For One of Their Own

People step up for one of their own and the music community is no exception.

On a muggy summer afternoon in August with the temperature in the 100's and the streets feeling like a sauna, a downtown restaurant opened it's doors for a friend. Waitstaff and bartenders and cooks all gave up a precious Sunday afternoon off and donated their time, loyal customers each paid ten dollars at the door then bought tee shirts and raffle tickets and plastic bracelets. Musicians poured in, carrying guitar cases on their backs and lugging amplifiers and keyboards and electrical equipment in the blazing heat, all for an old friend and former bartender who's eight year old son was in a cancer ward in Memphis, all for one of their own.

There is, as my friend Blue says, a fellowship among musicians. If you are part of it, you give your time and talent freely when needed. You show up, and you play for free, trying to help offset the astronomical expenses of cancer treatment or long term illness, parking tickets or legal costs. Competition turns to compliments, friendly rivalry to harmony. Instruments and equipment are shared easily, one musician praises another, and all act together for the common cause - there is rock and blues and country, cover songs and originals - all played to a standing room only crowd.

In the long run, the money raised will probably only be a drop in the bucket but the efforts of those involved will be remembered. Friends, music, medicine and prayer are strong weapons.

Disorder or Desperation

The symptoms of narcissistic personality disorder are as follow:

1. Has a grandiose sense of self-importance
2. Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty or ideal love (megalomania)
3. Believes they are "special" and can only be understood by, or should associate with, people (or institutions) who are also "special" or of high status
4. Requires excessive admiration
5. Has a sense of entitlement
6. Is interpersonally exploitative
7. Lacks empathy
8. Is often envious of others or believes others are envious of him or her
9. Shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes

What can be said of a life so empty and useless and selfishly lived that it is filled only by possessions and koi ponds? He cannot pass a mirror without pausing in admiration, cannot speak without bragging, and his character consists of equal parts vanity and self indulgence, held together by alcohol and hair gel.


Now he worships at the altar of a scared pool,
and when he sees his reflection, he is fulfilled.
Bob Dylan

By the Book

There's nothing quite as inviting as a dusty, dimly lit, disorganized bookshop.

By the Book was just such a place, hidden away on a Portsmouth sidestreet paved in cobblestones and lined with old wooden benches and planters filled to overflowing with ivy and ferns. A small sign hung over the door - G. H. Patton, Prop. - and customers were graciously announced by a tinkling of sleighbells attached to the back doorknob.

Inside there were books - crammed onto every shelf, in piles and stacks, in boxes and baskets, on counters, and in shoeboxes on the floor. There were books wrapped in string, books held together by leather belts, books spilling onto the window seats and books piled on overturned milk crates. There were backpacks of books, layers of books, tiers of books, books in plastic wrap, books covered in fabric, books missing covers. Dust motes floated through the air, there was a scent of spice and from the loft the sound of classical music. Each step of the iron spiral staircase held a stack of books - untidy and in no recognizable order - but placed on alternating sides to maintain balance and symmetry. Mr. Patton, proprietor, retired librarian and esquire, descended the staircase in careful, delicate steps. He carried a paper bag of books in one hand, a newspaper was tucked under one arm, and an unlit pipe was clenched between his teeth, still he managed an apologetic smile and a heavily accented but muted greeting. May I be of assistance? he inquired as he navigated the narrow path to the counter and set about moving a set of James Cain harcovers to make space for a stack of Raymond Chandler paperbacks. Saturday is Mystery Novel Day, he explained with a smile, We always draw a substantial audience and there's a great deal to do. Are you a devotee of the genre? I confessed to a passion for Rex Stout and he beamed at me, Yes, I can see that about you, he said, I have them all, you know. Tea? And from under the counter he produced a small silver tray with a silver teapot, two china cups, and a hotplate.

We had tea and miniature cupcakes with vanilla icing and he talked about being a bookseller and collector, More collector than actual seller, I'm afraid, he remarked as he rummaged under the counter and came up with a small sugar bowl and a tiny silver spoon, They're old friends and it's difficult to let them go. Milk or lemon? He poured tea and tucked a small cream colored napkin into his collar then carefully laid a cupcake and a tiny knife in front of me. I prefer, he told me with a suggestion of a smile, that my books only go to good homes. I replied that it must be a strain on his inventory but he waved the idea off with a slight gesture, Literature, he told me kindly, is the foundation of a civilized society, my dear. I protect it with dust and disorder to keep out the riffraff. Have you read all the Nancy Drew? I admitted that I had and this brought another approving smile and a second cup of tea.

I never saw Mr. Patton actually sell a book although he gave a good many away to regular customers, each wrapped in brown paper and tied with a carefully measured length of string. It saddened him to part with these books but also pleased him to see them go to people who considered them treasures. Every book deserves a good and loving home, he would say firmly, each is special in it's own way.

Help Wanted

In the long search for competent help - a process that lasted over some 18 months and brought us a startling and truly unsettling parade of inept, issue-ridden, depressed, and inappropriately dressed young women - we have finally found a grownup. I had almost forgotten what it was like to work with a pleasant, smart, reasoning and motivated adult and I find myself waiting to discover what dreadful flaws we might have overlooked. A secret past, perhaps, or an undisclosed psychiatric illness - connections to the mafia, a biker boyfriend on the side, a criminal history or a drug habit. Experience has taught me to be cautious, to wait and see despite a favorable initial impression.

The restaurant workplace is an entirely different kettle of fish, as my old grandmother would say. Help comes and goes the way the sun rises and sets with different faces appearing and disappearing each week. There is no end of drama, a veritable novel plays out each day and evening among the staff, a ceaseless battle of "he said, she said" and "no fair" and "if that was me I'd have been fired". There are tears and temper tantrums in every corner from the patio to the kitchen, with personal lives intruding and causing unrest and agitation, a small scale civil war over tips and territory is always in progress on some level. On one hand, it's a harsh and unforgiving environment - on the other, it's relaxed and casual, like a friendly gathering of old if slightly competitive friends. There are very few secrets and far too many rumors.

To this unstable and unpredictable mix, we then add customers who bring all their own demands and expectations to the table. They come in three piece suits, looking down their noses at the wine list and feeling entitled - they come in diamonds and stiletto heels, decked out and impatient for special attention. But they also come in jeans and denim vests, smiling and tipping well - they come seeking advice on wine and actually taking it. They say thank you and wish you a good evening and are a pleasure to wait on.

There is no perfect workplace, no perfect staff, no perfect clientele. Neither are there perfect people or perfect families - life simply does not permit or offer us such extravagances.

Crossings

St John to Digby was a 6 hour crossing on a seemingly endless blue-gray ocean without the first sight of land.

