Maria

 

“Embolism. I am numb. Maria is gone.”

I read the post from my friend, Greg, several times but couldn't comprehend it. I had seen them together only a day or so ago – both so happy, completely in love, vibrant and as always, all smiles. How on earth could Maria be suddenly and shockingly “gone”. Social media exploded with messages and condolences and images of the couple. They were huge supporters of live music, known and loved by all in the music community and seen everywhere around town, posting cheek to cheek selfies at every event, so clearly good people and a loving, happy couple. All I was able to think was that this couldn't be real.

For the next several days, social media posts blazed with sympathy and shock as more people heard the news. The primary reaction was disbelief - followed closely by prayers – we just couldn't make sense of such a tragic and completely unexpected death, couldn't make it real. She had gone to work that morning, went to lunch and to pick up a prescription, and somewhere in between,
died. Greg was totally shattered and incoherent, barely able to make a whole sentence, not able to even imagine what his life would be without her. Friends called, delivered food, tended his dog and checked on him regularly but he was a shell, haggard and brittle with grief and not at all reluctant to admit it.

The service was comforting and bittersweet. It's hard to accept the pain of loss and celebrate someone ascending to heaven at the same time. Maria had been a person of faith, of goodness, and of kindliness and grace. Heaven or not, we'd all have preferred her here with us.

Waxworks

 

“So,” my young and undeniably attractive doctor says to me with a smile, “They tell me you can't hear in stereo. Let's see if we can't fix you up.” He inspects my ears and mutters a muted tsk, tsk. “My, my, my,” he says cheerily, “Now that's impressive.”

“Wax?” I ask hopefully.

“Did you ever see that episode of 'The Twilight Zone' with Lawrence Harvey and the earwig?” he asks and for a nanosecond, my heart nearly stops, then he gives me a wink.

“Scared the living daylights out of me, let me tell you.”

“Me too,” I admit, “It was terrorizing. But you're not old enough to remember that!”

“Sling TV,” he shrugs and gives me a grin. “Give us a few minutes and we'll have you right as rain.”

The nurse filled by ears with some kind of wax softener and some 20 minutes later, used a pressurized spray bottle to blast through the now malleable wax. It wasn't a pleasant experience but there was no pain and after a couple of sprays, I was cured.

“It's a miracle!” I proclaimed.

The doctor came back with a pleased expression in his eyes, examined both my ears and pronounced me unimpaired and earwig free. Unlike Lawrence Harvey, I emerge structurally sound and live to fight another day.

Liquor, Lies, and Lost Causes

 

He was unsteady on his feet, slurring his words, bleary eyed, two hours late and not able to manage fitting his house key into the lock. I listened with a growing sense of despair – this most recent bout with sobriety was clearly over. I didn't feel up to the inevitable battle and snatching up my purse and keys, slipped out the back door. By the time he finally got inside, I was well on my way although I had no certain destination in mind. I wanted no more than to put some serious distance between me and this latest broken promise.

It was, fortunately, a Friday night and no work the next day. I drove aimlessly for an hour or so, completely confident that he wouldn't lift a finger to try and look for me, and finally checked in to a modest hotel off the turnpike, ate in their shabby little restaurant and went to bed. Sleep was elusive and I spent more time restless and awake than sleeping. Should I go home or should I run? As long as he had beer money, I doubted he'd care one way or another but in the end – as had happened countless other times – it was my animals that brought me back. I didn't think he'd harm them intentionally but leaving them in the care of a drunk was risky. He worked, slept, ate and drove drunk – who knew when he might plow into a tree or black out or fall asleep with a cigarette and set fire to the whole house.

God knows, I'd wished for all of that at one time or another, if only briefly. Feeling dismal, hopeless and broken, I headed for home to my beloved cats and dogs. I knew nothing else would be salvageable.

It turned into one more cold war. We lived under the same roof but slept apart, kept our distance, came and went as if everything were perfectly fine, and didn't speak except for the occasional lashing out or snarl. He would sometimes leave me nasty notes about one thing or the other and I would respond in kind. The language was ugly and accusatory and hateful and hurtful on both sides. Each day I prayed he would tire of this venomous game and just leave and I suspect he thought the same thing about me. But addiction had us both and we were like animals caught in a bloody steel jaw trap – the only way to freedom was to gnaw off a limb or simply die.

