The Second Rat

I can hardly believe my eyes. There's a second rat.

I've gotten to Michael's to feed and let the dogs out but I'm nowhere over the trauma of the first rat so I enter the kitchen cautiously. I'm reaching for the latch to open the gate that divides the room - the back door is on the other side - when I see it, lying squarely in the middle of the floor and not moving. The dogs see it at the same time and chaos erupts as they try to storm the gate. It's sudden and deafening and the rat doesn't react but I learned a little something from the first one and I suspect it's a ruse. I drag each of the dogs out, kicking and screaming, and reach for my trusty broom. It only takes one tentative prod and the creature comes to life, jumping into the air, whirling around, and slithering into a corner where Michael keeps the kennels and a veritable forest of half dead plants. My heart is once again hammering in my chest as I back away but I keep a death grip on the broom. Then I realize that the dogfood is on the rat's side of the gate.

As slowly and as quietly as I can, I open the gate, keeping my eyes fixed on the plants and managing to retrieve four containers of Ceasar's. I feed the dogs outside, re-fill and move their water bowls to the office and close the kitchen door. Despite my earlier vow never to use poison again, I consider it but dismiss the idea at once and decide to leave things as they are. The thing is likely half poisoned already, I tell myself, maybe it will die on its own.

To my surprise and shock, that seems to be exactly what happens. When I go back at midnight, the rat has crawled into one of the kennels and is lying there motionless but whether it's asleep or dead, I can't tell. I take careful note of its precise position then use the broom to close and lock the cage door. It still doesn't stir and the next morning, it appears to be exactly where it was. Fully prepared to run at the first sign of life no matter how feeble, I prod it with the broom, gently at first then more roughly, until I'm convinced that it's dead. In the words of the Munchkin coroner, not merely dead but most sincerely dead.

Thinking that Michael will be less than thrilled to come home to a dead rat in the dog kennel,

I gather my courage, fight off the nausea and sweep it into the dustpan, dump it in the trash, and take the trash to the outside barrel.

I refuse to allow myself to think about the possibility of a third rat.

A Rat in Residence

For the last couple of weeks, my friend Michael has been making claims about a rat living in the kitchen. I didn't exactly doubt him - the small pit has been hunting something in the kitchen for several days now - but knowing Michael's penchant for exaggeration, I did suspect it was more likely a small house mouse and certainly nothing to be alarmed about. All that came to a screeching halt last night.

At first, when I saw it lying motionless almost within reach of the dogs' water bowl (rat poison, Michael has informed me, causes excessive thirst in its victims), it took a couple of seconds to process what I was looking at. The little pit was standing over it, delicately sniffing and kind of wrinkling his nose but the word “rat” simply didn't want to surface in my brain. When it did, my second thought was that it was dead - surely no self-respecting rat would tolerate the nearness of a curious dog, I told myself - it must be dead. But before I could even call to the dog, the rat suddenly twitched, I shrieked, and the dog seized the wretched thing by its tail and flung it fiercely in the general direction of the back door. Trapped squarely between terror and disgust, I shrieked a second time and somehow managed to fight off the desperate urge to turn tail and run like hell. I dimly remember thinking, this is what a heart attack feels like. I don't know how, but I snatched at the little dog and dragged him out of the kitchen then slammed the connecting door so hard it rattled the glass panes. Breathe, I told myself, don't panic, just breathe.

It might've worked too except for the fact that I slowly began to realize I couldn't avoid the kitchen for the next four days. I was going to have to initiate a search for what I hoped would be a corpse. But I wasn't going unprepared or unarmed or alone. I would send the dogs in as scouts, I decided, then approach with extreme caution. After all, a rat who would allow itself to be flung by its tail by a dog couldn't be all that dangerous. It must have ingested some of the poison Michael had been putting down, surely enough to slow it down.

I opened the door, called the dogs to go outside and followed them into the kitchen. The little pit showed considerable interest in the areas behind the sink and the refrigerator but I saw or heard nothing. No scrabbling, no rat corpse, no blood. My initial relief didn't last. No corpse meant the thing hadn't been killed by its encounter with the dog. I wanted to believe it had been mortally wounded and crawled out of sight to die miserably but I couldn't quite convince myself. It was, after all, a rat, not a harmless little house mouse. Who knew what it was capable of or what disease it might be carrying. The idea was unnerving and I hastily called the dogs back in, moved their water bowls to the office and securely shut the door to the kitchen.

Apart from the occasional cockroach and a one time massacre of a fire ant mound, I couldn't remember ever having actually killed anything but I was prepared to make an exception for the rat. I drove directly to the feed store and bought a box of industrial poison, broke off several chunks of the vile stuff, generously baited the kitchen. I've always been a live and let live kind of person but there's something about sharing space with a rat that I can't get around for love or money.

The following morning, I enter the house - cautious but no longer terrorized - and approach the kitchen with a hopeful heart. I immediately see the rat on the other side of the door, hunkered down by the water bowl but not moving. When he sees me, he hobbles awkwardly away and vanishes behind the stove but his slow, stiff motion causes my conscience to unexpectedly twinge. Get a grip, I tell myself impatiently, It's a rat, a filthy, disease spreading, sharp toothed, nasty looking rodent and it's ridiculous to feel sorry for him. Don't be an idiot.