The old ferry featured staterooms - which we never took, a needless expense according to my frugal grandmother -
a coffee shop, lots of restrooms, and several day crossing rooms consisting of an assortment of chairs and leather couches, shabby and worn down by the thousands of travelers. Nana and my mother knitted or read while we roamed the decks, intrepid explorers on a hunt for the unexpected. Or we napped, lulled to sleep by the steady hum of the ship's engines and the constant forward motion. Sudden bouts of seasickness were rare as we had been making this trip for all our short lives but if overtaken by queasiness, we went on deck, forward to the canvas covered lifeboats to hang on the rails, watch the ocean and linger in the crisp salt spray. We were even allowed on the bridge as Nana knew the captain, a rugged and distinguished old sailor.

Compared to her sister ship - Portland to Yarmouth in 12 hours - she was a tired, old vessel with no fancy dining, no well appointed accomodations, no casinos or nightlife. She was, however, reliable, reasonably comfortable and almost always on time. Best of all, when she docked in the Digby harbor, we were only an hour from Long Island as opposed to the three or four from Yarmouth. So year after year, we boarded and departed the old ship until we felt as if we knew her as well as her captain and crew.

It was a plain and simple crossing with no amenities but it was an important part of coming home.

Happy Birthday, Peggy Fleming

After a certain age, a birthday is less of a celebration and more of an achievement.

I'm two weeks older than Peggy Fleming, who is, no doubt, in better shape and I work with people all younger, including those who sign my paychecks and who would surely ask, Peggy who? They never saw her skate in competition, never saw her at the Boston Garden with the Ice Follies, alone on the ice with an almost mystical blue spotlight while "Ave Maria" played. The audience alternately held their collective breaths and cheered wildly and it was a performance I've never forgotten. Her final bow moved them to tears.

I don't know how she feels about birthdays but I don't much care for them so when the riotously colored pink, red and purple cake with chocolate underneath was delivered to me, I tried to be gracious, in my own way, and refused to give in to the urge to run or the rush to be angry. It was a sweet and thoughtful, well meant gesture and I did my best to appreciate it - thankfully, no one sang and it was all kept low key - still, it centered attention on me, something I try to avoid at all costs. Figure skaters may thrive in the spotlight but I'm at home in the shadows and anonymity of the crowds.

The pursuit of fame and fortune requires a self confidence and a willingness to risk that I don't possess. You must be willing to put yourself out there for all the world to see, for all the world to talk about. You focus, train and sacrifice with an exhausting intensity, knowing that losing sight of your goal could mean losing ground you will never regain. You eat, sleep and exercise rigidly and win or lose, you smile and start planning for the next time. Everything you do is aimed at success, at being the best, at standing at the top of your profession for as long as you can. When you finally climb down, there is an emptiness in place of the striving so you start all over again - a new career, a new partner, a new challenge - replacement therapy to fill the void left by achieving your ambition.
It's fortunate that most of us are content with simple dreams and small achievements or the world would be a very crowded place with us all scratching and clawing our way to the top.

So Happy Birthday to me and Happy Birthday to Peggy Fleming wherever she may be.

A World of Hurt

Coaxing, bribery, pleading and threats had not worked so Sparrow looked his old mule square in the eyes. If you won't plow, he said, there'll be no garden. No garden means I don't eat and if I don't eat, you don't eat. Now for the last time, will you move your scrawny, sorry ass. The mule brayed but didn't budge, unimpressed by this show of reason and good sense, unmoved by the logic of Sparrow's argument. Smart enough to know when he was beaten, the old ex-pirate gave up in disgust and began the process of unhitching the animal. The mule brayed again and wandered off toward the barn. Lazy, good for nothin' stubborn old fool, Sparrow grumbled, don't never listen and cain't anybody tell 'im anything. I'm done!

Of course, he wasn't, few of us are regardless of how loudly and vehemently we proclaim it. The old mule had won the battle but Sparrow would try again - giving up wasn't in his nature. Knowing when to walk away or give up on a losing fight must be learned through trial, error and experience and we learn the best lessons from our mistakes, when and if we learn at all.

Detachment is a process best understood through practice and doing - rather than disengage and cut ties, we step back and away, giving the problem some space and some freedom, not taking it personally, and letting it work itself out without us. If we tend to our own needs rather than try and control those of others, surprisingly often, left to it's own devices, a problem will resolve itself. We are, inherently, fixers - called upon by some inner drive to repair and not at ease with another's unhappiness or black mood. We want to make things better, not seeing that sometimes sadness or pain must be experienced to be healed and that no amount of intervention or well meaning interference will speed the process. Grief, loss, rage and recovery have their own timetables and will arrive and leave on individual schedules - our own level of comfort or guilt will not change the timing. Emotional self reliance comes through the hard times and if we end up in a world of hurt, we have usually contributed to it.

After a day or two, Sparrow went back to the old mule and the garden was plowed up and put in anew. The trouble between them was forgotten and the vegetables came in with a vengeance, sustaining both man and mule through a long, lonely winter.

Keep Off the Grass

On an already hot and humid morning, the dogs were wandering idly in the back yard. Birds were overhead and a squirrel or three darted through the tree limbs. It was peaceful and quiet and I was watching the clouds drift by and thinking about the day ahead when the black dog went into attack mode, teeth suddenly bared and barking in a panicked, high pitched frenzy. I looked up to see the terrier from next door cowering in the shrubs and tree limbs piled up behind the garage - for a moment this made no sense - then the black dog charged and I came to my senses in a sudden mad dash for the fence, fearing for the life of this unexpected and terrified intruder.

The next few moments were chaos mixed with crisis. I could hear the terrier's frantic owner calling his name from the other side of the fence but the terror stricken animal was frozen. The black dog was repeatedly lunging at him and howling with fury, other neighborhood dogs joined in the chorus, I was shouting and the small brown dog suddenly arrived and trotted between the two dogs, prancing and barking at them both. Snatching her up with one hand I reached for the black dog's collar and forced her backwards, speaking as softly and as reassuringly as I could while trying to make myself heard above the roar. It was a clear Excedrin moment. Eventually I got both my dogs inside and returned for the trespassing terrier, gathered him up, and tucking him beneath one arm, delivered him safely home. Although my ears were ringing, no blood had been shed during this remarkable invasion of territory and no harm had been done - what might have become interplanetary war had been cut off at the pass and stayed at the level of a minor border skirmish.

Odd how territory means so much to us. For centuries we have fought and died for it, repelled those who would take it from us, guarded and defended with it with actual lives. Be it a hill or a country or a workspace, we do not welcome others into it and feel violated by intruders. This, we say, is mine. You have no right to it. This, we think, is all I control and you will not come in.

Perhaps because we do control so little, we protect what we have and are willing to do battle against those who would trespass, even if it's only the terrier from next door, even if it's only an accidental intrusion. It may be only grass, but it's our's, so keep off.

Mountains & Molehills

I have a migraine, she whimpered raggedly, I have to go the hospital. I'll probably be all day.

