Buddy and the Barncat

The first time Buddy nearly died was the night he was born.

He was eleven weeks premature and his mother, a hired girl who had refused to as much as acknowledge his existence, gave birth in a stall in the barn on Lily and Eli's farm then quietly bled to death. A surprised and shocked hired hand found her and the newborn later that evening while milking the cows and Buddy's small life was miraculously saved, although under protest, by the local midwife who felt that the child's deformities were a curse for his mother's sin. The baby was one legged, his right leg ending in a stump below his knee and his right arm cruelly twisted and misshapen. Lily and Eli were good people and immediately took the child in and refused to give him up although the midwife whispered dire warnings through the village, predicting all manner of retribution and tradgedy. When she approached Miss Hilda with her vicious fortune telling, the proper British lady slapped her sharply and ordered her to come to her senses at once, Hold your tongue, you old crone, Mis Hilda snapped, and mind what vile nonsense you spread about that child or you'll answer to me and my stick!

Under Eli and Lily's care, Buddy survived and even thrived. He leaned to walk with the aid of a crutch Eli fashioned and Uncle Shad made a sort of leather harness for his malformed hand - once braced to the crutch, Buddy could move independently and as he grew, new crutches and harnesses were made every year. That boy is a walking
miracle, Nana told Miss Hilda one evening at the post office. Indeed, Miss Hilda nodded, His body may be wrecked but he's quick witted with an agile mind. He has something to teach us all about overcoming adversity.

The second time Buddy nearly died was the summer I was ten or so. He was driving the vegetable cart back from the square late one Friday afternoon when for reasons no one ever discovered, the old cart horse spooked and ran,

the harness snapped and the Buddy was thrown and pinned under a wheel of the overturned cart. On his way to collect the evening mail, Eli came across the horse and mounting the protesting old mare, raced up island where he found Buddy, unconscious and half dead from shock and blood loss. The old mare carried both man and boy back to the farm where Lily laid the boy out on a bed and covered him until Miss Hilda and Miss Rowena arrived. The shattered leg healed and Buddy recovered through the process was long and painful. Mark my words, Miss Hilda told my grandmother, God is watching that boy.

The next year Buddy found the barncat at the edge of the woods, both back legs broken and mangled. Wolf, maybe,

Eli allowed, we'll put her out of her misery. But Buddy fought for the old cat and persuaded Eli to make a sling then carried her to Miss Rowena's. Rowena shook her head but Buddy pleaded and wore her down, certain that she could heal the damaged animal, more certain that she should. Somebody has to save her, Miss Rowena, he begged her, you can't give up on her. And the old lady doubtfully agreed to try, knowing it would take all her skill, all her gifts, and that the odds were against her. She tended the old cat all that summer, splinting the back legs and force feeding her, keeping her warm in a basket next to the fire and teaching Buddy how to change the bandages, how to help her relearn to walk. She would never be straight or fast again, never be much of a mouser again, never walk without a limp, but she would survive and return to the old barn where Buddy had been born, to the same stall where he had nearly died, and she would live out her life in the sweet, dusty hay. His eye, Miss Rowena reckoned, really is on the sparrow.

The Hillside

I dreamed of the hillside where we used to go sledding. It was steep and covered with fresh snow, and we hauled our fliers up one side, lay down on our bellies and screaming with terror and joy, went like the wind to the bottom of the hill. The high school kids built snow forts at the bottom by the frozen pond and had ferocious snowball fights, often catching the innocent younger children in the crossfire. Snowmen were erected and decorated with carrots, bright colored scarves and old hats and someone's mother usually arrived with steaming cardboard cups of hot chocolate.

In spring, we converted the old dead tree at the top of the hill into a sailing ship and climbed the limbs to raise flags. Wild asparagus grew on the hillside along with daisies and dandylions. A storm had uprooted and overturned a huge tree at the edge of the water and it lay on its side with its root system exposed - it made for a perfect cave - and we fought fiercely against the older kids for possession of it. Defeated, we withdrew but often returned to raid their stashes of cigarettes and beer and then run for our lives.

Come fall, the grass would begin to turn brown and we collected debris and fallen branches to build bonfires. An adult was always on the sidelines during the fires, watching without interfering, there just as a precaution. On Indian summer afternoons we would often do our homework in the shadow of the old tree with small fires burning below us and the smell of smoke thick on the air. Squirrels and chipmunks played hide and seek, chattering as they ran through the underbrush and trees, unhappy at the intrusion and furious when someone's dog tagged along.

The seasons came and went steadily and the faces of the children changed as the years passed. A subdivision was eventually built and the hillside was leveled and paved, the trees cut up and hauled away, the wild asparagus and flowers cemented over. Much of the pond was dredged, filled in and fenced off - even the old uprooted tree disappeared, chain sawed and packed off in a logging truck one fine fall afternoon. The root system was so deep they'd had to use a small dynamite charge and the blast had sent a shockwave across the pond, sending a surprised flock of ducks into flight and several children into tears. A chorus of neighborhood dogs began to bark wildly and my hearing was muffled for several minutes, as if I was underwater. When the smoke cleared, the old overturned tree had been reduced to splinters and my daddy put his arm around me shoulders and walked me home.

Fear of Falling

Like a high wire artist, the squirrel danced lightly across the top of the cyclone fence, tail switching fiercely and never looking down. He reached the tree and with a powerful and graceful leap, flew across the open space to a branch several feet away. Making a secure but delicate landing, he immediately raced toward the top, never hesitating a moment about how to do it, just going from limb to limb with enviable speed and agility. Reaching the highest tree branch, he spun and made one remarkable leap to the rooftop then disappeared across the shingles, a blur of gray against a background of bright blue sky.

It occurred to me that I have never seen a squirrel fall or even falter. Their combination of speed and confident surefootedness is artistry, like ariel ballet dancing, a choreographed dance through the trees and rooftops and along the power wires. More Gene Kelley than Fred Astair but dancing nevertheless - and all done without a net. Squirrels have no fear of falling, they are risk takers, willing to go out on a limb for the next nut, willing to fly without wings. I find myself wondering if there might not be a lesson here, perhaps about stepping out and getting it done without considering the risk of failure, about taking chances and not being held back by fear or apprehension. Maybe a lesson about how important it is to keep your balance - I once read If you're on the ladder of success, don't step back to admire your work.

On the other hand, squirrels may have something far more basic to teach us - like the value of looking both ways before you cross the street.

The Stranger Within

He lost his temper with a violent curse followed by a stream of profanity and a beer can pitched in my general direction. His face was twisted with rage, an ugly mask of fury, intoxication and guilt. Shouting and with one hand curled into a fist he came at me and I reached for a kitchen knife without really thinking.

