Empathy 101

I know how it will go before I even pick up my cell phone.

I will tell him that I have no internet or landline. Again.

He will fumble, mumble and scratch around until he finds his script, then will ask me all the questions I've alrady answered. Twice.

A little more fumbling and mumbling and scratching around and then he will tell me - as they always tell me - that the problem is in my equipment.

It goes exactly as I anticipate.

I ask if he's sure there's no outage and am postively assured not.

I tell him - sweetly - that he's full of shit, that in all the time I've had this sorry exuse for service that the problem has never once been in my equipment.

Oh, he wants to know, you've had issues in the past?

I've had issues since day one, I tell him, as you would well know if you'd bothered to look it up.

He makes the usual responsibility-evading excuses which I know by heart and then offers to schedule a technician visit.

It's pointless to argue so I agree. Based on prior experience, the odds are excellent that whatever outtage he doesn't seem to know about will be fixed by the time the technician arrives anyway and it's gotten to the point where I enjoy wasting as much of their time as I possibly can. We go over it one last time – I believe in giving morons every opportunity to hang themselves – and he confirms a technician visit between 1:00 and 4:00 that afternoon.

No chance he won't show? I persist.

Absolutely not, he assures me, Thank you for choosing.......

I hang up before he can finish the inflammatory thought.

At 4:30 when there has been not the first sign of a technician, I gather what wits I have left and make a final call, fully prepared to cancel every shred of this wretched service. Dispatch has put the service call on hold, I'm informed apologetically, it seems there's an outage in my area and they fully expect service to be restored by the end of the day or first thing in the morning. They are so sorry I've been inconvenienced.

It's so exactly what I've come to expect from them, that I don't even lose my temper. I calmly tell him that the service is a disagrace, that they lied from the start when they promised fibre optics in an area that has no fibre optics – some folks might see it as bait and switch, I point out – that the speed they promised has never materialized and that the reliable service is a joke.

And is it policy to cancel service calls without informing your customers? I demand, Are you really that inept or do you just not give a damn? Because those are the only two options.

He retreats to Empathy 101, assuring me he completely understands my anger and frustration, that the situation has been mishandled. He's sorrier than he can say that I was given bad information, he realizes how unfair it was, he promises me service will be restored as soon as humanly possible and he offers me credit for the outage and the missed call. It's all straight out of the “How To Handle an Angry Customer” playbook, designed to disarm, pacify and not further alienate me. And it doesn't work.

Nice try, I tell him, but none of that gives me my internet back or a single reason why I should stay with you.

He agrees and to his credit he's the only one who has the good grace not to thank me for choosing AT and T.

A pox on them all.

The Ransom of Ezra Pyne

One of the first stories I remember my grandmother telling me was how Ezra Pyne had been so small when he was born, that he fit into a shoebox.

I knew he'd been a frail child, slightly built and breakable looking with pale, translucent skin and deep set, hollow-ish dark eyes. While the rest of us raised havoc with our childhoods, Ezra watched from the sidelines, never far from his mother's watchful eyes and worried admonitions.

Ezra, stay out of the sun, she would remind him endlessly, Ezra, don't run, don't go near that dog, don't cut through the strawberry patch. Ezra, don't pick up those shells, you'll cut yourself.

Don't play in the ditch, Ezra, don't forget your nap, stay where I can see you. Be careful you don't get a splinter, Ezra, watch where you're walking. Don't handle that cat, how did you get this bruise, don't go barefoot, let someone else bait your hook, time to go, Ezra, come away from the water, it's time to go.

Sheltered and overprotected to the point of being suffocated, Ezra fought back as best he could, wavering between resistance and retreat. As often as he shook off his mother's well meant hovering, he snatched it back.

Boy don't know whether he's comin' or goin', Nana sighed, Ain't no wonder he's taken to drink.

Likely come to a bad end if'n he don't cut them apron strings, Aunt Pearl said sadly, Cain't drink that away.

I notice it don't keep him from tryin', Miz Clara remarked dryly, Makes me want to shake some sense into him.

Independence is a hard enough fought battle for a happy, healthy child, the women all agreed, but for a sickly one living in the shadows, it's all uphill and a treacherous climb. Defeated and reeled back in at every turn, the frail child had grown into an angry young man and the angry young man into a dark and solitary figure who spent his days alone and brooding in a booth in the canteen. How and where he spent his nights, no one knew. He was thin to the point of emaciated, silent as a grave, grimly unapproachable. He shunned company and people had learned to let him be but he hadn't counted upon Miss Hilda and her friendship with his mother.

I find myself in need of assistance, young man, she announced with a sharp rap of her riding crop that rattled his glass right off the table and sent the cracked plastic ashtray flying, And you appear to have considerable time at your disposal.  Come with me, if you please, Mr. Pyne.  We shall soon put you to rights.