After several months of this peculiar isolation and rage, we got past it. Funny, but I don't remember who initiated the peace or why. I had discovered AlAnon by then and went to regular meetings several times a week, even after I learned that these new friends were not going to teach me how to make him stop drinking. I learned the Serenity Prayer, magic words if ever there were ones, and began to listen to suggestions like detachment and self care, patience, how to avoid the quicksand of a quarrel and how not to make threats I couldn't possibly have followed through on. Small rules but enormously important – instead of “The next time you drink I'm filing for divorce” became “If you drink, I will not ride with you.” Mostly I learned to shut up and not compete with the Budweiser. I imagined a shouting match with a can of beer and finally saw the futility of it. Addiction is a disease, I reminded myself constantly, not a bad habit. And you don't have to drink or drug your own self to catch it. Sometimes you marry it because, simply put, sickness calls to sickness.

Somehow we managed to survive the next several years, move to Maine and get new jobs, and finally move to Louisiana and more new jobs. This was where after a number of bad years, I came to the end. Disease or not, I'd had enough and one day after a particular violent argument, I told him I was done, finally, positively, irrevocably and for all time, done. I would not spend one more second watching him self-destruct, not tell one more lie to cover for him, not figure out one more enabling strategy. I reported all my credit cards stolen and took his name off the mortgage, the life insurance and all the bank accounts. I called an attorney, packed his every belonging into trash bags, and had the locks changed.

I can't remember a time I was ever more terrified or more calm. A few months later, the divorce was finalized and I walked away from the courthouse on my own and alone for the first time in over 24 years. In no time at all he had remarried, been arrested for domestic abuse, lost his job and his new wife and finally left Louisiana for good. A few years after that, the alcohol finally won out and he was dead from cirrhosis of the liver. It wasn't a pretty ending and I had a moment of sorrow, then one of bitterness, then one hoping he'd finally come to peace.

“What brings us to tears will lead us to grace. Our pain is never wasted.” Bob Goff

A Good Ending

 

My friend, Russell – musician, attorney, and all around decent guy – died yesterday morning after a month long siege of COPD. He touched a great many lives and social media is awash with memories and tributes. There will be a memorial service in his honor on Sunday with food and friends and stories and much music. He was passionate about music, trusted and celebrated it his whole life and appreciated those who made it. I suspect it will be standing room only.

I'm finding it difficult to process the idea that he's gone. We weren't especially close but he was a familiar face around town and I'd known him a very long time. We shared a love for Guy Clark's music and song writing. I watched him care and devote all his time and energy to his beloved wife for months until he finally lost her to cancer. There was always a touch of melancholy to him after her death. He was a liberal and a left winger in a town of right wing activists, no easy task. And I watched him struggle and fight and eventually beat the bottle.

And so on a warm May afternoon, we will take a break from the chores and to-do lists and gather to remember a good man. People will tell stories and there are bound to be tears but there will also be smiles and laughter and music. It will be a good ending and I think he will be pleased.

A Thoroughly Rotten Dog

 

Truth to tell, he was a thoroughly rotten dog. Stubborn, loud, obnoxious, hard headed, disobedient, willful and feisty. He knew every possible inside hiding place, wouldn't come when he was called, raised hell with all the neighborhood cats, the mailman, the UPS driver, the yard man, and every unsuspecting pedestrian who happened to walk by the house. A dreadful bully when he was younger, picking on and provoking the other dogs to distraction, rarely giving them a moment's peace - the tables turned with the advent of the new pit bull and he suddenly found himself the target - Michael and I both wanted to feel sorry for him but it was too satisfying to see him get a dose of his own medicine. And when it came to escaping
the yard, he was a regular Houdini. He could have taught classes in digging and dismantling fences and other obstacles.

On the other hand, he was a snuggler, a cuddle bug who slept under the covers with Michael and loved with his whole being. A happy, energetic, curious often frenzied little animal with innocent doe eyes and a ready smile. All in all a thoroughly rotten dog and Michael and I loved him more than words can say.

I didn't witness the attack, a fact I will be eternally grateful for. I found him lying on his side in the yard with the pit standing over him, blood on her muzzle. For one shocked instant, I was convinced he was already dead but then I realized that despite the blood and the damage to his throat, he was still breathing although it was a ragged and ghastly sound. I shoved the pit aside and as gently as I could, gathered him into my arms and carried his small, limp body to the car. Several times during the drive, he shuddered and stopped breathing for a second or two but mostly he just lay there, broken and bleeding and struggling. I couldn't quite believe that he was still alive.