He stopped, realizing, I think before I did, that I might actually use it, that I was able and willing to strike at him if need be. From the depths of the stranger within me, I spit at him, defied him and dared him. He roared at me and abruptly slammed out the back door, pausing only long enough to overturn the breakfast table and throw a chair through the kitchen window. Wood splintered with a ragged, tearing sound and shattered glass flew everywhere. The cats fled in terror and the dogs bolted for the safety of the second floor while I tried to steady my breathing and slow the rush of sick panic I felt in my chest. The unreal sight of the carving knife in my shaking hands brought me back and though my first instinct was to drop it like a hot rock, I held on and forced my hands to be still. It was like waking suddenly from a nightmare - confused and unsure of what was real and what was not, all was silent and in pristine perspective, a slight breeze from the jagged window stirred what was left of the curtains. There was reality to be dealt with - a window to be repaired and glass to be swept up, animals to be reassured and comforted, another night's refuge to be found and another morning after to be faced.

I felt an odd kind of empathy for my daddy that night and a conflicted kind of pride for not being so much like him.
He never would've behaved the way I had, never would've taken the risk of defiance and rage, and probably would've slept better not having lowered himself to the level of a dangerously angry drunk. He would've kept his silence and let it wash over him harmlessly, It's just noise, he would tell me repeatedly, Just noise and it can't do any harm. He never admitted the harm was already done. I'd wanted to be like him for as long as I could remember and coming to see him as deeply flawed, as deeply wounded as he was, was wrenching. He had chosen his path and kept to it for better or worse and knowing that I couldn't follow his example was in some ways liberating and in others, shameful. I hated the man I had married when I should've hated his disease. I often wondered how things might've been if my daddy and I had been able to talk about my mother's drinking and been honest with each other. I often wondered where his stranger within was hiding.

The Great Woolworth's Panic

In the days when a bus ride was a nickel and Woolworth's was still called "the five and dime", we would stop there every day after school for a vanilla coke and a hamburger. We'd eat and then browse the comic book rack with it's superheroes and if the cashiers weren't paying attention even sneak a peek at the glossy movie magazines, complete with racy pictures and scandalous stories about the stars we loved. Getting caught meant getting tossed out but it was worth the risk. The sales folk were all chubby, elderly women in aprons who wore their hair in the same kind of tied back bun and carried reading glasses. Even when they scolded, they were kind and they knew all our names. They would often drop extra penny candy into our pockets if we'd been well behaved. You could buy almost anything at the five and dime - clothes pins, sewing supplies, sodas, stockings, tiny little battery operated toys, linens, nails, notions. There were paperback books, games, candles, fountain pens, and even a pet section with parakeets, hamster, guinea pigs and tiny white mice. It was the dollar store of the day, a jumble of goods and merchandise in no particular arrangement or order, unprotected by security cameras and watched over by only little old ladies in support hose. Knowing it was wrong and that the consequences would likely be severe, we let the mice out anyway.

They ran every which way, tiny claws making a scrabbling noise on the old floors and causing instantaneous and

widespread alarm. After the first shriek, panic spread though the aisles like wildfire and customers fled wildly.

We heard a number of unladylike curses mixed with the sounds of falling cake tins and screams and a clatter of wood as the broom, mop and stepladder display tumbled under the impact of a runaway shopping cart. There were thuds and crashes and more curses as customers scampered for safety - a baby doll, a Tiny Tears, I remember thinking, began to cry "Mama" and a tin of marbles overturned and cascaded down one aisle. Amid all the chaos, there was a sudden clanging of an alarm bell, like a fire drill, and sirens began to go off. Moments later, I heard heavy footsteps behind me and a none too gentle hand grabbed me by the collar and hauled me to my feet. An unhappy looking policeman with fierce eyes, a shaving nick on his broad chin and a clenched jaw glared down at me. What's all this, then, he growled and gave me a menacing shake, Just what do you think you're up to? His badge glistened and his name tag was so close to my face that it blurred in my vision. One hand rested lightly on his gun belt and I could see handcuffs attached to it. I knew my first real sense of terror and it flooded through me like a dam giving way, a rush of fear so violent and pervasive I imagined it would drown me before I could speak the words of confession that were swirling in my head, lost in a mixed up jumble of shame and regret and a sense of inevitable jail time. The officer cursed mildly and mostly under his breath then abruptly swept me up and over his shoulder and carried me to the front of the now deserted store. Telling me to stay put, he deposited me on the sales counter and recalled the sales ladies from the sidewalk outside. In they came, huddled together like a small swarm of bees, hushed and awestruck by the destruction of their workplace and walking timidly, wringing their hands, eyes rapidly scanning for the first sign of mice. This, the policeman said quietly, is what's going to happen. And he listed my choices for the offense of creating a nuisance and vandalism - apologize, catch each and every runaway mouse, restore order to the merchandise, and show up every day after day after school for thirty days to help out. Or, he tapped his fingers against his gunbelt, I take you in. The ladies gave a collective gasp and began protesting but he silenced them with a stern, narrow eyed glance. This is a very serious offense, he reminded them, this is how juvenile delinquency gets it's start.

It took the remainder of the afternoon to catch the agile mice and I was late to supper and had to explain arriving home in a police car - my mother didn't question that the officer had seen me running and taken pity on me and given me a ride as it was getting dark - and I pleaded not feeling well and escaped to my room without much notice. I spent the next thirty after school afternoons at the five and dime, sweeping and taking out trash, stocking shelves and washing dishes at the lunch counter. The sales ladies were quick to forgive and forget and in the end I learned a valuable lesson about accountability, a new respect for street cops, and a distinct dislike for mice. It was a one-of-a-kind lesson in growing up.

Mending a Fawn

The deer in the headlights froze, a wild and startled expression on his face, and Johnny turned the wheel and hit the brakes with a curse. In the next second the magnificent animal had bolted over the ditch and into the woods, leaving us shaken, grateful, and half off the road by the near miss. While we were catching our breath, a second buck and then a third crossed, swiftly graceful and delicate. A doe and a fawn then emerged together, were caught momentarily in the headlights, then disappeared into the trees. There hadn't been a sound except for the hoofbeats on the newly paved stretch of road and even that had been muted and almost supernatural. Exasperated, Johnny got out, inspected the car for damage, and then stood listening - there were night sounds - a faraway owl, the foghorn, rustling leaves and the sound of water. Abruptly he told me to cut the engine and when I did the night sounds included a small but steady cry I'd never heard before. He reached for a flashlight and signaling me to follow began to walk into the woods, stepping slowly and carefully. Instinctively I knew not to speak even as the darkness closed in around us. The woods smelled damp and piney and we found the fawn just a few yards in, lying on her side with one leg at an impossible angle and bleating pitifully. She tried to run but faltered and fell, yelping in pain and fear. Stay with her, Johnny told me in a whisper, talk to her. Try and keep her quiet. I did as he told me, speaking to her in a low voice and keeping my distance, being as still as I could. She looked terribly frightened, frail, small and helpless and nearly invisible among the leaves and underbrush. She tried to stand but the shattered leg collapsed and she went down in heap, breathing heavily and wild eyed. Not knowing what else to do, I crept closer and reached out a hand and placed it gently on her flank and began to stroke her, all the while continuing to talk to her softly. She pulled away from me but made no other move to escape. It's a clean break, Johnny said from behind me, but we'll have to move her carefully. He had found a small tree limb and I watched in awe as he splinted her leg and wrapped his belt around it then took off his jacket and easily slid her onto it and up into his arms. He laid her on the back seat and covered her with an old blanket then climbed in beside her putting one hand on her belly and one firmly on her neck. Reckon we'll have to wake Miss Rowena, he told me softly, You drive. Go easy.

