A Change in Vision

The aftercare counselor held up a magazine and said What do you see? I said a Queen's Guard at the same time my husband said Jack Daniels. The counselor smiled and said And you're both looking at the same picture. Aftercare counselors can be such wise asses but he'd made his point about how we all the see the same world so differently and therefore react to it in such different ways.

I try to keep this in mind as I go through my days but it's tricky since my natural reflex seems to be to expect everyone to see things as I do. Horseracing, Nana would say, would be a damned pitiful sport if we all thought the same. Sometimes the simplest concepts are the easiest to forget.

Nana wasn't much for frills.She never went a day without stockings and her corset. She and her sensible shoes descended the stairs each morning, dressed and made up, tied on her ever present apron and went straight to work. To do otherwise would've been an insult to the work ethic. She made breakfast - dry toast, orange juice, coffee - then washed the dishes. She swept, mopped, dusted, did laundry, scrubbed the bathrooms, changed the linens and baked. She had her hair done and a manicure once a week, she answered mail and watched an occasional soap opera at lunch. Your problem, Jan, she would say to my mother, is that you're not useful. Usefullness was a cardinal virtue to my grandmother and idleness a serious lapse if not a potential sin. God dislkes idle hands but He despises an idle mind was one of her favorite sayings. My mother and grandmother did not get along well. Although they spent considerable time together as adults, they saw the world very differently. Play the hand you're dealt, Jan, Nana advised her, stop wishing for different cards. My mother was rarely out of her nightclothes until noon, she bathed every other day or less, and after one or two visits to our house, Nana put her foot down and came no more. She couldn't abide the lack of housecleaning.

I didn't know it at the time, but each summer when we were in Nova Scotia, my daddy cleaned house from top to bottom, a solid year's worth of grime and dirt was attacked and removed. But he was very careful about the process because if my mother had discovered these goings on, there'd have been hell to pay. He needn't have worried - she never noticed. She cleaned with a lick and a promise, a practice my grandmother found despicable. I raised you better than this! she would snap at my mother, look at this floor! My mother would snap right back about not living a privileged life and there they would stay, two hard women, spitting venom and worn out with each other. It might've been comical if it hadn't been so unrelentingly sad.

Nobody gets along with everybody all the time but it seems to me that we can stay at odds with the world or make peace with it, depending on how we see it.

Simple Gifts

Driving along the interstate the night sky is suddenly alive with neon lights and fireworks - you can hear the roar of the roller coasters and see a ferris wheel spinning. As you pass by, there's music and laughter and the unmistakable sounds of machinery and screaming crowds. The State Fair is in town again.

The fair has changed over the years. The vendors are a little tackier, the parking more expensive, and the crowds are more gangs than families, but you can can still get your fill of hot dogs and cotton candy and caramel apples. It makes my teeth hurt just to think about it.

In Nova Scotia, we had an annual Sunday School picnic and everything was hand made. Box lunches, three legged races, a softball game. Everyone came and brought all their children, blankets and quilts were spread on the ground,
there was dancing and dominoes and pie eating contests. We all stayed until the sun went down and then while the little ones slept, there would be a singalong - a hundred or so voices carried on the air and across the water, songs like ....if I could erase the lines from his face, and bring back the gold to his hair .. sweet old songs for simple times and uncomplicated people leading quiet lives...if God would but grant me the power to turn back the pages of time....
for that silver haired daddy of mine....

Pulling Weeds

I have always taken very particular care of my grudges.

Like needful plants, I was careful to keep them watered and fed, provided them with lots of sunshine and fresh air and nutrients. I watched over them, nurtured them, checked them on a regular basis. I was a caregiver to hurt feelings and with my help, they blossomed, grew new leaves, and demanded more and more of my attention. Eventually,
they outgrew and overtook everything else in the garden. High maintenance plants became low maintenance weeds and weeds need no special attention to multiply and spread - they develop a life of their own.

This kind of gardening is hard on the soul. Weeds want it all and will choke out anything else that tries to grow. Give a weed an inch, and it will take an acre. When I began the long process of pulling weeds, I discovered just how strong and determined they are, how deep their roots go, how tangled and intertwined with each other they become.
They have a network. They're organized. They take no prisoners and will fight to the last leaf. Weeds eat their dead.

Be patient. Be prepared. Be committed. Wear gloves.

Seasons, Reasons, Lifetimes

Halloween is just around the corner. The churches have put up pumpkin patches for the children to play in and be photographed in, dark of evening arrives by late afternoon, and I reach for a jacket on my way out the door. Frost on the grass crunches underfoot in the morning and at night windows are lit with wickedly grinning jack'o'lanterns. It's a time for Indian corn to be hung on front doors, a time for harvesting and planning for the winter, a time for preparation. For me, it's always been a time to reflect on the closed doors in my life and it seemed appropriate to me that a dear friend sent me the following and I opened it just as it turned full dark.


People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. When you know which one it is, you will know what to do for that person. When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support, to aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend and they are. They are there for the reason you need them to be. Then, without any wrongdoing on your part or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end. Sometimes they die. Sometimes they walk away. Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand. What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled, their work is done. The prayer you sent up has been answered and now it is time to move on.


Some people come into your life for a SEASON, because your turn has come to share, grow or learn. They bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never done. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. Believe it, it is real. But only for a season.


LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons, things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation. Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life. It is said that love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant.

Gravity

There's just no getting around it - fall makes me think about dying and dying makes me think about what's on the other side.

I don't believe in the heaven and hell I was taught in Sunday School, I don't take the Bible literally,
I don't imagine God as Charlton Heston (at least not anymore) but I do spend a fair amount of time wondering about what happens after. I think spirituality is a custom fit, different for everyone, and part of mine is that I can't imagine not being here. When I was a child, I would sometimes look at the sky and the stars and try to understand that we were on a planet and that I wasn't just looking at a pretty ceiling. The concept was and still is beyond my grasp. Like electricity or infinity or wireless connections, I just don't understand how it all works. I can't make sense of the idea that if not for gravity, we would all fall off. Galaxies and such things are the products of creative minds and Star Trek episodes and sometimes I think it's all nothing but science fiction.

Still, death seeks and finds us all. Maybe it will be Brad Pitt in a tuxedo, maybe a hooded, faceless figure with a scythe, maybe a simple tunnel of light to guide us or even a stairway to the sky in the company of angels and friends. Or possibly nothing, just like extinguishing a candle. However it comes, I hope I will be strong enough, healthy enough, and independent enough to want to resist. If not, I hope everyone will remember how I feel about being kept alive by any artificial means and not make me save up sleeping pills. There is no dignity in dying old, sick and alone and I do not want to have to invite death in.