Ezra, bleary-eyed and confused at this unexpected assault, gave her a wary look but didn't move except to draw circles in his spilled Molson's.  Hilda cleared her throat impatiently and none too gently lifted his chin with her crop until he was forced to look at her.

Come, come, Mr. Pyne, she snapped, Midday drunkenness is hardly a virtue in one so young!  I have need of a groundskeeper and you have significent need of gainful employment.  A fair day's wages for a fair day's work, I always say.

When he still made no effort to move, she leaned in closer, wrinkled her nose at the fumes, and firmly took hold of his shirt collar.

Perhaps, Mr. Pyne, we all heard her say with an iron-like coldness, I have failed to make myself clear.  I do not approve of soddeness and sloth and self-pity.  They are not enviable qualities and will not be rewarded here or in the afterlife.  You will accompany me of your own accord or rest assured, I will not hesitate to drag you out by your whiskey drenched heels!

Ezra blinked, shook his head, tried to focus.

Silence, Mr. Pyne, Hilda said briskly, implies consent.  On your feet or on the floor, young man.  I leave it to you.

Miz Elliott, one of the Albright boys called cautiously, Miz Elliott, ma'am, he's been here since yesterday mornin', I ain't sure he kin stand never mind walk.

That being the case, sir, then please have the goodness to convey him to my automobile, Hilda ordered, if he protests, you may restrain him and if he protests further, you may confine him to the boot for the journey.

Whatever you say, Miz Elliott, someone snickered, He ain't likely to notice nohow.

It wasn't, needless to say, something that could be kept quiet and the entire village knew about it by sundown, including my grandmother who paled when she heard.  

You were there? she demanded, roughly shaking me as if the truth would fly out from between my shoulder blades, You saw it happen?  Hilda kidnapped the boy?

Now, Alice, my Uncle Shad said mildly, kidnapping is a harsh word, it was more like.......

An abduction?? my grandmother howled, A hostage taking?? What exactly was it more like, Shadrach??

It were more like a relocation, Uncle Willie assured her, For the boy's own good.

Wild eyed and alarmingly red in the face, Nana threw up her hands in disbelief.  Well, now, she shouted at the calmly defiant old men, don't that jist make all the difference!!  

Alice, mind your blood pressure, Uncle Shad said helpfully and she snatched the nearest thing she could lay hands on - a fringed "We Love Digby, N.S." throw pillow - and pitched it at him violently.  Shad ducked and the pillow hit the shelf behind him with such force that it rocked the old ship's clock mechanism into a premature chiming which, in turn, startled the dogs who began a chorus of protest with Lady running frantic figure eights around Shad and Willie and Fritz trotting off to the sunporch with the pillow securely between his teeth.  Between the shouting, chiming, barking and general mayhem, no one heard the knocking on the back door and no one noticed that Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi had arrived, bearing sponge cake and sun brewed lemonade for the Ladies Sewing Circle.  At first, the two women froze, then Fritz appeared, generously lathered in stuffing with pillow fringe draped in and around his muzzle.  Pearl and Vi began to laugh, Shad and Willie followed suit, and finally my grandmother - outmanned and outgunned, so it seemed - joined in.

Ezra Pyne woke up two days later in the small room next to the stable, hungover and smelling hay and horse manure, but more clear headed than he'd been in years.  He spent the remainder of the summer planting, mulching, weeding, seeding, and flower tending for Miz Hilda and became so proficient at gardening that in September, Miz Clara took him on to help with the maintenance of the cemetery.  It wasn't enough to turn his life around but it did give him one good season of dignity and a little peace of mind.

Done

That there's evil in the world is not new. That so much of it is currently concentrated in this country might be.

Once we decided, as a society, a government, and a country, that killing kids was ok, there really was no going back.

We're anxious and willing enough to protect the banks, the pedophiles, the pharmaceutical companies, the NRA and other hate groups, the churches and the serial killers. We don't really mind so much that our justice system is broken beyond repair, that lack of health care is killing people, that all politicians care about is increasing their profit and maintaining their power. We've chosen the kind of country we want. We don't mind that politicians are sold like penny candy, that right wing religion is poisoning us or that sheer hypocrisy has run the fabric of this country ragged. We don't just embrace that some lives matter less than others, we celebrate it.

Worse, we act on it.  And the very politicians and pastors and people who publicly despair, smile smugly and cheer us on.

So spare me your thoughts and prayers for the victims, your peace and love platitudes, your rainbow coalitions, your ideas that good will overcome evil and love triumph over hate. Spare me your public moments of silence and candlelight vigils on courthouse lawns.

Get off your ass and do something or shut the fuck up.

We're better than this, I hear you say, with every horrific scandal and each new mass murder.