My vet stabilized him, treated him for pain and shock and blood loss and wrapped his neck and throat before sending me on to a second more skilled and better equipped vet clinic where a team of doctors and technicians were waiting. He was immediately put on more IV fluids, given more pain medicine and x ray'd to determine the amount of damage. It was substantial, the doctors realized quickly, and life threatening. The shoulder muscles on his right side were torn and detached, he was still losing blood but most seriously, his trachea had been perforated and he was barely able to breathe on his own.

There was no way to tell exactly where or how bad the puncture was, if it was repairable, or what other internal injuries there might be. He was prepped for emergency surgery, I was prepped to hope for the best but prepare for the worst. And I still hadn't been able to reach Michael to tell him what had happened. At some point during the next hour, I lost any ability I had to think clearly. With no other choice to be had, I turned it over to God and began to pray.

An hour later, he was in intensive care and being closely monitored. The trachea had been repaired but if it would hold was anybody's guess. He was intubated, getting oxygen therapy and fluids and on a morphine drip. Twelve hours later they removed the breathing tube and for nearly a half hour it seemed as if it all might've worked but then he began to struggle. They increased the morphine and oxygen and re-inserted the breathing tube but the repaired trachea had torn loose in places. Rather than do a 2^nd surgery, they eased him into a medically induced coma. It was buying time and we all knew it. He could arrest at any time, they explained to me, and even if he survived, they expected it was just the beginning of any number of unforeseen injuries. By the next morning, there was blood in his urine, signaling kidney damage, and even intubated, he'd stopped breathing several times during the night and the ICU nurse had miraculously brought him back. There were, they told me, signs he was still in pain. I changed my prayers to heal him or take him, God, but don't let him stay this way. God stayed quiet.

I'd finally managed to reach Michael and after an extended, painful and inevitable conversation with the doctors, I knew it was time. They wanted to extubate him and see what happened. If he could breathe without it, there was a glimmer of hope. If not, they said , very gently, they recommended discontinuing the treatment. It was on me to convince Michael. He sat quietly and listened while I explained the coma, the oxygen, the morphine, the severity of the injuries and the pain. I assured him they'd done absolutely everything they could do. It was time to put an end to the suffering, it was time to let go. It was the last kindness we could offer. He asked if that was what the doctors thought too and I took a breath and told him a small but necessary almost lie. I didn't know how to explain to him that the vets rarely if ever will say the words. They might dance around it and try hard to lead an owner to it but the final decision was his. He sat for several minutes with his head in his hands, then finally nodded.

One of us needs to be with him, I said as gently as I knew how but already knowing he would never be able to face it.

"I can't," he said helplessly.

"I know," I told him.

I drove back to the clinic with an overwhelming sense of sorrow but also a wave of relief. They brought me to a room with a leather couch and a wall of windows facing the bayou courtyard with a statue of St, Francis just outside the door. The vet removed the breathing tube and they brought him to me, placed him on the blanket covered couch with his head in my lap and gave him a series of IV injections. In a matter of seconds, his ragged breathing slowed then stopped. His journey was over and he crossed the bridge peacefully in the arms of someone who loved him, with one of most compassionate vets I've ever known at his side.

When it was done, the only question Michael asked me was if Jimmy had known it was me holding him. It had never occurred to me that he might not know my voice or or my touch and so the question caught me off guard but I said yes, firmly and with absolute conviction. Michael needed to believe it and so, I realized, did I.

P.S.

I didn't really mean it all those times I called you Satan's spawn. And about that threat to cut your vocal chords, it was just talk. Rest in peace, Jimmy Ray. We were blessed to have had you.  What I wouldn't give for one more day.

 Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.

Toothless

 

It was a perfect day for music in the park, sunny but not overly warm as it soon would be, with a light breeze and a sky filled with fluffy clouds. I packed my camera, tucked a just in case ten dollar bill in my jeans pocket, slipped my cigarettes into my purse, and headed out to walk the three short blocks to the park. I came to the entry gate at the precise moment I realized I'd forgotten my earrings – I always feel undressed without them – but I didn't fancy walking back and back
again and no one would notice except me so I muddled on. It was a good half hour later when I realized, as fate would have it, that I'd also forgotten my teeth. By then, I'd already seen (from a distance, praise the Lord) several people I knew and the zydeco band was in full swing. Leaving didn't seem to be a practical option so I cursed under my breath for not having a mask with me then decided that the next best thing was to brazen it out. I would use the camera as a shield whenever possible and keep my distance from any faces I recognized. Later I could always claim faulty vision. No one but me would know that my sunglasses were prescription for distance. It wasn't much of a plan but it was the best I could come up with under the circumstances. Besides, I reasoned, fellow photographers would never distract me and other friends were almost always considerate and if I looked like I was at work, they would generally not want to interrupt me. Long as I didn't see anyone I knew huggably well, I thought, I just might pull it off.