The mystery remains. Whatever we believe - what is or isn't on the other side, whether there even is an other side - we can't know. We aren't meant to know. So until the phone rings and it's Mary Baker Eddy letting us know, the best we can do is trust and try to be unafraid.

Autumn

Fall was in the air but has left for more friendly places.

In other parts of the country, leaves have begun to turn and at early evening the smell of bonfires is on the air. The sun sets and is replaced by cool night air. Frost is likely on the pumpkins somewhere and snow may even be falling in the far north. Here in the south, temperatures still climb into the 90's every day.

Life is made up of trade offs and some are geographical. Soon, friends in New England and Nova Scotia will be watching the weather here and moaning in envy. But come next summer when they are enjoying perfect summer days, we will be in day to day scorching heat and humidity and envying them. Though we may tend not to realize it during the different seasons, it all evens out.

The changing seasons are much more than just climate to me. They represent a timeline of living, a reminder that our lives have limits and that each will end one day. More important, they remind me that it's all part of a natural process, one season ends to make room for the next. Though we may not know what the transition is to or what comes next, I have to believe that we've nothing to fear and that the good we do in life will outweigh the bad.

But for today, we burn leaves, shovel snow, or turn up the air conditioning. Whatever waits for us,
will wait another day. Each season in it's own time, each life in it's own season.

Wind, Rain & Other Elements

The rain began last night, falling softly at first then as the wind whipped up, falling harder through the trees and eventually turning into a steady downpour. Safe and warm inside, I listened to the branches scraping the roof and bending toward the ground, thunder rumbled in the distance and the small brown dog crawled up into my lap, trembling slightly, big dark eyes seeking reassurance from the storm. The new kitten joined her and they cuddled up together next to me, nose to nose and soon asleep, all conflicts forgotten for the moment.

The rain is a force for renewal and growth. It washes away the dust and dirt, it turns brown back to green, it cleans the air and sometimes leaves a rainbow. It also floods the streets, makes driving miserable, and can inflict damage on unsuspecting homes.

My search for the forces in life that are not double edged swords is ongoing.

20 Degrees of Difference

Butterbean looked at me, looked outside, and slowly eased herself away from the open back door. She sat down and cocked her head at me with a bewildered expression. It was 56 degrees and the day before it had been 82. She was unprepared and unwilling to cross the threshold that led to the outside world. The feeling was mutual but as a dog, she has no Plan B, so I tucked her under my arm and carried her out to the yard. The second I put her on the ground, she began to shiver and whimper and look at me with pleading, desperate eyes.

I stood firm. I refused to make eye contact or sympathize or be manipulated. I would not be moved. After several minutes, she tried a tentative step or two in my direction. I turned my back and pretended to study the clouds. Eventually, I was able to say "Good Girl!" and watch her sprint for the back door like her tail was on fire.

I've noticed some things about habits and change. The cats are immediately on guard if anything is moved - they become suspicious and have to re-adapt. Both dogs are fearful of a new piece of furniture. And I still reach for my toothbrush and other things in places where I haven't kept them for months. Established habits are very hard to break.

For me, moods and mental states are like habits. If I decide in advance that something's hopeless, it becomes so and I give up. If I decide in advance that anything is possible, then I'm willing to keep trying and I stay optimistic. Every day is an opportunity to choose a black cloud or sunshine.

Stagefright

"Your teeth," my dentist tells me with a shake of his head and a distressed expression, " are supposed to last a lifetime."

"That," I say as I always do when he tells me this, "was when people only lived to be 35."

He sighs, reaches for an instrument, a syringe, and the nitrous.

I am a great trial to him, always have been. He works amazingly hard to save my teeth and though my intentions are always the best, I never live up to them. I am also more than a trifle phobic about dentist visits and he's worked with me for years to overcome this fear - his success has been limited and a less caring man would've written me off years ago -

Dental hygiene was something less of a priority when I was growing up and the first time I saw a dentist, I was twelve. His office was on the 6th floor of a building just outside Central Square in Cambridge and the chair faced the street. Through the blinds I could read the lettering of the businesses across the street. The one I remember because it was on the 6th floor and directly in my line of sight was a ballet school. My mother left me in the dusty waiting room - I could hear the sounds of drilling and other noises that I didn't recognize and the whole place reeked of antiseptic.

Dr. Fishman was a fairly large man with white hair, black framed glasses, a stained labcoat and Parkinson's. When he spoke his voice was overloud and threatening and he smelled of the same nasty antiseptic as the waiting room. I began to be afraid, of what I wasn't sure, but I could feel fear beginning to churn in my belly like stagefright. Nicotine stained hands with too long nails began poking and prodding inside my mouth with sharply pointed, wicked looking instruments. I drew in a breath and the air hit my teeth like a hammer, sending pain flaring into my jaws. I jumped in surprise and agony and tried to close my mouth in protest and he snapped at me to "Grow up! Behave!" I started to struggle and he leaned in closer and pressed one arm against my throat until I gagged. "Think of something else!" he growled at me and all I could think of was dying. "Breathe! he ordered and took his arm away. He picked up a syringe and I thought she's left me with a monster and he's going to kill me.

The local punctured my gums and I could suddenly taste salt and blood together and then something vile and metallic. I couldn't breathe and couldn't hear for the roaring in my ears. When I opened my eyes, the old man was looking at me with a satisfied smirk. My heart was pounding impossibly loud and way too fast and with a sick, defeated feeling, I realized there was nowhere to go. When I refused to open my mouth again, he grabbed my jaws and pressed and the pressure woke up the sleeping pain in my back teeth. He reached for a drill and with badly shaking hands he came at me. There was a lot of blood which he ordered me to "Spit!" and each puff of air brought a wave of fresh and raging pain. At some point, little points of light danced in front of my eyes and I thought maybe I would lose consciousness and wake up when it was over but then those shaking hands would miss their target and pierce my gums or my cheek.

After twelve years of neglect, the nightmare had only just begun. I begged, pleaded, cried not to be taken back but I wasn't believed. "He's a good enough dentist for me," my mother said acidly, "and he's good enough for you." She would haul me into the waiting room and then leave. Like Pavlov's dog, it wasn't long before I associated every sound and smell of that office with torture. I carried all that terror into adulthood and even when I discovered dentists that were kind, gentle, patient and understanding, the moment I stepped into their offices, old reflexes kicked in.