No. We're not. Not anymore.

If you want a moment of silence, have one for this country and what it used to be.  Buy the gun, sell the vote.  It's too late to go back.  As for me, I'm done.

A Mouse, A Mixmaster, A Mess

It began with a wayward mouse and a bowl of pancake batter.

In a moment of domesticity, my mother - possibly as a result of going to bed sober and waking clear eyed and clear headed - decided to make pancakes for breakfast. My grandmother, in her defense, a little under the weather from a summer cold, reluctantly agreed but still felt the need to remind her how to crack the eggs and measure the milk properly.

My mother sighed heavily but it was just routine sparring and I didn't think much about it. I didn't know that not too far in the future I'd come to understand exactly how she felt. At times I wonder if it might've made me a little more charitable.

Indulge me, Mother, she said in a voice that fairly dripped with sarcasm, It's pancakes. I hardly think I need an instruction manual to make pancakes.

Use the mixmaster else there'll be lumps in the batter, my grandmother replied as if she hadn't heard, and don't forget to grease the skillet or it'll stick.

It's a reflex, my Cousin Elaine observed when it was all over, I'm forty-two and she still doesn't approve of how I make a bed.

Nana was in the pantry slicing bacon and I was curled up beside the stove with the dogs when the  mixmaster - a double barreled and oft times temperamental old monster - roared to life. Both dogs tensed with alarm and I remember thinking it was as loud as an outboard motor and only a little less bulky.

Jan, Cousin Elaine, who had poured herself a cup of coffee and gone outside to admire the day, called, Do you need kindling for the stove?

My mother didn't answer and for one or two pre-mayhem seconds, I thought she hadn't heard.

That was when the mouse appeared in the doorway to the living room and suddenly darted across the linoleum floor. The dogs panicked and went scrabbling after the poor creature and my mother, screaming bloody murder and flailing desperately to avoid him, jarred the whirring mixmaster with an elbow or maybe a knee as she tried her best to climb into the sink. Pancake batter was flying like fall out - gobs of it striking the walls, the ceiling, the stove, the windows -

and my unfortunate grandmother as she emerged from the pantry. She skidded on a patch of it, lost her footing and went down like the proverbial ton of bricks, all the while cursing a blue streak.

Turn it off! she was shouting, Jeanette! Turn it off! Unplug the cussed thing!

It was Cousin Elaine who saved the day. My terrorized mother was still shrieking and Nana was still cursing when she came through the screen door, arms raised to shield herself from the still flying batter. She ducked and took a tumble but managed to haul herself up to the counter and wrench the plug from the socket. The mixmaster fell blessedly silent. There was no sign of the mouse or the dogs. I looked from my grandmother, still on the floor and furiously snatching at the pancake batter in her hair and on her glasses, to my mother, cowering half in and half out of the kitchen sink and spattered from head to toe, and finally to Cousin Elaine, calmly sitting on the floor and brushing batter from her blue jeans and denim shirt.

Well, ladies, she announced, Guess we'll have to re-think breakfast. Then she winked at me and fell out laughing.

By then the entire house was stirring and I could hear the dull but frantic thumps of footsteps on the staircase. Nana's sister and her husband, two other cousins, my daddy, and last but not least, both of the dogs all poured into the kitchen, looking concerned, relieved, amused and mystfied. I think we all knew better than to laugh but it was a sight and while Cousin Elaine had gotten hold of herself for the moment, one look at my grandmother set her off again and it was contaigious. It seemed nobody except Nana and my mother could not laugh.

For Christ's sake, Guy, my grandmother snapped, Quit yer gawking and help me up! Jeanette, will you stop that godawful caterwauling! And somebody put those damn dogs out!

My daddy got her to her feet and after she checked for and found no broken bones, she slapped his hands away, reached for a new apron, and glared at us.

Jeanette, she said in a voice that would've frozen hell, Git down. Fetch a mop and a bucket of water. And for the love of God, will you shut up! The rest of you clear outta my kitchen and be quick about it. You want breakfast, it ain't gon' be served here but the canteen's open. You kin jist carry your sorry selves down to it.

The wrath of God was in her eyes and we obediently filed out. The last I saw of my mother that morning, she was climbing awlwardly out of the sink and off the counter, smears of pancake batter clinging to her hair and chubby cheeks and hanging on her housedress like caterpillars. The last I heard from my grandmother - right after she banned my mother from the kitchen for a week - was that there was nothing funny about pancake jokes, she considered the matter closed and expected no future mention of it, and heaven help us all if there was as much as a whisper of it from or to anyone on the outside. No one doubted for a moment that she meant what she said but when Cousin Elaine ordered pancakes at the canteen and then suggested we take some home for Nana, we laughed until we cried.

Turns out pancake jokes can be funny after all.