What she actually had was an ongoing fight with her partner of the last several years and it took precedence over her responsibility to be at work. Being prone to depression and anxiety - and now migraine headaches, it seemed - she's easily overwhelmed and defeated by everyday obstacles and she reaches for the simplest solution. The doctor wasn't buying it but we were desperately busy and there was no time to worry about it - the waiting room was already full and we were behind without having begun. Let's go, he growled and headed for an exam room, chart in hand, muttering under his breath. A moment later he had put it behind him, Young man! he exclaimed cheerfully to the eighty something patient with alzheimer's and bunions, Lookin' good!

Adversity, real or imagined, serves a purpose. It challenges us to dig for resources in ourselves that we might not otherwise find. It shows us what we can do under fire, measures us and tests our faith, stretches our abilities and reinforces our humor and determination. We face up to it and become stronger, more self reliant, braver - or we run and hide, hoping it will go away and find someone else to bother. Real adversity builds character, strength and conviction, the imagined kind makes cowards of us all, too weary to attempt anything and barely having the will to give up.

Rather than leave her problems at the door and put on her smile face, our young nurse arrives each morning with a litany of disasters - migraines, traffic, medication shortages, bad sleep, irritating contact lenses, loss of her cell phone, forgotten chores - she is on a perpetual uphill climb with no end in sight and for the rest of us who are forced to pick up her slack, it seems staged, annoying, and endless. Her days are made up of sighs and unfinished work, reports left undone and stashed in a drawer, clock watching and personal calls, self pity and slights. She reeks of sadness, a profound despair that prevents her from moving on, clouds her judgement, and slows her down. Her emotions reign unchecked and painfully visible. She is undone by a harsh word, overflowing with apologies, and quick to promise that she'll do better. She means well but meaning well and doing well have miles between them. Trying is not nearly enough.

Better to learn to separate the mountains from the molehills and act on the difference. You can't run fast enough or far enough from your own self.

Little Boxes

It was a room designed for sleeping and studying.

Two single beds, each pressed up against opposite walls, two small desks each with one small lamp, two sets of wall mounted shelves, two identical chests of drawers, one tiny window. The space was efficient and sterile, much, I imagined, like a convent room might be and the thought of two long years here filled me with anxiety and hopelessness.

This particular college was faith based - at least in principle - and it regularly turned out crop after crop of cookie cutter people, well behaved, solid, tax paying and rule abiding graduates who went on to become well behaved, solid, tax paying and rule abiding citizens - teachers, architects, engineers, marines and more teachers - people who fit nicely and comfortably in little boxes, who didn't question authority, didn't protest war, didn't walk on the grass. There was just enough space here to breathe, providing you were thrify in doing so.

My roommate, a mousy little thing with oversized glasses, asthma and a gift for silence, was from some small town in upstate New York. She wore flannel pajamas and floppy slippers and studied with a vengeance, often reading the same paragraph a dozen times over - outloud - and making detailed notes. She rarely left the room aside from attending class and bathroom breaks - she would pull on her flannel robe and creep down the hall in the semi dark, reminding me of a cat burglar, then tiptoe back, hoping to be unseen and unnoticed. We had nothing in common apart from being away from home and we spent the months in a quiet and dry stalemate, coming and going in careful solicitude. It was very civilized and considerate. On weekends she had the room to herself as I went home to stay with friends and I suspected that she'd have been more than delighted if I'd found some reason to stay away. We were, each in our own way and for our own private reasons, loners - parts of the out crowd - and we never joined forces or shared stories, never became more then random roommates thrown together by luck of the draw. She wanted to be boxed, gift wrapped and graduated and while I had no clear idea of what I wanted, I was more and more sure that I wasn't going to find it at at this small, catholic minded school.

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes all the same.

Malvina Reynolds

Tabby Cats & Trifles

The old tabby cat curls up in my lap and protests my lack of attention with gentle nudges and a small but softly persistent voice. Eventually she falls asleep, paws twitching randomly, her head resting on my knee and her purr a low, vibrating hum.

She's nearly fifteen now, thinner and less active than when she was young but still solitary and feisty with a strong antisocial streak. She's a loner - independent, reclusive, not inclined to be extroverted, sweet or patient but rather suspicious and watchful, always guarded with her affections. She has little interest in the outside world, never seeking a window perch or showing any curiosity toward the birds or the squirrels. She is a true house cat, needing no more than a patch of pillow and a full food bowl to be content. She doesn't play or prowl, refuses to engage the other cats and dismisses the dogs with a menacing growl and when needed, a swift swat on the nose. She can be very fierce but it's mostly for show - her temper flares and then is almost immediately forgotten. She refuses to waste a gesture or an emotion, she is nearly self contained.

I often wonder if there isn't something about resentful, ill tempered animals that attracts me. The challenge, perhaps, or maybe empathy. Lacking the skills or the desire to get along with our kind, we search for a one on one intimacy with a different species, shunning the attentions of those so like us and preferring our own company. In a crowd, I take refuge behind a camera lens while she simply curls up and falls asleep in a far off corner. We are both there, but apart, maintaining the distance and safety needed for our own comfort. We would rather drift away unnoticed than be part of the noise.

Her ears prick up at the sound of the black dog's nails on the wood floor and she opens her eyes, tensing ever so slightly, back claws extended and the beginning of a growl forming in her throat. But the dog passes by and she resumes her nap. Trust has come hard to the old tabby but for the moment she relaxes and sleeps in my lap, as if she is the only cat in a world made for her alone. It might seem a trifle to those who don't know her, but it is no small thing to gain the love of a prickly natured old tabby cat.

An Ounce of Intervention

An ounce of intervention, my grandmother liked to tell me, will keep the wolves away.

She had very little use for doctors and through maladies, major and minor, would keep her distance. She favored home remedies whenever possible - castor oil for any stomach ailment, garlic for arthritis pain, vinegar for sunburn, chamomile tea and lavender oil for pretty much anything else from gout to premature graying hair. She kept a full section of the pantry devoted to seeds, foul smelling little bottles of various extracts, seaweed and powders. I hardly ever saw her take as much as an aspirin even on those days when her arthritis flared and her hands swelled so badly that she was near crippled.

My mother dismissed these home cures as superstition and witchery, preferring to rely on pills and other doctor prescribed medications for any and all ailments. The two women clashed often, my mother being prone to take to her bed at the slightest sign of illness, my grandmother refusing to be stopped by anything less than a broken bone. Martyr! my mother would snap. Malingerer! Nana would snap right back. And so it went. They could, it seemed, quarrel over anything - how much salt to add to the pot roast, whether the fog would clear, who would drive to Aunt Pearl's, how many serving spoons should there be on the table, what color of nail polish to use, what direction the wind was blowing. Sometimes these spats blew over, sometimes they took on a life of their own, but they never stopped. Conflict had become a lifestyle. My daddy, often called upon to arbitrate, recognized the folly of taking sides and quietly withdrew to a neutral corner. If you get between them, he advised me, they'll likely both turn on you.

It was a hostile household, two women too much alike to get along, and too different to leave each other be, each determined to have their own way. Any amount of intervention would've been a temporary distraction at best - it made far more sense to try and stay out of the line of fire and hope for a truce.