When the engine started, the fawn heaved and thrashed but Johnny held her firmly, talking all the while to her in a

singsong, soft tone, reciting whatever he could think of and keeping her still - there were snatches of Bible verses,

the alphabet, the names and birth orders of his brothers and sisters, song lyrics. The four or five mile drive seemed endless and when we finally reached Miss Rowena's it was close to midnight but she was waiting on the front porch in her rocking chair, a shawl over her shoulders and a shotgun in her lap. She hushed the dogs with a word and led us into the barn where we made the fawn a bed in a stall, wrapped the leg in a warm poultice and re-splinted it. Under her hands, the small animal was quiet and I saw a look of trust in her eyes as she listened to Rowena's voice and allowed herself to be stroked and comforted. We left her there, nearly asleep with her head resting in Rowena's lap, sheltered and warm and sucking on a bottle of milk.

The summer was a healing one and the fawn mended and grew strong, healthy and confident. Her spots were replaced with a rich, carmel colored coat and her baby animal face became that of a grown doe, elegant and proud with exquisite dark eyes and a playful nature. She became another member of Rowena's flock and blended easily with the dogs and cats and wild things that came and went on the small farm. Now and again she would wander into the thicket and disappear for several days - to visit with her own kind, Rowena reckoned - but she always returned and there was always a place for her. Small kindnesses are often repaid many times over.

Peace, Love & Potluck

• One fine spring morning, we packed a U-Haul truck and left the inner city for the suburbs. The ground was still patchy with leftover snow and we drove with care through the downtown streets, feeling a little sad to be leaving but optimistic about a new neighborhood, about moving up in the world.
  
  The new apartment was over a dentist's office, three full rooms with lots of windows, sidewalks with trees, carpeting. We were walking distance from the city square. a diverse and colorful collage of small shops, delicatessens, bookstores and tiny markets specializing in ethnic food, vintage clothing, greeting cards and used furniture. We explored them all that spring, walking hand in hand on Saturday afternoons and sometimes ducking into the small movie theatre for a double feature. We discovered a fondue restaurant and spent hours at a cozy sidewalk cafe, making plans for the future and drinking white wine. Nights we walked to the sawdust floored seafood place and ate sweet fried clams and lobster rolls off paper plates on checked tablecloths with candles in Chianti bottles. Sunday mornings were for hot chocolate and bagels spread with cream cheese - we ate with the newspaper spread out over the bed and the Kingston Trio singing in the background. Friends were in and out at all hours to play scrabble or borrow money or just visit and drink the every present homemade sangria. Some spent the night, sleeping on the burnt orange carpet in the living room and waking to the cautious investigations of our three curious cats. Convinced that no young people ate a proper diet, Mrs. Levin, the good dentist's mother who had her own small apartment across the hall, frequently dropped in with baskets of warm challah, knishes and Jewish apple cake, all made with her own hands with fresh ingredients from the deli in the square. She was a tiny slip of a woman and never left the house without her bandana and cane and her shopping bag over one arm. She spoke broken English and made her points with extravagant hand gestures and a wide smile, carrying her teeth in one apron pocket and her change purse in the other. She was a formidable cook and something of a gentle natured dictator about nutrition and food, believing that chicken soup and a good Jewish prayer could cure all the ills of the world. When she fell on the stairs one January and broke her hip, she refused to stay in the hospital and all through the winter an endless parade of caregivers came and went daily with newspapers, laundry, baskets of food, books. They cleaned and cooked for her, read to her, ran errands and did chores, kept her company and in good spirits and she recovered in record time. You're never too young or too old to be looked after.
  

Demons at a Distance

You can't outrun your demons, no matter how fast you are or how good your endurance. They 're like shadows and they always keep pace. Sometimes it's a victory just to keep them at a distance.

I try to keep in mind that everybody has them - they may not be visible or understandable, they may not even be real, but we all have them. One way or another, at some point, they have to be confronted and fought. It's a part of the human condition, I suppose, to avoid this as long as possible, but in the end there's really no other choice. No matter how hard we might wish it, demons do not simply go away until we look them straight in the eyes and refuse to back down. For me, it has taken most of my life to find the courage to do this - the voices in my head still speak loudly, just not as often, and they sense every moment of vulnerability. Their timing is impeccable - steering clear when I'm strong and happy, pouncing when I'm at a low point and easily taken advantage of. The truth is that I don't always need them but when I do, I know just where to go and that is a demon in and of itself. Realizing that most of my demons are self made and survive only because I care for them and feed them is a jolt. Deny them shelter and safety and they look elsewhere for a home.

I am beginning to learn that there are some shortcuts, some things that demons don't like - friendship, for instance - kindness, compassion, peace of mind, and of course the warmth of love or the ties that we choose to bind us together. In the face of genuine happiness, demons may hiss and gesture but they can do us no harm, they are no more than fears built on memories and they can be dismantled. So I let them do their mad dances at a distance, make their scenes and empty threats, stir their pots with a vengeance and shriek curses to the skies.

I don't have to invite them in.

The Habit of Christmas

In a past life, this time of year would've found the house flooded with Christmas cards - brief flashes of greetings and good wishes from long lost friends and out of touch family, acquaintances, and car salesmen - to be read, displayed, and then discarded with the seasonal decorations until the next year. When I came to feel that Christmas cards had become an obligation I stopped sending them and not surprisingly stopped receiving them. Some old habits are as hard to fall back into as they are to break. Each year I rethink this but the thought of sitting and addressing cards, retrieving old addresses, and trying not to neglect anyone is all more than I care to take on. It feels almost false, a transparent effort to be proper and seasonly sincere. Oscar Wilde or someone like him said "Sincerity is an art. Once you've mastered it, everything else is easy." So the cards will go unwritten and the house will go undecorated another year. I think of a customer I once had who ordered her Christmas cards in October, 1000 of them. When I congratulated her on being early and so organized, she explained that her maid needed the extra time to write them out for her. Small wonder Christmas sometimes makes me cringe. Meanwhile, I will enjoy what cards do arrive, make an effort to answer them, and try to get past the guilt. The spirit of the season remains in my heart, it's just the trappings I do without.