It wasn't to be. Covid has kept us all so isolated for so long that seeing a familiar face on this quite beautiful day couldn't help but be cause for celebration. I swear I saw nearly everyone I know in this city and it wasn't possible to keep them all at bay. Ah, vanity.

A Poor Goodbye

 

The chapel was less than a third full and everyone was careful not to look too closely at the walls with their flaking paint, the chips on the edges of the pews, the threadbare carpet or the windows which could surely could have stood a good cleaning, inside and out. There was a suggestion of air freshener pretty much everywhere but it didn’t quite cover the smell of what could only have been decay. The men stood around with wrinkled noses and the women clutched their delicately lavender scented handkerchiefs close to their faces.

The dearly departed, laid out in a pricey mahogany casket with gleaming gold handles and rose colored insides, looked a trifle clownish. Her makeup was badly overdone and flaking just like the walls. Her eyebrows were clearly drawn on in a shade that didn’t match her freshly permed hair and her lipstick had been slightly smeared at the corners of her mouth.

There was something distinctly sideshow-like about her coldly folded crepe-ish but multi ringed hands and the single strand of pearls coiled neatly over her flouncy pale blue blouse.

In life, she had been a poor but elegant, polished, and fashion conscious woman whose daughter had married an exceedingly but newly wealthy oilman. In death, she was a neglected husk of a woman whom no one had loved, a hanger-on whose only claim to fame was a stunning but coldhearted and greedy daughter who had crawled and clawed her way across the wrong side of the tracks and snagged herself a millionaire. Three obligatory children, several gated community homes and a half dozen Mercedes convertibles later, she

packed her designer wardrobe and fabulous jewels and moved out of the communal bedroom to her own wing of the latest mansion. She could have moved her mother into a separate home but instead she had a small but functional guest house built and installed her there, proving as several of her society friends had been heard to discreetly say, money can buy you happiness and homes and diamonds and fast cars but not class or breeding.

When the service was finished, the funeral home director thanked everyone for coming and asked that the pall bearers step up to carry the casket out. Regretfully, she had, as best anyone could tell, forgotten to make the actual arrangements for pall bearers and when no one moved, she seemed to realize her error and had no choice but to ask for volunteers. After a moment or two of shock, several men rose and moved awkwardly forward. The daughter, already seething from rage and shame at her firstborn’s failure to attend – knee walking drunk, the night before, it was not discreetly whispered and too hungover to be there – followed the casket out, her face an outright glare of iced over anger. She stalked to a waiting limousine and ignoring everyone and everything around her, adeptly slipped inside.

It was a sad day, a hard day all around. The shabbiness of the neglected chapel, the ineptitude of the funeral home, the indifference of family and the lack of mourners was a poor goodbye.

Mission Accomplished

 

Untroubled by bad weather or cold or squirrels, the little dachshund follows his nose straight to the back fence and gives the alarm – a number of neighborhood dogs in hearing distance cheerfully respond – as if they were all saying Nobody’s getting by us! It’s a regular canine chorus in several languages and it cuts through the chilly morning air like a knife.

He makes his rounds then heads back to the house, walking with that special dachshund kind of strut and confidence, then he gets to the corner of the garage where the two motion security lights are hung and he goes into attack mode. They don’t light up in daylight but their being there is enough to set off his early warning detection system. He digs in a few feet away from them, braces himself and begins to bark. And bark. And bark. It’s enough to wake the dead never mind any still sleeping neighbors. When he’s satisfied that he’s put them in their place, he makes a wide circle around them and trots back to the deck, head held high, tail wagging ferociously. Mission accomplished.

Back inside, he waits patiently for a treat and when he gets it, he trots briskly off to the sun room and parks himself on the love seat. By the time I get there, he’s already better than half asleep and he grudgingly makes room for me. The baby is already snoozing, the cats are here and there. All is right with the world. I pull the throw over us and we all go to dreamland.