Butterflies & Worker Bees

Head in the clouds, heart in graphic design and fashion, emotionally torn loose from her moorings and verbally battered by an antagonistic and critical partner, our nurse accepted her firing without much reaction other than mild surprise. She quietly gathered her things and left, no tears, no protests, no parting shots.

Knowing the inevitable is going to happen turns out to be not much use when it actually does happen. I felt mostly sadness as she left, sadness and a vague kind of regret that I hadn't been able to be more help to her. Patients were arriving already and I had to put my emotions aside for the time being - the doctor, an immensely practical and realistic sort, had moved on the moment the door closed behind her. He'd had the advantage of planning and preparing for this moment and had long ago come to understand that we were carrying dead weight while the rest of us continued to hope for a turnaround. I had, it seems, forgotten the old philosophy that you can't help those who will not help themselves. Too distracted to focus, too stressed to think clearly, too filled with worry and dread and non work related troubles, she had been simply unable to concentrate or learn even the smallest tasks. Her work had to be constantly watched over and frequently re-done, mistakes mounted and became costly. The doctor's patience - already a thin thread - frayed and finally broke entirely. He had given her every opportunity, had tolerated her fuzzy minded memory, accommodated her headaches and depression even when we were already short staffed, and still she stayed in the clouds, adrift and floating, unhappy and unaware. She reminded me of a butterfly - fragile and delicate, good at flitting but not follow through, softly pastel and out of place in a field of sharp, primary colors, a touch of color among the worker bees.

It's a sorrow that people who seek comfort and shelter in misery don't have to look far or work hard to find it. Being unhappy is a choice - you select it and wear it despite all the choices you could make to the contrary and it becomes like a pair of old, worn out but comfortable shoes you can't bear to throw away.

Among the worker bees, the butterfly is a pretty but useless piece of fluff - never staying in one place very long, always in search of something sweeter and more appealing, making the most of a brief lifespan and carried on the breeze like a bit of dust.

A Touch of Royalty

My daddy lifted me on his shoulders when the shiny limousine passed by. The crowd cheered wildly at the sight of Princess Margaret, smiling and waving from the open car, and I got a fleeting glimpse of royalty.

We had waited most of a month for this grand event and it was over in a matter of seconds. The procession passed and was gone but I remember high stepping horses and soldiers in bright, regal colors. There were flags of all sizes, horse drawn carriages, military guards and a column of canons. Muskets were fired leaving white plumes of smoke in the air, swords flashed in the sunlight, the color guard saluted smartly. Men in top hats and tails marched by, then a line of women dressed in gingham and white bonnets and crisply starched aprons, each with a basket of wildflowers on her arm. The finale was a marching band in full dress uniform - horns glimmering in the sunlight, clarinets and saxaphones and snare drums all in step and playing a a tightly choreographed "God Save the Queen". It was a magical and dazzling morning, and after the parade passed there was an even more extravagant treat - hamburgers and ice cream sodas at the village's only pharmacy/lunch counter, just my daddy, my Aunt Ivy, and myself.

These were the youngest of my grandmother's children, the last boy and the last girl. They looked very much alike, both young and vibrant, darkhaired and slim, and at least on that day, all smiles. Ivy had left home and found a job and a small apartment. She loved her family but treasured her independence and her privacy and I very much wanted to be like her - on her own and beholden to no one - she had never married and was what my mother called with disgust, a career woman. Whether marriage and children simply didn't appeal to her or she had just never found the love of her life I never knew - she died very young and maybe just didnt have enough time. I have very few memories of her but the ones I do have are vivid. She was pretty, hard working, she laughed a lot and loved Marty Robbins and she always looked like a young professional. We left the little lunch counter and walked to Ivy's car for the drive back to the farm, tired and happy and with a grand story to tell.

Choose Your Burdens

Choose your battles, I remember Uncle Shad telling me, and then later he said, Choose your burdens as well. The first advice was easier to put into practice.

Whether out of training or reflex, guilt or just habit, oftentimes we carry burdens needlessly. We strap them on like backpacks and struggle with the weight and the bulk - the effort of moving forward is physically exhausting and emotionally draining. Yet we dare not let go for fear that the world will collapse around us, like an explosion of jigsaw puzzle pieces blown in all directions and landing randomly, impossible to put right. The illusion of having or needing control too often overrides free will - the need to maintain, to balance, to make sure that everything works according to plan, that the waters aren't muddied by conflict or confrontation, prevails.

Choosing which burdens to carry and which to leave at the side of the road takes effort. We can't fight the battles of others, can't rescue everyone who needs it, can't evade every unpleasantness. While it's hard to admit, we are, none of us, indispensable or essential and we have the obligation to learn to say no and risk the peril of someone else's disappointment or anger. We have to get past the idea that saying no is a social sin.

If it accomplishes nothing, turn it down.
If it gets in the way of someone else's hard work, say no.
If it provides a safety net for someone who needs to learn to be accountable, say hell, no.
If it costs you peace of mind or time you can't spare or a good night's sleep, let it go.

When the crosses we all bear become unmanageable, it's time to remember that we choose to carry them and we can just as easily choose to lay them down, if we are willing to relinquish the spotlight.

The Top of the Stairs

It all started over carrots.

Of all the vegetables that ended up on the family supper table, carrots were the worst of the lot. I could be persuaded to try almost anything once - parsnips, turnips, even brussel sprouts - but carrots, with their soggy texture and wretched orange hue, were nickel sized bits of noxiousness. I pushed my plate away in disgust.

You don't leave the table until you finish, my mother warned and pushed it back.
Just one or two bites, my daddy pleaded, then you can be excused.
I crossed my arms defiantly and settled in for the duration.

Aside from my place, the table was cleared and my brothers sent to do homework. I sat through the dishes being washed and put away and my parents left for the living room for the nightly ritual of television. The carrots began to congeal and grow cold. Minutes turned into hours and still I sat, glaring at them, resenting their very existence and refusing to compromise with even a single bite. Change your mind? my mother asked with a self satisfied smirk, We've got all night. My daddy came and sat with me, speaking softly, coaxing me with kindness to not antagonize her any further, One small bite, he implored, One small bite and it'll be enough to get around her. I shook my head and dug in with a vengeance. I think we both knew by then that it wasn't about carrots anymore.

