerful version of “Whistle While You Work”. Helen was right about one thing - Nana had very little sense of whimsy and it was very much unlike her.

My grandmother continued to knit ferociously, making a herculean effort to control her temper. I was gleefully preparing for fireworks, hoping as I always did, to see my prim, proper and detested aunt be brought down. Instead, she stiffened her well brought up spine and stubbornly stuck our her aristocratic chin.

“Really, Alice,” she resumed drearily, “It's quite intolerable that one's family should be exposed to such a lower class novelty.”

“Have another glass of sherry, Helen, dear,” my grandmother interrupted in the icy tone she reserved for truly the most impossible and egregious situations, “You're becoming overwrought over nothing.”

Aunt Helen fingered her perfect pearls, smoothed her cashmere sweater and matching skirt, adjusted her spectator pumps and then stood, checked that her stockinged seams were straight and her pearl earrings were securely in place. She was, I thought, every inch the blue blooded Boston headmistress of a girls finishing school - elegant, haughty, intolerant and insufferable. How could my blue collar, fair minded and cheerful uncle ever have married her?

“I have no wish to be disagreeable,” she was saying to my grandmother, who by then was white knuckled and barbed wire tense, “but I do think it's in everyone's best interest to remove........”

She never got to finish the sentence. Nana carefully put down her knitting needles, moved the yarn to its basket, closed the lid.

“Helen, dear,” she said venomously, “This is my house and you are a guest in it. If you are so disturbed by such foolishness, you are welcome to leave at any time. Or, if you value your privacy so much, you can always use the two holer in the garage. But you will no longer lecture me on everyone's best interests or tell me how to run my house.”

Shocked to her core and horrified speechless, my Aunt Helen turned deathly white, burst into tears and fled.

“Jesus wept,” I heard my grandmother say ruefully, “I've gone and done it this time. I don't expect I'll ever hear the end of this. Damn that woman and her society standards!”

It was my Uncle Eddie who saved the day. He coaxed Nana into an apology, soothed Aunt Helen and dried her tears and managed to restore a fragile peace. The two women made up and with effort and sustained mutual avoidance, got through the next two weeks. It was a narrow thing, the entire household knew, and it was hardly a real solution, but all out war had been averted for one more day.

Winter Days

And just like that, a week of sweet, warm February days is done and winter returns. The air is icy and the wind howls like a hungry coyote, everything is gray and lightly coated with frost. The dogs run out, disappear for a minute or two, then hastily trot back inside and make for the love seat and the warmth of the throw blanket. I find them curled so tightly together I can't see where one ends and the other begins. They don't even wait for a morning biscuit and while I want nothing more than to join them and stay put until April, it's up to me to keep the heat going, the lights on and their bowls filled. I ease into a second layer of long johns and pull on a second pair of socks, find yesterday's jeans and hooded sweatshirt, slip into my Nikes, gloves, knit cap with matching muffler, and prepare to face the outside day. I reach for the door knob and can practically feel my courage slipping away. Then at the last second, it dawns on me that I've forgotten my teeth and I get a momentary reprieve. I'm not entirely sure what I expected retirement or in my case, semi-retirement would be like but I'm reasonably sure this isn't it. One step outside and I'm paralyzed by the cold and overflowing with resentment at having to leave my solitary nest. Rational or not, I take winter's persecution quite personally. Golden years, my ass, I think as I fling my muffler over my face and make a dash for the car.

I thought, lo those many years ago, that Louisiana was far enough south to move to escape winter. I was seduced by that first 70 degree Christmas around the swimming pool, never anticipated ice storms and the other freaks of weather I've seen, torrential rains leading to massive flooding followed by droughts, tornadoes, hail, wicked, bitter cold that burns your face and numbs your fingers and toes. Summers, brutally hot as they may be, are never long enough to suit me. Given the choice of a blast furnace or a deep freeze, I'll take the heat every time.

About a quarter of the way to work, the little blue car is warm enough for me to discard my gloves and let my muffler slip off my face. The sun, weak and anemic but making an effort, starts to show through the slow moving clouds. The light is slim and by no means certain, but at least there's hope. When I arrive at Michael's and navigate my way through an avalanche of over-excited and unrestrained dogs, the house is relatively but reassuringly warm. I begin to think I may survive another day.