Rats in the Attic

 

The second time I heard the noises, it was already dark on an unseasonably warm February night. They were coming from right outside the dining room window where the massive pine tree leans against the side of the house. It was a combination of scratching, pawing, small thumps and possibly chewing and try as I might to write it off as my imagination, when the old tabby jumped up on the window sill and peered out into the blackness, I knew it was real. Something was trying to get in - or maybe out - of my house. I managed to locate a flashlight and reluctantly headed out into the yard, approached the tree from both sides, and saw absolutely nothing except the giant tree trunk and random clumps of pine straw and small branches. Summoning courage I wasn’t sure I even had, I moved closer and gave one of the limbs a good shake - it was immediately answered by the sounds of scurrying and I was so startled that I nearly lost my balance. But for the sudden and very unwelcome vision from “The House of Usher” where Vincent Price muses about hearing “rat claws within the stone walls”, I would have fallen and likely have been buried for all time beneath the mountain of dead leaves that were piled around the base of the tree. Instead, I clutched the flashlight like a loaded gun and frantically backed away, not caring whether the scurrying had been out of sight on the roof or actually inside the walls. I fled like a rabbit for the safety and light of the front yard, up the steps and through the door as if the devil himself were at my heels.

Most likely a squirrel, I decided, annoying and probably destructive but no great menace. Unless of course it was a rat. The scurrying had been too quick for a raccoon or possum and a cat would’ve been vocal. Unless of course it had been a rat. A squirrel truly seemed the most common and probable intruder. Unless of course it was a rat. I thought back a few years and remembered the rat crisis at my friend, Michael’s, how I had regretted the poison we’d used, sworn I’d never use it again. Even so, a call to the exterminator seemed the best first step. Before I could devise a plan of attack, an examination of the attic was clearly in order and I knew just the man for the job. It’s not that I’m afraid of squirrels or raccoons or possums or even rats - but I am afraid of the unknown and the idea of crawling into a dark attic with God knows what kind of unseen creature hiding in the shadows, red eyed and rat clawed and ready to pounce…...well, not my cup of tea.

Dexter the Exterminator arrives the following afternoon, reassuring in his green jumpsuit with
his name emblazoned on the back and over the front pocket.

He brings a ladder and a flashlight, dons a pair of heavy gloves, and fearlessly climbs to push back the attic ceiling panel while I wait anxiously below.

“Rats,” he tells me a moment or two later, “Tell by the droppings.”

“How bad?” I ask with a shudder.

Being a man of few words, he shrugs and says “Seen worse. Put out some poison and inside of a week, no more rats.” He sees my expression and I suspect he’s remembering the siege at Michael’s. “Ain’t no humane way to kill’em less’n you trap and release,” he says pointedly, “And there ain’t no practical way of doin’ that, is there?”

I admit there’s not. I hate it but don’t have a better plan. He pulls off his gloves and picks up the ladder and flashlight then takes pity on me.

“There’s times in this job when I don’t much like what has to be done,” he tells me kindly, “I know you ain’t the kind to countenance sufferin’ even if it’s just a rat. But sometimes you just gotta do what’s got to be done.”

Sometimes that’s exactly what you gotta do.

Dickens & Friends

 

When I was growing up, books by Dickens and his crowd were kept in the bookcase in the living room. You’d have been hard pressed not to notice the gold lettering and the imitation leather bindings, proudly provided by my mother’s Book of the Month club. The books she actually read – paperbacks all, with lurid covers and big text – were kept cleverly buried in a bureau drawer in her bedroom, stashed beneath mounds of moth eaten and neglected underwear. I remember two titles most vividly – “Peyton Place”, a scandalous novel of life in a small town by Grace Metalious and “Mandingo”, a racist tale of slavery and black on white sexual assault, if the cover was any indication, by an author I’ve forgotten. Both were clearly well read and dog eared, their covers faded and torn, their pages stained in some places. I imagined my mother reading these forbidden books late at night after everyone was asleep and felt more than slightly sickened but also burning with curiosity. What I was not, was the least bit surprised at her literary taste. I’d long suspected that the living room bookcase was not a place she visited except to add the latest book club selection once it arrived. Unless my daddy were to pull one down (he favored Mark Twain), the books were unopened and intact and soon dusty with neglect. To my mother, the bookcase was full of strangers, the underwear drawer, old friends.

By current standards, these ragtag paperbacks weren’t much. It was the idea that my mother hid them that was so intriguing. She would routinely pitch a fit if she caught me with one of the popular romance magazines – harmless (if trashy) badly written stories of good girls gone bad and first love – to her, they were borderline obscene, promoting the idea of promiscuity and the downfall of virtue. I was just old enough to understand and recognize hypocrisy but worse, I knew a weapon when I saw one and the smutty secrets of the underwear drawer were definitely on my side. I actually hoped for a chance to use them, now and again would even think about intentionally provoking her to bring on a confrontation. I’m not entirely sure why I never did. Perhaps I knew the risk of my daddy taking her side. Alliances in a family like ours tended to change with the prevailing winds and it wouldn’t have been the first time.

