The Devil's Workshop

Idle hands, my grandmother remarked pointedly with a scowl at my mother, are the devil's workshop.

The ladies gathered in the sunroom with their assorted handicrafts on their laps were careful not to look up from their work but I could sense their hidden smiles. My mother gave a mighty, put upon sigh and set aside her newspaper and afternoon manhatten in favor of a mending basket Nana kept beside her chair. The ladies resumed their quirky chatter,
twittering like sparrows about the upcoming Sunday School Picnic, the fact that Aunt Vi was about to have a new grandchild, that Clifton Elliott had been seen, again, leaving a certain farm in the wee hours before dawn when everyone knew the farm's owner was away on the mainland and his wife alone, about the termite infestation in the barber shop and how it was to be managed. The Ladies Sewing Circle met weekly to knit, crochet or put together patchwork quilts while they gossiped and shared stories of local events and island life. Later, Nana would serve iced coffee or tea in frosted glasses and whatever homemade cookies or cakes the ladies had brought would be laid out on the dining room table for all to sample. Recipes would be exchanged, they would comment on each other's stitchery, inquire after each other's families, but mostly they would carry tales and set rumors in motion. My grandmother had decided that my mother had been the subject of these get togethers long enough and so had incorporated her into the Circle, as it was commonly referred to, in hopes that the ladies would shift their focus. It was, she had decided, a good plan, but my mother's obvious resentment and exasperation only served to make matters worse and to my grandmother's dismay, the gossip simply became more creative and less discreet. All you have to do, she would tell my mother, is make an effort to join in! Stop being so cussed high toned and selfish! And my mother would storm out in a temper, often stopping to rip out whatever stitching she had done and fling it in the kitchen stove. I need a drink! she would shout and my grandmother would respond You need a good whipping! and the fur would begin to fly.

Even as a child, sympathy for my mother was a foreign emotion to me and I almost always sided with my daddy or grandmother. I understood very little of what was actually happening but I sensed a great deal - unhappiness, fear,
bitterness, resentment, and rage - nothing I could articulate clearly but things I sensed and was acutely aware of were always in the air. I was beginning to realize we were not quite like other families although I didn't recognize the patterns of behavior we were caught up in. My own relationship with my mother was headed in the same direction as her's with her mother - an unending battle for approval mixed with a kind of vicious contempt, a trap of our own making with no starting or ending point. Contentment with life always seemed to be just beyond my mother's grasp, hidden and put securely out of reach by her own expectations. With each setback and disappointment, she sunk deeper into her own misery and alcoholism until she was carried away by both, an angry, unhappy woman lashing out at any target she could find, lonely and stricken by the failures of others but never seeing her own.

Among other things, it taught me that life is what you make of it, not what you expect it of it.

Snippets

A recent post from my cousin Linda started me thinking about memories and how we see them as we get older and how they can be unexpectedly triggered by nearly anything. I've noticed that my head is always filled with snippets of conversations, numbers, quotes and old song lyrics, wines and Medicare codes. They come and go, often catching me by surprise with their intensity and clarity but filtered through experience and time.

She ain't Rose, but she ain't bad,
She ain't easy but she can be had,
So can I when she whispers in my ear,
She ain't Rose but she ain't bad and Rose ain't here. Leon Redbone

God gave us memories so we could have roses in December. JM Barrie

Friends, either you are closing your eyes to a situation you do not wish to acknowledge, or you are not aware of the calibre of disaster indicated by the presence of a pool table in your community. The Music Man

I got a woman, over yonder 'cross town,
I go and see her when the sun goes down,
She's my baby, I'm her rambling man,
We get together every time we can.
There's just two problems that I can't ignore,
her no good husband and his forty four. Brian Martin

One fine evening at my leisure, I thought it quite a pleasure,
to write a local ditty on the subject of the day,
So I pinched a three cent taper and a sheet of foolscap paper,
and I sat down quite contentedly to pass the time away. Diane Oxner

I don't want a pickle, just want to ride on my motorcycle. Arlo Guthrie

Make love not war. The 60's

Live Main Lobsters. From a southern Chinese restaurant menu.

First get down upon your knees,
fiddle with your rosaries,
bow your head in great respect,
and genuflect, genuflect, genuflect. Tom Leher

Up against the wall, motherf**kers. The 60's.

Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride. Matthew Wilder

Life is a journey, not a destination. AA

Peace,
Peace will come,
Let it begin with me. Tom Paxton

Didn't it hurt enough the first time? On resentment

It's harder to hit a moving target. Anonymous

Be alert. This country needs lerts. Hallmark

There's only two things that money can't buy,
and that's true love and homegrown tomatoes. Guy Clark

When Benjamin Disraeli was prime minister of England,
and good old Queen Victoria was the queen,
whenever she would need him for official palace business,
Disraeli he was nowhere to be seen,
She went down to 10 Downing Street,
the doorbell there she rang,
and when the door was answered, this is what the good queen sang,
Won't you come home, Disraeli.... Allan Sherman

Jesus is coming. Look busy. Anonymous

My friend here from outer space and I,
we like to go down to the Natural History Museum. Flanders and Swann

Some day when things are good, I'm gonna leave you,
I just can't seem to go when things are bad. Merle Haggard

When you have taken everything you can stand, stand your ground. Larry Gatlin

Don't look back, they'll catch you. Anonymous

In knitting, you can always correct the mistakes. Always. Ann Hood, "The Knitting Circle"

It's as if my mind is the drain of a bathtub filled with bubble bath and as the water slowly runs out, the bubbles and debris are caught and stored in secret corners where they hide until some random thing brings them back to the surface. As Linda writes, it might be a scent or a picture or an event, but it triggers some long forgotten memory and for a second or two I'm taken back in time, caught off guard, usually pleased, and always amazed that I could have forgotten. Memory serves a multitude of purposes - to keep alive those we loved, to help determine the people we become, to keep safe that which is precious to us, and to protect. It's a gift we should cherish and care for well.

Snow Days

In the predawn hours on weekday winter mornings with snowdrifts peeking through the first floor windows and icicles hanging perilously from the eaves, my daddy would get up to drive my brother on his paper route. The darkness was freezing, the driving treacherous, and my brother was always slow to rise and resentful of leaving his warm bed. My daddy waited patiently, drinking his morning coffee and smoking a Lucky Strike in the dimly lit kitchen - if he would have preferred a few extra hours of sleep himself, he never mentioned it.