Look to the Future

At first I was sure I'd misheard him.

“A psychic?” I said uncertainly, “You mean like a fortune teller? A tarot card reader? The Amazing Kreskin? Have you completely lost your mind?”

I listened in stunned silence as he explained how it was something he'd always wanted to try, about the possibility that it might be genuine, about the documentary he'd watched telling how

an eye twitch could be meaningful, about how there were more things in heaven and earth.........

I listened and couldn't believe what I was hearing. We have parted ways about all manner of things and decisions over the years but this was novel. A psychic. Crystal balls and tea leaves.

Cross my palm with silver and I will tell you the future. It didn't seem possible that he would buy into it yet there it was. Would I walk in one day and find a ouija board set up on the coffee table? Had he finally taken that last step and swan dived right over the edge without a net?

A psychic. I thought of Uri Geller bending spoons, of John Edward and his best selling books, of Edgar Cayce, “The Sleeping Prophet” and of course, Jeane Dixon and her famous prediction of the Kennedy assassination. Nothing more than luck and fraud and playing the odds to easy, gullible targets. And sometimes getting rich in the process, I supposed.

“I'm not saying I believe or disbelieve,” he assures me, “but I'm curious and I do have an open mind.”

“Open your mind too much and your brains will fall out,” I tell him dryly.

But it's no use. Nothing I can say ever makes a dent when he's made up his mind and there's no point in arguing. A psychic. Bless his heart.

No Shoveling Required

It takes everything I've got to leave my warm nest on these wretched winter mornings. I pull on an extra set of longjohns and a second pair of socks, snatch a flannel shirt to pull over my sweatshirt, find my knit hat, scarf, and gloves - it's what my ex-husband used to call my refugee look - and say a small prayer before I brave the outside world. There is nothing I hate more than the cold. Winter, even here in the south, is a cruel and unforgiving season, a time I would give most anything to miss. The most recent cold snap brought with it a malicious wind that reached clear to my bones and it's menacing voice could be heard everywhere. It came after several mild, windows-open days and I swear it was laughing.

It's hard to remember those childhood days of ice skating and snowmen in the front yard, of snowsuits with attached mittens and chillblains when we finally got to come in. My mother professed that winter built character and toughness – more likely, she wanted to be able to drink her icebox manhattans in peace and quiet – so we spent a good amount of time outside on snowy days. We built snow forts and had fierce snowball fights, went sledding at the edge of Spy Pond, scaled the drifts to be King of the Mountain. With no place we had to be and the promise of hot chocolate and sugar cookies if we stayed out our allotted time, we persevered. Foolish children that we were, we froze but we persevered util eventually we got back inside, hung up our wet jackets and soggy mittens, de-iced our boots and settled down in front of the fire to defrost ourselves. Sometimes the hot chocolate and sugar cookies actually materialized but they were never enough to make up for the hours of cold. Truth is, once you've seen one snowman, you've seen them all. The charm of winter is superficial and fleeting at best and like so many things, it faded with each step toward adulthood. I remember how cold the bus ride to school was and how drafty the classrooms were. Snow days were rare in New England and we prayed for them and dreaded them all at the same time.

Snow is a rarity down here in Dixie - we hardly ever get more than a dusting but the threat is enough to cause widespread panic and a run on the grocery stores before everything shuts down.

It could be worse, I remind myself on these raw mornings, at least you don't have to shovel cold.

Aunt Alma's Attic

It took the better part of three women and four days days to clean out Aunt Alma's attic. Ruthie and I had been recruited to pack the books - “Lord to goodness,” Nana had complained, “Some of 'em ain't even in English!” - while Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi worked steadily on everything else and Uncles Shad and Willie hauled it all away in the hay wagons. Aunt Alma had been in her late 80's, a lifelong spinster and collector of just about anything that struck her fancy. We found trunks full of porcelain figurines, cameo jewelry, stuffed animals, bed linens and back scratchers and six complete sets of the Encyclopedia Britannica. We were down to the last few wagon loads when Aunt Vi opened the hope chest and found the love letters, more than a dozen bundles of them, each neatly tied with a faded cream colored ribbon.