The third sighting is encouraging. I can see him, still by the water bowl, but now lying on his side with his little feet up in the air. I rap on the glass and watch for several minutes but he doesn't move and though I'm almost entirely sure he's dead, I decide to give him a few more hours. I come back at suppertime and to my dismay, he's revived and is now stretched out just a couple of feet on the other side of the door. He doesn't move when I rap on the glass, doesn't move when I crack open the door but when I prod him with the broom, he comes to, turns around and staggers toward the back of the stove, walking crookedly and falling over once or twice in the process. I watch him right himself, stunned and in awe of his will to live.

“I'll be damned,” I tell the anxiously watching dogs, “What's it gonna take to kill this thing?”

Here's the thing. The following morning he was still holding on although as close to comatose as a creature could be. He didn't look like a filthy, disease-spreading, sharp toothed, nasty rodent anymore but more like a sad, suffering, helpless and pitifully frail creature who deserved mercy I had no means to give. When I was totally sure he was too far gone to resist, I swallowed my fear and pity and disgust and somehow managed to sweep his nearly lifeless body into the dustpan, dump the dustpan into the trash and take the trash to the curb. I'd have set him free but with the poison in his system, it would've put any animal that found him at risk. I truly hope the shock finally killed him.

I'm left with a sense of not having handled this well and a nagging feeling of guilt about the use of poison. It was, I think - even for a rat - a cruel solution and not one I'll ever use again.

Hope and Despair

“We learn nothing from despair. That's what makes it despair.” ~ Marty Rubin

The despair I have felt since the 2016 election has become a force of nature. I fall asleep to it, wake up with it, and feel it every moment in between. Sometimes it invaded my sleep and gives me nightmares. It's a black cloud of burden and there's no escape, no safe place to run to, no shelter. I turn off the news and try to distract myself. I remind myself that even the most poisonous of politicians don't last forever. We are, I tell myself, like the Six Million Dollar Man, better, stronger and we can be rebuilt. Mostly. I hope.

I recently heard an interview by Michael Scott Moore, the author of “The Desert and the Sea: 977 Days Captive on the Somali Pirate Coast”. Hope, he writes, is like heroin to a hostage and it can be just as destructive.” The words resonated with me. Later in the interview he said, Despair and hope are just two ways of approaching the future and it turns out, you can live without hope.

So maybe one of my favorite authors is wrong. Maybe despair does teach us something if no more than how vital it is to take a break from it. I can't make it disappear entirely but I can, sometimes, exile it into a temporary, semi-retreat. I can, sometimes, force it to the edges of my mind and diminish its power for small sections of time.

I don't know whether it will be enough but it's all I've got right now.

Running Out of Light

It's not easy to admit, but there have been times - fleeting moments, to be sure - when the idea of suicide was almost comprehensible to me. There's a certain seductiveness to the idea of saying fuck it, I don't care anymore, I'm done. I know there are those who say it's selfish or the coward's way out but in my heart, I think it must take extraordinary courage to end your life, to utterly give up on the idea that things might get better, might change. Darkness almost always gives way to light if you can just hold on for another day or another few hours.

My friend Bud reached a point of letting go this past week. He'd had some health issues, to be sure, but nothing life threatening or hopeless. He wasn't in excructiating physical pain or poverty stricken or facing any kind of crisis. He had friends and family, a home, a dog and his music but it wasn't enough. He just ran out of light.

I hope and pray he's found some peace and that those he leaves behind will eventually come to terms with his death and forgive him for his absence. Darkness threatens us all at one time or another.

Lady Claire

She was the last of the litter, a delicately boned, fawn colored boxer puppy with floppy ears, enormous dark eyes and a massive red, ribboned bow around her neck. When Uncle Stan reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat and pulled her out, my mother went limp. Before anyone could protest, he settled her in my mother's lap and stepped back with a huge grin.

“Last of the litter,” he said proudly, “Six weeks today. Merry Christmas, Jan.”

“She's going to be small, we think,” Aunt Claire added, “Small but beautiful. We thought Fritz could use a friend.”

It was a rare thing to see my mother speechless, even more rare to see her eyes light up but at the first sight of the new pup, that was exactly what happened. I watched in amazement as she cradled the tiny animal in her arms and nuzzled it against her cheek, accepting puppy kisses as if it were the most natural thing in the world and returning them with a gentleness and an affection I had no idea she even possessed.

“She's been wormed and has had her first shots,” Aunt Claire was saying, “All she needs is a family to love her.”

It wasn't that simple, of course. There would be new vet bills to pay, another mouth to feed, a long process of housebreaking and socialization to be endured. It would take a combination of patience, persistance and kindness - qualities I'd never seen in my mother - but she took it all on without the first hesitation. From the beginning, the little boxer pup was unquestionably her

dog. It was a bond that would last for years.

“What about a name?” my daddy asked and my mother smiled.

“Her name is Lady,” my mother said instantly and firmly, “Lady Claire.”

This made my Aunt Claire smile.