My current dentist, though I suspect he despairs of me, refuses to give up. He worries, he cares, he has a gentle soul and an even gentler nature. He was made to help people just like me. If current kindnesses could cure past horrors we'd all be so much better off.

The Ice Storm

The ice storm was predicted but there was really no way to prepare for it.

That morning, there was no power anywhere. Tree limbs were intertwined with power lines and they lay across streets, over cars and houses, draped over lawns and driveways. The sun was shining so bright it was almost painful and everywhere we looked, everything was encased in ice. It was bitter cold and treacherous. Familiar landscapes had been turned into wastelands of ice and the weight had brought down trees, fences, billboards, telephone poles and street signs. I had managed to get the cats to the vet's where the kennels were powered by generators but Josh and I had yet to find shelter. I packed sweatshirts, jeans, and essentials as quickly as I could, turned everything off and made my way to the car, feeling as if I were jumping ship. The first four or five motels had no vacancies and the next few wouldn't take dogs and it was beginning to look grim before I finally found a room at La Quinta. They had heat, water, lights and they took us both in.

For the next couple of weeks, a hotel room was to be home. I went to work in jeans and with Josh and was more fortunate than many. The entire city had been victimized by a force of nature and recovery took months. The cold did not diminish for days and so the ice was sustained - it was magnificent and horrific and destructive all at the same time. Blizzards had been common enough in New England but they'd been childs play next to the destruction and damage this storm inflicted on our small southern city. For many, the wounds were deep and would take a long time healing.

During the aftermath of Katrina, as thousands of evacuees flooded our city, I was to think about the ice storm and it's effects frequently. New Orleans was a grand old city with a one of kind culture and nature had simply waved her hand and it was gone.

Still, inexpicable tradgedy and random destruction cannot match human endurance and resiliancy. We come back time and time again - we fall and get up time and time again - we dig in and dig out.
It's our nature and though we are not as powerful as Mother Nature, we are a force to be reckoned with. The human spirit may be forced to give ground but not without a fight - we don't seem to know when we're licked and we turn our backs on giving up, even when surrender would be a wiser choice. Nature's lessons can teach us much about choosing our battles.

The Hay Wagon

His name was Johnny. He was tall and a little on the thin side with a shock of dark red, wavy hair and brown eyes. He had a chiseled type of face with high cheekbones and a come-and-get-it grin. He was the oldest boy in a family of nine, a third generation fisherman and the only one to complete grade 12. After a summer of serious dating, he joined a crew of islanders who were going north to pick apples and we were able to continue to see each other all through the fall. My family loved him as did I.

Apple picking season ended in October and he made plans to return to the island. One autumn afternoon, a dozen roses were delivered to me with a simple card that read "Marry me." I was 18 and he had just turned 20 - we were young, we were in love, on fire with passion and blinded by the moment - we saw no obstacles we couldn't overcome, no objections we couldn't wear down, no real problem that we couldn't solve together. We imagined a small house overlooking the ocean, a veranda with rocking chairs, kids and dogs playing in the yard and a vegetable garden out back. We imagined a dream made of endless summer nights and sleepy mornings. Love conquers all.

He's dirt poor, my grandmother allowed, you'll be barefoot and dirt poor the rest of your life.
Are you crazy? my mother snarled, marry him before he changes his mind! How many offers do you think you're going to get?
Think it through, my daddy said mildly.

In the end, it was snow that did us in. He couldn't imagine living anywhere except where he'd been born and raised and I couldn't imagine surviving a lifetime of Canadian winters. It was a sad, sweet
goodbye.

I saw him again almost 20 years later. He'd married an island girl and had raised four daughters on a house overlooking the ocean with a vegetable garden in the back. He'd barely changed. We walked along the old road on a warm summer afternoon, taking our time and talking of the past. At the breakwater where he'd first kissed me all those years ago, we stopped and watched the sun go down. The ocean was calm and the clouds were streaked with red and pink and gold. The boats were coming in for the night - their slow moving silhouettes were outlined against the sky and we could hear the shouts of the fishermen as they hauled in their nets. For a few moments it seemed as if the past could be brought back, as if we could travel backwards in time. Who will it harm, he asked softly and I was about to say No one at all when the hay wagon rounded the corner with a clatter of horses hooves and rickety wheels rumbling. Uncle Shad - wearing a top hat and a brightly colored woolen scarf - was driving the team, trying to avoid the ruts and keep his seat at the same time. Willie Foote was lying flat on his back atop the hay bales, a crowbar in one hand and a Union Jack flag in the other. Uncle Shad tipped his hat to us and nearly lost the reins and the seductive spell of lost love dissolved into laughter as the unlikley pair passed.

We walked back hand in hand, leaving the breakwater, the magic spell, the nostalgia and the temptation behind. Just two old friends walking down a dirt road, bound by what might have been and separated by what was.

Divided Selves

When I knew how to do it, the word "multi tasking" hadn't been invented. It just meant that you could do more than one thing at a time without forgetting your name or losing your place - or that if you were interrupted mid task, you could actually remember what you'd been doing and not forget to finish it. It's a skill I badly miss.

I now work at a modeling agency. Somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 potential models are signed up to attend a twice yearly competition. They are first divided by competition ( summer or winter ) then summer and winter are divided by cities. Cities are divided by class schedules, class schedules are divided by payment plans ( up to 4 are available ) and payment plans are divided by method of payment. Models are divided by age, gender and category ( print, commercial or fashion ). Scripts are divided by category ( drama or comedy ) and drama and comedy are each divided by age and gender. All this division has got me to envying the simplicity of schizophrenia.

Like it or not, to a certain extent we are all defined by what we do. When a customer at my last job described me as a "fixture" - meaning that she couldn't imagine my not being there - I was flattered as well as a little taken aback. We are more than what we do.

At a recent and high class fundraiser, I saw a great many people that I had waited on for the last ten years. A great many were all smiles and hugs but an even number looked right through me - I suppose because I wasn't in place behind the counter. It's ocurred to me on numerous occasions that there's a difference between serving someone and being a servant to them, a distinction many overlook. We are more than where we may be.

During my first marriage, I hid behind my new name. It was a time of great insecurity and change and my fight or flight reflex was constantly being triggered. In no time, my identity became so and so's wife and it was a very long time before I decided to be my own person. We are more than who we marry.

We are more than where we come from, more than what we do, more than what people see. We are more than our expectations or ambitions or flaws or mistakes. We are much more than our packaging. We are who we are.

When Death Wins

Durham, New Hampshire is a very small New England town, close to Portsmouth and the home of the University of New Hampshire. When we lived in that part of the country, I worked at the University bookstore and my husband worked just down the road at a veterinary clinic. The clinic was owned by a woman veterinarian who happened to be married to a professor of history at the University so it was more or less expected that we would all connect at some time.