Sometimes I look at the sky and try to understand infinity but I can't imagine it and am sure that if I could throw a rock hard enough and long enough, that it would hit the blue ceiling and bounce back to earth. Or perhaps the sky is held up by invisible tent poles, that somehow we are encapsulated like a ship in a bottle. Never ending-ness simply does not compute to me. And so it is with the Christmas season, as if we have forgotten the reason for all the celebrating and buried the real meaning under a pile of credit card debt and brightly wrapped presents. We all comprehend materalism well enough and for too many of us, Christmas has become the last chance at business success and nothing more. There is irony in the ringing of cash registers with "O, Holy Night" playing in the background. There are those among us who see gift giving not as a holiday tradition but as a competition to be won or lost on Christmas morning.

I like the catch up letters that often come with cards these days. A year's worth of a life is highlighted, summarized, and capsuled for instant reading and you are brought current for the price of a stamp. The letters can be sad or funny or nostalgic, filled with surprises or as dull as yesterdays news, but all bring updates on who has been born or died or married, moved, graduated or gone to Europe, had this or that surgery, gotten divorced, gone broke, found God or entered rehab. '

For me, there is salvation and Christmas spirit in the carols, the children, and the music of Hayden.

The Cemetery Man

It was a glaringly bright and bitterly cold December morning and the old man standing at the cemetery gate was in need of a shave. He was bundled up against the cold in a heavy coat with a fur trimmed hood but his shoes were stuffed with newspaper and he only had one glove. He shifted from one foot to the other in slow, heavy motions and awkwardly tried to peer though the bars of the ironwork, squinting at the headstones and against the sun. As I watched, he pulled open the gate, stepped inside and began shuffling down the center path between the graves. He took his time, stopping to read the names and inscriptions as he went, head bowed and hands deep in his pockets.

He came to a small rise where the path divided and for several seconds he stood, looking right and then left, as if trying to decide which way to go. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a small slip of paper, read it and replaced it, then set down the left path with certainty. At the next intersection he turned right without hesitation, seeming now to remember his way and walking with his head up, his footsteps quicker and sharper. He stopped at a grave with a small marker and knelt in the fallen leaves, brushing them away with his one gloved hand, then tentatively reached out and touched the marker with one finger - it was a gesture of tenderness, uncertain and shy but gentle. Then he sat back on his heels, hands clasped in his lap and I could see his lips moving. He stayed that way for some time then got to his feet a little shakily.

Feeling like an intruder, I backed away and from a distance watched him return the way he had come, pausing on the sidewalk as he closed the gate behind him. My impulse was to go to the grave and discover the name upon it but it seemed wrong, an invasion of his privacy somehow, and I left with my curiosity aroused but not satisfied. It had been, my instincts told me, a private few moments and it was better left that way. I remembered sitting at my great grandmother's grave long after her death and feeling a little lost and a little sad, but also free to talk to her honestly and without reservation, knowing that she would hear and not judge, knowing that any secret I shared would be safely kept. It was like a confession without penance and I left with a lighter heart, better for having told someone, even someone long dead. Talking to the dead, my daddy once told me, is a little like talking to God.

.

A Theory of Thirds

My daddy's theory was that we live our lives in thirds of roughly 25 years each.

The first third, we are learning, absorbing, watching. There's school, school and usually more school and we learn the fundamentals of literacy, social behavior, human dynamics, how to walk upright and be polite, to tell the truth, to manage our interactions. We decide whether we are lovers of cats or dogs and we sort through what will become our passions - music, art, reading, embroidery, sports and so on. We select a general direction to go in then refine it. We experiment with friends, drugs, sexual preference, independence. We learn to drive, clean up our rooms, study, cook, make small repairs. We date and often marry, learn how to be responsible employees and partners, how to mix a martini and not to play with matches. It's a time of forgiveness and far reaching immunity for our mistakes and sins. We get a lot of slack and we take it to the limit - we will only be young once we say, but in truth we believe we'll be young forever.

Real life comes in the second 25 years. Routines, ruts, divorces, over due pay offs. We learn that life is about growing up and that there are rough spots in careers, relationships, families. Earlier choices often come back to haunt us and often there are head on collisions with reality. The growing up we did before seems tame and insignificant as we achieve and struggle, constantly losing and finding our way, settling down and learning to be less selfish, more honest, harder working and more accountable. We discover trade offs and how to balance them, our children surprise, worry, depress and inspire us. We encounter the mortality of those we love and lose and having no other alternative, we keep going. Now and again we have a fleeting moment of peace of mind and we appreciate it more. We open savings accounts and buy bonds, we buy our first house, cram out wallets with credit cards, drink responsibly, save for a rainy day. We learn to love and cherish our friends, share heartbreak and accept pain. We worry more and go to bed earlier. We begin to measure success a little differently and often discover that God is not dead. It's a time when change happens slowly and often goes unnoticed until it defiantly stares us straight in the eyes and we begin to wonder where time, youth and stability are hiding. We learn new words like stress and sacrifice and we start paying attention to politics, world events, interest rates. We have, so we
think, arrived into the world of adulthood with all its trials and rewards.

The last third is an intruder in the night. We don't see or hear it, rather we wake one morning and realize it's there. There's a new language to be learned, the language of the medicine chest. We become addicted to list making, think about volunteering and paying back kindness, re-connect with
past friends. It's a shock to discover that time is finite, that our lives will eventually end as all lives do, that of all the gifts we receive, time is the most precious and the least lasting. We reorganize our priorities, eat more salads and drink more water, learn to value solitude as well as the noise of crowds. Lifelong habits and tastes change or become set in cement, the world goes from the black and white definitions we were sharply committed to and turns a fuzzy shade of gray. We think in terms of seasons and know that it's autumn while we yearn for spring. We find that there's no such thing as one more last chance, that chances never run out as long as we draw another breath. We stop planning the next thing we'll say and begin to listen. Patience comes with less effort and being grateful becomes second nature. We're unexpectedly more aware of the carnival of colors around us every day, overwhelmed by and resigned to the things we've failed to get around to doing, proud of
what we have accomplished. The periodic table of elements remains a mystery but we understand nostalgia, insurance, poverty, tolerance and faith and even have a dim grasp of things like the Dow Jones average. It's a time to revise expectations more toward reality and a time to put things right.

How much of this my daddy actually believed and how much he made up as he went along is not something that I'll ever know. We spent hours discussing and good naturedly arguing about it, it was one of the ways he tried to teach me to think clearly and improve my focus and reasoning. He would routinely take a position he didn't believe in and argue it just as an exercise in mental agility or for the sheer fun of it. He was, among other things, a philosopher with a sense of humor and a gift for satire.