“Well, now,” my daddy said gruffly, “If they're going to be living together, maybe Lady ought to meet Fritz.”

The grown dachshund and the new pup took to one another - as my grandmother said - like succotash, becoming inseparable from first sniff. They ate together, slept together and played together for the next 12 years. You almost never saw one without the other and on the truly terrible night Fritz died, Lady went into mourning and never really recovered. Not even my mother was able to comfort her and within a year of losing Fritz, she carried her beloved boxer, now thin from refusing to eat, depressed, and barely able to stand, to the vet and came home alone.

My mother buried my grand father without a trace of sadness or regret.

She was dry eyed and distant at my grandmother's death.

But she cried for Fritz and grieved for Lady for weeks. As high a price as it was to pay, the part of me that hated her celebrated her pain and was glad to see her suffer. The part that loved animals understood and mourned.

Oh, To Be a Cat

Just before I open the back door to let the dogs out, I catch a glimpse of the black and white cat sitting on the deck. She's half asleep with her paws tucked neatly beneath her, idly watching the birds on the back fence but not motivated enough to stalk. At the sound of the latch turning, she whirls and takes off like a shot, scaling the back fence as if it had steps, and disappearing into the neighbor's yard. The dogs trot out, as best I can tell, completely oblivious to the missed opportunity.

Of the half dozen or so cats that regularly prowl the neighborhood, this is not one that I see very often and I like to think that even as skittish as she is, she's not homeless or feral, just something of an adventurer taking advantage of an irresponsible owner and what some would argue is a natural affinity for wanderlust. It's not a theory I hold to and for my own cats, none of whom have ever spent a single nanosecond outside on their own and never will, I prefer for them to be kept safe rather than at risk.

To my surprise, she's back the very next morning, calmly sitting in the sunlit driveway, casually washing her paws and whiskers. Once again, at the sound of the latch, she turns into a blur and races across the yard and over the fence. She leaves no trace of her trespassing and once again, the dogs seem to have no clue. For a fleeting instant, I think about leaving a dish of Friskies out for her but (thankfully) the urge passes and I settle for filling a water bowl and leaving it in a patch of shade on the deck. Mine is a well intentioned and compassionate neighborhood and there's no shortage of roaming cat feeding stations - the odds of her going hungry are somewhere between slim and absolutely none - while the odds of my being once again overrun are considerable. The twinges of guilt I feel will pass, I tell myself, she's well fed, healthy and street smart and she'll be fine.

The next time I see her, it's the morning of the 4^th of July and she's comfortably settled in the notch of the tree just the other side of the fence. This time the dogs do take notice but don't appear to care one way or the other. Each gives an obligatory bark or two, then ignore her and go about their business. She watches with a mixture of defiance and indifference, nicely backlit by the morning sun and still as a statue. It would make a good photograph but my camera is inside and knowing this cat, she wouldn't be inclined to wait. Such is the independence and the free spirited-ness of cats.

Sweet Dreams

Even with a sleeping pill and going to bed after midnight, I'm still wide awake by 4am and at times, even earlier.  The demon keeping me from sleep is named Worry.

There's not much point in allowing my mind - given to some very dark thoughts when this happens and it happens nightly these days - to run amok any longer. Try as I might, I can't turn off the restless thoughts and worries and regrets. Every mistake I've ever made, every bad moment I've ever had, and every possible disaster that might happen tomorrow or the next day gets new life. The longer and harder I fight them off, the nearer and stronger they get. Even the animals sense it and they burrow closer against me, all six of them it seems, but there's no comfort in it. Frustrated and annoyed, I finally throw off the covers and leave my warm nest.

It's pitch black and the house is leftover warm. I pull on yesterday's jeans, a flannel shirt and a  pair of socks, light a cigarette and decide to try and write. Claude Rains and Bette Davis are quarreling in the background and the only light is the television's flickering screen and the computer monitor. I keep expecting the animals to start demanding to be fed but they're content to stay in the bed behind me and sleep. Except for one of the cats, who cries and paws until I let him crawl into my lap, they barely stir. I wish I had their peace of mind or their innocence.

When writing fails, I scroll through social media for the latest presidential and political disasters, pull up kitten and rescue videos, and check messages. I write an email or two and balance my checkbook then go back to the writing. The house begins to warm up and the time passes.  By 6, I can hear birds and it's just beginning to get light. I rouse the animals for breakfast, make the bed, and step into a hot shower. By 7, the dishes are washed, the litter is changed, and I'm dressed and anxious to start a new day.

The demon is patient. He may retreat and hide when threatened,may change form to catch me unawares, may even allow me small victories but he never but never gives up the fight. He's really powerful,  housebroken, takes up very little room and doesn't eat much. He's made from fears, upbringing, defense mechanisms and memories and worst of all, he like to let me think I've beaten him.  He comes at night, creeping and crawling under the radar, gaining strength with every life insurance, health care or assisted living commercial. He whispers all the what ifs that I try so hard not to think about. He's back when I wake at 3 am, struggle til 4 am then give up. I can't remember what a decent night's sleep feels like and I need to go to work for the distraction of being occupied.