My mother tended to win her battles by whatever means necessary. She would use threats, blackmail, tearful tantrums, guilt or manipulation without a qualm. Well armed or not, taking her on was a risky piece of business and caution and courage (most folks, myself included, were long on the first but lacking in the second) were required. As my daddy already knew, sometimes being right isn’t as important as being at peace and the sad fact was that enabling was always easier than standing your ground. So I never mentioned the underwear drawer books. Just knowing they existed was enough.

An Island Memory

 

The factory whistle blew at precisely 3 o’clock on Friday and from the sun porch we watched the men, women and children trudge out and onto the dirt road for the walk home. There were very few cars in those days and those who had them were careful with using them frivolously. Walking was more than good enough for most even on the foggiest of days when you could barely see your hand in front of your face. On those days, we couldn’t see the ragged little parade but we could hear their footsteps and voices and the occasional clang of a lunch box. After a long week of hard work, they were ready to shed their day dresses and hairnets, their overalls and hip boots, and there was always laughter.

After a quick stop at the post office, a hot shower and a cold supper, most would gather on the Westcott steps, the closest thing we had to a town square. The men would patiently wait for their turn at the barber shop while the women visited, smoked, and drank icy cold Orange Crush from the general store. As the sun set, everyone would head lazily for the canteen (for the juke box) or the Masonic hall (for beer and cribbage) or the Baptist Church (for Bingo). By midnight, there wouldn’t be a soul stirring and the only sounds would be the tide and maybe the foghorn.

On Saturdays, people caught up with their shopping, cooking, cleaning and chores. The cargo ship, the Prince John, arrived regular as clockwork and always drew a crowd. More than one islander would collect a half dozen family and friends and make a quick trip to the mainland. Every other week, the meat man in his refrigerated little blue truck would arrive from Church Point and make his rounds and now and again, a traveling peddler in a horse drawn wagon passed by. My grandmother welcomed the first with open arms but refused to tolerate the second – it was well known that she would violently run off any peddler who dared come down our drive.

“Snake oil salesmen, every last cussed one of‘em,” she was fond of saying, “Sooner set the dogs on’em as shoot‘em.”

And then it was Saturday night, time to let loose with the newest Martin & Lewis film at the movie house and – if’n you were old enough – to kick up your heels afterwards at the dance hall or – if’n you weren’t old enough - get companionably drunk and disorderly on vanilla extract and maybe start a not-very-serious fight in the parking lot.

Come Sunday morning though, the Baptist Church would strain at its seams, saints and sinners stood side by side, singing the old hymns with ferocity and filling the collection plate with whatever they had left from the night before. Redemption was always patiently waiting, James liked to preach, all you needed to do was ask. The island children, freshly scrubbed and in their Sunday best, sat obediently through their Bible lessons and watched the old clock on the wall. By early afternoon, we had all had dinner and a nap and changed back into jeans and sneakers for the regular Sunday baseball game. No bruise or black eye or small town sin could keep anyone from Sunday services or the ball field.

Nana's Table

 

I confess to a general dislike of family holidays but I do sometimes think back and miss my grandmother’s Thanksgiving table.

It meant church clothes, of course, and we each had to pass an inspection of our fingernails and the backs of our ears and once we were ready, we were seated and warned not to move lest we wrinkle or spoil the final effect. And then we were carefully led to the old Mercury station wagon, settled in and driven to Nana’s. We sat stiffly for the short trip and there was no talking. She lived in the next town over and there was barely time for the heater to kick in on some of those frigid November days, especially if there was snow, but we sat more or less patiently. We might have been shivering with cold but we knew better than to complain.