Being wary that business and friendship can sometimes be a poor mix, we became friendly but in a distanced sort of way. I liked her compassion and love for animals and I enjoyed his humor. They seemed to complement each other nicely and we spent several evenings together over the course of several years. He traveled a good bit, back and forth to publishers and conferences, mostly in New York, but sometimes much further away. He looked every bit the absent minded professor - tall, thin, with silver hair and a salt and pepper beard. He was rarely seen without a stack of books under one arm and his pipe between his teeth. He never came into the bookstore that he didn't stop and speak to me. His students thought the world of him and when he was selected to chair his department no one was surprised. He was a dedicated teacher, an able administrator, a good man with a touch of old world elegance and easy charm. And on the morning of September 11th, 2001, he was on an early morning flight to New York City.

I found out when our local paper began publishing names and pictures of the passengers. Discovering that I actually knew someone who'd been on one of the planes was horrific and devestating, making the unimaginable loss of life personal for me. It didn't bear thinking about then and even now I can't reconcile it with reality, at least not in any comprehensible way. The sheer magnitude of it obscures the individual lives lost. The images are indelible in my mind and I can't even begin to understand what must have been going through the minds of the passengers in their last moments. And that's what I keep coming back to. He was a small town history professor on a routine flight and along with so many thousands of others, he died without warning and without cause. Death may have won that evil morning but I doubt it was proud.

Interstate Transport

Oh, no, not again, I thought as I watched him get out of the truck with a pet carrier in hand and a grin on his face. He walked up the path and met me at the door and said You'll never guess!! What I could guess was that it would have four legs and be in need of care, feeding and attention in an already overcrowded and overburdened household. My vet tech husband opened the carrier and not one but three baby raccoons spilled out, tumbling over each other and chirping. A split second later, all hell broke loose as the dogs caught the scent and the cats scattered in alarm. He shouted at me, They're orphans! I sighed. They'll be no trouble, this with all the sincerity he could muster, they don't take much raising. I sighed again.

We lived in a log cabin on top of a mountain in Maine and had just finished adding a screened porch where we would sit and watch the sunset and enjoy the peace and stillness of the country. Having no close neighbors, the dogs could run free and the cats spent their days lazing in the sun and bird watching from the safety of the porch. It was a tranquil place, filled with the serenity that comes from nature and I treasured those quiet evenings. It all came crashing down with the arrival of the raccoons.

They had to be bottle fed and then cleaned several times a day. They learned to climb in a matter of hours and the screening gave in almost immediately. We replaced it with chicken wire, not being willing to invest more than that on what was sure to be a casualty again. They had to be taught to swim and to wash their food - each day we would make several treks to the pond - and they would follow us with enthusiastic chirping and relentless curiosity about everything. I drew the line at letting them in the house and it was a line they crossed with reckless abandon. The dogs took to them immediately and although the cats were initially apprehensive, they came round soon enough.
They were amazingly active little creatures and in no time had learned how to open cabinets and get into anything that was paper or plastic. Metal took a beating but maintained its integrity. Their climbing was more agile and adept every day and the night of the thunderstorm they were up a tree when it started to rain and no amount of coaxing brought them down. We found them the next morning, curled up and asleep on the back deck.

Weeks turned into months and as they grew and matured, I knew we would have to face the inevitable task of returning them to the wild. One sunny Saturday morning, it was time. We loaded them into a carrier, packed a basket of fruits and nuts, and headed for the Massachusetts state line. We'd found a nature preserve where there were vegetable gardens and deep woods and a small lake. I felt like it was the best we could do to protect them and give them their freedom at the same time. We took them far into the woods and waited until they were distracted to make our escape. Then we walked quietly out, praying that they would not follow. I knew that if they did, I'd never find the strength to leave them again. I listened for little footsteps or their familiar chirping but I never looked back and eventually I couldn't hear them anymore. We had given them back to nature and and although I knew God would keep His eye on them, a little bit of my heart was broken.

Nip and Tuck

The face I see in the mirror could use work, I admit. There are lines etched in, circles under my eyes, crowsfeet. All "correctible" if I should choose to indulge in cosmetic surgery. I'm not as young as I used to be and for that I'm grateful every day...I've discovered that there's no age I'm willing to trade for even if it included wrinkle free skin.

I like faces with character, faces that you can read as if they were stories, faces that reflect a life lived whether it be lived well or hard. I look at scars, smile lines, frown lines, wrinkles - and I see history, I see experiences and trials, successes and failures, secrets, pride, and pain, all blended together to make an individual unique. The best faces wear their memories and feelings and have honest eyes and easy smiles. They are genuine and they don't mind if the wear and tear shows. I believe we are meant to age naturally and honestly, to highlight and not erase the signs of our years. We each have a story behind our eyes but it's read on our faces.

The smooth, no lines look of plastic surgery create a blank slate - tight with no give. Artificial and superficial youth in exhange for the realism of substance and the integrity of character. Such faces arouse no curiosity, they offer nothing to explore.

Let your face be a roadmap of your travels, destination unknown and in no hurry to get there.

'Possum Rights

The 'possum in the back yard is becoming a problem.

He's making the dogs on all three sides frantic. He's tearing up trash. And tonight my next door neighbor arrived with an axe in his hand and bloodlust in his eyes, but the 'possum had vanished. I agree that this latest backyard invader is a nuisance, but I don't think he's earned a death sentence by a madman with an axe.

A 'possum is not a pretty animal. Not cuddly, not cute, not big eyed or endearing. But still a creature of God and here for a reason. I hope he will move on rather than face the wrath of an axe.

And when the axe came into the forest, the trees whispered, "...he's one of us ...".

Locked out

The very instant the front door closed behind me I knew I'd grabbed the wrong set of keys and was locked out. I cursed - loudly, creatively, and at length - then called my friend Henry who keeps a spare key for me for those times whem he tends my animals. In less than 15 minutes he arrived - my white knight, complete with British accent, just picked up and left work to rescue me.

It's not the first time. A few years ago I came down with a nasty flu and got myself into what the doctor called third stage dehyration. Henry came and took me to the doctor's office, held my hand during the exam, then stayed with me all through the admitting process. While I was hospitalized, he took care of my animals and arranged coverage for me at work.