Flea Free

Lay down with dogs, my grandmother told me grimly, get up with fleas.

She was angrily dousing the furniture with a vile smelling homemade remedy after having discovered a flea in her bed the previous night. The dogs had been put out early after a pre-dawn blitz raid, bathed and dipped in record time and exiled to the back porch while she began furiously stripping the linens from the downstairs bedrooms. I was assigned to the sunporch and charged with de-fleaing the chairs and twin couches with the nasty remedy she had brewed. She loved the dogs but her expectations of them were high and the very concept of fleas offended her sense of hygiene and proper breeding. She worked tirelessly the entire day and the sun was setting when she pronounced it fit for habitation. The dogs timidly crept in to their blankets alongside the old wood stove, unsure of what exactly they had done wrong but anxious to be forgiven. After supper she surreptitiously slipped them both a bone, as if to say that she knew it wasn't their fault. My mother was ordered to keep both dogs bathed on a weekly basis, I will not tolerate a flea infested home, Nana told her sharply, and you neglect them as it is. No more! My mother began a sullen defense but gave it up when she saw Nana's expression. The subject was closed, my grandmother's face clearly said, and there would be no further discussion. The weekly dog baths were immediately delegated to my brothers and myself.

Nana had a habit of setting her expectations of those around her too high and she was routinely exasperated with our failure to meet her standards, but she never gave an inch and never settled for less than she thought we were capable of. She maintained a zero tolerance policy about laziness, half efforts, sloppy housekeeping, the whole truth, self pity, emotional melt downs and keeping your shirt tucked in. She was a force to be reckoned with, a rock of stability, and always a safe place to go. When she had her stroke, she still got up and got dressed and started her morning routine just as if nothing was out of the ordinary, never mentioning it to my daddy, never cutting herself any slack. It was only hours afterward when she began having trouble speaking and difficulty with her balance that she would even allow for the possibility that something might be wrong. In part, her Nova Scotian stubborness contributed to her death - an irony she would have scorned mightily. At the cemetery, my daddy hugged me and whispered in my ear, Heaven help heaven now that your grandmother's there.

Goodnight, Irene

It started as a disagreement over a song and ended in a brawl on the dirt road outside the dance hall. Whiskey bottles and fists flew, friends from both sides joined in, and soon every man and boy there were throwing punches at the nearest target. Tired and bad tempered, old Alton the projectionist and part time barber limped toward the melee and pulling a pistol from his overalls, fired a single shot into the air. The fight evaporated instantly and those involved separated shamefacedly and began drifting back inside. I'll see you all in church tomorrow morning or know the reason why, Alton muttered at their backs as he put the pistol away and climbed the steps back to the booth, I'm too damned old to be breakin' up this kind of foolishness.
We left the dance on foot, in twos and threes, headed for the Old Road and the last ferry. It was a clear night, warm with a bright full moon and the scent of the ocean was everywhere. Laughter carried on the still air and the lights of Westport shone across the water like fireflies. Couples wandered off into the fields and down onto the breakwater to be alone for a few precious moments before the night ended and the Sullivan boys began singing "Goodnight, Irene". Johnny and I left them where the Old Road met the new and cut across the strawberry patch and down the driveway.
We sat on the side porch and watched the glistening water, young and in love and full of things to say to each other. My grandmother, waiting up as usual, dimmed the inside lights and called goodnight to us with a smile - Johnny had always charmed her and she thought the world of him. The dogs came out to sit with us and listen to the night, not even barking at the sound of the ferry engine as it droned its steady way across the passage or the fading sounds of "I'll see you in my dreams" from the Sullivan boys.

I still sometimes dream of that summer night, it's sweetness and salty ocean air, it's innocence and youth, it's gentle perfection when all was right with the world and no harm had come to us. The last ferry made it's peaceful crossing over a moonlit and calm sea and the summer stretched out like a season without end.

One More Dress for the Closet

I came around the corner of the front office and saw him sitting at the big desk, head down with his hands covering his face. When he heard me, my daddy immediately sat up and the despair changed to a smile but it took effort and I could see the remnants of tears in his eyes. I knew that my mother had just called and the war was on again.

He almost never gave in to the urge to fight back or defend himself, just allowed her to rant and threaten and call him names until she was worn out. If she threw something, he ducked and picked up the pieces. If she was violent, he left. Her abuse skimmed the surface and bounced off him but it wasn't harmless and you could see it in his eyes - a sadness that never quite went away, a surrender that was never quite enough to satisfy her. It wasn't enough for my mother to win, she had to devastate, had to level her victims and leave nothing standing. Each small, false victory encouraged her to be more cruel the next time. It was impossible to understand and even harder to watch.

This time it was about an evening gown. She wanted a new one and he had dared to suggest that she had enough in her closet, a mistake he recognized at once but too late. She would have a new evening gown and damn the cost, she spit at him, when we got home. She wasn't about to be seen in last years rags, laughed at and scorned because of his failure to provide. Just because he was a barefoot farm boy didn't mean he could treat her like one. It went on and on like that most of the night, long after he had given in, long after she had won. From my room I could hear her, screeching like a crone into the empty air, I never should've married you, look what you've done to me, all you care about is yourself and the damn kids, you hate me and are going to leave me, you've ruined my life.
I heard glass shatter and something hit the wall violently, a door slammed and then it was over and there was silence.
When I crept downstairs, my daddy was on his knees picking up the pieces of a lamp. The remains of a broken whiskey bottle was soaking into the carpet amid the shards of glass and his hand was bleeding. The coffee table lay on its side and the telephone had been pulled from the wall. My mother was sprawled in her chair, smoking and muttering and when she saw me she jerked upright and in a low voice ordered me back to my room. There was menace in her tone and my daddy got to his feet and in one quick movement was between us. Leave her out of it, Jeanette, he told her quietly and led me to the stairs and up to my room. My mother cursed and waved us off. It's not for you to worry about, he assured me, this is just between me and your mother.

Come morning, there was no sign of the night before save a carpet stain in front of the fireplace and a missing lamp which was replaced that same day when my mother came home with her new evening gown. Eventually, like all the others, it ended up worn once then crammed and smothered in her closet, covered with dust and mildew and rotting away. There seemed to be no winning unless the victory inflicted pain.

A Labor for Love

She ain't much, Daniel admitted to my grandmother, but she's all mine.