It took the better part of two hours to complete the route and by the time they were back the house would have begun to stir. The sun would be up and the morning routines in motion. If we were lucky enough to get a snow day, we could all return to snug beds, except my daddy who would head to work in any weather. Later in the morning we'd begin the slow process of digging out, shoveling a pathway to the sidewalk and clearing the driveway, always alert for the plows. We were resigned to the fact that hours of shoveling could be undone in a moment by the snowplow's rasping blades and we prayed for a driver who might lift the plow blades as he passed, although this rarely happened. The salt trucks followed soon after, their dull roaring was deafening as they sent out sprays of salt crystals onto the icy streets. Snowbound kids and dogs were everywhere by afternoon and snowmen, snowforts, and snow castles were erected in yard after yard. Snowball fights erupted regularly and were fought with the singular intensity and enthusiasm of children granted an unexpectedly holiday. By nightfall, traffic died off and the streets took on a postcard quality - snowdrifts several feet high gleamed under the reflections of the street lamps and the air was so cold it burned your lungs and numbed your hands and feet. It became very still and quiet as if the day had gone to bed and the night had just woken to discover a new and stunning landscape.

Such days were glorious for children and nightmares for adults.

The Boy in the Red Jacket

The spotlights roamed over the stage in the auditorium, finally settling on the young trumpet player, a faired hair and good looking young man with a shining golden horn and a red jacket. He was playing an old Harry James tune and though I was only fifteen, I fell in love in an instant, along with half the other girls in my high school class. With no warning, the morning assembly had turned to magic.

I never knew his name, never got to speak to him, never saw him again, but for a few brief moments in the darkness, I was lost. I can still see him with the gleaming trumpet pouring out the solo of high, pure, clear notes in "You Made Me Love You" and I imagined that he might even look like Harry James, elegant and well dressed with a come hither smile and a trim mustache. He was only a boy in a red jacket but to my high school eyes and heart, he was stardom and style, seduction and fantasy, a dream come to life. For weeks if not months, I would close my eyes at night and picture him standing in the spotlight on the auditorium stage, a romantic lead in the play in my mind.

I fall in love at the drop of a hat.

Heads or Tails

One of the black and white photographs on my wall is a heart stopper. It was taken by a friend of mine and shows a small blonde headed little girl in pigtails and on her tiptoes reaching for the doorknob of a dilapidated old cabin door. Above the doorframe, there is one word and it reads sharply and starkly, Colored. Of all the photographs she has taken, this one is my favorite. It doesn't just speak, it screams.

Recently I saw "Letters from Iwo Jima", a movie that doesn't just speak but screams. Pearl Harbor was several years before I was born but being a lover of movies from the 30's and 40's and fascinated with history, I never expected to feel sympathy for the Japanese, never expected to be moved by them. It's not so much a war movie as a story of sacrifice and loyalty, of duty and honor. It's the other side of the coin.

I watch movies to escape and be taken to a time when life was simpler, when heroes and villains were clearly defined and good triumphed over evil. Also for the magic and romance, the mystery and drama. The rough edges of John Garfield, the elegance of Cary Grant, the sheer perfectionism of Gregory Peck. There were characters you could always count on to be on the side of right - Jimmy Stewart or Gary Cooper, for example, and characters you always count on to be on the side of wrong - John Carradine or Vincent Price. There were some that changed with the tide and still be believable - Jimmy Cagney, Edward G. Robinson, Bogart. And there were grand old song and dance men like Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire, comedians like Donald O'Connor and the Marx Brothers. All the women were carved and beautiful, frighteningly thin, idealized and at the height of their power. Katherine Hepburn, Judy Holiday, Jean Arthur, all so perfect, so troubled, so alive. I know every note of music from "The Music Man", every song from "Yankee Doodle", every word of dialogue from "An Affair to Remember" and am still brought to tears at the end of "Citizen Cane". There are movies I will not miss - "Wuthering Heights", "Rebecca", "Gone with the Wind", "The Postman Always Rings Twice", "Madame X" - I am set in cement in front of the television. There is no other side of the coin to these epics, they are simple morality tales or love stories, designed to entertain and tell a simple story.

The story of Iwo Jima is not simple, not escapism, not easily watched, but a powerful reminder that there are two sides to every coin.

Bridges to Cross

By late afternoon, the slim, pretty, mild mannered January day had turned into an ugly tempered, old curmudgeon with a frostbitten and evil nature - a reminder to me that change can happen in the blink of an eye, often when we're the least prepared for it. Sunshine and warmth had turned to dark skies and freezing rain and through the darkness I made a frantic run for the car, hoping to dodge puddles and not skid on the icy parking lot, fall and break a hip. Safely in the car, I said a small prayer for it to start and made my way home through the sleet and icy roadways, thankful there were no bridges to cross between me and home. The dogs met me at the door, as if I'd been away for years, jumping, barking, filled with welcome and joy. All was right with their world despite the thunder and winter lightning outside - the storm at the door was not their concern.

We live in two cities divided by a river and connected by several different bridges. When the weather takes a turn for the wintry and you're on the wrong side of the river, an iced over bridge is the only way home. Businesses close, the city's tiny fleet of sand trucks begin their rounds, and traffic crawls with anxious travelers determined not to be stranded by a river's width's of cold water. We make our own decisions and some of us cross and some turn back. Whatever we decide will bring consequences.

I often look back at the decisions I've made - the bridges I've crossed - and wonder about them, considering the consequences and the possibilities of different choices. Each bridge offers a different view, a different risk, a different reward. But they all lead somewhere for a reason. In fantasy, I dream about being able to see the future and what it may or may not bring. I wonder if it's really all laid out in advance and predestined or happenstance,
dependent on what I decide today or next week or next year. The part of me that has never seen uncertainty as a friend is desperate to know - the other part, risky as it is, wants to stay in the dark and be surprised.

I think that maybe in our choices and dreams, goals and ambitions, in our everyday lives, we are all contradiction, living in a shades of gray world.

Free Fall

DAY ONE: You can be laid off until further notice, he wrote, or take a 30% paycut. Effective today.
Working what hours? I wrote back.
The same, he answered and without the least hesitation or doubt, I calmly typed in No.