Wagon Train

It's kind of like the story of David and Goliath meeting an episode of Wagon Train.

The old pit meanders outside and finds a patch of warm grass. He lays down and rolls onto his back, luxuriating in the sunshine and fresh air and then out of nowhere, the puppy rushes him like a freight train, madly running in circles around him, ferociously nipping at each and every moving part and barking loud enough to wake the dead. When the pit's had enough, he lumbers awkwardly to his feet and joins in the game by snapping his considerable jaws, producing deep,

operatic bass growls and loping around the yard, chasing and then being chased. The rules seem to be whoever gets distracted first wins so it's no surprise it's so often a draw.

From the side porch steps, the cur dog (too insecure to join in), the little chihuahua (far too bad tempered) and I (secretly rooting for the pit) watch and wait. An unsuspecting pedestrian coming innocently down the sidewalk provides the distraction. All four dogs bolt for the fence, each desperately trying to outbark the other. They paw at the bars, spray saliva and leapfrog over and under one another. Bodies collide with startling force, the noise is ear splitting and the poor passerby wastes no time scurrying for the opposite side of the street.  Once he's out of sight, a relative calm descends.

Handicapped by weight, age and a sometimes stiff hip that throws his gait off, the pit makes his way back to the steps. He gives me an unasked for (and mostly unintentional) body slam together with a sloppy kiss and goes inside. The puppy turns his attention to the cur dog but their encounter is brief and almost immediately the cur turns and comes racing toward me with the puppy snatching at his hind legs and tail. My part of the game is to dodge at the last second and shush the now visibly upset chihuahua as best I can without risking losing a finger or two. Once her three housemates are back inside, she deems it safe to climb off my lap and take her morning stroll. I close the door behind me so she can mill about by herself, taking her time and keeping a wary eye on me in case the hounds should make an unexpected return.

You never know when the rules may change.

Girls Like Winnie

It was said that on the night Winifred Eugenia Tibert came into this world, her mother's screams were heard clear across Petite Passage to Westport.

Nonie had birthed four boys by then and had thought a daughter would be the simplest of all matters but after thirty hours of intense and non-productive labor - Wilfred had like to walked the soles of his workboots through with worry and even the midwife was looking grim - Nonie was nearing hysteria. Even after Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi arrived, it was another five hours before the reluctant baby finally emerged from her exhausted, over 40 mother.

Had the baby been another boy, his looks would've been unremarkable but in a girl child, it was seen as unfortunate. She was slightly disproportioned and long faced, doomed to be a homely infant, a horsey looking child, and a depressingly unattractive young woman. Wilfred and Nonie loved her dearly but they were realists and could plainly see that the odds of this extra blessing child ever marrying or leaving home were dismally slim. She was, however, bright as a new penny and almost tragically kind hearted, so they decided to send her to the mainland to complete her grade 12 and then to a technical college in St. John where they hoped she would learn a trade and become self-sufficent. It hurt their hearts to see their shy, dreamy-eyed, solitary little girl leave but they were sure it was for the best.

Girls like Winnie need to depend on themselves, Nonie told my grandmother, She can't just skip stones and watch sunsets and collect shells.

She'll be fine, Nana said encouragingly, You'll see.

'Course she will, Aunt Pearl and Aunt Vi agreed, Child's smart as a whip, mebbe just a little too sheltered and shy is all.

And she'll be home summers, Miz Clara added practically, Why, it'll be like she never left.

Privately though, they were as my daddy sometimes liked to say, singing another song.

My Lord, Nana said ruefully, I cain't remember knowin' a more ill favored child.

She ain't sought after, that's for sure, Aunt Pearl sighed.

Girl's homely as sin, Clara said a little impatiently, Took after her daddy and that ain't pretty in a girl.

Ain't no need to be cruel, Clara, Aunt Vi said without a trace of her usual timidity, Why, that child's smarter than all them boys put together and a harder worker! 'Pears to me she could use a little more kindness and a little less criticizin'! You ain't askin' me but if you was I reckon I'd say pretty ain't everythin' in this life!

This was so near to a speech for my Aunt Vi that all three women stared at her slackjawed. She blushed to the roots of her hair and nervously dropped her eyes back to her embroidery.

I declare, Vi, Clara finally said, Ain't no call to get huffy about it!

I ain't getting' huffy, Clara Haines, and you surely know it, my Aunt Vi - my sweet, shy as a churchmouse and always tentative Aunt Vi - shot back, color still high and not backing down an inch, I'm jist sayin' they's more important things than bein' pretty!

Girls! my grandmother admonished, rattling her china cup in its saucer and clearing her throat louder than necessary, Pearl, shut yer mouth, dear, you'll catch flies. And Clara, mind your manners. I 'spect Vi's right. Wouldn't hurt us none if'n we was to be a bit kinder.