“Mercy me!” I heard her say and there was something in her tone of voice that made the other women pause and look around.

“What is it, Vi?” my grandmother asked impatiently and Aunt Vi held up a bundle of letters. I wasn't sure but it looked to me as if she was already blushing and she hadn't read a word. I thought maybe she was wishing she'd left them in their snug little space between the layers of the old quilt and said nothing but of course, it was too little, too late. Aunt Pearl snatched at the bundle, Aunt Vi instinctively drew back, and the ribbon was caught in the crossfire - it came loose and the letters fell in an untidy pile between them. Both women reached to gather them up but my grandmother was faster - with one sweep of her hand, she scooped them toward her, leaving only a little puff of dust behind.

The very last thing anyone would have expected to find in Aunt Alma's attic was evidence of not one but a half dozen affairs. Shockingly, they went back decades - some of the names we knew, some were strangers - all appeared to have had wives and families. Alma, so it seemed, had been singularly untroubled by their adultery and more than willing to have them return to their wives and children when it was over. Unlikely as it was, not a single liason had been discovered and each appeared to have ended amicably. My poor Aunt Vi was undone by it all.

“Dear Lord,” she gasped, “She sat with me in church! She sang in the choir! And all the time she was …..........”

“Git ahold of yourself, Vi,” Nana advised sternly, “No harm ever come of it and it ain't for us to judge or go talkin' 'bout.”

“We should burn them,” Aunt Pearl declared, “And take a blood oath to never mention 'em ever again!”

“Blood?” Aunt Vi asked timidly, paling visibly at the suggestion.

“Not literal blood, a course,” Pearl snapped irritably, “I jist mean we got to swear on our lives to keep this to ourselves! For once in your life, Viola, you're gon' to keep a secret!”

“Ayuh,” Nana nodded, “Ain't no sense in folks findin' out Alma weren't no real old maid. Bring down a whole lotta good marriages and make a pile of folks still livin' mighty unhappy.”

Pearl and Vi nodded a little shakily but all three women clasped hands and vowed never to tell a living soul what they had found. Then Nana turned to look at Ruthie and me.

“I reckon you're both old enough to keep a secret,” she said quietly, “Though we can do a blood oath if you're not sure. But blood or no blood, the good lord'll strike you down if you breathe a word, you understand?”

The prospect was chilling and we nodded.

Alma's letters went up in smoke that very afternoon, ribbons and all. And to my knowledge, not a single, solitary word was ever mentioned about them again.

Don't Ask Why

When it comes to behavior, I suppose it's human nature to wonder and ask why. Sometimes the cause and effect is so clear it's transparent - I could've become an alcoholic but instead I married one because it was familiar and felt like home - but other times, there's a randomness about people, a spiteful kind of cloudiness that make their actions impossible to explain or comprehend. My friend, Michael, is one of those people and while he would rather die than admit it, it's becoming painful to him. It's also painful to watch.

At best, he is - as are we all - badly flawed, a spiteful, vain, defiant and raging narcissist, self-involved and self-centered to the point of self destruction. Strike at him and he will strike back a hundred times over and as maliciously as he can. Nothing will be off limits, nothing will be too vindictive, nothing will be too hateful to say or too vulnerable to attack. He prides himself on his ability to be cruel, to devastate and cripple an enemy. When his words ignite a firestorm of protest and come back to haunt or harm him or his business, as they inevitably do, he simply becomes more venomous and more embedded, refusing to see that his actions add fuel to an already out of control fire, flatly refusing to back down even when it's for his own good. Whether he doesn't care or just can't help himself is a mystery although the damage he does and the wreckage he leaves in his wake are clear enough. I've watched it for years and have never been able to make sense of it. He's a “Rules Don't Apply To Me” personality, carelessly arrogant and often without a shred of empathy. He is not, and he admits it freely, a nice person nor does he want to be. It's impossibly sad to watch him drive person after person away. These wounds are self-inflicted, I remind myself, when he defends his actions with claims of self defense or of being pushed across some imaginary line. He can't be reasoned or persuaded into a different mindset and it's futile to try. He won't make room for even the possibililty that he might be wrong or, more to the point, might not be completely justified in being cruel. All's fair in war and retaliation.