And in a less time than it takes to draw a single breath, I was out of work.
I had known it was coming in some form or other for months but still I was caught off guard by the email message.
I glanced around at what had been my workplace for just over two years, signed off the computer, and walked out. I felt as if I'd been sucker punched, hard, and it was suddenly difficult to breathe, impossible to think. Panic and fear began a desperate battle in my belly, each clanging and battering at the other, each determined to come in first and tear me apart. I felt sick, almost paralyzed with dread and uncertainty, and in the car I held my keys without recognizing what they were. I drove home on auto pilot, numb and on the verge of hysteria, half blinded by angry tears and choking fury. I felt like I had suddenly lost my balance and fallen head over heels into a pit with no safety net, tumbling into an endless and terrifying darkness of mortgage payments, utility bills, the care and feeding of my animals - an income-less nightmare of poverty and hunger with no way out. I was cold even though the house was warm and just the effort of absorbing this new reality was exhausting. I crawled into bed with the dogs and cats and held them tightly, closing my eyes and trying to shut out the nausea and stop the trembling. I had no idea what to do next. The immobilizing symptoms of depression were already on the prowl - insomnia, free floating stress, constant fear, the inability to move in any direction, anger that verged on rage. I wanted a target, someone or something to lash out at, someone or something to harm. I could feel it all combining to suffocate and crush me and the result was a weariness too great to fight. Panic is a predatory emotion, feeding off fear and anxiety, self-sustaining and devastating and all I could think about was giving up. There was no way to organize my thoughts and figure out the next step and even if there had been, I realized I didn't have the will or the energy to follow through.

DAY TWO: I'm up at the regular time and I do the regular things - shower, dress, make the bed, tend the animals.
The panic has subsided slightly - my friend Tricia was in need of help and has given me some work for the time being - and I'm calm enough to begin thinking clearly - almost. I plan my day - make job applications, return keys, call unemployment, work for Tricia, tend the animals and then go to work at my evening part time job, refuse to dwell on the fact that Friday is three days away.

DAYS THREE THROUGH SIX: Though I smile and claim optimism, my insides tremble and the black cloud over my head grows closer and more threatening each day. The immediate future becomes a high speed freight train and I am directly in it's path. I open my mail to discover that my last paycheck has been returned for insufficient funds and the depression temporarily turns to rage - I am now owed three weeks salary and I know that the bank is not going to care who is at fault. A feeling of vindictiveness is being born within me.

DAY 7: He calls to apologize and promise to make all monies good. He explains that checks he received himself were returned and that the avalanche effect took hold. I am unimpressed having heard this explanation given to others in the past and knowing it to be a tap dance around the truth. Still, he is sorry and unhappy to have caused me this pain, he urges me to be optimistic and assures me that things will work out then stuns me into an open jawed silence by telling me that he's working on a plan to bring me back. We are not in the same reality, he and I and I tell him when hell freezes over.

DAYS 8 THROUGH 11: I keep busy and try not to worry or borrow trouble. It takes several days and several visits to the bank to straighten out the disaster that was my checking account and I resent every second of it but I get it done. Overdraft charges are made good and the bank is good enough to reconcile my account. The immediate crisis passes in time for me to move on to the next one. The weather turns bitterly cold and we even have snow flurries and sleet, a bad omen, I think, and then chastise myself for thinking so. The weekend arrives and for a day or two I have other things to think about and I push the dull depression and ever present panic to the back of my mind. Still the clock is ticking and I can't silence it.

DAYS 12 THROUGH 18: I listen to his sorry tales of woe - can't meet payroll, tension in the office, a mountain of debt threatening to drown him, no prospects, apologies for what's happened - and am not moved. My own problems are all I can deal with and they seem to be drowning me. I spend hours online editing a resume and making applications and it comes to nothing. The days run together, without the structure of being employed I have no clear idea of the calendar and I can feel the darkness just at the edge of my vision. When I can sleep, my dreams are wild and vivid, almost frightening in their clarity, but they tell me nothing except that the stress is even present when I sleep, working its way into my unconscious as well as my waking time. It becomes more and more difficult to find the motivation to get through the day and the temptation to withdraw and wait it out under the covers is stronger every hour. I find myself looking back and wondering how is it possible that I've come to be so unprepared and so lost so quickly. How, I demand of myself, could I have let this happen? These are dark days and it's hard to find the energy to get out of bed, much less hope.

DAYS 19 THROUGH 23: The weather matches my mood - dark, cold, pouring rain. I think it may never end and find I don't much care. I print and mail resumes with a dispirited sense of futility and then with self discipline I didn't even know I had, force myself to shower and dress, make a light lunch, clean up after myself and the animals and resume my internet searching. I remember to take my meds, knowing that every effort must be made to fight the depression that is threatening to overcome me. Everything has become too much trouble.

A MONTH IN: It's nearly February, a gray time of year with many rainy days and falling temperatures. I ignore the weather and think that each day is the day that will bring me work and purpose. I remind myself that I still have a roof over my head, that the animals are still eating, that there is warmth and comfort in this small house and that there are hundreds if not thousands in far worse shape. I remember that there are much more severe obstacles than temporary unemployment and what matters is that we keep on trying no matter how often or hard we fall. I will myself into morning chores, will myself into a more positive mood, will myself into a better state of mind.

6 WEEKS IN: I step outside on an unusually warm evening - taking a break from rearranging bottles of wine - and someone calls my name. It's someone I've known for years, picking up her daughter from dance class. We chat and during the course of the conversation she asks me to send in my resume. The following day there is an initial interview and the day after that I'm offered a job in her husband's medical practice. Just like that, the free fall is over - salvation arrives through a chance meeting, through a moment of serendipity as unexpected as the muggy February night air.

Primary Colors

The smallish office was a blaze of color - batik covered walls, bright watercolor prints, oversized cushions in bright stripes on the floor and a thick, geometric pattered carpet on the floor. The woman with black hair and gold rimmed glasses sat comfortably in a corner of a loveseat. She wore ballet shoes, a fringed shawl over her shoulders and a kind look. I had come to her in search of understanding, validation, perhaps even forgiveness - this was to be one of our final sessions as she had pronounced me emotionally intact, strong, ready to be returned to the fray. Suppose, she said in her soft but intent voice, that she had never taken a drink? Would you see her as different?