Eventually the music of "The Tonight Show" came on. My mother swept away the plate of misbegotten vegetables and furiously sent me to bed. I knew the carrots would re-appear as surely as I knew a violent argument was about to break out and I climbed the stairs slowly, regretting that my stubborness was going to be the cause of it but still feeling a perverse kind of joy at a small if temporary victory. The yelling began before I reached the top, my mother accusing my daddy of blatant favoritism, of lack of backbone, of undermining her parental authority and being defeated by a child. This rapidly led to the familiar lyrics of his not loving her, of marrying her for who knew what reason, of how she hated him and wished to God she'd never had kids, of how she'd get even if it took her the rest of her life. I won't stand for another second of this! she screamed and there was a crash - an ashtray, I speculated, probably the big ceramic one on the coffee table - and then she began to cry in loud, out of control sobs with an undertone of hysteria. I couldn't hear my daddy's words, only the soft murmurs of reassurance, followed by another crash, more delicate and high pitched - a coffee cup, I thought, one of her prized collectibles - and then my daddy's footsteps, slow and heavy hearted, and the quiet closing of the front door. I left my place at the top of the stairs and crept to my room, making sure to lock the door behind me before crawling into bed and under the covers. I heard the old station wagon's engine rev up and my mother cursing as she stumbled blindly up the stairs, slamming her fists into the walls with every step. I dreaded her coming to my room but she only stopped long enough to stage whisper at the door, You'll eat those damn carrots if it takes all week, you little spoiled brat, you'll see.

By morning, when my daddy still wasn't home, she was peaked and hungover and had lost the will to fight. The carrots sat on their plate, haphazardly wrapped in saran wrap, yellowish and nasty looking. She scraped them into the garbage in between gulps of sherry laced coffee and smashed the plate into the sink with one brutal, futile gesture.

It could have been about anything, but this night it had all begun with carrots.

The Rain Storm

Three days and nights of relentless rain had washed out the roads and driven all but the gulls indoors. The ditches filled and then overflowed, the strawberry field was underwater and the blackberry patch was losing ground. The factory had closed on the morning of the third day and there was a general retreat in effect. Even the ferry suspended serivce as there were no passengers having anywhere to go.

We watched awestruck when the tiny post office building floated by and came to a stop when it crashed headlong into the guard rail. There it sat, rocking back and forth like a cradle until eventually the water carried it over and it spilled onto the rocks below where it split open and shattered. The tide carried the pieces out to sea and all that was ever found was the battered old door that washed up on Peter's Island, splintered and waterlogged but intact. Uncle Willie's pasture turned into a swamp and his old hay wagon soon followed the path of the post office. The beach was littered with bits of wood and metal and random debris. We watched a river of water carry away the backyard swing set and a dozen or so of Uncle Shad's lobster traps drifted past, then a line of bait barrels and a solitary church bench followed by pieces of a white picket fence. The guard rail did it's best against the onslaught but it the end the metal dented and twisted and gave way, never having been meant to stop a flood.

Nana did her best. We baked cookies and bread, played dominoes and every board game we could find. The radio played ceaselessly through the static. She taught us hearts and three kinds of solitaire, challenged us to jacks, and helped us with crossword puzzles. We read and wrote postcards and played dress up and watched the rain carry off more belongings - a beaten up bicycle, a small ice chest, a clothesline complete with several pairs of long johns still attached, a Union Jack flag, parts of a stained glass window. Some went over the side of the road, some swirled past, some came down the gravel driveway but all traveled the water's route. The fog rolled in and out like the tides, hanging in the air like thick, dripping curtains then slowly sailing past and out to sea. On the fifth day, a Sunday, it cleared.

Islanders talked about the storm for years, about how so much had been driven to the sea and yet how little had been lost, proving once again that it's all in how you look at things.

The Making of a Marriage

Meeting in the middle, my parents decided to live apart.

My mother bought a small cottage on a small lake in New Hampshire and moved lock, stock and barrel, leaving the city heat behind her. My daddy moved in with my grandmother and commuted each weekend. It was an odd arrangement and one that caused a fair amount of talk, much to her enjoyment and his chagrin, but mostly it seemed to work. The distance and separation brought them each a measure of peace and quiet during the week and as their time together on weekends was limited, they were able to get along with a minimum of conflict. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, my brother said with a pleased smile. I thought it was more likely they had just worn each other out.

My daddy continued to work and after my grandmother's death he moved into a small room at the funeral home with his books and crosswords and music. My mother was content with her soap operas, bingo, knitting and newfound freedom to drink at will and without consequence. They spoke by telephone once or twice a week but otherwise lived separate lives - each moving in their own circle, at their own pace, married but apart and happier than they'd been in years. It was unsettling to see them get along after so many years of unrelenting warfare and I suspected that it was at least in part due to the absence of their children. We were adults by then, we had survived and moved on to our own battles and taken much of the hostility with us. It's hard to find something to argue about when you can't even find anything to talk about.

It wasn't exactly a reconciliation as such, more like a prolonged truce, sustained by weariness and age, hard earned wisdom and a fair share of resignation on both sides. They had come to terms, finally, and discovered a way to live together - if not in harmony, at least in peaceful coexistence.

On the rare weekends when we drove to visit, I watched them, perversely curious about the relationship and how it worked. They didn't speak much to each other but the extended silences didn't appear to bother anyone. The television was on constantly for noise and companionship - they slept in single beds in different rooms and my daddy puttered outside a great deal doing small repairs and projects while my mother knitted and sipped genteel sherry. Toward the end of the day they sat on the deck, watched the sunset and listened to the ski boats making their last runs while hamburgers cooked on the grill. There was store bought potato salad, iced coffee, cold beer if my brother was there, and the illusion of a normal family. Come Monday morning, my daddy rose early and drove back to the city. They lived this way for several years through summers and winters, heatwaves and ice storms, strangers with a history. They had chipped away at their mutual anger and unhappiness for so long that the marriage had become a habit, too much trouble to break, too insignificant to bother about.

They had, in their own way, solved the mystery of partnership and the making of a marriage - after a lifetime of incompatibility and bitterness, they had retreated to their separate corners and learned to settle for what they had. It was sad and tragic, wasteful and empty, but at least it was quiet.

Too Much Martyrdom

Since losing his job at the beginning of the year, my friend Sam has been on unemployment and a downward slide. He sleeps til noon and spends so many waking hours locked in his recliner in front of a television that he can recite commercials backwards and forwards. And in search of answers to questions he isn't even sure of, he drinks, steadily and seriously, until he doesn't have to think at all.

He emerges from his apartment in a badly stained and wrinkled t shirt, worn out jeans and ripped Nikes, his hair a tangled mess, unshaven and homeless looking. He reeks of stale cigarette smoke and scotch and his voice is muffled and hoarse with disuse. He immediately begins to tell me how well he is doing, despite evidence to the contrary, and for the half hour drive to Texas, I listen to his stories - of his photography class and how his students adore him, of lunches with teen age girls begging him to photograph them in the nude, of his constant salvation of others, his rightness, and his martyrdom. Every story has the same theme of being under or over appreciated, under or over loved and they all end with him being a hero in a valiant struggle of good against evil. He is weary and long suffering, put upon and put down, and once or twice his voice breaks and he cries. Life is too much for him and he clings to his ego and his stories as if they were bits of a life raft in a rough ocean.