My Aunt Vi gave her a grateful if trembling glance and picked up her stitching as if it were a shield. It was then I understood she wasn't going to run for a dark corner, that strength can come from the most unexpected places and that timid or not, even the most unsure of us have limits.

Come along, Vi, Aunt Pearl said briskly as she gathered up the tea things, It's getting' on to supper time.

As Vi packed her embroidery, my grandmother cleared her throat again - strange that such a sound could be so meaningful - and with one well placed swing of her foot delivered a sharp jab to Clara's ankle.

Reckon I spoke outta turn, Viola, Clara said grudgingly, Didn't mean no harm.

It was as much of an apology as any of the women were likely to give and my Aunt Vi accepted it.

Never you mind, Clara, she said, I reckon sometimes we all speak 'fore we think.

And just like that the skies cleared.

Let that be a lesson to you, child, Nana said and winked at me, Keep a weather eye on the shy ones.  Quiet ain't always weak and loud ain't always strong.

Level Ground

It was one of those clear, pure summer days when you were glad to be alive.

My grandmother had shooed the dogs out to get some fresh air and they were curled up together, peacefully sleeping in the warm sun, occasionally twitching at flies. The Monday wash was hanging neatly on the line, I could smell the brown bread Nana was baking and now and then hear snatches of laughter from the fishermen laying out salt fish on the drying racks next door. Greedy gulls were flying overhead hoping for scraps and some kind of engine was chug-a-lugging in the distance. It was a funny rat-a-tat-tat sound, like a playing card in the spokes of a bicycle, only hollower and duller.

I was watching the slow moving, 3D like clouds and lazily imagining them to have faces and shapes when Aunt Jenny dropped Ruthie off for the day. Uncle Len had made her a pair of stilts for her birthday - Aunt Jenny awkwardly hauled them out from the back of the pickup truck and sternly reminded us to be careful and stay on level ground - waved to my grandmother and drove off in a spray of gravel. Nana appeared at the back door and gave us a worried look.

Mind you don't fall and break your damfool necks! she warned us with a shake of her head, I got too much to do today to be runnin' a pair of wild Indians to the doctor!

We each dragged one stilt to the side porch and somehow or other negotiated the steps. Ruthie went first, warily climbing on while I steadied the wood against the house. I was remembering that she'd also gotten a croquet set and thinking that all things considered, it might be a better choice when she gave a yell and took her first steps. I think it was actually two because almost immediately she lost her balance, gave a frantic war whoop, and jumped clear.

My grandmother, surreptitiously watching from the sunporch, rapped sharply on the window.

Level ground! I heard her shout, Keep on level ground!

Determinedly, we dragged the stilts back up the path, looking around for something that we could steady and climb, and eventually deciding on the raised threshold of the woodshed door.

Ruthie tried again, this time precariously maintaining her balance for all of four or five steps before one stilt slipped on the gravel and again, she let go and jumped clear.

You try, she said sullenly when I laughed.

I had serious reservations about the whole thing but then she did the unthinkable and double dared me. I made it up on the first try, took several small, shaky steps and then remarkably

found my center and the hang of it all at the same time.

It's not so hard! I crowed to her.

Oh, yeah? she shot back, Then let's see you git down, Miss Smarty Pants!

I hadn't thought of that. But I was a stubborn child and a proud one and I rarely outdid Ruthie so I carefully navigated a wide turn back to the woodshed, held on for dear life until I reached it, and then triumphantly climbed down.

Ain't that much fun anyway, Ruthie muttered, Let's play croquet.

We never told Uncle Len but the stilts eventually ended up as firewood. It was the lesson of keeping to level ground that would stay with us.  We do our best when we learn the secret of balance.

14 Minutes at the Corner of Happy and Healthy

It's just a suggestion but I'm thinking that retail stores might want to take a step backward to a time when cashiers could actually read, count, and speak clearly. Being able to reason would mean extra points.

All I wanted was a pack of cigarettes but the drugstore's check verification machine was acting up. The clueless young cashier had clearly not been trained for this eventuality and after several minutes of fumbling and vacant looks, it finally occurred to him to summon a supervisor. Well,

in a matter of speaking. He first had to shift his gum to his cheek and then wave one arm and hand in the general direction of the back of the store. Apparently no one had thought to train him on using the intercom either.

The supervisor, scowling at being interrupted - from her mid afternoon nap, from the looks of her, I thought - shoved him aside and began demonstrating the fine art of data input.

Pay attention! she snapped at him when his attention wandered to the pair of scantily clad, little girls coming arm and arm though the door in a fit of giggles. Truth to tell, they were whorishly dressed and he leered more than looked.

The supervisor pinched his elbow, pointed to the check and then to the monitor.