I hesitated, thinking the question through, wanting to give the right answer and knowing that there was none. In this room of color run riot, there was no place for quiet reflection or serene self contemplation. There were no overflowing bookshelves, no notebooks, no overhead lights to dim or drawn blinds, no filing cabinets, just two women who met on a weekly basis and talked of alcoholism and evil, family and estrangement, forgiveness and the path to healing. She saw the world as a place of blinding brightness encompassing all manner of secrets and she believed that color would force the secrets into the light and take away their power. Color was hard core honesty, a weapon she used against the inner torment of her patients - it seduced the secrets out and drained them - they could not survive in this room of wild, chaotic color, they were overcome and they died a public and painful death. Do you believe, she continued, that she was born evil?

Over the years some of the colors had faded. These she replaced quickly and efficiently, allowing no pastels to gain a foothold. There would be no rainbows in this room, no blurry chalk colors on a blackboard, no soft cashmeres to sink into. This was a garden in full bloom and in full sunshine, waves of bright red and royal blue, the greens of an Irish parade, shocking yellows and deep purple with metallic gold trim. Color could not be ignored or mistaken for something else here, it commanded attention and respect and though it was often hard on the eyes, it never dimmed or let you look away. In this room, color gave you no choice, only challenge.

Yes, I answered, looking directly into her intense blue eyes, She was evil and it wasn't my fault. The woman with the black hair and gold rimmed glasses smiled.

Tilly's Voice

On a warm summery day in August, the ferry delivered Tilly's motorcycle and most of the village turned out to see.

It came on a platform truck, fitted between sheets of sturdy wood and chained in place. The sun glistened on the windshield and shiny metal, the leather smelled new and sharp, everything about it said danger! and rebel! and watching from the breakwater, Tilly was in heaven. Unable to wait, she ran down the slip, knee deep in salt water, and jumped to the scow, causing Cap to clutch his chest and yell fierce curses at her. She barely heard him as she scaled the sides of the container and scrambled inside, running her hands over the monster of a machine from one end to the other. She was in love and no amount of threats from Cap would keep her from this magnificent mass of steel and leather. She climbed through the chains and mounted it in a quick motion, throwing her hands to the sky and smiling hugely. Cap docked the ferry and emerged shaking his fists and muttering but Tilly refused to budge and with a schedule to meet and a crowd watching, he finally gave in and the motorcycle was uncrated where it stood. It started with a deafening roar and Tilly nearly flew off before she drove it up the slip, onto the breakwater, and then in a cloud of dust and smoke, down the road toward The Point. The sound of the engine in full throttle overwhelmed all other noise and could be heard long after Tilly was out of sight and racing toward the opposite end of the island in a blur of exhaust, wind, and flashing lights. Mark my words, Cap said darkly, that girl's bitten off more'n she can chew.

Tilly has just turned thirty that summer and the motorcycle was her dream come true. She had saved for it since her tenth birthday, putting away her factory wages and her tips from the Canteen, her baby sitting earnings and the spare change she collected from redeeming deposit bottles and every other cent she could scare up. She kept this precious money in old cigar boxes that she buried in her stepdaddy's pasture and had never once dipped into it for anything else. After having seen a picture of a dressed out Harley in a magazine she had found in a trash can, she'd become steadfast and obsessive about it and despite warnings and admonitions had never wavered. She would have her motorcycle and all the trimmings and she was prepared to save and wait her whole life. She rode it everywhere, causing terrified livestock to flee at the sound and disturbing the sleep of the old folks and newborns.
Each night she put it to bed in an empty stall, covering it lovingly and often bedding down beside it. She kept it polished and conditioned and it shone like a shiny new dime. By summer's end she had tamed it and would give the children rides around the cove and back again - it was freedom and independence and it was glorious - especially sweet because Tilly had been born a mute and had never spoken a single word in all her thirty years - until the arrival of the motorcycle when she found her voice.

An Abundance of Riches

Sitting on the floor in the house of a recently dead woman, surrounded by spools of thread and linens, silk nightgowns, cd's, greeting cards, cleaning supplies, knickknacks and personal papers, I begin to think about the journey of living and what we leave behind.

It is an endless house with mostly windows for walls and most of them look out onto a woodsy landscape of trees and flowers, ivy and plants overflowing in their pots, landscaped garden areas and walkways. It is very peaceful, very lovely, very quiet and despite the possessions and furniture and clutter, very empty. There is bedroom after bedroom, each with a bath and dressing area. There is a sauna downstairs, a hot tub outside, wallpaper with the appearance of blue-black stone encrusted with glitter, mosaic walls. An abandoned greenhouse, it's windows decaying and filthy, sits on a slight rise behind the house. There are wild roses growing here and there, low bricked walls around a patio collecting dead leaves and debris from the land. There are birds and squirrels and the sounds of nature everywhere outside and on the inside there is the scent of old money, power, privilege and exceptionally gracious living. There was art and music in this house with its expensive furnishings and window walls, there were children and dogs, fine wine served in elegant crystal glassware to a collection of family and friends, there were holidays and parties, celebrations and sadness. There is character and substance here still.

The house was built in the 50's during a time when workmanship and craft truly mattered, when the building trades didn't take shortcuts for clients, wealthy or otherwise. And while it is undeniably a grand house, it is comfortable, designed to be friendly, practical, and well lived in, not a house where you'd be afraid to put your feet up, not a house where you'd be afraid to touch things or hang a towel crookedly. There is a feeling here, a sense of the gypsy in the woman who lived here for so long, a sense of a comfortable, productive if idle life. Among the paintings and porcelain vases, the classic books with spines unbroken, the John Gary records and the lacy hand towels and silk sheets with their delicate monograms, there lived a woman who loved music, children, dogs, flowers and life. She wore her wealth well.

Under the Covers

The cat under the covers stirs, yawns and gives me an enthusiastic bite on the ankle. I yelp and kick and the small brown dog wakes and pounces on my ear. Soon everyone joins in and there's no choice but to dive deeper beneath the quilts and subject myself to relentless attacks of the loud and hungry or surrender and get up. My animals are persistent, anxious to start their day, they know I'm awake and will be merciless until I surrender so there's really no option. They want food, they want out, they want attention. I raise the white flag and throw back the covers.