Nana wiped her hands on her apron and walked a slow, careful circle around the old Chevy. It was rusted in several places, the upholstery was torn and ragged, none of the tires matched and the paint was flaking. There was a strong smell of exhaust around it, one headlight and both brake lights were shattered and the antenna hung by a thin thread of wire. Nana poked and prodded, cautiously opened one of the doors and peered in, ran her hands over the dash and steering wheel, adjusted the side mirrors. She'll do fine, she told Daniel with a smile, she'll do just fine. Daniel gave a loud victory whoop and without warning grabbed my grandmother around the waist and hugged her tightly. Go on with you, she said as she struggled out of his grip and playfully slapped at his hands, Best put her in the garage. Daniel nodded and managed to push the old wreck inside where it sat side by side her grand old Lincoln, a study in contrasts if ever there was one.

He worked on the car every day the remainder of the summer, coming in the early evening and staying well past dark. He sanded, primed and painted, replaced every worn out part, washed, waxed, rebuilt the engine, drained and replaced every fluid. He did it all by hand and lantern light, patiently and meticulously. Nana sometimes brought him sandwiches and cold bottles of Orange Crush as he worked and after a few weeks had passed, she took him an old battery powered radio along with a bucket of soap and water and an armful of clean towels. He thanked her regularly and kept working. What in the name of God is all this about? my mother demanded but Nana would say nothing save that Daniel had needed a place to work on the car and she had volunteered the garage space. If anyone else in the small village knew anything, much to my mother's frustration, they weren't talking either. Until one mid-August night when Daniel arrived at the back door in an ill fitting suit, shabby but clean shirt and tie, freshly shaved and smelling of Old Spice and ginger hair tonic. He produced a bouquet of flowers and wild asparagus for my grandmother and then shyly led us all out to the garage.

The old Chevy had been transformed and it shone in the late evening light. When Daniel turned the key, it sprung to life instantly, smoke free and vibration free, purring like the proverbial kitten and gliding smoothly out onto the backyard. The paint was fire engine red with matching velvet upholstery and every inch of chrome glistened and gleamed. Even the radio worked - we could hear Curt Gowdy's raspy voice doing the play by play of a baseball game all the way from Fenway Park. Daniel was beside himself as he showed my grandmother the rear vanity plate that read simply "4ALICE".

A Sunday or two later, Daniel's daddy, Davidson, and his mother, Alice, who had as the saying goes, lived for over 30 years without benefit of marriage, were wed in the small village church. Amid tears and and a hailstorm of rice, they drove off in a fire engine red '57 Chevy.

Turning Back the Clock

The small brown dog scurries for the warmth of her heating pad on this cold, rainy November day. She curls up in a tight, little ball, shivering from the cold rain and I dry her off while she whimpers and watches me with desperate eyes. She's a sunshine dog and hates this time of year when the air turns cold and the skies gray, the flowers dead and the trees barren to the bone. The holiday season is here and she wants to turn back the clock to July.

Christmas lights are in windows and the downtown streets are littered with wreaths on every lamp post and decorations in every doorway. The rescue mission is busy feeding and sheltering the homeless and the stores open at 4am to entice shoppers - they push and shove their way through, mindless of courtesy and rigidly focused on the concept of first come, first serve. It's a weary time, a materialistic, greedy, me-first time and the holiday spirit is lost in the crowds. The church bells ring out Christmas carols but no one listens and they become just so much noise. I'm often accused of being a grinch this time of year and to an extent it's true - holidays get in the way of my routines and disrupt my carefully constructed schedules. Except for the music, I find that I would more and more like to bypass them entirely and go straight from October to January. The prospect of a new year and a fresh start always appeals to the optimist in me while the holidays seem to bring out my worst side - impatience,
cynicism, bad temper, all the leftover emotions from a burdensome childhood. They're over and done with and it's past time to move on yet they still randomly ambush me, often when I least expect it and the joy of the season remains just out of reach.

So like the small brown dog, I scurry for my own heating pad and wait out the chill.

I'm an old backslider,
In a pit of sin,
I try to climb out,
and fall back in.

Greg Brown

Food for Thought

My Louisiana born and raised husband looked at the thanksgiving table with surprise and dismay - candied yams, mashed potatoes, onions in cream sauce, sweet peas, thick brown gravy in a silver gravy boat and the inevitable platter of olives and celery. No rice? he asked me in a low voice, no greens? And where are the biscuits and the oyster dressing and the grits? My grandmother overheard and laughed out loud as she directed him to a seat, This is New England, home of the first thanksgiving, so sit and eat, she told him firmly.

My memories of Thanksgiving range from my grandmother's elegant table to a noisy, crowded restaurant after she died, to rickety card tables and frozen vegetables at my mother's. We celebrated it because it was a traditional holiday but there was precious little giving thanks and I was always relieved when it was over. My first holiday dinner with my husband's family was like going back in time - a table set with snowy linens and gleaming silver, crystal wine and water glasses, candles. The food was different but the effect was the same - I couldn't wait to get away.

Family holidays annoy me.

Aunt Annie's Spells

Back in the forbidden woods, there was a tumble down shack in a small clearing where the sun rarely reached. Vines grew randomly up the walls, over the roof and chimney and down to the door. It was a dark place, smoky and green and damp with vegetation and rotted wood. It was home to Aunt Annie, the one eyed fortune teller.

She was an ancient, gypsy-ish woman, a crone some said, who favored long skirts and peasant blouses. She was usually barefoot and wore garlands of dried woven leaves, pelts, silver hoop earrings. Her hair reached to her waist in an untamed mane of silver and black and she walked with a cane, made so the folklore said, of human bones. She had one good eye and an empty socket for the other but she saw better than most as she read tea leaves and tarot cards and examined our palms with a cackle, predicting fame and fortune, long life, love and tragedy, sorrows and redemption. She sold charms and potions and for the right price would cast a spell to turn unrequited love around or improve the harvest. It was rumored that she could churn the ocean into a hurricane with a few words, cause or cure illness, improve the harvest, even wake the dead if she were of a mind to but when we brought her the little fox that had been caught in a trap, she shook her head and talked to us of all living creatures having a time and a season. She took the small animal from us almost reverently and said she would tend it to God - we watched in awe as she laid the body on her kitchen table, combed out it's fur and washed off the blood, then gently wrapped it in old linens and placed it in a scarred wooden box with sea shells and dried flowers. We buried the little creature in her yard at the edge of the trees and Annie knelt at it's grave and said magic words to help guide it to heaven. Then with a snarl, she took the evil trap and cast a spell on it so that it would never harm another of God's creatures and she hammered it to a misshapen mass of metal and hung it on a tree - a warning, she told us, and a protection against evil and she spit on the ground then looked upward and muttered, Make it so. She stood like a statue, her skirts blowing in the damp breeze and her arms raised to heaven, her hair swirling around her shoulders and in a clear, strong voice she ordered, Make it so! The wind seemed to die down instantly and she lowered her arms and leaned heavily on her cane as she turned toward her shack and began to limp her way toward it, an old one eyed woman who lived alone in the forbidden woods with her spells and magic charms and nature for company. And sometimes with a handful of wide eyed children to comfort and teach.