Before that, I'd gone to the emergency room with an especially vicious case of bronchitus. They gave me Xanax to help me sleep and the next morning I was counting money and couldn't remember what came after three. When I called Henry to tell him I was having a little trouble remembering how to count, he firmly told me to stay exactly where I was, that he was on his way. I protested and explained that I didn't need any help, just needed him to tell me what came after three and he told me a tad more firmly, do nothing, I'll be right there. He got the store open, took me home and put me to bed.

When Josh had his stroke and later when he died, Henry was there. At a funeral, Henry was beside me. When I've been too sick to sit up, Henry was there. At the end of an affair, Henry was there. He is a source of comfort, love,
encouragement, humor and understanding. I hope it works both ways.

Bluegrass

The dog was young, some mix of husky and malamute with one blue eye and one brown. The man driving the pick up truck pulled to a stop in front of the service station window. He saw me smiling at the dog, gave her a quick
hug and smiled back at me before getting out. Beautiful dog, I said as the door closed behind him. Thank you, he replied, still smiling, pound puppy. We began talking the way strangers who both love dogs do - small talk about dogs, who has how many and why. I asked her name and he said Bluegrass.... belongs to my daughter.

He got in line to pay for his gas and by the time he was done I was standing outside waiting for one of the guys to drive me back to work. He hesitated a second then turned and asked if he could me a ride somewhere. She'll go in the back he added, she's used to riding with people.

His name was James and he and I and Bluegrass drove the few blocks to my office where he left me off. It was only then that I realized that based on his being a dog lover, I had just accepted a ride from a complete stranger who just as well could've been a serial killer who lured women into his car with a pretty dog. VIsions of being the next movie on Lifetime danced in my head and I heard a little voice in my head saying dumb, dumb, dumb. But it was done, and he hadn't been a serial killer, just a nice guy with a dog who offered a lift to someone he didn't know. For all he knew, I could've been a serial killer.

There's two sides to every give and take.

Aquistitions & Mergers

I've been watching the squirrels preparing for winter. They spend their days gathering and stashing, discovering this or that nut and taking it home or burying it. It's a survival strategy, long term squirrel thinking. They collect what they need and at winter's end it will be used up and gone. Squirrels seem to care about only those possessions with essential value.

Humans collect as if a lifetime could be measured or appraised by aquisitions. At a recent estate sale I found myself wondering exactly how many sets of china can one family use, exactly how many jewels can one woman wear, how many Tiffany bowls does it take to be satisfied. And why. Why do we seem to need so many things? We come into the world with nothing, we take nothing when we leave, but in between we seem to need to be surrounded by material things as if they will weld us to life. As if the higher the price, the stronger the weld.

I have a weakness for table linens. I have several drawers full of placemats and napkins, most with the price tags still on. I haven't used any of them in years and am mystified by own inability to give them away. Do I unconsciously hope for a third marriage and keep them just in case I should inherit stepchildren? Other high risk items include but are not limited to earrings, handbags and greeting cards, nothing outrageously expensive in and of itself but things do tend to add up over a month's billing cycle of my Visa card.

We are all drawn to things in one way or another - for status or security or comfort or to leave to our children. Whatever the reason, they're still just things. As my friend Jim used to say, I don't want to be rich, I just want the trappings. Don't we all.

Don't Weary

Of all the expressions I heard growing up, one of my favorites has always been my daddy saying, Don't weary. It was an all occasion phrase and always came with a smile.

Children get a lot of the same advice. Always wear clean underwear in case you're in a wreck. Clean your plate, there are children starving in Europe. Don't pet strange dogs. Tell the truth and I won't be mad. Don't take candy from strangers. Don't be late. Call when you get there. Children should be seen and not heard. Don't forget to brush your teeth. Wait two hours after you eat before going in the water. Don't play with your food. Wash behind your ears. You'll spoil your supper.

But it's my daddy's Don't weary that has stayed with me the longest, maybe because it's been the hardest to follow.
Maybe the best advice always is. I do weary - of working and struggling and not getting things right. A couple of times a year I weary of the animals I love more than life and long to wake up just one morning without them. I weary of being a grownup with responsibilities and chores and bills. I weary of all the complications of life, of the day to day stress and never having enough time. I weary of insomnia and coloring my hair and washing dishes. I weary of worrying.

Somedays it's just a weary old world. But I'm still glad to be here.

With Love

Ten years ago this month, my friend Ran died. It doesn't seem possible that so much time has passed without him. It was a senseless and tragic death, one that tested my faith in a gentle and loving god. I couldn't find any good or any comfort in the fact that his suffering had ended, couldn't see why it was inflicted in the first place. He was a good and uncommonly decent man, generous, dedicated to his family, his work, his community and his friends. He was funny, impatient, bright, politically active and involved. He cared deeply and he gave to the people and things that he cared about. He was much respected and much loved. And he is very much missed.

It's impossible to comprehend why such a man should be taken at just 47. He had so many things left to do, so much that he could have accomplished, so many dreams to make come true. I tried to visit every day in the hospital and once he came home as well. He didn't always know I was there.

His life wasn't finished and we were all cheated by his death. But he lived well, he lived proud, with grace and honor and a style his very own. All of us who knew and loved him count ourselves lucky to have been his friends. Cousin Linda sent me a quote that is perfect for what I feel about Ran, from an unknown author: Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.

A War Story

The glass ashtray flew by my head and I ducked. My brother screamed a string of curses at me, some I didn't even know, and reached for the next mssile - the imitation Swiss cuckoo clock came of the wall easily and went sailing past me. It was followed by small piece of pottery, an unwashed coffee cup, another ashtray and finally a case of knitting needles. Then, barefoot, wearing just his pajama bottoms and still cursing, he jerked the front door open and fled across the snow covered yard. It was Janauary and he had turned nine the spring before. My other brother, standing out of range on the stairs, shrugged as if to say, What the hell, you know he's crazy.

It wasn't the first time and it certainly wasn't to be the last. He was a dangerously troubled child - sullen, stubborn,
slow to learn, constantly in and out of fights. He was a bully, tormenting the neighborhood children and their pets without mercy. He never made eye contact unless forced, he took punishment with rigid defiance, he was hostile and prone to violent rages when he didn't get his way. He was never to be left alone with the dogs. I tried to keep as much distance between us as possible, having learned early that neither mother or dad could handle him. In his teens, he devloped a taste for setting small fires, petty theft, reckless driving and vandalism. To everyone's relief, he finally joined the army and was sent to Vietnam but when he came home it was with horror stories of war and killing
and he told them with huge pride. He married quickly and divorced almost overnight and eventually moved to somewhere in Florida. I haven't seen or heard from him since.