The house is chilly on this clear January morning and as I listen to the mixed chorus of canine and feline voices all with a common theme, I'm grateful for each one of them. But for the responsibility of their welfare I suspect I'd have given up. But for them, there's no reason to get up at all. The cats gather on the counter and swirl around each other tempermentally - what they lack in harmony, they compensate for in volume - and the dogs dance impatiently around the back door, scratching and barking, not able to stand the confinement of the house another moment. They hit the deck together and race for the back fence at full speed, shattering the Monday morning quiet like double shotguns. I reach for the aspirin and the can opener at the same time and the cats yowl in stereo'd discontent. This little symphony plays every morning and I know it by heart. After a bit everyone settles down with empty bladders and full bellies - they find their morning sunspots and nap without a care in the world while I shower and dress and envy their uncomplicated and worry-free lives.

I myself am weary of these purposeless days spent trying to keep busy and maintain some pretense of normalcy. The bitter isolation of unemployment is more draining and exhausting than any job and I have a sense of futility that grows in strength daily. I fight it but seem to make no progress - it becomes almost comfortable to slip into hopelessness and inactivity. It's simply easier and less risky not to try. Self pity becomes a habit that fits well and requires no maintainance - effort and optimism call for energy and effort. With a nagging contempt for my own attitude, I realize that I want someone to wake me when it's over.

This, I tell the face in the mirror, definitly will not do. She agrees with me but offers no solutions except to keep on getting up every morning and wait it out.

Out of the Fog

It was the 10th day of dense, clinging, wet fog and my grandmother was at her wits end. She had exhausted all her options to keep us entertained and out of her way - we were weary of card games and dominoes, cribbage and monopoly, books, even paper dolls and toy soldiers. It was like being completely enveloped in wringing wet cotton, suffocating and dull. Sounds came out of the fog - we heard footsteps and voices, the cautious noise of vehicles as they navigated the curve, the cries of gulls and the boat engines and the incessant foghorn, but sound was all we had. Nana had tied a rope from the back door to the woodshed and we followed it back and forth to fill the woodbox but otherwise things were put on hold, the mail went uncollected and the washing undone. My mother and grandmother sniped at each other morning to night and tempers flared for the smallest of reasons. Even the dogs were impatient for a clear day, sitting listlessly at the back door and whining, noses pressed unhappily against the screen, too sad to bark, too edgy to sleep.

At first, the arrival of our New York relatives was a welcome diversion - my grandmother's sister and her husband, their daughter and son-in-law, my two cousins, and an ill tempered, yappy chihuahua promised new blood, new voices, new alternatives. Soon, however, it was clear that all these related women confined under one roof was going to spell trouble, the mother-daughter and sister-sister dynamics were competitive, snippy, a passive aggressive battle for control and authority. No one could agree on anything and each wanted their own way. By week's end, the women were civil to each other but there was frost in the air and children and husbands were keeping clear of any female combination. Only the disagreeable chihuahua seemed at ease, driving my grandmother to distraction by nipping at her heels and being constantly underfoot. The clacking of the tiny dog's nails on the wood floors echoed through the house night and day and by the end of the second week, Nana's nerves succumbed and she exploded, flinging a cast iron skillet in the dog's direction ( she missed ) and threatening him with "being beaten into next week".

In an icy voice, she called for a house meeting to clear the air and lay down new rules. In no uncertain terms, she explained that she was the legal owner of the house and we were all guests at her discretion and come hell or high water we were going to start behaving as such or else. Effective immediately, we were all going to get along, follow orders, be courteous with each other and pleasant to her, be on time for meals, make our own beds and stop quarreling. The chihuahua, she emphasized, was to be kenneled at night and reined in during the day or there would be dire consequences. There was, she warned, to be no discussion or challenge to her decision and anyone who disagreed could pack his or her things and leave. For a moment, no one spoke, then her startled relatives began protesting. She raised one finger to silence them, her expression grim and her eyes like steel and the chattering died away. With a menacing last glare at the chihuahua, she turned and walked away.

As if even nature respected her rules, the fog lifted and the sun came out the following day.

Mardi Paws

On a beautiful and almost warm January afternoon, I pack my cameras and drive to the riverfront for the annual Mardi Paws parade - the once a year opportunity for pet owners to show off their pets in style and high fashion.

There are well over 2,000 people and twice that many dogs and cats - it always surprises me how little friction there is among all the animals - they mix and socialize and rarely as much as growl at each other. It's so crowded there's barely room to walk and owners and animals are decorated to the hilt. There are dogs in wagons, rabbits in cages, a calico cat in the arms of her owner, a goat I remember from last year - one middle aged lady sits with a blanket full of daschound puppies - and there is music and laughter and much tugging at leashes. Overcast skies turn sunny and the plaza is a sea of purple, green and gold feathers, beads and wild costumes. Great Danes go nose to nose with tiny chihuahuas, boxers and bulldogs meet and greet terriers and yorkies - tails wag and between the rounds of applause for the obedience trained there is thunderous barking, fierce but harmless. A well known local priest takes the stage for the Blessing of the Animals and for a few moments it falls mostly quiet. Children with dogs in their arms bow their heads and listen intently to the prayer while their parents hide smiles.

I think there's a lesson here about harmony and peace on earth.

Sparrow's Song

The old man with one eye reached for his can of snuff and nonchalantly jammed a wad between his cheek and gum before replacing the round can back in his pocket and giving us a wink. Filthy habit, he advised us, cain't say I recommend it a'tall. Wide eyed, we watched him wipe tobacco juice from his chin with an old checked bandanna and then spit with precision and true aim. A half empty quart bottle of Molson sat beside him, a nondescript hound of unknown ancestry lay at his feet in the warm sun, and a shotgun leaned precariously on the rickety railing. This was Old Sparrow - part Indian, part Acadian, full time philosopher and story teller, legendary drunkard, decorated war hero, ex-husband of four island women and one on the French Shore, father of sixteen children that he would admit to, and former bootlegger. If any home on the island was off limits, Sparrow's topped the list - Nana had called him a "reprobate" and a "scallywag" while my daddy claimed he was "colorful" and "not a man to sit across the poker table from". My mother dismissed him as a "lecherous, old womanizer and who knows what he does with those sheep".