Nana’s house was always toasty warm during the winter and kitchen smelled wonderfully of turkey and fresh rolls and cinnamon dusted apple pie. The table was set for our family of five, Aunt Helen and Uncle Eddie, and my grandmother. Nana always put out her best china and linen napkins for Thanksgiving and each place featured a crystal glass for ice water and a small sherry glass for apple or tomato juice. Dinner was turkey and gravy, stuffing, white and sweet mashed potatoes, onions in cream sauce, those green squash, halved with their centers cut out and refilled with butter and maple syrup, and Parker House dinner rolls. A huge crystal tray set in front of Nana’s place, neatly arranged with celery, green and black olives, cubes of Vermont made cheddar cheese and cocktail onions. There were two silver gravy boats, one for each end of the table, two butter dishes, and a centerpiece of fresh flowers surrounded by white, tapered candles in gleaming silver holders that gave off just the slightest hint of vanilla. If ever I was to choose one image that would be my ideal of a family, it would be that table and it’s hand crocheted tablecloth. It wasn’t, of course, and it wouldn’t last but for a few precious moments before my mother or Aunt Helen would begin sniping or the boys would start fighting, it felt like a Norman Rockwell magazine cover.

The tradition continued until Nana was in her late 70’s and decided she didn’t want to put in the time and trouble anymore. Nobody else was willing to either so we began to go to restaurants – my favorite was The Red Coach Inn – but it was in Wayland and that meant a considerable drive (a stuffy half hour) so we usually ended up closer to home at places with plain vanilla fare and very little ambiance. We settled for whatever holiday menu they offered and made the best of it. Only my mother seemed to enjoy these dinners but I often suspected it was because she didn’t have to clean up the kitchen and wash dishes afterwards. Sentiment wasn’t part of her nature but for that one day every year, it was part of mine, at least for a little while.

An Unexpected Kindness

 

My first brush with gratitude came in elementary school when my 4^th grade teacher, Mrs. Scanlan,

suggested that if I was a mind to, I could stay after school and read in the library, putting off going

home for an hour or two. It was an unexpected kindness and while I had no idea how she knew how

reluctant I was to go home and I wasn’t brave enough to ask, I did take her suggestion. She was a

strict disciplinarian, taken to rapping the knuckles with a ruler of anyone who didn’t pay attention in

penmanship, and like all 4^th graders, she intimidated me.

The school library was no more than an unused classroom with book shelf covered walls, a single

scarred table and four slightly unsteady wooden chairs but to me it was a gold mine of escape and

adventure, a quiet place to do my homework, and a safe haven. Mrs. Scanlan must’ve mentioned it to

my 5^th grade teacher, Mrs. Rankin, because the privilege was extended the next year but it was my 6^th

grade teacher, Mrs. Arnold, who brought it all to life. Mrs. Scanlan and Mrs. Rankin were silver haired

and gruff, sisters who had been teaching since – as my grandmother used to say, “Before the flood”, a

mysterious phrase if ever there was one – both wore low heeled, sensible shoes and support hose, gold

rimmed glasses, and house dresses. In winter, they each added a neutral colored sweater held in place

by shiny sweater clips. For the time, they were both model teachers, prizing orderly classrooms and

inviolate seating charts, no crumbs with our graham crackers and milk, and homework turned in on

time and done neatly. You sat up straight in their classrooms, paid attention, didn’t whisper or pass

notes or squirm in your seat. There was no mercy for anyone defiant enough to throw a spitball, when

Steven O’Leary, the class bully tried, he found himself swiftly and unceremoniously drug by the scruff

of the neck to the principal’s office. This was an early lesson about consequences and we took it to

heart.

“Young ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs. Rankin announced the following morning, “Mr. O’Leary will be

spending the day at home today. It will give him and all of you the opportunity to review and reflect

on the behavior I expect from my class.”

We didn’t need to be told twice. The reckless had been scared clean out of us and we were grateful.

From the desk next to me, my friend Paulina flashed me a wicked grin. She was a chubby little thing

with olive skin, a frequent target of Steven’s and when I winked back to assure her I understood,

Mrs. Rankin abruptly cleared her throat and gave her desk a sharp rap with her ruler. It might have

been no more than my overactive imagination but I could’ve sworn she was trying not to smile.

And then, almost like magic, on one fine September morning, we became sixth graders and everything

changed. Neither Paulina nor I had ever imagined that Mrs. Buchanan – a trifle younger, stouter and

slightly more liberal then Mrs. Scanlan or Rankin – would ever really retire or that the new sixth grade

teacher was about to guide us through a life altering experience. Mrs. Arnold was shockingly young,

barely in her 30’s and not only pretty but fashionably dressed in sweaters and skirts and to the absolute

horror of more than one conservative parent, sometimes tailored trousers that flared when she walked.

Her handbag usually matched her high heel shoes and her makeup was delicate and lightly applied to

show off her nearly perfect skin. Her nails were kept manicured with clear polish and she favored a

single strand of rose tinted pearls and matching earrings, pierced, not the old school clip ons.