Everybody had a theory. He had fallen and cracked his skull as a small child. He was learning disabled. He was mentally ill. His features hinted at being mongoloid so it was fetal alcohol syndrome. My grandmother saw it in simpler terms - he's mean, mean as a snake and no damn good. Nana had seen The Bad Seed once too often and the resemblance she saw was too close for her own comfort. He spooked her.

The ashtrays, coffe cup and pottery were all in pieces but somehow the Swiss clock had survived. I rehung it on the walll and set the small ceramic figures back in motion. The brightly painted little boy and the little girl with the yellow braids began to swing back and forth, keeping time with each tick tock, as if nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary had happened. They had seen it all before.

Sometimes You Just Know

Buy land, Mark Twain said, it's the only thing they're not making more of.

For years, I owned a piece of property west of town. The plan had been to build a small cabin on it and live out our years away from the city. I would read and stitch, he would fish and work on the land. After the divorce, the land sat there, listed with one or another agents as the mood struck me and costing me tax dollars every year. I would sometimes get questions about it - my favorite was what kind of trees are there, to which I replied, the kind with leaves - but mostly I never gave it much thought. Then one day, the couple who had sold it to us called
and asked if I'd be interested in selling it back to them. They didn't want to build on it or develop it, they wanted to keep it as it was, a small island between their land and the highway. I immediately said yes. They are good people who love nature and respect wildlife and I knew they would be the perfect caretakers. It felt right.

Now and again, I get to make decisions based on a feeling I recognize as "right". I can't explain it, can't describe it, but I know it. Something falls into place and even if there's risk attached, I go with it because it feels right.
It may be at odds with logic or reason - feelings so often are - and it may not even stay "right" - but it's the best starting place that I've found.

Like a crossword puzzle clue, sometimes you just know the answer's right.

Mind and Body

Sometimes I forget to take care of myself in terms of the mind-body connection and the results tend to be unpleasant.
For several weekends in a row, I have been mid house cleaning when taken over by the threat of nausea and a low grade headache. Now, to be clear, I would rather be in hell with a broken back than vomit so when every swallow wants to reverse itself, I go to the couch and try to nap while I wait for it to pass. I don't have the fortitude to induce it even when I know I would feel better afterward.

As a result, nothing gets done and my mind and body are soon in a race for which one can feel the worst. Hours go by, an entire night goes by with all my focus on the weight in my chest that is suppressing the nausea. I don't eat or drink, I don't sleep, and I haven't the will to shower and dress. I know I'm backsliding but can't bring myself to care. By Sunday night, it's full blown depression, physically and emotionally.

As I went through this yet again this past weekend, and pulled out of it by Monday afternoon, I began considering causes. And decided that it's mostly that I haven't been taking care of myself. Too much nicotine and chocolate, not enough greens, exercise or sleep. What the body feels, the mind will wrap its arms around. So I bought myself a salad, drank two bottles of water, got on the treadmill and went to bed early.

Health is a precious gift and we should maintain it as best we can. Cause and effect, mood and behavior, feelings and actions - they all work both ways for the good or the harm. All the parts need to be healthy to be whole.

Mrs. Arnold's Fourth Grade

How, I said to my daddy, did Uncle Vern get his wooden leg? He smiled, then told me the one and only war story I ever heard from him, about he and Uncle Vern and a landmine in France. You saved his life? I said in awe, and he nodded solemnly and then showed me his hands, almost all his fingers crooked and bent towards his palms. From the explosion, he said, but we don't ever talk about it, ok? And I promised.

It was a promise I kept for years, until in grade school we had a Parent's Day. My daddy came and was standing in the back of the room with the other parents, patiently listening to the children. He was wearing a black pinstriped suit - he had a wake to attend to that afternoon - and was carrying his hat in one hand and had folded his overcoat over his other arm. He was young and handsome and I remembered the pictures I had seen of him and his brothers in uniform and I suddenly decided that a war hero was far more exciting than a man who planned funerals. So I told how my Uncle Vern had stepped on a landmine and how my daddy had saved his life but not his leg. Even my beloved fourth grade teacher looked suitably impressed and everybody clapped. Then I noticed my daddy - slumped against the blackboard, jaw hanging open in disbelief. His coat and hat had dropped to the floor and he was holding
himself upright by hanging onto the door. I didn't know the expression "eyes glazed over with shock" but I got the general idea. He struggled to speak for a second or two, then gave up as Mrs. Arnold, looking her usual capable and concerned self, approached him. She spoke softly to him, carefully putting her body between him and the class then
retrieved his hat and coat and they walked out together. Before the door closed behind her, I thought I heard him say But I never ....and then footsteps and very faint laughter.

How Uncle Vern came to have a wooden leg is still a mystery to me but I soon found out that my daddy's hands were from a genetic muscular contraction that I have as well, although not nearly as severe. Not nearly as exciting as a war story but reality often isn't. Ask any teller of tall tales.

There's a Hole in My Sidewalk

I first heard this many years ago in an aftercare session and it's always stayed with me - I think it's a lesson about everything.

Chapter One
I walk down a street and there's a big hole. I don't see it and I fall into it. It's dark and hopeless and it takes me a long time to find my way out. It's not my fault.
Chapter Two
I walk down the same street. There's a big hole and I can see it but I still fall in. It's dark and hopeless and it takes me a long time to get out. It's still not my fault.
Chapter Three
I walk down a street. There's a big hole. I can see it but I still fall in. But I keep my eyes open and get out immediately. It is my fault.
Chapter Four
I walk down a street. There's a big hole. I walk around it.
Chapter Five
I walk down a different street.

From "There's a Hole in My Sidewalk" by Portia Nelson.

Underneath the Noise

Four little feet race across the hardwood floors, either in pursuit of or flight from another cat, it's hard to tell. Frequently, this is followed by a crash, a growl, or a high pitched scream. A cornered cat is not a pretty sight. One of the dogs sometimes joins in, escalating the threat level dangerously high and this is where I usually have to intervene. The little one is completely fearless and has no more sense than a melon. Her theory seems to be, if it moves, chase it, and if it doesn't, attack it. And if it's asleep and outweighs you by twenty pounds, pounce on it and run. She is in what I've come to think of as her terrorist stage, a trying time for all involved.