I've lost count of the hour after futile hour I've tried to convince him that this scorched earth policy doesn't work, tried to explain that he can fight back without being vicious, that personal attacks always backfire and reflect horrendously on him and cost him business. There have been times when I've thought he was treated unfairly and I've defended his positions although never his words. I've ranted and raved about consequences, about making a bad situation worse, about fighting fairly, all to no avail. During this latest incident, he came across a website dedicated to hating him and actively campaigning for his business to fail. It shocked him and pierced his callous skin but not enough to make a difference. He slipped into the pretense of it not bothering him with barely a blink but the mask slipped a bit and I saw the pain. What did you expect, I said to him, more roughly than I needed to, “That they'd embrace you for attacking them?”

The very moment the words were out, I regretted them. As much of a son of a bitch as he can be, as much as he so often deserves it, I take no joy in seeing him suffer. Beneath the hard core exterior, beneath the arrogance and the venom and insecurity and self induced misery, there is still someone who can be hurt just as he hurts others. That he cannot or will not mend his ways may be the saddest thing of all.

Apart from the economics and the fact that during a very dark hour he was the only one to extend a helping hand to me, the real question is why do I stay. Misguided loyalty, perhaps, or a fear of the fire outside the frying pan. The fact is I mostly like what I do, like being able to dress in jeans and sweatshirts, like the hours and the freedom. And if I dig deep enough into my own flaws, the fact that I'm needed, not a little bit but a whole lot. I'm as close to indispensable as you can get and leaving him would feel way too much like a betrayal. We make a good working team, he and I, close enough to finish each other's sentences yet far enough apart to be feisty when we disagree. I despise his racism and right wing extremism but admire his unflagging optimism and perseverance. He despairs of my liberal politics and friends and is undone by my indifference to personal fashion. I am a planner and preparer, a hopeless listmaker with a desperate need to be organized and neat. He is as scattered as a handful of confetti in the wind and leaves everything to the very last minute. He's always late and I'm always early. I can laser focus on a single task for hours while he can't hold a thought for more than ten seconds. He remembers details of conversations from 10 years ago and in the time it takes me to go from his desk to mine, I've forgotten whatever I didn't write down. Except for the old opposites attract theory, how it works and why we haven't beaten each other senseless is a mystery but somehow, some way, we have managed to find enough common ground to continue - a shared love of animals, perhaps, or a zero tolerance for stupidity - either way, until now it's been adequate.

This particular upheaval has been especially difficult because he targeted someone I care very much about and gave how I might feel about it, a barely passing thought, shredding any idea that my feelings might matter more than those of his perceived enemies. When I refused to take his side and say he was justified, he accused me of disloyalty. I accused him of hate and malice. We got nowhere.

We are all flawed and imperfect but most people I know are trying to be better. Michael is not among them and sometimes, neither am I.

The Nose Knows

The nose knows, I remind myself as I watch the little dachshund race out the back door and head straight to the dilapidated old doggie door that leads into the garage. He is convinced that something - cat, possom, raccoon or rat - is in the garage and I know better than to doubt him. Flashlight in hand and garden rake in the other, I follow him, opening the garage doors slowly and carefully so as not to disturb whatever trespassing little creature has taken refuge inside. Better in the garage than under the house tearing up the ductwork, I tell myself. It's little enough shelter from this cold and cruel weather and I'm not necessarily interested in evicting whatever it is.

Tail wagging anxiously and whining softly, the little dachshund goes exploring. He crawls under the boxes of debris, winds his way around and past the stacks of trash, investigates each nook and cranny and eventually manages to climb up a discarded old rug to where he can reach the built in shelves and check all the hidden places. Something out of sight rustles and he freezes, staring intently at a cardboard box sitting high on a pile of filthy old blankets and moth eaten towels. I bravely shine the light directly on it but see nothing and when the rustling stops, I reach out with the rake handle and cautiously lift the lid of the box, expecting I don't know what, something otherworldy to come flying at me or perhaps a pair of luminous eyes peering back at me. But there's nothing, just an old carboard box with a ragged blanket inside, the remains of a bed I had made for a mama cat and her kittens a couple of years before. I swear the little dachshund looks disappointed. He reluctantly climbs down and once back on solid ground, returns to making his way under, over and around every obstacle. After several minutes, he seems to lose interest and I wonder if something has slipped away. It doesn't take much to persuade him to give up the pursuit and coax him back into the house.