Sparrow kept a few chickens, a dozen or so sheep, and one old milkcow. He whittled knickknacks for tourists and received a "guv'ment" check monthly, sold what milk and eggs he didn't use himself, and sheared the sheep for their wool. He was a man of simple wants, he told us, snuff and Molson's, a good pair of boots and a warm quilt for the winter and he had everything he needed. According to local folklore, he had come to the island as a young man, a seiner with a pretty young wife and been seduced into staying by the sunsets and lack of law enforcement.

Bootlegging was more reliable and paid far better than fishing and by his own admission, he could shoot a flea off a dog's back at 50 paces, so he hunted during the winter and stockpiled all he needed for an entire year. He built the little cabin on the hill himself and commenced to begin filling it with children until the war came when he was sent to France. He fought well, losing an eye to a carelessly thrown grenade, but returning home to resume his life, he discovered that he was bored and discontent after being a soldier. The pretty young wife abandoned him and he took to the sea where he tried his hand at piracy and treasure hunting, lumberjacking in the 'States, oil rigs off Alaska, brothel running in the Carribean and a year as a mercenary in Spain. When he exhausted the wanderlust, he returned to the island, took a second wife and settled in again, this time for good - his fortune had been made and his thirst for adventure quieted. Several wives later with all the fortune spent, he found he was ready to porch sit and tell his stories while he watched the world go by like a sleepy old dog who had finally found his way home.

The night of Sparrow's song was clear and warm with fireflies darting everywhere in the darkness and a mild breeze drifting up from the ocean. We were supposed to be at the picture show but instead had slipped out as soon as the lights had gone down and made our way to The Point, keeping to the shadows and dodging into the ditches at approaching cars. When we reached Sparrow's, we saw a light in the window and heard the singing.

it filled the air like dust in sunlight, floating and wavering and all around us - Genevieve, oh, Genevieve - a deep, resonating voice, clearly understandable and articulated - The days may come, the days may go- we stopped in astonishment, realizing that it was Sparrow. There wasn't a hint of drunkeness in his voice and he was alone on the porch, not even the old dog keeping him company. Without knowing why, we understood that his song was about regret, about what he had lost and what had been taken from him, about what he would never have again.

We crept away in the darkness and let him sing.

Later that night as I lay in bed I could still hear his voice through my open window. When my daddy came in to tell me goodnight, I told him what we had heard and he read me an obituary from the weekly paper about the death of a woman on the French Shore, Marie Geneieve Landrieu Sparrow who had died unexpectedly a few days before. It wasn't singing you heard, he told me gently, it was mourning.

Brighter Days

Every new year, Nana used to say, is like a new book with blank pages. Fill them well.

She was taking down the Christmas decorations, coiling up lights for storage and packing each little piece of her treasured Christmas village in cotton. The tree sat forlornly on the sidewalk but the house still smelled of fir and chocolate chip cookies. She poured left over eggnog into small sherry glasses for one last holiday toast, then we began carrying boxes to her well organized and spotless attic. No one I knew except my grandmother routinely cleaned and dusted their attic but Nana couldn't abide the thought of disarray, not even in a lonely and forgotten third floor room where no one ever went. Even the tiny windows were windex'd to a clear shine and the January sun poured through and over the neatly arranged shelves stacked with suitcases, hat boxes, fur coats in plastic zipper bags, books, abandoned lamps and file boxes of old Christmas cards. There were several stacks of old Life magazines, an egg beater complete with a set of mixing bowls, a trunk of linens, an old timey, free standing radio, photo albums, a pair of rocking chairs, several footstools with delicately embroidered tops. In one corner there was a mannequin wearing a black, low cut formal dress and a single strand of pearls. The room reeked of past lives and different times, of years when my grandmother was young and turning up her nose at sensible shoes and nostalgia filled attic rooms. This was a place of buried treasures and memories, a lost and found of brighter days, Glenn Miller recordings, a small jewelry box with a rusty clasp containing a bracelet made of heartshaped blue stones. Come, Nana told me with a tug on my sleeve, It's time for lunch. Leave this.

Over grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup at the tiny kitchen table, she was silent, almost thoughtful, but when I asked if anything was wrong she shook her head and reminded me to finish my milk. I left her sitting there with her coffee and Kent 100's and a faraway look. It was hard to imagine her as anything other than what she
was - a sturdy, stocky white haired matron in an apron and bifocals - efficient, demanding, unsentimental and practical to the final degree with a disdain for self pity or self indulgence. I assumed she had come into the world that way with her brighter days behind her and had never considered the possibility that she might've been young or carefree or in love and filled with promise.

Never give up on the hope of better and brighter days.

Stray Thoughts

The black cat had been soundly sleeping in the basket on the dining room table when she suddenly woke and with a growl leaped to the floor and raced out of the room. My daddy, half asleep himself in his recliner, opened his eyes briefly and then closed them again after rearranging his newspaper. Just another stray thought, he told me with a slight grin, Happens all the time.

He had, so he claimed, no use at all for the cat, but would often fall asleep with her in his lap, one hand resting on her back, the other stroking under her chin. She nuzzled and purred and he refused to disturb her, all the while telling her in a soft voice that she was of no value, that she was foolish, that he preferred dogs, that she was lazy and good for nothing. She would stretch and roll over on her back and he would cradle her, scratch her belly and stroke her ears until she was asleep, then nod off himself. The old orange tomcat would sit silently watching on the arm of the recliner, and when he judged both occupants to be asleep, would ease himself into the space between my daddy's hip and the chair and begin to purr loudly. Eyes still closed, my daddy would free one hand to rub the old tomcat's battered ears and shift his weight to make room for him. And so would pass another warm Sunday afternoon.