The night before, I had watched my friend Liv lose her temper and self destruct over a remark made by a co-worker. Holding back her tears, she had protested and fought like a trapped animal when confronted, refusing to admit any culpability or participation. Either she goes or I go! she spit at her manager in a rage, And I have a pretty good idea who's more valuable! It was an awkward and uncomfortable scene, filled with pain and anger and righteous indignation. Her need to be right and in control outweighed her good sense and gave her an exaggerated sense of her own importance - she had hit the wall of her battle with the world and she broke, stalking out in misery and spite, her wounded pride in pieces, her ultimatum hanging in the air like an echo.

People at odds with themselves can't help being at odds with the world, as if no matter the cost, they would rather be right than happy. Misery seeks and finds them without even trying and they embrace it like a long lost friend.

The Sum of All Forces

What came to be known as "The Suicide House" was a small, well kept bungalow around the Old Road, just this side of the Ryans. It sat atop a hill with a spectacular view of the ocean and good light and was much admired. It had been built as a vacation cottage for a well off Massachusetts couple who had gradually turned it into a permanent home and after their deaths, it had passed into the hands of the bank who in turn told it to the oldest Titus boy and his wife, Johnny Ray and Florrie.

Florrie was, as Uncle Willie liked to say, bright as a shiny new dime and pretty as a daisy. She was dark haired and slight, on the petite side, optimistic and sunny natured but tough as old boots on the inside. She kept the little cottage pristine and friends were always welcomed with buttermilk and biscuits and a comfortable chair. She sang as she went though her daily chores, any song that came into her head although she favored the old Patsy Kline classics, and sometimes Uncle Willie said, if the wind was right, he could hear her singing as she hung the washing or tended the small garden she and Johnny Ray had planted. She was a good girl, folks said, good for Johnny Ray and a pleasure to be around, content, generous, serenely happy and delighted with life. Something of a dreamer though, folks also said, seeing her leaning on her broom on the small porch, gazing toward the sea with a faraway look in her eyes, head tilted to one side as if she were listening. These were small moments, folks said, and they were infrequent, but during these small moments, Florrie went away, her mind captured by distant voices and sounds far across the ocean. She would come back to herself and shake off the brief journey with a reassuring smile. Reckon my mind sometimes just wanders off to the other side, she would say with a shrug and resume her sweeping. Other side of what? Uncle Willie asked once, and she looked puzzled for a second of two. Why, she finally said, To the other side of the ocean, I imagine, and she laughed.

Uncle Willie repeated this slightly odd conversation to my grandmother who frowned slightly and told her own story of Florrie, of how one Sunday morning she had come across her standing at the edge of the breakwater and staring out to sea. Florrie? Nana had called to her but there was no answer. Mildly concerned, my grandmother had pulled the old Lincoln to the side of the road and approached the breakwater on foot, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the young woman and calling her name loudly. When she still didn't appear to hear, Nana laid one hand on her shoulder, What are you looking at, Florrie? she asked worriedly, and Florrie turned and smiled at her, Alice! she said with surprise, What are you doing here? Nana persisted, What were you looking at, child? And Florrie laughed and said, Why, the water lilies, of course! What else?

Johnny Ray heard these stories and dismissed them, She daydreams sometimes, he told people, We all do. But he took to paying more attention to his pretty young wife, as did everyone, but Florrie continued to drift away for little bits of time, returning with a bright smile and no memory of the few lost minutes. In time, most people became accustomed to these short lapses and no one was prepared for the sound of the shot that rang out on a clear summer Saturday morning. Nana was beating rugs and she froze in mid stroke then rushed across the strawberry field and stumbled down The Old Road, whitefaced and unaccountably panic stricken. Uncle Willie and the Ryans had heard it as well and fearing the worst, had raced toward the little bungalow. Florrie lay in a heap on the freshly swept front porch, one hand still on her old broom, the pistol inches from her other.

Johnny Ray, bewildered and shattered, buried his wife a few days later and returned to the bungalow, desperately searching for some reason, some answer, some cause for the unbearable tragedy. He looked for signs, for clues, for anything to help him understand the unexplainable, and though he searched for years, he found nothing and slowly, painfully, came to terms with his loss, and left the bungalow for the mainland and a new start.

Abandoned and unattended, The Suicide House succumbed to the pasture and high grass and was soon overgrown and left to the elements. A late summer storm brought a lightning strike and within a few hours nothing remained save ashes and scorched wood, all of which was swept into the sea by a fierce rain. The regrowth made a perfect and peaceful grazing ground for sheep and The Suicide House was no more - mysterious forces more powerful than man and far less understood had done their work and done it well.

Reckon there's some things we's meant to take on faith, Uncle Willie allowed to my grandmother as they surveyed the ruins, some things we just ain't never meant to understand. Ain't it a bitch.

Gone to Glory

Dropping like flies, Nana announced as she read through the obituaries in the morning paper and sighed. Didn't even know he'd been sick.

My grandmother always read the obits first, saying it made her feel better not to be in them. They were called "death notices" then, plain language being preferred and they were simple and straightforward, sometimes including a grainy old photo, sometimes not. Now and again the notice would include a little decorative phrasing - gone to glory was most popular. Everyone knew that a long illness almost always meant cancer while untimely passing generally meant an accidental death. Nana read them all whether she knew them or not, often with a critical eye toward grammar, punctuation, and proper format. She disliked the ones that rambled on or listed several paragraphs of relatives and she detested the use of pre-deceased in any form, judging it to be an awkward and clumsy word. She had even been known to call the night desk at The Boston Globe and share her criticisms, an act unfailingly reported to my daddy the following morning by a besieged and harried editor.

She also liked to write letters to the paper when a story amused her or more frequently made her angry. Very few were ever printed but when they were, she celebrated quietly. Freedom of the press, she would tell my mother with a contented smile, was a fine idea. No one would have dared to mention that she expressed this sentiment only when her position and the paper's happened to coincide - there were an equal number of mornings when she would discard the entire newspaper as barely fit to wrap fish in and fiercely threaten to cancel her subscription.

Each month, the paper boy left a small envelope with her bill inside. She would evaluate her calendar where she made notes on a daily basis and add up the number of mornings the paper had made the doorstep against the number of mornings she had had to descend the front steps and collect it. She tracked which rainy mornings the paper had been plastic wrapped and which mornings it had not and she noted late deliveries in detail. The sum of all her numbers decided whether the paper boy got a tip or a Try harder note - she never held him responsible for content, only efficiency of delivery.

I can't help but wonder what Nana would make of newspapers today and the gradual transition from ink, paper and press to headlines and stories on line. I suspect she would say they have gone to glory.

The Man Behind The Curtain

There is thunder and lighting in the palace, smoke billows in great clouds and the huge voice of The Wizard of Oz threatens Dorothy and her friends - until Toto pulls aside a drape and reveals the wizard as a fraud. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain! the veteran actor Frank Morgan exclaims in a last ditch effort to maintain the illusion, but it is too late. The great wizard has been exposed.