We live in exhausting and morally corrosive times with a soul-less president yearning to be king.  Worry is on his side.

"To live is to be haunted."  Philip K. Dick

Six Weeks in Summer

Between our house on The Point and where the road turned into an overgrown and seldom used cow path, there were four other houses. Not a single one of them had a telephone nor a vehicle so it was no surprise that when any sort of minor emergency happened, island folks came knocking on our back door. Even so, when my grandmother discovered Old Hat on the doorstep on a clear and bright Sunday morning, she was more than a little surprised. The wizened old woman - well into her 70's and still barely as tall as I was at nearly 13 - was my idea of a perfect crone. She was all in black except for her mud-brown work boots, her top hat was perched crookedly atop an untamed mass of gray to white wild hair, and her trusty scattergun was resting on one scrawny shoulder.

“Goodness me,” I heard Nana say, “Hattie! What brings you............”

“It's Sparrow,” Hattie said flatly, never one for preliminaries, “Sorry ass old fool's took sick and cain't git up. Best send for that new blood suckin' quack doctor.” And quicker'n Jack Robinson, she turned on her heel and limped off.

“Call Elsie and have Doc Roberts to come,” Nana ordered me briskly, “Then fetch me the first aid kit and a bottle of brandy whilst I git dressed. Go on, child! Hop to it and close your mouth, you'll catch flies!”

I hopped to it, trotting to the old telephone and ringing up the island switchboard. Miz Elsie answered immediately, reckoned that Doc Roberts was still in Central Grove tending to Bill Albright's recently broke ankle, but that she'd find him and send him our way. I relayed the news to my grandmother and she nodded approvingly before we set out down the road to Sparrow's, first aid kit in one hand and brandy discreetly tucked into a picnic basket and covered with a checked napkin.

Hattie was already there, sitting primly in one of the porch rocking chairs, shotgun laid across her lap, mouth set in a hard line and glaring at nothing in particular.

“Ain't got all day, missus,” she said sharply, “You or the doc be needin' anythin', you kin fetch me.” For emphasis, she spat out a wad of tobacco. Nana flinched and my stomach did a fluttery thing. “Be jist like that ol' man to up and die while I'm sloppin' his hogs”, she added, “Ain't got no time, no how for this neighbor horseshit.”

Doc Roberts arrived about that time and I almost didn't notice Nana's smile as she watched Hattie trudge off toward the pig sty.

“Come on in, Doc,” Nana said mildly, “Ol' hag's all smoke and no fire, same as Sparrow. They been feudin' long as there's been dirt and neither one could get along without the other.”

Doc Roberts laughed and climbed the rickety stairs. “So I hear, Miz Watson,” he said, “So I always here.”

Sparrow, it turned out, had managed to contract a case of pneumonia and despite his cursing and protesting, was confined to his bed for a full 6 weeks.

“Look here, you damn fool,” Doc told him gruffly, “You can do what I tell you and get well or you can cash in your chips and get yourself put six feet under. Makes no difference to me one way or the other but I'm not about to waste my time or my antibiotics on you if you're not going to meet me halfway. So roll up your sleeve or tell me to go to hell, I don't care. Do I make myself clear?”

Scowling and muttering under his breath while my grandmother did her best to hide a smile, Sparrow rolled up his sleeve.

It took every day of the following six weeks and every scrap of patience we had, but Sparrow got well. Hattie tended him daily - cooking, cleaning and making sure he took his pills. Under her watchful (or more likely suspicious) eye, Ruthie and I were delegated to care for the pigs and chickens and keep the solitary old cow milked while Nana came by every few days to check our progress. In time, Doc Roberts pronounced the old man as good as new but then had the temerity to suggest that Old Hat might deserve a thank you. Sparrow spat and promptly threw a shoe at him. Life on The Point was back to normal.

A Lot Like Life

My one remaining black cat - all 16 or 17 pounds of him, bright eyed and long haired, remarkably graceful and light on his feet - jumps onto the loveseat with surprising little effort and curls up next to me, form fitting his body to the L shaped space between my knees and chest. Despite his size and bulk, he's very polite and when he speaks it's with a tiny voice, more mouse than cat-like, delicate and almost tentative. He tucks his paws beneath him, his perfectly heart shaped face just a couple of inches from my own. I tell him what a very good boy he is and he seems to smile. He's an elegant animal, full of mystery, shyness and easy charm. I wouldn't want him to know it but he had me at the first soft meow. It's likely he will be my last black cat and that makes him all the more precious to me.

I grew up in a dog household. Our only cat, an embattled and tough old tom, named Rusty, spent most of his time out of doors and judging from his constant wounds, I'm sure he was a womanizer and an aggressor. During the worst of the New England winters, he would come inside and sleep in front of the fire but he was never lovable or particularly friendly. Still, once I left home, it was a kitten and not a puppy I longed for and since then there have been so many of both that I've lost count. I would give my life for my dogs but there's a certain symmetry about beginning and ending life with a cat, particularly a black cat.