Same Old Song

He sat in a corner booth, feeding nickels to the juke box and blowing smoke rings into air already saturated with a blue haze. The sweet strains of Patsy Kline's "Crazy" played over and over again and he leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, one hand keeping steady time to the melancholy music. A bottle of whiskey sat within easy reach and other customers kept their distance. He kept his silence and no one tried to speak to him. It was just shy of three am on a cold Sunday morning in a small Texas town and we had found the all night diner by accident, it's neon lights a welcome change from the endless flatlands and empty roads between us and home. The waitress with the dark eyebrows and platinum hair brought lukewarm coffee and lackluster apple pie and made no attempt at conversation. The place smelled of fried eggs and grease, hard luck and heartbreak, desolation and despair. It was stale, defeated and defiantly mediocre.

He looked a little like a cowboy - faded jeans with a silver belt buckle, denim jacket frayed at the collar and cuffs, well worn muddy boots. His hair was wavy and dark with just the beginnings of silver in his sideburns, a leather banded watch adorned with turquoise was on one wrist and his hands and face were well tanned and deeply lined.
There were dark circles under his eyes and a phrase my grandmother had used came to mind - he looked as if he'd been rode hard and put up wet. The waitress glanced his way regularly but approached only to empty the ashtray or bring a clean glass. She didn't speak and he didn't seem to notice but I sensed she knew him well enough to not violate his space or interrupt his mood and I also somehow suspected that she would have protected him from anyone else doing so.

We ate the indifferent food, smoked, paid and left, heading for the next forty miles of bad road, hoping to be home before sunrise. Patsy Kline was still singing about the price of lost love and the highbeams cut cleanly through the Texas darkness like jackrabbits on the move through the cactus. I fell asleep to the rhythm of the road and by the time I woke the lights of Dallas were behind us and I wasn't sure whether I'd dreamed the diner and the cowboy or if it had actually happened.

The Medicine Show Man

My grandmother - a rock of respectablity, the east coast distributor of common sense and hard work, a woman grounded in reality like cement - succumbed to the wiles of Doctor Will, the medicine show man.

I was playing jacks on the side porch when the rattletrap old cart pulled up and turned into our long, descending driveway. The cart was brightly painted with all manner of pots and pans and utensils dangling from every corner and pulled by a grey horse with an enormous peacock feather attached to her bridle. She pranced down the gravel drive, head up proudly, the silver bells on her harness jingling with each step. There were even leather bands with bells attached to her hooves and she stepped delicately as if dancing. The man driving was wearing a top hat and a wide smile, red suspenders over a white shirt with ruffles and flowing sultan-like pants. I half expected to see a parade of munchkins following behind or at the very least, circus clowns. Horse and cart reached the end of the driveway and the dogs erupted from behind the screen door, followed closely by my grandmother, bowl of bread dough and wooden spoon in hand. She was scowling and clearly unhappy with the interruption of her morning baking and hushed the dogs impatiently. The little man tied the reins and jumped briskly to the ground, gave her a low bow and tipped his hat. Top of the mornin' to you, Missus! he exclaimed in a cheerful imitation Irish brogue, Dr. WIlliam Gentry McClean at your command!

My grandmother lowered her glasses at him suspiciously and then glanced at me. Close your mouth, child, she said sharply, You'll catch flies. She set the mixing bowl on the edge of the woodbox and approached the cart, wiping her hands on her apron and peering over her glasses at the silver-ish mare now grazing peacefully on the back lawn. She inspected the horse briefly, seemed to approve, then slowly made her way all around the cart, reading aloud as she went. HERBS AND POTIONS....ALL NATURAL TONICS ....THE LATEST IN MODERN MEDICINES AND PILLS.... KITCHENWARE......REMEDIES FOR WHATEVER AILS YOU .....LADIES PARASOLS ......MAGIC GROWTH OIL ....LINIMENTS ....DR. WILLIAM GENTRY MCCLEAN'S MAGIC MEDICINES CURE ALL!!!!

Then to my astonishment, my no-nonsense, stoutly republican, totally down to earth grandmother was captivated and in an accent equal to his own asked And what is it you'll be havin' in your coffee this fine mornin', doctor? and taking his arm, she led him toward the house. Speechless and slackjawed, I trailed after them. Nana made coffee and sliced fresh bread, offered her newly made apple butter and even packed a lunch, adding a small bottle of brandy as as afterthought. She bought pots and pans, new knives, several homemade remedies, and an assortment of liniments for an assortment of ailments from gout to indigestion. Dr. Will accepted her gifts graciously and took her money with a kiss to her hand then climbed aboard his cart and with a whistle to the grey mare, drove smartly away.

He never returned and Nana made no mention of him that night or any other but in my heart I knew that he had been a wizard from a far off magic land and that somehow he had put stars in her eyes and beguiled her.

Re-Connections

Before voice mail and all night television, before I knew what a fax tone was or took offense at the customer who said he was looking for a mouse, before ipods and dvd's and wiper blades that talk to brakes and remote controls for everything and anything, before all of that changed every aspect of our lives, there were books to read and letters to write. It was easy to lose touch. I always meant to stay a proper correspondent but eventually drifted away from writing except for the occasional birthday or Christmas card, hastily scribbled and thrown in the mail at the last minute. Time management took on new meaning in my everyday life and I began running just to keep in place. During that time, I lost touch with old friends and what little family I had left - lost touch and almost lost interest being swept up in my own troubles and struggles and survival. It pains me to admit it, but technology brought me back. Recently I saw an author talking about technology and the state of society, saying that those people who were anti-technology were bound to be depressed because we are a world being propelled into an ever more technological way of life. There is no longer any element of choice about it - adapt or perish.

Though she is well over 2,000 miles away, I was able to re-connect with a friend I have known literally my entire life. And though she is less than 5 minutes away, I have re-connected with a friend I rarely see. Both are precious to me. But mostly I have re-connected with my cousin, Linda, now living in Florida and up to her ears in caregiving and health problems. She is for all intents and purposes, the only family I have left and for years was the only one who stood by me and kept in touch, kept forgiving and understanding, kept caring and showing it, amid her own battles and her own burdens.

In some ways, we live almost in opposition. I am a straight, twice divorced woman living alone with only the responsibilities of a houseful of animals to contend with. She is a gay, 30 years with the same partner, woman whose same sex marriage is not even recognized, caring for an elderly and frail father-in-law and facing potential life threatening issues of health. She was a librarian her entire life, working in schools and prisons and on advisory boards while I have flitted from career to career as needed. She reads and studies serious books while I escape with Stephen King novels. She takes yoga and meditates to feed her soul while I eat chocolate and write nonsense stories. She has spent her life in and out of hospitals, overcoming one adversity after another while I have taken my life mostly for granted. She has known and loved her family and been loved in return while I retaliated. She has her faith and I have my doubt but we both trust in some sort of higher than ourselves power. We share a deep and abiding love of four footed creatures, of music, of independence. Thanks to technology, whatever distance there may be between us has become just geography.