There are no current day wizards, no Professor Marvels, but I often think there is still a man behind the curtain, pulling strings and creating special effects for our everyday lives. He would be mostly kind, mostly a showman and something of a narcissist, but randomly he would decide to test us through a small series of disasters - for his own ends and perhaps for our own good, he would make life complicated and invent obstacle courses for us to overcome. There would be lessons about adversity and faith, about trusting in a power outside ourselves, about keeping on in the face of impossible odds and inescapable situations. There is value and virtue in learning the simple things, in remembering that at the end of the road not much of it will really matter anyway - staying in the now and putting one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, is what gets us through the hardship and the inherent unfairness. He would be stubbornly determined to teach us that giving up is no solution, it's just giving up.

If you've painted yourself in a corner, I once read, remember: paint dries. Hard to keep in mind when everything seems against you and there's no way out but the man behind the curtain may still be there and may still have a plan. It would be nice to know the details, of course, but then it wouldn't be faith.

So on we go, through debt and job loss and abscessed teeth, unplanned pregnancies and foul weather, too much month and not enough money, hard times and harder decisions, endless chores and child raising. I am always looking for the man behind the curtain so I can give him a piece of my mind.

Aside from That, Mrs. Lincoln......

The phrase that occurs to me is, Aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?

The faithful PT Cruiser sits lonely and abandoned in a service station bay, awaiting further exploration, diagnostics, and tests. Half an hour after picking it up, I heard the lava sounds from under the hood and watched the thermostat needle as it streaked into the red again. Steam and smoke and the smell of burning oil were everywhere and my heart sank. I had just returned the little VW rental, cringing at the bill but accepting the inevitable. I had no idea that the following day I would be once again at the rental company, this time leaving - for the entire weekend - in a shiny champagne colored Elantra. I handed over my credit card, feeling as if I was signing my own economic death warrant.

On the bright side, or so I kept telling myself, was the fact that I had gotten the much needed if only temporary treatment for my abscessed tooth. The pain and swelling had receded, I was able to wear my bridgework and take nourishment again. I banished all thoughts of next week's oral surgery to next week, determined to cross that bridge at the proper time and not one nano second sooner. Slipping into denial was surprisingly easy, like easing into a warm, scented bath and refusing to acknowledge that the water would eventually turn cold. Calgon, I said to myself, Take me away and I will stay put until reality rears it's demonic head and drags me back.

Racing with the Dogs

My parents never fought, my first husband pronounced with chest swelling pride, Never even raised their voices at one another.

I considered this for a moment, weighing his natural tendency to exaggerate and shape the truth against what I knew of his parents' marriage. That, I said carefully, is not normal. He glared at me through narrowed and suddenly suspicious eyes, then thought better of it and shrugged, intentionally deciding not to pursue what might end up to be a minefield.

We were, truth be told, an unlikely match. He was a child of wealth and privilege, maids and private schools and grand expectations, the only boychild to carry on his family name. I was a child of alcoholism and conflict, angry and withdrawn. Rebellion had brought us together and rebellion would later pull us apart but for a time we had found common ground - I was comfortable and secure in his shadow and the security of his name, sheltered and kept safe by his outgoing nature and celebrated family. He had found a pliable, presentable partner whom he could dress up and manage with minimum effort. We didn't get in each other's way and were relatively content, finding it easy to overlook each other's flaws, easy to push aside the restlessness and complacency that had overtaken us.
Certain families, however, especially the kind who never raise their voices at each other, tend to build traps for their children and themselves. The perfection he perceived in his parents' marriage eventually helped bring about multiple marriages for the children, searches for approval that were destined to fail, unvoiced resentments and battles for control. Independence was won and lost, traded, won and lost again. The fight never really ended, even after the death of both parents, it was a legacy that lived on. All three children are still searching, still trying to prove themselves, still trying to reconcile with the demands of perfection.

These parents who never fought, never raised their voices, ruled with iron hands in kid gloves, sweet words and gentle smiles. Their children chased after the rewards they offered like greyhounds pursuing an always out of reach rabbit, running in circles and ending up empty handed and empty hearted but always ready and willing to race the next day.

Add Water

I noticed the smoke while sitting at the red light, clouds of it, pouring from underneath the car. Unalarmed, I looked around to see which vehicle was in distress, then caught sight of the thermostat, and with a shock, realized that it was mine.

At the service station, they poured gallons of water under the hood while I listened to the lava like bubbling noises echoing out and the hiss of cold water hitting hot metal. Start 'er up, the mechanic directed, and the needle instantly swung into the danger zone. Shut 'her down, he called. This went on for the better part of twenty minutes. They added more water, peered into the engine, added more water, uncapped the radiator, added more water, looked at the undercarriage, added more water. They found nothing wrong and added more water, reckoned that it was cool enough to drive and that I could get back to work safely. I got about a block.

A more or less civilized morning at the doctor's office had suddenly turned into a nightmare. I had been on my way to pick up a prescription for my abscessing tooth - now in full throb mode - when the disaster struck. Now I found myself without pills and without a car, late for work, in serious pain, and at my wits end. From somewhere inside my head I heard a voice repeating AA slogans, Easy does it, and First things first, and One Step at a Time. I took a breath, regrouped, and began a simple priority list: Get back to work, deal with everything else later.

Panic is a tricky, treacherous thing and it can snatch you without warning and throw you into a pit where logic and clear thinking can't follow. Rage and fractured emotions are waiting to welcome you, everything is beyond your ability and out of your control. You discover you can only think in the negative and only in terms of defeat. You began to empathize with Job only you don't have his faith. It's a good time to step back, take a second look and a couple of aspirin. Add water.

Ain't No In Between

Look here, son, Cap told my brother impatiently, you're either at the table or on the menu. Ain't no in between. So get in the damn boat or let go the rope.

It had taken weeks of coaxing, gentle persuasion and finally a crisp new twenty dollar bill to get Cap to agree to take us out lobstering with him. Nana had manipulated, nagged, bargained and finally bribed him into saying yes but at the last minute, faced with the small fishing boat and a very wide expanse of open ocean, my brother was having second thoughts. Cap was anxious to be underway - We're burnin' daylight here, boy! he growled - and he felt saddled with the unwanted responsibility of two children. It made him short tempered, testy, and more convinced than ever that we'd get underfoot and cause some unholy damage. After another few minutes of the standoff, he shrugged and with one covert gesture had latched onto my brother's overall straps, lifted him with ease, and deposited him into the boat. Sit, he told us, and don't be touchin' anythin' or I'll throw you both over the side. We had no doubt that he meant what he said.

With no further delay, Cap headed for open water. The island grew more and more distant til it was barely a speck on the horizon and there was no other land to be seen. It was a fine day on a relatively calm ocean. Cap and crew began the difficult chore of pulling traps and to my surprise, I learned that live lobsters were greenish black, not red as I had always imagined. Some were small and tossed back, some were oversized, most were average. The sun was warm but the men wore heavy gloves and long sleeves and didn't seem to sweat. They worked with very little conversation and no breaks, hauling a trap and emptying it, then rebaiting it and throwing it back. Cap smoked and supervised, his eyes constantly on the skies and the surrounding sea, as if on alert against a sudden change of wind or the approach of a dark cloud. It took hours to fill the hold and all the while my brother and I sat and watched, hungry and restless, and slowly realizing that the life of a lobsterman was not as romantic or as daring as we had thought.