Enter the routing number, she said impatiently, then the account number and the check number.

He mumbled something unintelligble and gave her a blank look. There was a snicker of laughter from the ever growing line of customers and she gave him a rough shove and took over the computer herself. It didn't work.

Do you have another means of payment? she asked glaring at the computer screen.

I did but charity deserted me at that precise moment. I pointedly looked at my watch before I said no.

She transferred the angry glare to me and yelled for a manager. Literally yelled over the heads of the customers. Perhaps, I mused, the intercom was malfunctioning as well as the check verification machine. The line now stretched nearly to the pharmacy and the snicker of laughter had turned to a disgusted curse.

The manager arrived, immediately used the intercom to call for a second cashier, then furiously voided my sale, ripped off the aborted receipt tape, and indifferently beckoned me to a second cash register where she re-rang the sale and ran my check through without the slightest difficulty. She wouldn't meet my eyes, didn't trouble herself to tell me thank you and knowing it would be a cold day in hell before any of these empty headed cretins thought to apologize, I took my cigarettes and left.

The Girl Who Could Find Things

After her accident, Leveda Leeman was the girl who could find things. A lost earring here, a misplaced sweater there, buttons and stray knitting needles and once a lost letter. No one thought much about it at the time.

The night before she turned six, Leveda fell from the hay loft in her daddy's barn and landed cruelly on a jagged heap of metal tractor parts. It was three long weeks before she woke up on the makeshift cot in the kitchen and if Naomi Leeman, who had never left her side in all that time was to be believed, her first words were It's in the root cellar, Mama, by the corn crib.

Her youngest child had been unconscious - at death's door if the truth be told and now nothing but skin and bones - for almost a month and naturally Naomi barely heard the words. She cradled Leveda and smiled through a flood of tears, finally pulling herself together long enough to send one of the older boys for Will.

Fetch your daddy, William, she told him, Tell him she's awake!

The root cellar, Leveda repeated, by the corn crib, then the sensible and far more welcome words, I'm hungry, Mama.

Yes, child, Naomi soothed her, Hush now, there's soup on the stove and your daddy's comin', jist hush now.

Leveda's recovery was the talk of the village. The Courier picked up the story, then the Spectator and finally a reporter from the Chronicle (all the way from Halifax!) showed up on the Leeman's front porch. They smiled and asked questions and took pictures, drank Naomi's coffee and wrote about miracles. It was heady stuff, everyone agreed, overwhelming for a poor farm family on an isolated island and crucifying for a shy six year old who couldn't even remember the accident. After the Chronicle's story, William and Naomi had had enough. They quietly and politely began to turn folks away, shielding themselves from any more attention, wanting nothing more than to raise their family and work their farm as they had before. Laveda turned seven, then eight, then in the blink of an eye, twelve and thirteen. By then, except for the Leemans, the accident was all but forgotten and the little girl who had come so close to dying, was a happy, bright-eyed and pretty teenager. She walked with a barely noticeable limp - a tractor part had sheared a tendon in one leg and it never quite completely healed - but it was a small price to pay, Will and Naomi liked to tell each other, a small price for a life. Naomi had never told Will about Laveda's waking words, had, in point of fact, never given them another thought. Until Will's mother, Miz Lucy, took to feeling poorly.

Wisdom and age were valued commodities in the village but practicality was valued more and the practicality of it was that at 86, Lucy Leeman was increasingly more forgetful about keeping the wood stove fire going or taking her medicine or turning the iron off. Sometimes she lost track of time and wasn't sure what day it was. She began getting lost and sometimes would forget to eat or worse, eat and not clean up, leaving a feast for the ants.

The older boys are gone, Naomi pointed out to Will reasonably, so the spare room's empty. She eats like a bird anyway and it'll be easier to keep an eye on her here rather than traipsing down to The Point two, three times a day. I reckon we'll both be feelin' better if she's here with us.

When he hesitated, Naomi smiled. If somethin' were to happen, Will, she said gently, I reckon it'd be better here than there.

And so, Lucy came to stay. Will and the boys scubbed and polished the floor and repainted the walls. Naomi sewed curtains and Laveda washed the windows until they shone. They beat the old oval rug within an inch of its life and laid it back down looking new. Nana brought some spare linens and towels and Aunt Pearl recovered a chair she wasn't using and had two of the Sullivan boys deliver it. Aunt Vi sent lavender cachets and sweet smelling soap for the tiny bathroom and on the day Lucy moved in, Miz Clara was there with fresh flowers by the armfuls and a small windowbox herb garden. It was a good day.