A squirrel darting through the crepe myrtles outside catches his attention and with a squeak of protest, my passive, sleepy and stretched out cat turns into an instant predator. He rushes the windows, all teeth and claws, chattering like an anxious monkey and startling the dogs into a surprised and over loud panic. Noise and all, the squirrel is unimpressed. He sits calmly, watching all this sound and fury and swishing his tail vigorously though whether from bordom or defiance I can't be sure.

After a time, the squirrel moves on, the dogs quiet down, and the cat loses interest. It's a lot like life.

Sometimes We Lose

After a certain point, I think maybe we all learn to live with a little grief all the time. It becomes part of who we are. As a dear friend recently wrote to me, loss is never mitigated. At its core, it's still loss and life goes on, no matter how much we hurt, no matter who leaves us. Not all empty spaces are meant to be filled. If we could be turned inside out, I sometimes wonder, would some of us not resemble swiss cheese?

I suppose you could make an argument that without loss, we'd never appreciate life for its sweetness and shortness. It wouldn't help but you could make it.

If we get to a place where the empty spaces outnumber the filled in ones, is it time to call it a day? Do we have the right to give up?

Of all the dark places we get to go in this life, suicide may be the darkest and the hardest to comprehend.

There's a popular saying that says be kind, everyone is fighting a battle we know nothing about.

Sometimes we lose.

Road Work

I remember my daddy giving me one of my first driving lessons on an open road when the sky turned unexpectedly black and unleashed a furious thunderstorm. The wiper blades couldn't keep up and in just seconds, the two lane highway was perilously close to flooding.

“Pull over,” he told me tensely, “Pull over and we'll wait it out.”

Already apprehensive, I did exactly as he told me, and pulled onto the shoulder. Some cars followed suit, others plowed forward and sent tidal waves of water washing over the old station wagon as they passed. He showed me how to turn on the emergency flashers and the defroster and we sat in white-knuckled silence until the storm passed and the water receded. I was shaking like a leaf and in no shape to resume driving but my daddy was firm.

“You're not always going to have sunshine,” he said gently, “There are going to be times when you'll need to know how to drive in the rain.”

It was still misting slightly as I turned back onto the road but the traffic had lightened and little by slow, my heart stopped hammering and I managed to regain my concentration. Calmly and quietly, he talked me through lane changes and turns and safe stopping distances, rules of a 4 way stop and courtesy, obeying speed limits and paying attention. Parallel parking very nearly proved to be my undoing in that old Mercury wagon - it was, as best I could imagine, like navigating a Sherman tank in a closet - but after a number of close calls and one or two minor scrapes, I made a passable job of it. The days of lessons in empty parking lots were over.

Now and again, my mother would take over the lessons in her snazzy pink and white Ford convertible with the whitewall tires and the Goldwater bumper stickers. She was studiously nonchalant about the process, handing me the keys and settling back with a Parliament in one hand and a Ladies Home Journal in the other. It was possible, although unlikely, that she had enormous faith in me but I was inclined to believe that after a few late afternoon manhattans, she was simply chilled out. Either way, she almost never gave advice and rarely corrected me and though I doubt she intended to teach me confidence, I learned it in spite of myself. Like the old station wagon, my daddy was cautious, careful, conservative, and though he tried mightily not to show it, often a little panicky when I drove. My mother, top down and out for a good time, went with the flow. It was an interesting contrast of cars and personalities.

I got my license on the first try and not long after, my first car, a baby blue Mustang that I fell head over heels in love with the moment I saw. They were sunshine days but parallel parking is still a bitch.

Words and Music

Whenever possible, I make it a point to avoid funerals. I don't find much comfort in the tried and true rituals, the music makes me emotional, and I hate crowds, even when filled with familiar faces. Life everlasting sounds good coming from a priest - and this priest had actually known AJ and his family for years - but the non-believer in me still isn't convinced about paradise, no matter how glowing it's made to sound. God is one thing, the soul is another, but

the concepts of either eternal damnation in a fiery pit or never ending walks with harp playing angels on streets of gold.........it just seems too manmade to be real.

You can't live 80 years in a small town and not leave your mark and while the church wasn't standing room only, it was so close that several rows of extra chairs had been set up inside the sanctuary and several more outside in the vestibule. Father Lacaze delivered an eloquent if slightly downhome-ish eulogy, communion was held, the Ave Maria was sung and a multitude of prayers were offered. It was, so everyone seemed to agree, a lovely service about family and music and all roads leading to God. I had slipped in a few minutes late and when it was over, the priests and the family filed out slowly and solemnly, and I slipped out. Eternal life or not, it was enough sadness for one day.

Words, even about the certainty of heaven, even from a priest, are still just words. They echo in the sanctuary, they make promises, they're meant to comfort and ease the loss of those left behind. They're gospel truth for the faithful and much as I want to believe, the cynic in me is still a hold-out. Call it what you will, but I'd rather have the man and the music here on earth.

Last Set at Red RIver

One minute he was blowing the fire out of a harmonica and the next, seconds after I snapped the shutter on the last picture of him I would ever take, he was staggering. He would've fallen except for the other musicians on stage who immediately reached out and caught him. We all watched it happening, initially puzzled and unable to make sense of it. And then finally everyone recognized the plainly visible signs – the left side of his face sagging and distorted, his left arm useless, his speech impaired and his balance gone – instruments were put down, the music stopped and someone grabbed a stool and helped him sit down. Someone else called 911 and he was immediately surrounded by friends, family and fellow musicians. Shock and disbelief, had, for several seconds, made us slow to react but once reality set in, it set in with a vengeance.