My grandmother watched all this with disapproving eyes but said nothing, focusing on her knitting while the television droned on and my mother began putting together the makings of an early potluck supper. Nana didn't favor animals all that much, especially cats which she deemed arrogant, troublesome and far too independently-minded and she considered our tolerance of them a foolish indulgence. When the old orange tom expressed an interest in her knitting basket, she shooed him with a sharp Scat! but his interest in the bright balls of yarn was piqued and he slyly snagged one with his paw and batted it across the room. This immediately caught the attention of the black cat and in a matter of seconds the game was on - both cats racing madly after the loose ball of yarn while my grandmother held desperately to her knitting needles, trying to salvage her afghan and her dignity at the same time. My daddy roused from his nap, took in the scene and began laughing while my mother stood in the kitchen doorway in stunned helplessness, a jar of yellow mustard in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other. Nana looked from the cats to each of my parents in disgust, cursed with a most definitely un-grandmotherly word, and hurled her knitting to the floor. Take it then, you devils spawn! she snapped, causing my daddy to double over and laugh even harder until his eyes filled with tears. Nana stood, hands on her hips, too angry to spit as my Uncle Eddie used to say, but not able to maintain it and she finally stalked out of the room to the deck where she crossed her arms and stood stoically staring out toward the water until my daddy composed himself enough to rescue the yarn, set both cats out the back door, and cautiously approach her with an apology. It took several minutes and all the self control he possessed to coax her back inside while staying serious and the cats were exiled to the deck for the remainder of her visit. They sat on the other side of the sliding doors and yowled pitifully but Nana held her ground, barely looking their way and then only to glare.

After supper, she gathered her things to leave, all but her knitting which she pointedly left behind. When my mother tried to hand it to her, she shook her head. The cats seem to like it, she said, and I can always make another afghan. And you should let them in, it's chilly. And head held high, she walked briskly to her car without a backward glance.

Pinestraw and Warm Winds

On a warm January morning, the dogs play in the pinestraw on the back deck, happily chasing their tails and ambushing each other in the morning sun. It's an odd feeling to step outside this time of year and be able to sit with a warm breeze in my face. The small brown dog runs full speed into the wind and it blows her hair back making her look like a small werewolf while the black dog runs manic circles around a pile of fallen leaves, crouching and barking non-stop. A pair of squirrels dart across the top of the back fence and both dogs give instant chase, vocalizing at the top of their lungs and moving at racehorse speed across the yard - other dogs join in and soon the entire street is alive with a chorus of howling and yipping, all in different tones and timbres and it becomes a Sunday morning symphony, each dog knowing his part and joining in with a canine kind of harmony.

Every time you leave a dog, my daddy told me, it thinks you're never coming back. That's why they're always so happy to see you. True or not, it was a heartbreaking thing to think about and it worried me for years. We had two dogs then - a rotund black and tan daschound named Fritz and a petite, trim, energetic boxer named Lady.

They were inseparable and the best of friends, both gently good natured and playful, affectionate animals full of life and love. One grim October night at supper, a nurse from the old age home two doors down rang our doorbell to tell us that Fritz had been hit by a car. My daddy raced outside, stopping only long enough to forbid me to follow. That moment is still frozen in my memory, partly because I knew in my heart that Fritz was dead, and partly because I remember nothing else after except crying myself to sleep that night and many others. Lady never quite recovered and refused to be comforted. For months she prowled the house, whining softly when she came upon his scent and relentlessly searching each room over and over again. She grieved restlessly and for a very long time, becoming old before her years and never fully accepting the loss.

There are times when I know exactly how she felt.

Star Counting

It was a clear night and every star seemed low in the sky and sharply defined, as if they were close enough to touch. My daddy and I were sitting on the side porch, listening to the tide coming in. We could hear the water slapping over the rocks and up against the breakwater. A hoot owl called softly from under the eaves and we could hear nightbirds rustling in the blackberry patch. From inside the house, a Red Sox game played on the tinny little radio and above it we could hear my mother and grandmother arguing over a game of gin. Lamplight from the sunporch spilled across the front and side yards making wavy yellowish patterns in the tall grass and the halyard on the flagpole clicked randomly making sharp metal-on-metal sounds. My daddy's week of vacation was over and come morning he would drive to the mainland and then on to Yarmouth and the airport and be home by day's end while we stayed for the remainder of the summer. I missed him already - his calm presence and intervention, his quiet nature and good humor - all helped smooth over the constant sparring and squabbling between the two women playing cards, the endless sniping of my brothers, the tension that seemed to drive the family. Even the dogs were less restless, seeking him out and curling up at his feet.

Friends had been in and out most of the day to say goodbye and wish him well and Aunt Vi and Aunt Pearl had come for supper, bringing fish chowder, fresh bread and sweet corn. Nana had made a blackberry cobbler that morning and we'd walked up the hill and back for ice cream - the sweetness of it had made my teeth hurt - and we'd stayed at the table longer than usual, not ready to let the meal end. My normally strict grandmother had even served second helpings of cobbler and didn't scold when we drank the melted ice cream straight from the bowls and when the Peter's Island lighthouse flashed on at precisely eight o'clock, we were granted an extra hour respite from bedtime, unheard of except when my daddy was there.

So we sat on the old whitewashed sideporch, he and I, wrapped in silence and salt air, filled with quiet thoughts and counting the stars.

Snuff and Nonsense

Miss Nelda was a collector.

She lived with her invalid husband in a small house up island, grew vegetables and tobacco, and acted as part time postmistress. She collected shells, driftwood which her husband turned into lamps for sale on the mainland, and though unintentionally, cats.

It had begun with a small infestation of mice. Saw me a mouse in the outhouse, her husband told her casually one morning over breakfast, might want to set out a trap. But Miss Nelda believed in the sanctity of life and one mouse in the outhouse didn't merit much notice on her part. When, however, the mouse multiplied and set up housekeeping in the attic, things rapidly spiraled out of control. The scratching and gnawing kept her awake at night, she began finding tiny mouse droppings on the window sills and in the kitchen cabinets and stirring a pot of greens early one morning, she noticed a hole in the ceiling above the old wood stove and with no advance warning, down tumbled a mouse, directly into her greens. This, in Miss Nelda's opinion, crossed the line and constituted a declaration of war, so she pulled on her muddy snake boots and armed with a broom and her old scatter gun, she mounted the stairs to the attic, determined to dispatch the mouse menace once and for all. So,

my grandmother said, trying to hide a smile, how did it turn out? Miss Nelda shook her head and added sugar to her iced coffee, Mice are tricky creatures, Alice, she said sorrowfully, but it's not over by a long shot.