Laveda helped her grandmother arrange her belongings - the little bedside clock, the patchwork quilt she'd had since her wedding night, her Bible, a small collection of books and her porcelain figurines, a slightly battered radio, her knitting basket, her scrapbooks - and finally a jewelry box, a miniature hope chest with a sweet cedar smell, no bigger than a breadbox and still with its original smooth and well cared for finish. Laveda brushed her fingers over it and - just for the merest second - something around her, something very nearly primal, seemed to shift and she jumped back, withdrawing her hand as if she'd touched a live wire. The muscles in her face contracted sharply and then instantly relaxed, her eyes closed and then opened in surprise.

It's not lost, she muttered, it's in the root cellar by the corn crib. The chain broke and it fell off but you didn't see.

Alarmed, Lucy snatched the girl and gave her a thorough shake.

Laveda! she said more harshly then she intended, Laveda, what are you talking about?

The girl shook her head as if to clear her vision and gave her grandmother a puzzled look.

Your cameo, Gran, she said clearly, the one granddaddy gave you. It fell off when you was in the root cellar that day. The day I fell.

How do you know that, child? Lucy demanded, Tell me how you know that!

But Leveda just shrugged and wriggled free, tugging at her grandmother hands and pulling her to her feet.

The root cellar, mostly unused since Will had renovated the shed into a greenhouse garden, was damp and dark and smelled of mildew but Laveda, holding her lantern high, went straight to the corner where the remains of the corn crib still stood. She knelt and began brushing away the crumbles of dirt and spider webs - it gave Lucy an unexpected chill to watch and she felt a little trembly, as if a goose had walked over her grave - and then Leveda gave a gentle tug and pulled the long missing cameo free. Lucinda Laveda Leeman promptly fainted dead away.

They had to tell Naomi, of course, she knew where the spirits of amonia were and certainly wasn't about to hand them over without a proper explantion, but, they all agreed, there weren't much need for anyone else to know. Leveda continued to be the girl who could find things and her gift came to be taken for granted although there was never to be another find like the cameo.

Reckon she jist has a talent for it, Naomi would say and do her best to ignore the queer feeling in her belly when she thought of the root cellar or the accident. The cameo had brought back the memory of Laveda's words when she'd woken up and she didn't like to think about it.

It don't do to dwell on them things you don't understand, Will, she said firmly and put the whole matter to rest, The child's got a knack for finding things is all, like some kin find water or such, ain't that right, Mama?

Oh, ayuh, Lucy would say, running her fingers over her cameo necklace and smiling to herself, I 'spect so.  I certainly 'spect so.

False Faith

The very young, neatly put together couple on my doorstep with their plastic smiles and glossy pro-life brochures gave me chills. I ached for a gun.

Somehow I managed to quiet the frantic dogs and push open the screen door, forcing the couple back a step or two.

Get the hell off my property, I said coldly, and take your trashy fliers with you.

Their smiles faltered a bit.

We just wanted to leave you.....the boy began while the girl tentatively tried to hand me an anti abortion door hanger.

I know what you wanted, I said and slapped it out of her outreached hand, And if you're not out of my sight in the next five seconds, I'll set the dogs on you.

Their mouths fell open and they fled, not even taking the time to tell me to have a blessed day.

In hindsight, I could've been kinder or more sociable and still made my point, but there's something about right wing extremists with their direct links to God that bring out the venom in me.

We'll pray for you! the girl called over her shoulder once she safely reached the street.

Pray for this! I shouted back and tore her precious doorhanger into tiny bits, See you in hell!

If my soul needs saving, it's a private matter. I may not always be sure whether I believe in God but I have an unshakeable faith that it's my business and not that of some false faith, pro birth, sleazy salvation peddlers.

Jesus probably wouldn't have wished for a gun but I sure as hell still did.

You Think You Have Time

My friend Jane was sent home to die. The cancer, defeated in her tired and battered body, had spread to her brain and there was no turning it back.

She fought for months, like a tigress protecting her young. There was always faith and optimism and a smile, a determination to save her own life. She did everything that was asked of her from nutrition to supplements to chemotherapy to radiation. She put up with all the cruel, ugly and painful side effects of treatment. She kept going, sometimes on nothing but the force of faith and positive thoughts. She put up with not being able to sleep or eat or walk. There were times when she didn't have the energy to speak. She fell in love with her doctor, trusted him and spoke his name with love and gratitude. He did everything there was to be done. It wasn't enough. Neither ever said as much, but I think they both knew. Jane died early this morning.

And then there's my friend, Jeff, brought down by a major stroke. It destroyed the entire left side of his brain and his pre-frontal cortex. The day following the failed emergency surgery, he was on a ventilator. His wife signed the DNR order and arranged for a priest to give him last rites. He never had a chance to fight back, the doctors admitted, with that kind of irreversible damage, he was brain dead the very moment it happened. It became a matter of technicalities and life support and yesterday, ten days after it happened, he died.