The EMT's arrived within minutes and we watched in stunned, heartbroken silence as he was strapped to a gurney and wheeled to the ambulance, still clutching his harmonica and struggling to speak. I heard muted crying and then the entire houseful of musicians and fans stood and began clapping. I don't know if he heard but I hope so. The only other sound I remember was the lonely wail of the ambulance. I desperately wanted it to be a life saving noise but at the same time, I wanted more desperately to shut it out.

That was on Sunday, May 20, 2018 and he died this morning. The damage had been massive and I have to think it was a mercy.

Godspeed and rest in peace, my dear friend. You were a gift in my life and you used your time well.

Some Assembly Required

For the record, I'm not completely or hopelessly home do-it-yourself helpless.

For the majority of my life, I've just never needed to cultivate self-reliance. Oh, I can mount the hardware and hang curtains, put together a bookcase or a vacuum cleaner, even assemble and install a doorknob but I've rarely needed to. There was always a husband or a friend or a paid professional around for such chores. It's been an easy and convenient lifestyle and I confess I miss it, but a fixed income does tend to moderate all kinds of things, lifestyles included. So when I realized that having a plumber replace the toilet seat was likely to cost me a week's wages, I decided to try it on my own.

Following my friend Charli's advice, I found and watched several “How To” videos and was encouraged that it didn't look all that complicated. I measured as instructed and gathered the required tools (all except the screwdriver which I couldn't put my hands on for love or money) and drove to the hated Walmart to purchase a new seat. Wood seemed more long term practical but plastic was easier on the budget so the first decision was simple and what I saved on wood went into a screwdriver set anyway.

Just to be safe, I watched the videos a second time and then slowly and carefully read the step-by-step instructions thoughtfully printed on the packaging and illustrated with pictures. It still seemed fairly straightforward and I began to feel more a bit more confident as I unwrapped the new seat and arranged my tools on the bathroom floor. Screwdriver in one hand and pliers in the other, I approached the porcelain bowl cautiously, trying to convince myself that it wasn't watching me with just the slightest hint of defiance. The key, I decided, was to show no fear.

“I am woman,” I told it firmly, “You are toilet.”

In the end, it wasn't quite the cakewalk I'd imagined but it wasn't quantum physics either and while I'm not likely to make this kind of thing a habit, it's impossible to discount the feeling of accomplishment it gave me. Self-reliance and a screwdriver can take you a long ways.

Moment to Moment

The dining room table is beginning to resemble a discount store shelf. So far I've managed to accumulate two extension cords (one for the regular vacuum cleaner, one for the portable), a new set of curtain rods, a package of picture hanging tape, a seat for the toilet, a set of mini-blinds, a drain cleaning wizard and my latest find from the dreaded Walmart - a 4”, no moving parts bottle opener, what my grandmother was pleased to call a “church key” - a simple thing I've been searching for for weeks and was ridiculously pleased to finally find. After a certain age, so I've discovered, the small moments are enough to make you happy.

I'm in the midst of organizing these purchases, there's a thunderous knocking at the front door and the dogs erupt. I corral them as best as I can and answer the door to find a plumbing truck in my driveway and a young man wearing a turned around baseball cap and a huge grin on my doorstep. The old root-infested clay water pipes and the backup they'd caused over the weekend had completely slipped my mind, not to mention that it was after 7 and the appointment had been for 3. Trying to make himself heard over the tumult of the dogs, he apologized for being late, asked where he could find an electrical outlet, and set to work. It was another one of those small moments.

When he's done, he comes in to test everything - we flush the toilet several times, run hot water in the tub, and put the washing machine through a quick cycle - it all goes smoothly and while we sit on the back deck waiting, he makes friends with the dogs and we chat comfortably. I learn his name is Cameron, he's just 21 and his girlfriend recently had a miscarriage and lost twins. They've given it to God, he tells me with a sad smile, everything happens for a reason. Then he offers me a turtle.

“Found it out on Highway 1,” he says, “Put it in the back of the truck and forgot about it.”

Sure enough, in the back of the truck, perched on a coil of metal snaking, is a sleepy-eyed and pretty good sized turtle. He doesn't look particularly concerned about his circumstances and for a second, I think he could live in my back yard but I know very little about the habits of turtles so I suggest the local duck pond. Cameron nods and says he appreciates the suggestion. I wonder but don't ask why he didn't just help it cross the highway and drive on and as if reading my mind, he tells me he thought he'd give it to his little brother to care for only his mother nixed the idea, saying she didn't want another mouth to feed, even if it was only a turtle.

“Wonder what turtles eat,” I mused.

“No idea,” he says with a shrug, “I'm a dog person like you. But I'm pretty sure he'll like living at the duck pond.”

“Definitely,” I agree.

Turtles have their moments too.