This little drama plays out several times a day for several more days but after a week or so, whatever had taken up residence moves on. The little dachshund senses it and one day just abandons the garage without so much as a backward glance, proving once again that the nose always knows and that more often than we'd like to think, things work themselves out with no help or interference from the rest of us. You just have to learn to get out of your own way.

Snuggles

After two days of gray skies, cold temperatures and relentless rain, I'm feeling put upon and anti-social. I bundle up in my longjohns and crawl beneath the comforter with the animals, wondering if I can sleep until spring. I despise this raw weather and monotone sky with a passion. Everything feels pale and neutered and lifeless. My friend, Michael, leaves for Los Angeles in two days and I find myself half hoping his plane crashes over the Great Lakes. I take it back immediately when I remember I would then inherit his four unhousebroken, overfed and hopelessly spoiled dogs. Time to get a grip, I tell myself, it's just miserable weather and it won't last - 60 degrees and sun is forecast for the end of the week - maybe, I muse, I can at least sleep til then.

It is not to be.

Twice in the same day, the little dachshund finds a vulnerability in the lattice work and wanders off under the house and all the way to the street. The first time, I catch up with him in the next yard - cold, wet and muddy all the way to his ears - but loving every minute of this new found freedom. The second time, I discover him trotting across the street through every puddle he can find, hot on the trail on one of the neighborhood cats. By the time I corner him and scoop him up, we are both dirty and dripping and half frozen. Before I shed my wet clothes and toss him in the kitchen sink for a warm bath, I make the rounds of the back yard and finally locate a suspicious space in the latticework, just wide and long enough to accommodate a determined little dog. The next time I let him out, he heads straight for it and finding it blocked, gives me a resentful look.

“Into each life a little rain must fall,” I tell him righteously, “Now get your butt back into this house or it's back to the sink.”

I can tell he doesn't much like it - to make his point, he takes his time wading through the wet leaves and underbrush before coming inside - I towel him off and give him a biscuit and he makes his way into the sun room and curls up on the love seat with the tiny one. We call it a draw and it gives me time to take a hot shower and slip into a fresh set of thermals. Later, he will snuggle up under the comforter with me, press his small body against mine, on his side with his head on my shoulder, and sleep. It makes me feel that despite the miserable weather and the cold, all is right with the world.

The Flag Man

The intersection by the post office and the Circle K is a busy one. There's a clear “No Left Turn” sign at the exit of the post office lot but no one pays much mind to it and the traffic lights, as best I can tell, are there for decoration. It's kind of a risky place to stage a one man protest, but there he was - a shoeless, chubby, middle aged man with a buzz cut, wearing ragged blue jeans and a puffy-sleeved winter coat, carrying a handmade cardboard sign proclaiming “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition”. An oversized American flag was attached to his collar and it flared like a cape every time he spun around to confront an impatient driver with a wave and a toothless grin. He was serenely unmoved by the angry horns and the shouted insults and when the police arrived, he went quietly. Two officers efficiently unattached the flag, folded it and gave it to him to hold, then handcuffed him and bundled him into a patrol car while the intersection returned to its treacherous but normal state. Just another slice of life in a world gone a little mad, I thought, but exactly what he was protesting escaped me. As best I could recall, “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition” had been a World War II song - I vaguely remembered my daddy having a version by Kay Kyser somewhere along the way - but aside from the obvious patriotic (warmongering?) theme, it's relevance to a dangerous intersection in a small southern city didn't make much sense except as mischief or possibly some mild mental illness.

I hoped the police would be kind, maybe even find him some shoes and some hot coffee. I hoped they would let him keep his flag. When the weather changed the following day to raw, cold and wet, I began hoping he wasn't homeless or one of the many veterans we've forgotten about.

I got home, slipped into a second layer of thermals and extra socks, burrowed under a blanket with the dogs and gave thanks for what I have and don't always appreciate.