With the exception of the friends and families of both of these good people, the world will continue to spin and life will go on. As unfair and tragic and heartbreaking as their deaths are, that's how it works. We all leave survivors. It's left me feeling angry and numb and wanting answers I'll never get.

Jane leaves a sister, a daughter and two sons. She was 61.

Jeff leaves a wife and a son. He was 59.

I'm drowning in gratitude just to be alive.

A Penny A Pane

Hattie's first shot narrowly missed the gurryman, lodged into the side of the scow and sent a hovering flock of gulls fluttering skyward.

Sumbitch! she shrieked, No 'count sheep stealin' sumbitch!

Her second nicked the weathervane on top of the watchman's shack and sent it spinning like a dervish.

Her third ricocheted off a rung of the metal wharf ladder and sunk harmlessly into a piling with a soft thud.

It was her fourth that did her in - the old gun tired and kicked back mightily - sending her into a undignified, sprawling heap and in the process, dislocating one scrawny shoulder. 

HATTIE! Sparrow roared, stumbling off his front porch and down the narrow, gravel path, HATTIE!  WHAT IN BLAZES YOU DOIN'!  PUT THAT DAMFOOL THING AWAY!

By the time he reached her, one of the Albright boys was already there and had wrestled the gun away and was somehow managing to hold her down.  The old woman was clutching her shoulder and flailing but it wasn't enough to shut her up.

Git off me, you sumbitch! she screeched, gimme back my gun!

You keep ahold her, boy, Sparrow ordered grimly, Hattie!  Hattie, you're hurt, be still now!

From the safety of the candy shop, Ruthie and I peered out one of the windows we'd been washing - a penny a pane, Uncle Bernie had offered - and watched as Sparrow kicked the old gun out of reach and Uncle Bernie picked up the water bucket and trudged toward the unlikely trio.

Hattie! the old storyteller shouted at her, Hattie, you settle down else I'm a gon' do it for you!

The old woman on the ground hollered.  She writhed.  She cursed.  She kicked.  She cackled.

I warned you, you old hag, Uncle Bernie shrugged and gave the Albright boy a quick glance, You got her, boy? and then quick as greased lightning, chucked the whole bucket of water directly onto Hattie.

There was a moment of shocked silence then Sparrow was kneeling in back of her.  With Uncle Bernie's help, he got her propped up, wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug, and gave her a violent, wrenching twist.

Ruthie and I both heard the crack as her shoulder settled back in to its proper place.  Old Hat slumped and passed clean out before she could spit her next curse.  When it was still quiet a few minutes later, Ruthie and I scrambled out the old front door of the candy shop and scurried like rabbits to where Sparrow and Uncle Bernie and the Albright boy were hovering around Hattie.

Is she dead, Sparrow? Ruthie, ever the brave soul, wanted to know.

Not hardly, Sparrow told her with a rueful grin, but I reckon she's gon' wish she was when she wakes up.  That shoulder's likely gon' hurt like fire.

What we gon' do with her? the Albright boy asked tentatively, We cain't leave her lyin' in the road.

Sparrow and Uncle Bernie considered this.

No, Uncle Bernie finally said, 'Spose not.

Reckon my place's the closest, Sparrow sighed,  She don't weigh next to nothin', boy, kin you carry her? Bernie, I'm thinkin' you might call Glad and see if she'll come and fetch her home.  He straightened up and stretched, rolled his shoulders back and winced at the effort.  I swear to Christ, this old woman's gon' be the death of me. Where's that damn scattergun of her's?  Old hag's got more firepower than Carter's got pills.

When I timidly asked who she'd been shooting at, Uncle Bernie just shrugged.

It's Old Hat, he said mildly, Rabbit or gull mebbe or mebbe nothin' a'tall.  Damfool woman gits herself likkered up and jist likes to start shootin' at most anythin' that moves.  Wonder she ain't shot her own foot off.

We trailed after him back to the candy shop and those penny a pane windows.  When we were done, we each had three shiny, new dimes in our pockets - a fortune for a seven year old back then - and a tale to tell my grandmother.  We heard later that Aunt Glad had arrived and gotten Hattie home, more or less settled by the window in the parlor, dosing her with whiskey and salts and packing her shoulder with rag-wrapped hot bricks.

Later that same night, when the gurryman climbed into his dory for the trip home, he discovered a mud splattered, hungry, and very indignant ewe under the ragged tarp.  There was no trace of Hattie's no 'count, sheep stealing sumbitch so as quietly as he could, he fetched up the old girl and carried her across the road and down the rocky path, depositing her stealthily in the sheep pen behind Hattie's shack.  

Couldn't rightly recollect what discretion was the better part of, he confessed to Sparrow a few days later, but I was thinkin' it mighta been jist not gettin' caught.

Amen, old son, Sparrow - not a religious man -  laughed, Amen.