The sun was high in the sky when Cap called it a day and we turned for home. We hadn't seen a shark as we'd hoped but as we drew nearer to the passage we did see a colony of seals - they were bright, shiny creatures with long whiskers and huge eyes, splashing and cawing and lazing on the rocks. When one of the crew produced a rifle, Cap shook his head, Not this trip, he said softly, Not with the young'uns aboard. The seals were spared that day.

In some things, there is an in between.

Parent Stories

As women sometimes will, we were combining work and play, the three of us sitting at an unused dinner table, talking about which wines and cheeses to order for the coming week and telling parent stories.

Lindsey and I have, though there are just over thirty years between us, a great many common memories of tv shows, music, past events, and parental themes - Clean your plate, there are children starving in Europe, for example or Little pitchers have big ears. We both know the story of "The Black Dahlia", both have seen "The Wizard of Oz" more times than we can remember, both know who Billie Holiday, Clarence Darrow, and Audie Murphy were. We both know the story of "To Kill a Mockingbird" and who starred in the movie, all the theories of the JFK assassination, remember "Bandstand" with Dick Clark, have a working knowledge of the Civil War and past presidents. I have the Weeper Whineys who lived under the shoe shelf in my closet and she has monsters who came out of the dark and devoured children who didn't mind their parents.

Liv, being considerably younger and having been born and raised in a tiny, South Louisiana town built on grit, poverty, broken families and tamales, has ghosts and dire warnings. She remembers tales of "The Crying Woman", a lost and condemned spirit who killed her child and spent eternity stalking and kidnapping children who misbehaved. Parents who sold their children to creatures who wore rags, lived under bridges and were always hungry - hellfire was the reward for sassing grandma. Children who defied their parents could be snatched by ghosts and never returned, the penalty for a stolen piece of candy was being locked in a dark, airless closet with only your imagination and the monsters it could produce for company. Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about was everyday language.

Be it cruel threats or a beating in the woodshed, emotional deprivation or ghost stories, we all survive our childhoods and carry scars. We overcome or give in, get past it or stay stuck to the memories. Either way, the parent tales we remember, whether good or bad, remain - to be shared and laughed over, wondered at or hurt by, but never to be completely dismissed.

A Simple Puzzle

Imagine your life being over in the 6th grade. In one brutal stroke, I was undone.

I trudged home slowly, intentionally stepping on every crack with well aimed and utter precision, dreading my mother's inevitable satisfaction and my daddy's disappointment, imagining the jeering and rejoicing of my brothers, anticipating that this was a failure I would never live down. I looked at the malicious and glaring "D" - printed in bright, bold red so as to call attention to itself and stand out from the other grades - and despaired. It wouldn't matter that this was the very first non-perfect grade in my short academic career, wouldn't matter a bit. My daddy, to whom mathematics was second nature, as clear and straightforward as a sunny day, would grieve over this. My mother, never content with the consistent straight A's I had always brought home and always ready with a nasty smile and nastier remark ( Nobody's that smart, you must have cheated.) would celebrate this failure. ( Jan, my daddy always protested without much enthusiasm, children don't cheat.)

Numbers had unexpectedly stopped making sense to me, stopped being logical and clear, stopped being a simple puzzle. I had no explanation for this phenomena and less of an idea how to fix it. I studied hard, tried to look at mathematics in different ways, paid strict attention in class, and still my tests and homework assignment results were dismal. I worried that this would become a pattern I would never escape and now in one report card, my worst fears had been confirmed. I was terror stricken at the prospect of making this public.

Things did not improve in junior high or even in high school. I failed Business Math, repeated it and passed, but failed Algebra. I repeated Algebra and passed only to fail Trig and so on. Looking at my senior year grades, my advisor suggested we not even bring Calculus into the realm of possibility and I graduated by the narrowest margin, mostly due to finally passing an Advanced Algebra course the second time around. The entire concept of mathematics had by then turned into incomprehensible nonsense. I was perfect in English, Fourth Year French, Biology, Sociology, and all four years of History but broken and tragically flawed by mathemathics, it might as well have been Arabic.

Now, a lifetime later and just a few years away from Medicare eligibility myself, the evil of mathematics - this time in the form of medical billing and the mechanics of health insurance - has returned to haunt me and complicate my life. Any rational foundation of numbers is hidden in a maze of allowables and percentages, fractions, and red tape inspired rules that serve only to protect the insurance companies and confound anyone foolish enough to try and decipher their methods. Each day I sit and try to un-jumble it, I'm reminded of my 6th grade report card, of that wretched, oversized "D" and the pattern I set for myself.

We are too soon old and too late smart.

Sweet Grass & Salt

Over one more hill and we'll be home, my grandmother announced with a lightness in her voice that I hadn't heard since leaving St. John 12 hours earlier, Just one more turn.

The ocean came into view first, a gorgeous stretch of green blue just a mile across with Tiverton on the other side and streaks of early afternoon sun flashing across the water. I could see the lighthouse and all the brightly painted houses, the church spire and the boats at rest. The ferry was on the far side and Nana pulled the old Lincoln to the side of the road to wait, rolling all the windows down and letting the salt air fill our noses. It could hardly have been a more perfect day.

It was late May, just after Memorial Day and we'd been on the road for three days, we were restless, anxious, cabin feverish and tired but the sight of the ocean and the village changed all that. We let the dogs out to run and stretch their legs and I leaned against the car, closed my eyes and let the sounds and the feel wash over me. I listened to the waves and heard the ferry's engine, smelled sweet grass and salt, sensed the change of pace and country and tried to breathe away the knots of excitement in my belly. Unaccountably I began to cry, the joy of coming home was overwhelming and nearly too much to comprehend. An entire summer was ahead of me, an entire summer in a place I loved better than anywhere on earth and still do.

I would grow up on this small island, would smoke my first cigarette, have my first taste of alcohol, go on my first date and fall in love for the first time. I would learn the true nature of my mother and grandmother's relationship, would see my first animal die, learn my phobic fear of reptiles, go to my first picture show, see the inside of my first dance hall. Each summer, I would slowly step further and further away from childhood, would pass the 8 o'clock bedtime in favor of staying out, sometimes half the night, sometimes with a boy. I would meet and come to love the island's eccentrics and bootleggers and even the flat out crazies, wild people living in worlds no one else could share. I would learn how to let my imagination run free and embrace the ocean and I would discover a life long love of books. I would see death and drunkenness given free rein, would come to realize the damage abuse and inbreeding could create, would confront inevitability, loss, pure joy and even magic. I would come to treasure solitude and the quiet.

I still dream of sweet grass and salt and a welcoming ocean.