In human terms, she's a pot stirrer, an instigator, a catalyst. Only all she accomplishes is noise - it's loud, it's frightening, it's nerve wracking, but it's only noise and as a general rule it's pretty harmless.
For me, it's a daily reminder that the sounds of living can be so deafening that I give them power they don't inherently have. Noise is distraction. The static of people trying to get along, the emotional traffic jams we cause for ourselves, the stress of time rushing by with nothing in it's way, the roadblocks we erect between us and others and within our own minds - nothing but noise. It can break our stride or cloud our judgement. For me, it strengthens the dark side of my nature - too much noise and I find I can't think straight. I'm more susceptible to tension, more likely to lose my temper, less tolerant and more vulnerable to a black mood. I get sidetracked by the noise of stupidity, arguments, jealousy and depression. The chaos of raised voices all trying to be heard at once gives me a headache. I don't fall from grace, I jump.

Better to try and sort out the good sounds - the peaceful moments, a deserted downtown street on Sunday afternoon, the stillness of a lake at night, a harmonica solo at the end of a blues song, a country lane at sunrise, a good night kiss, a compliment from someone who matters to you, doing the right thing when it's hard.

The good stuff is underneath the noise and we all outgrow our terrorist years. When the little one tires out, she curls up and purrs herself to sleep. It's a sweet sound.

.

The Halloween House

The family that lived next door to us consisted of an elderly mother and her three daughters. The house itself was enormous and almost macabre looking with turrets, black iron fencing and gingerbread everywhere, three stories high, dark and forbidding.

Ruth was the oldest daughter. Like her sisters, she had never been married and had worked all her adult life. She was slightly stocky, with close cropped grey hair and no discernible figure. June was next, a small, slight woman who had also worked all her life. She wore an out of style pageboy and long skirts. Betty was the black sheep - chunky, bleached blonde, hard drinking, chain smoking and able to curse up a landslide. She'd been born crippled and rarely held a job for more than a month or so at a time. She and my mother became fast friends, spending spring afternoons in the backyard downing sixpacks, reading cheap paperbacks and trashing the neighbors. Betty wasn't allowed in the house if Dad was home. In the winter, she didn't come out at all but would sit in front of her window smoking and pitching empty beer cans onto the lawn. She would talk on the phone for hours with my mother, her raspy, overly loud laughter carried on the air like bad music.

Three spinster ladies and their mother living out their lives in a mammoth old house that needed work and frightened the neighborhood children. I imagined sorrow and secrets behind those old walls, rage and despair and bodies buried in the cellar. On Halloween, it was passed by.

But it was just a house like any other and if it kept secrets, it was no different than the white house with the black shutters next door.

Quick Fixes

Every now and again, I'm struck by the urge to quit smoking. I've tried the patch, hypnosis, accupuncture, cold turkey, support groups, subliminal messaging. When my doctor suggested the antidepressant pill, I agreed.

It worked effortlessly and amazingly well. Then a few weeks in, things started to go wrong. I unexpectedly began thinking about suicide. I spent an entire weekend searching for a copy of my will because I couldn't remember what provisions I had made for the animals. A customer asked me for a certain brand of film and I began to cry and a half hour later was still crying and had not the first idea why. I began to seriously consider the possibility that I was having some kind of breakdown but never once made any connection to the medication. In the shrink's office, trying to explain what was happening, I learned about the side effects of the antidepressant - depression, suicidal thoughts, mood swings. I stopped the drug, started smoking again, and in a few days was back to normal.

I like quick fixes. I want to quit smoking but don't want to go through withdrawal. I want to lose 10 pounds but don't want to diet. I want to be whole again but I don't want to do the work. And I think I have lots of company in this. We would rather reach for a bandaid than a solution, treat a symptom rather than a cause. It's not laziness, it's impatience. We're in such a rush to get somewhere, we lose sight of where we're going and forget that it's the journey not the destination that really matters.

Take your time. Enjoy the view. Look inward and travel light. Expect miracles and they'll find you.

Warning, Will Robinson!

It's no secret that I hate technology.

Computers, cell phones, fax machines, answering machines, palm pilots, ipods - it's a high tech, digital house of cards. Just let one malfunction and it all comes crashing down. I'm a low tech, little picture kind of person and I miss carbon paper, number 2 pencils, turntables, rotary phones, erasers, and letters. Shrink wrap plastic is a product of the devil's workshop, voice mail had to have been invented by low ranking, bored demons with too much time on their hands, and I'm pretty sure all is not well with the world when greeting cards sing. Nevertheless, this is the world in which I live and work and making room for technology was not a choice but a requirement.

I am a product of the 60's and am struck by the fact that so many others of my age embrace technology. They did not kick and scream or protest at it's advance but rather welcomed it with open arms and curiosity. I see an insinuating virus that will mutate to gain ground - they see a tool to bring people closer. I see an electronic age where no one will need to learn to read or write - they see an age of time saving. I see high tech taking over like the kudzu in Stephen King's short story - they see progress.

In photography, I sometimes use filters - to make a warmer tone or a cooler one, to accentuate the blue of the sky,
to cut glare or even turn points of light into stars. In life, we see, hear and act through the filters of our own individual experiences. We interpret much the same way and because we all see through different filters, there's a great deal of room for error. I can hear critisism when it isn't intended, mistake frustration for temper, hear contempt that isn't there in a tone of voice because I was brought up with critisism, temper and contempt.

I'm slowly learning to coexist with technology just as I'm learning that sometimes the best filter is a clear one.

Brick by Brick

When I was growing up, I hardly knew of anyone that was divorced. Now I hardly know anyone that isn't.

Linda and Robin have been together for thirty two years. Consider what that takes - over three decades of committment, loyalty, understanding, respect, making space, working out priorities and differences. Deciding all the small details of living together as well as the major decisions, planning time and meals and vacations, remembering
to be considerate, courteous, learning to honor each other. Making time for each other separately and together, keeping love alive and vital. Working through the disagreements and hurt feelings, discovering what works and what doesn't. Learning to live with another person is no small thing and love is only the threshold - you can't get there without it, but once inside, it's nowhere near enough.

Brick by patient brick, they have built a life - despite the odds. It's sustained with love.

Happy Anniversary.

Day Surgery

It was a routine doctor visit.

I laid on the cold metal table, shivering, feet in the stirrups and covered only by a paper sheet. The handdrawn smiley face on the ceiling looked down at me in amusement. My doctor stood over me, eyes carefully studying the wall, hands on my breasts, humming slightly under his breath. He seemed to be taking a long time, pressing and massaging the same areas over and over again. At some point, I registered that he'd stopped humming.

I watched him pull his stool closer to the table, clipboard in in one hand, pen in the other. He gave me a reassuring smile and began to talk. I heard the words, the name of another doctor, the fact that it was Monday and that he was making an appointment for me the next day, that the doctor was a fine surgeon. I heard the words but didn't comprehend. I didn't understand the rush. He kissed the top of my head as he always did,
smiled again and told me not to worry.