I wonder if I've ever told her thank you.

Waiting for Angels

She is painfully thin and has taken to sleeping in odd and out of the way places. There is a sadness in her eyes that brings tears to mine and her coat has lost it's shine and sleekness. She is old, tired, and I think she understands that her time is nearly over. I stroke her rough fur, feeling her shoulder bones and ribs easily and she nuzzles against me but struggles against being held. She is tender, fragile, slightly unsteady on her feet. She no longer shares my pillow and I find I miss her warmth and purring. I give her the new prescription food and she looks at me and protests softly then eats a small amount before retreating back to a corner of the counter. She withdraws and sleeps but her breathing is slightly ragged and her rest is an effort. Hours later she is still in the exact same place and I reach for her with shaking hands, terrified that she will have given up while praying that God will have taken her while I was away. I find no conflict in this - I am mostly angry at myself that I cannot find the courage quite yet to end her suffering. I gather her up in an old blanket and carry her to the sunroom, speaking softly and reassuring her with every step and she burrows under the folds of the fabric and closes her eyes, her head resting against my arm, her frail body curled into itself. I lean back in the old leather chair and watch the shafts of afternoon sunlight play over her. The other cats keep a respectful distance and even the dogs are content to watch from the threshold - curious but sensing that this is a time for quiet, they lie together, watching and waiting. She stirs, opens her eyes for a second or two then lays her head back down. I'm overwhelmed with a longing to hug her and my heart hurts that I can't without causing her pain. So we sit in the leather chair, this old cat and I, warmed by the sunshine and waiting for night, waiting for peace, waiting for deliverance and angels. The angels do not come this night and by morning, she is still with me and hungry. She stretches, wanting down, and I set her on the carpet gently. Although shaky and unsure, she walks slowly and carefully toward the kitchen and the other animals follow, unnaturally subdued and quiet for this time of day, letting her lead without protest or interference. I've seen this before and I know it's the kind of small miracle that only happens when one of them is dying - otherwise I'd be grateful for the silence.

I lift her onto the breakfast table, pour fresh water in her bowl and food in her dish. She sits and eats a spoonful or so

and I try and coax a little more but she refuses. She cleans her face and paws and settles herself, precariously I think, on top of the breadbox. In seconds her eyes are closed and she's asleep. We have another day. We are waiting for angels but dreading them as well.

Leftovers

Colored lights were strung through the trees overhanging the patio of the small Mexican restaurant and the sound of the blues cut sharply through the crisp, clear night. The tables were littered with the remains of spicy dinners and unfinished pitchers of bloody marys - it was a night for sweaters and light jackets and on the sidewalk watching was an old, black man in a faded baseball cap, clutching a pile of blankets to his chest. The harmonica began a solo of an old Jimmy Reed tune and the old man grinned widely. Someone called to him to come on in and he came immediately, settling himself and his blankets at a table a foot or so from the band, his face alive with delight at the music, his hands and feet keeping the beat. During the break he asked to sit in and was welcomed.

His scratchy voice was behind the vocals and he only knew bits and pieces of the lyrics but he was transformed to be a part of the music and everyone tolerated the fact that he clearly hadn't bathed in days or weeks.

Music speaks to us all, moves us all, cares not for our station in life or our circumstances. Music reaches us all equally and differently. It revives memories, it heals, it brings us together and often keeps us together. Music can build bridges and through it we can find common ground.

While the band broke down and packed up, their audience said their goodnights and began drifting toward the parking lot. We were all going in different directions, it seemed, but all had shared the music. The old black man gathered his blankets and produced a plastic bag from one of his pockets into which he scraped off the remains of the dinners and then emptied all the leftover nacho chips into another pocket. Waving and shouting goodbye, he made his way down the sidewalk toward a poor section of town, leaving a trail of chips like breadcrumbs behind him. I watched him walk away and though I smiled, I felt a sadness for him.

Flowers for a Lady

The fog began to lift just before noon and as Westport slowly began to come into view, the sun began to shine on the water and a rainbow appeared high in the sky. The ferry slip and the church spire were visible and soon all the brightly painted little houses could be seen. The fog seemed to melt away and the fishing boats appeared, rocking and bobbing on the tide. Gulls were flying over head again and in a matter of minutes the entire island could be seen across the mile wide passage.

Earlier that morning the fog had been so thick that we couldn't see the road from the sunporch and Nana had been grumbling about not being able to hang the wash. Now, I could hear her humming as she hauled the old wringer washer to the kitchen sink and began to fill it with water. My brothers were playing cards in the corner, a vicious sounding game of spades, and I was in Nana's window chair with an illustrated copy of "The Waterbabies" in my lap. My mother was changing beds in the upstairs and I could hear her randomly cursing the bed corners and the linens and chasing the dogs off the bedclothes with impatient stamps of her feet. Willie Foote arrived at the sideporch door unseen and began pounding on the door with one untied, muddy boot - my book fell to the floor, the cards went flying into the air in all directions, and the dogs descended the stairs in a rush of tumbling and hysterical barking. Willie began hopping up and down on one foot, delighted with all the commotion he had unwittingly caused, wildly waving his arm and tearing at his splotchy brown and green hair. He wore overalls with straps held in place by oversized safety pins and no shirt beneath - several buttons were missing down the sides and we could see the side of one bare leg, painted in yellow and green stripes. What appeared to be several stalks of broccoli protruded from the top of his overalls and a headless hammer dangled from a loop at his waist. When my grandmother appeared, he gave her an expansive but toothless grin and continued his mad dance until she had opened the door. Hello, Willie, she told him, What is it you want? He carefully withdrew a stalk of broccoli, wiped it off on the overalls, blew on it gently and gestured for her hand. When she extended it, he delicately laid the broccoli across her palm and closed her fingers around it. She hesitated for a second or two, then smiled and said Thank you, Willie. He gave her a sweeping bow, blew her a kiss, and danced off down the front path, still waving the one boot over his head and not turning back until he reached the road where he stopped, spun around and let loose the boot which went flying over the guardrail in a high arc, darkly silouhetted against the brilliant sky and then falling into the sea. Willie gave a delighted shout and followed with his other boot. Barefoot, in tattered clothes and with his odd hair reflecting the sun, he made his way down the ditch, high stepping, splashing in the muddy water, collecting weeds for his next bouquet.

Willie's song and dance world was a patchwork of colors, madness, and flowers for the ladies.