Finny At Large

The Plan: Do a little serious spring cleaning each weekend in May and be finished by Memorial Day. My hope is to to circumvent my lack of motivation.

I'm on my way to buy cleaning supplies when I come across the little white dog. She's some mix of maybe chihuahua and Jack Russell and she's standing in my driveway, watching me intently.

I take one step toward her and she streaks off. This becomes the pattern for the next three hours as she races from one end of the block to the other and back again, darting in and out of traffic - slow moving as it is but still dangerous - and checking out the neighbors yards at random. I call, I coax, I offer treats but she won't let me get close. I knock on doors but nobody recognizes her and I'm at my wits end when she's finally hot and tired enough to let her guard down. On a hunch, I get into my car and open the driver's side door and she hesitates a second or two then jumps right in. I slip a leash around her neck just as I've seen done a hundred times in rescue videos - she turns into a whirling dervish at this indignity but I stand my ground and slowly but surely lead her inside to a kennel I keep ready for just such emergencies. By the time I run my errands and return, she's settled down considerably and is sitting calmly and quietly. I take her picture to post to social media and check lost and found, hoping her owner might have noticed her missing but there's nothing, so reluctantly, I re-leash her and drive her to the local shelter. By the time I get back, her picture is posted along with her owner's name and within an hour she's reclaimed and returned home. I learn her name is Finny, she lives one street over, and according to her owner, is an accomplished escape artist. I have my doubts as to the last when I read that “she never leaves except today she did”. Still, it's a happier than usual ending and maybe her owner will have learned a lesson.

As for me, it got me out of cleaning for another morning.

A House, A Dog and a Wedding

A conundrum: It pleases and undoes me to see the children of dear friends taking their places in the adult world. How has this much time passed, I wonder. Suddenly these little ones are marrying, buying houses, adopting dogs and having children of their own. It's unnerving and it makes me sad to know I won't see their lives play out but it also makes me hopeful for the future. These are strong, moral, involved, caring and responsible children turned adults and perhaps things are not as black as I usually imagine. Perhaps a world left in their hands will recover. I hope so.

Youth is a fearless and optimistic time, after all. Everything seems possible and within reach when you're 20. By 30, you're a little more weighted down and by 40 you're a lot weighted down but still in bloom, still not looking back. In your 50's, you begin to catch on to the idea that it may not last forever. And then, practically overnight, you're on the AARP mailing list, waiting on the social security checks, thinking it's time to make a will and wondering where you went wrong.

I fear I am jaded past the point of no return by the evil and insanity in the world so it's a comfort to know there are children who will be good caretakers of what we leave behind. I hope they'll forgive us.

Food Fight

With the unerring precision of a Swiss watch, the tiny one knows when it's 4 o'clock and as predictably as day follows night, suddenly erupts like a wind-up toy on steroids. He begins to jump, howl, paw at me and frantically dance around, all the while yapping as steadily as a car alarm and twice as loud. When I hush him, he looks aggrieved. If I scold him, he looks wounded. In the end, it's either feed him or risk going deaf and slightly mad.

At the first sign of my giving in, he races for the kitchen - breathlessly still yapping - and skids across the floor as he tries to herd the cats out of the way and get there ahead of the little dachshund. Cats scatter to the safety of the counters and begin their own song and dance.

Only the little dachshund, having retrieved his stuffed lamb and placed him next to his dish, sits quietly, watching and waiting patiently as I fill food bowls with Mighty Dog and measure out Pedigree Little Bites and Friskies.

“I'm not feeding Lambchop,” I remind him and ruffle his ears, “He can have some of yours.”

I chase the kitten away from the dogfood, let the dogs have what leftovers the other cats leave, and the feeding frenzy is finally over. Both dogs obediently trot outside while I clean up and at long last, the house settles down.

I've had dogs for as long as I can remember. They've been big, small, sweet, unpredictable, passive, aggressive, stubborn and even schizophrenic. Some were mild mannered and perfectly well behaved and some were holy terrors. They came in all colors and coats and temperaments but none prepared me for a demanding, loudmouth, bossy little ball of fluff Yorkie who can tell time.

Leaving the Dance

On the day I was married, my grandmother gave me a fierce hug and covertly pressed a brand new, tightly folded $100 bill into my palm.

“Always carry a little mad money, child,” she whispered into my ear, “You never know when you'll have to leave the dance alone.”

She patted my cheek, gave my long haired, hippie husband a quick embrace, and carefully made her way down the chapel steps, moving slowly but determinedly toward her latest dark blue and immaculately maintained Lincoln Continental. She was a creature of habit and had been driving Lincolns - and trading them in every couple of years - for decades.

“In an uncertain world,” she often told me, “You need a car you can rely on. Besides, people get out of your way pretty quick if you're my age and in a Continental.”

She was in her late sixties by then and had been in what she called “the flower of widowhood” for better than 10 years, living alone and liking it. My grandfather had been a hard drinking, cold-natured, womanizing bear of a man who ruled his family with an iron fist but Nana had stayed with him, neutralized him whenever possible and made the best of a bad situation.

“Mind you, it was my choice to stay,” she reminded me once, “But I don't recommend it.”