I dressed and left. In the car, I tried to remember what he had said but found I was having trouble breathing.
The words were in the back of my mind but still didn't make sense and I decided I'd misunderstood him.

The surgeon was a short, dark haired teddy bear of a man with serious eyes. He methodically explained the different kinds of biopsies there were and which one he thought I should have. Out patient surgery, he said,
results the same day. We'll schedule it for this week, what did I think about Friday. The mention of a day of the week brought me out of the fog and I said but why so soon and he paused before he said the sooner we know, the better. The sooner we know what, I said blankly and immediately regretted asking because without the fog I could suddenly understand the words malignant, benign, tumor, biopsy. Out of nowhere, I realized they were talking about cancer. And me.

It was benign. A nurse was leaning over me in recovery, smiling and saying it was benign. I thanked her and closed my eyes again, holding her hand. When I woke up the second time, Tricia was standing over me, asking if I was up to getting dressed and going home.

As near misses go, it really wasn't much - just one more reminder to pay attention and be glad for each day because nobody is promised tomorrow.

Just a Cat

One winter night a friend of mine came across a tiny black and white long haired kitten being stoned by neighborhood children. She rescued him and brought him to me. Hearing how she had found him, I couldn't find it in my heart to say no. We named him Pooka.

He was small, starved for food and affection and the existing cats seemed to know that he'd been abused and were uncommonly gentle with him. He grew into a loving and affectionate animal and at six months, we took him to be neutered. Once he had been home a few days, he stopped eating and would sit with his head over the water bowl but not drink. He began losing weight, became lethargic. I took time off from work and stayed home with him, kept him warm and bottle fed him in between visits back to the vet's. They diagnosed a respiratory infection, prescribed antibiotics and isolation and told me not to worry.

He collapsed a few days later and we wrapped him in blankets and rushed him him to Angell Memorial but it was too late. Halfway there, he shuddered and died in my arms. It's a memory I've tried to forget for years.

My daddy was at my door the very next morning. I couldn't talk for tears and he didn't try, he just sat with me and let me cry. Later he talked to me about a place where there was no pain, no sickness, no suffering. A place where animals are loved and cared for until they're reunited with their people. Few people would've truly understood my grief - I'm more than familiar with the it was just a cat look - but he did. And he treated me as if I'd lost a child, which in my eyes, I had.

My daddy understood what it was to lose the things you love, even just a cat.

Keeping Secrets

My grandmother woke up one morning and fell. She got up, got dressed, and went about her business and it was only much later in the day, that the stroke caught up with her. She died very shortly after.

I flew to Boston for the funeral which was held in the small chapel at the funeral home. I listened as her favorite hymns were played and as the minister spoke about her life and her family and how she would be remembered. A few days later, I went to her house. It was exactly as I remembered. I stayed several hours, going through closets and drawers room by room. Shelf after shelf of glassware, linens, quilts and lace tablecloths, knicknacks, flannel nightgowns, decks of playing cards, neatly discarded mail, books and pictures. Not the smallest item was dusty or out of place or even slightly out of alignment. My grandmother had believed in routine and order and everything in its place.

It must've been a shock to learn that my grandfather had produced an out of wedlock child with a woman no one knew. Dad told me about it during my visit, hoping that it would help explain some of the hardship my mother had gone through and exuse her behavior. He said that the illigitimate half sister had been continually thrown at her when she was growing up, thrown at her and my grandmother in the viciousness of every drunken rage. Imagine, he said, just try to imagine what he put them through. And I did, with no effort at all.

Alcoholism is a disease of the mind, the body, the spirit and the emotions. It takes all with heartless
and suffocating greed and leaves the remains of its victims in pieces and their families shattered, often beyond repair. It flourishes and gets passed from generation to generation, partly because we provide a safety net for its victims, protecting them from the consequences of their behavior, and keeping their secrets. We do whatever it takes to keep it in the family. He would come home drunk, my daddy told me, and pass out on the stairs. We dragged him upstairs, your grandmother and I and put him to bed. And then it would start all over the next day. I listened to this with a sense of resignation but no surprise and no pity. This assault on my grandmother's well ordered and neatly arranged world had taught my daddy how to deal with my mother. He taught me so that I could deal with my husband and if we'd had children, I would've taught them. No, I told him, it stops with me. And my daddy walked away.

In a way, we never got past those few moments. We stayed close, he and I, but something had shifted between us and would not be put right. We never spoke about it again until my mother was dying and by that time, I had years of counseling and meetings behind me and I was able to stand my ground against the accusations of selfishness, the name calling, the threats, the blame and the manipulation. This is killing Dad! my brother screamed at me, You're killing him! And I hung up the telephone.

Pain kept private, denied or hidden never heals.

Penny Candy

After church we used to stop at a small candy store. It had been converted from a railroad depot and sat by the train tracks in what was otherwise an open field. It was dark and musty and wall to wall penny candy. And it had no name, it was just "The Station". Dad would let us buy gumdrops, licorice whips, peppermints, root beer barrels, up to a quarter's worth and the old man behind the counter would carefully put everything into individual small paper bags, give the tops a firm twist and hand them to us. It was our reward for going to church.

After we got home and changed out of chuch clothes, we would go driving in the old black Mercury station wagon. Dad would lower the seats and spread a couple of old blankets out, we took toys and books and games, and sometimes would pick up one of each of our friends. We went to Walden Pond, or Cedar Hill, or just drove aimlessly. Late in the day he'd stop and buy us all ice cream - it was all on the condition that we not tell our mother what we had done or where we had gone and especially not who we had taken.

Conspiracy is a hard burden for children to carry but somehow we knew and understood all the things that were never said aloud or explained. We treasured those Sunday afternoon drives and silence was a small price for them. But conspiracies have a way of growing and when Dad found himself a girlfriend, it was the most natural thing in the world to keep his secret. I was married by that time and he would bring her by to play bridge - she was a widow - or we would have dinner or drive to her summer house in Maine for the weekend. By careful design, my brothers were both excluded from knowing about this relationship. She was a lovely lady - slim and pretty, soft spoken and well dressed. She shared his love of music and books and was always very kind. It seemed to me that he finally found someone he could talk to and be with, without conflict or humilation, and he was always relaxed and smiling when he was with her. I thought his happiness was worth the sin and even dared to hope that it might be enough to motivate him to finally leave my mother. It was not to be and after the lovely lady died, he stayed the course to the bitter end.

There'a a fine line between loyalty and enabling and he was never able to see the difference.