In the following weeks, Miss Nelda set traps and poison, she left lanterns burning all through the nights, she scoured every room in the small house with her scatter gun cocked and ready but succeeded only in blowing a few holes in the walls and setting her husband's teeth on edge. One fine August morning, she harnessed up her pony and trap and went to see her sister, Miss Rowena, who gratefully gave her the loan of two barncats called Stuff and Nonsense, but Miss Nelda had become slightly hard of hearing - One too many shotgun blasts will do that, my grandmother allowed to me - and the cats became Snuff and Nonsense from that day on. Miss Nelda set them loose among the mouse infested house and in record time she was mouse-free. Cats being cats though, she was soon overrun with kittens and kittens who had more kittens until the little house was awash in felines. Cats in the attic, cats in the barn, cats on the porch and under the bed, she told my grandmother, why, I could line them up end to end the very length of this island! Nana patted her shoulder and refilled their coffee cups, surreptitiously adding a capful of brandy to Miss Nelda's cup. There, there, dear, she said calmly in a comforting tone, cats are far more noble creatures than mice, drink up. And she winked at me.

The following weekend my grandmother rounded up a posse of island men and boys and they descended upon Miss Nelda's and after several hours managed to capture and contain every last cat. Snuff and Nonsense were allowed to remain after what Nana called a "mind changing" surgery on the mainland, the rest were relocated, some to farms, some back to Miss Rowena's, some to an animal shelter in Yarmouth for adoption. Peace and quiet were restored once again.

The Caretaker

The years had not been especially kind to the man who cared for the horses.

He was called Dusty and lived in a tiny room attached to the stable on a farm owned by the banker's son. He was tall and dangerously thin, always in need of a shower and shave, dressed in threadbare clothes and old work boots. The veins on his hands seemed about to break through the skin as he mucked out stalls and pitched hay or worked leather cleaner into the harnesses and saddles from a three legged stool in the stall doorway. Cigarette smoke drifted around him in a blue haze and there was always a whiskey bottle in his back pocket. When he spoke at all it was only to the children or the horses - my daddy said he had been in the war and was naturally economic of speech so if you wanted to know what he thought, you had to learn to read his eyes and his expressions. Watch his face when he works with the horses, my daddy told me, See the way he handles them, pay attention to his eyes.And so I watched. Dusty rarely as much as acknowleged my presence but he never sent me away and sometimes would produce a sugar cube or carrot from his overalls and slip them into my hand then nod towards one of the horses. I sat beside him as he repaired and cleaned the old leather reins and came to love the sweet smell of saddle soap. I watched him shoe the horses and massage away lameness, saw him treat their cuts and bruises with liniment and warm bandages. I learned that they knew him and would whinney at his scent and nuzzle toward his chest in seach of a treat.

I watched his eyes and their's and saw the reflections of love and trust in both. There were no bad horses in Dusty's world - he cared for them, trained them, treated them, even brought some into the world and he believed that each had a place and a purpose and a reason to be. He walked with them through the pastures and the woods and the fields, even led them across the cove at low tide, leaving twin trails of foot prints and hoof prints, side by side in the soft mud. He fed them and watched over them while they slept and when one died, he alone dug the grave and managed the burial. When the rendering plant on the mainland sent an agent to see him, Dusty heard him out and then struck him and broke his jaw before ordering him off the farm.

No one ever knew what started the stable fire - the old timers said it was a freak lightning strike,

the banker's son suspected arson, my daddy thought it had been an accident - but what we did all know was that Dusty had sent each and every horse into the safety of the corral before the stable went up in flames. Not a single one was lost or even harmed. Dusty's body was found face down in the ashes and debris, the remains of a bridle in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other. He was buried next to the graves of the animals he had loved and cared for his entire adult life with only children and horses as mourners.

The years had not been kind to the man who cared for the horses but when the stables were rebuilt, the bankers son had a plaque placed over the stalls that read simply For Dusty and those he loved.

.

Cause and Effect

The voice on the telephone was tentative, almost timid and though she sounded shaky I could hear an undercurrent of determination and strength. I recognized her name at once - when she had married my ex-husband her picture had been in the paper - a slight, darkhaired girl, considerably younger than her new husband and with the same name as his daughter from his first marriage. At the time, it had struck me as curious, but now, hearing her voice and her words, it seemed sinister and twisted. She told me a story of love at first sight followed very soon by marriage which turned almost instantly to emotional and physical abuse. She had had him charged with assault and battery, gotten a restraining order, had him jailed. He had threatened her children and beaten her, raped her in a drunken rage, broken her jaw and attacked her oldest child with a knife. She'd filed for divorce while he was in jail and when he was released he'd fled, she thought maybe back to his first wife but she wasn't sure.

She sounded young and fearful, broken and lost and guilty and I could hear myself in her words. I had no idea why she had sought me out or what she expected of me so I just listened with resignation and sadness but no real surprise. The litany of abuse and violence was painfully familiar - she was confused and hurt, searching desperately for answers and explanations of what had gone wrong, why she hadn't seen it coming, what she had done to bring it all about. She needed to understand how she could possibly have made such a mistake in judgement, where had she not paid attention, how to get over putting herself and her children at risk. Every question she asked I had asked myself a dozen times over only to discover that there are no answers because there is no logic in addiction, no cause and effect, no fault to assign, only victims. I tried to explain this to her but could tell she wasn't ready so I simply suggested she find an Al Anon group and give it a try. She thanked me and hung up in tears.

In a funny kind of way, the idea that we can actually drive someone to drink or drug is prideful if tempting. Truth is that none of us have that kind of power - I learned early on that the why's of alcoholism are meaningless, that no matter where we lived, how money money we earned, how good life was, no matter how irrational it seemed, no matter what the exuse was, a drunk will drink. There simply are no rational equations to be found in a disease that manifests itself through behavior, where a relapse is a symptom, where there is no cure. We like to put blame in its proper place and move on. We don't demand that cancer explain itself, don't imagine that we can treat it with love or by covering it up and we don't blame its victims yet we can be quick to condemn an addict for his choice to drink, as if it really were a choice. Free will isn't much of a weapon against illness, especially an illness we often suspect is self-inflicted. Cough up blood and we'll rush to your side - cough up a curse and we'll spit in your face and demand an apology.

I hope she found her answers and some peace of mind. I hope she knows that it wasn't her fault and that she couldn't have saved him, only herself.

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.