By the time my mother had married and produced the three of us, the world had become more than she could bear so it was with relief that she relinquished the better part of my raising to my grandmother. I lived with her off and on throughout my teens, grateful to miss the worst of the alcoholic sieges at home and appreciative of the peace and quiet she provided. Nana's house was stark but expensively furnished, museum-like with muted grays and autumn browns. Dust was not tolerated, bed linens were starched and changed every third day, the furniture was elegantly uncomfortable and anything that couldn't be made neat and organized was made gone.

Clutter was absolutely forbidden whether you could see it or not - my grandmother was a believer in symmetry and simplicity - the kitchen cabinets were routinely emptied, cleaned, and re-organized once a month and even the refrigerator was so clean it glowed. Dishes were washed, dried and put away in one sitting, waste baskets were emptied daily, and even ashtrays were not allowed to collect more than one or two cigarette butts. Search as I might, I never found a closet or cabinet or drawer or shelf that wasn't in precise order. After her death, when I was inventorying the contents of the old house, I realized it had been obsessive but at the time, it was a comfort. As a child, I longed for order and predictability and sameness – they were the same as safety – and Nana could be relied upon for all three.

She was a small woman, and as all the women on that side family did, tended to be stout although compact. She had short, stubby fingers, tiny feet, and snow white hair and never went anywhere un-corseted or without her makeup. She had her hair and nails done every week, always kept three shades of red lipstick on her dressing table, and never went to bed without a nightly beauty ritual. The idea of women in slacks appalled her and she never really got over my mother's summer bare-legged-ness and flip flops.

“It's laziness,” she scolded, “And it's just not ladylike.”

She didn't mind so much when I took up smoking, nicotine was another habit all the women on that side of the family shared, but she was a demon about the etiquette of it.

“Never without asking permission in someone's home,” she said sternly, “Never at a meal unless everyone has finished eating. And never, ever when walking down a street! People will think you're a …...................well, never mind that, it's just not something ladies do.”

“And if you must drink beer,” she added with a scowl, “Use a glass. Nice people simply do not swig from a can or a bottle.”

With her friends, and she had many, she was generous, good-natured, patient and unfailingly well thought of but she held her family to stricter standards and was inclined to be demanding and more than a little domineering. She and my mother fought like stray dogs over a bone when it came to most small things but when it really mattered, she laid down the law in no uncertain terms. She might allow my mother to rant and rave and try to make her case, but in the end, she shut the argument down simply enough.

“My house, my rules,” she would say calmly, “Take it or leave it.”

I learned to fight from my mother but I learned to win from my grandmother.

She loved Ed Sullivan and Red Skelton equally, was a die-hard Rex Sox fan, had a total crush on Liberace, read the Boston Globe for news and wrapped fish in The Herald. She had no use for any politician after Eisenhower, complained fiercely and often about “the coloreds”, made baskets for the orphan's home every Thanksgiving, and preferred Filene's to Jordan Marsh every day of the week and twice on Sundays. She played no instruments, rarely read anything that wasn't a Readers Digest Book of the Month selection, never walked when she could ride and had no hobbies except for crocheting and knitting. She was a cutthroat bridge player and a dedicated and distinguished member of the Eastern Star and the Daughters of Rebeka with a lifelong love of tradition and ceremony. One of the only really serious battles we ever had was over my refusal to stay in Rainbow Girls. It played out at her small kitchen table over warmed up coffee cake spread with softened butter, so sweet it made my teeth hurt, and fresh strawberries in cream.

“It's elitist!” I argued vehemently, “And out of touch! And silly! Secret signs and rituals and nonsense! I don't want any part of it!”

I'd never seen her look more absolutely stricken and to this day, if I could take back just one conversation with her, I think it might be that one. She was flawed and imperfect but she loved me, mostly without conditions, and I should have been kinder.

I was living out of state when she died but made it back for the funeral and spent a couple of nights in her house. I was struck by how little the perfect order of things had changed. I bought a coffee cake and a stick of butter and sat at her kitchen table, careful to wash up when I was finished and leave no crumbs on the red and white tablecloth. I imagined her sitting across from me, smoking a filter tip Kent 100, tapping out saccachrine tablets for her coffee and telling me all the reasons I should be a Rainbow Girl. I took a deep breath and agreed.

And then I left the dance.

New Math

I plunk my single box of $12.99 hanging folders on the counter and the cashier rings it up.

“$24.94,” she tells me.

I slide my card into the machine and then it hits me.

“Wait,” I say, “How is one $12.99 purchase with 9% sales tax $24.94?”

She glares. Gives an indifferent shrug. Tells me to remove my card. Doesn't tell me it's my fault but I know she's thinking it. I narrow my eyes to read the credit card capture machine and it's clear as day:

Hanging folders $12.99

Tax $1.95

Total $24.94

“New math?” I inquire without even trying not to be sarcastic.

A second, angry glare and a second shrug. She clears the machines and grudgingly re-rings the sale.

“$14.94,” she tells me finally but I notice that she won't meet my eyes.

No explanation. No apology. And most definitely, no “Thanks for shopping Office Depot”.

It doesn't even surprise me anymore.