“Wicked!” Paulina whispered to me that first morning as we chose our random seats with our new

teacher looking on and smiling.

“Good morning,” she told us in a voice soft and just slightly southern, “I’m Mrs. Arnold. Welcome to

the sixth grade! Would each of you tell me your names, please?”

We watched in surprise and bewilderment as she took out a Polaroid camera and snapped our pictures

as we gave our names. She laid out each photo to dry then neatly printed our names on them and put

them in a plastic bag.

“I’ll know your names by tomorrow,” she announced cheerfully, “but for now you’ll need to bear with

me. Now…….,” and this with a warm and genuine smile, “What would you like to start with?”

Start with? No assigned seating? Pictures? All eighteen of us were slack jawed with shock until

finally a voice from the back spoke up.

“You mean we get to choose?”

“Well,” our new teacher glanced down at her day planner, “Within reason, of course. We have English,

Mathematics, Geography, History and Music Appreciation. We have to do them all but where we start

is up to you. Who has a preference?”

Preference? Even sixth graders knew that the idea of having an actual conversation with a teacher was

no less than preposterous. Why, the very idea of this type of classroom freedom was practically

Communism and we’d all done enough Duck & Cover drills to be fully suspicious of this approach.

Though our new teacher didn’t look like a spy, you never could tell. We were children who drank our

milk every day with Ike and recited the Pledge of Allegiance before every class – and come to think of

it, we hadn’t done that yet either, what was the world coming to? Oh, it was all too new and confusing.

We began to suspect that our new teacher was as my mother liked to say, some sort of outside agitator,

here to wreak havoc upon our beloved country.

“Wait until my parents hear about this,” Paulina whispered to me, “They’ll blow a gasket!”

“Mine’ll blow two!” I whispered back.

But Mrs. Arnold remained serene and when the same voice from the back called out, “Music

Appreciation!” she nodded and smiled.

“Who likes rock and roll?” she asked, reaching for a tape recorder and I thought we might all faint.

The world, however, did not go gray or come crashing down on us that particular September morning.

Mrs. Arnold taught with patience and genuine enthusiasm. She had a gift for involving and engaging

her students, a flair for creative and more modern teaching methods, a respect for her profession and

her charges that we’d never seen before. She fed our curiosity, inspired us with an eagerness to

learn, taught us an authentic and long term love of reading, instilled in each one of us a sense of pride

and self confidence. She knew all our names by her second day and inside of a month had found out

all kinds of things we didn’t talk about – she knew that my mother was an alcoholic, that Paulina’s

daddy was a day laborer and spoke little or no English, that Steven O’Leary had spent the entire

summer in juvenile detention and been forced to change schools, that Everett Smith was being raised

by his grandmother who cleaned offices at night to get by, and a host of other well kept, sixth grade

secrets. She found out and then used what she learned to draw us out ever so gently and slowly. She

was, so those in her very first class thought, a wonderful blend of compassion and innovation and we

loved her.

It was Mrs. Arnold who asked me to stay after one cool autumn day.

“American Bandstand can survive one day without you,” she said with a knowing smile. When

school let out, she and I walked the few blocks to Massachusetts Avenue and another two blocks north

past the Rexall Drug and the Woolworth’s Five & Dime and the tiny Italian sub shop, to the East

Arlington Branch Library.

“We’re getting you a library card,” she told me, “They’re open until 6 during the week and all day on

Saturdays and it’s up to you but I promise it’s a safe place and you’ll learn a lot more here than with

Dick Clark.”

It was another unexpected kindness, one what you might expect from a very good friend or a devoted

grandmother but certainly nothing that happened in my enabling, chaotic and sometimes wildly

ambivalent home. I hated to cry, especially in public, but there was no help for it and right there in

the small branch library, in front of God and everyone, as my Nana liked to say, I hugged my now

beloved teacher and let the tears flow. She hugged me right back, and after a moment or so, produced

a lavender scented handkerchief from her shoulder bag and gently wiped my eyes then tucked my new

library card into my pocket.

“Take good care of it,” she told me softly, “It’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

And it did.

Mrs. Arnold only taught that one year at our elementary school and moved on to where we never knew

but in that one year, she changed lives and opened our eyes. I never got to tell her what sixth grade

came to mean to me but I’ve always hoped she had some idea. To this remarkable teacher and all the

others that followed from junior high to high school to college, thank you. It would never have

happened without you.