Kid Free

There is something supremely satisfying about watching - from a distance, more's the pity - the daughter of a lifelong friend come into her own - seeing her leave the protected nest and try her wings, explore, mature, learn, make mistakes. She is her mother's daughter and yet she is not - there is more daring in her, more of a willingness to take risks, more independence of spirit. It comes from her mother's own experience of fighting parental control and breaking free without sacrificing love and without fear. More, I have watched her mother overcome the urge to keep her close, setting her free with pride and unshakable faith despite the inevitable loneliness such freedom would bring. The best parenting creates a child who stands alone without abandoning her raising.

We pass along the best and worst of ourselves to our children whether we mean to or not and although we might willingly die to keep them from harm, in the end all we have to keep them safe is the hope that we did the best we could. There is no certainty so we let go and pray, keeping a room made up and a cell phone close by. We need to know that they know they can always come home and be taken in.

I have had moments, although only a half dozen times and always in passing, what kind of mother I might have been and where life might have taken me if I'd made a different decision. Then of course I think of alligators eating their young - a practice I've always considered highly sensible - and the moment passes.

Search & Rescue

Miracles happen.

After six days without food or water, after his stray mother had been trapped and taken away, after more than one fruitless under the house search - the only surviving puppy in a litter of five got tangled in a maze of insulation, asbestos and chicken wire and began to cry. Another search and rescue party was immediately organized and the little orphaned mutt was brought to warmth and safety. My friend Michael, muttering and complaining every step of the way, made him a bed of a cardboard box and an old sweatshirt, filled a hot water bottle, and began the slow process of foster parenting - feedings every few hours from an eye dropper, keeping a careful watch, providing a warm bath and a trip to the vet the very next day. My friend Michael - impatient, demanding, unsentimental and totally immune to puppy eyes and sad, endearing puppy faces - had been taken in hook, line and sinker.

I visited last night and found the two of them together in the upstairs den. The cardboard box and sweatshirt had been replaced with an unused plastic litter box and several thick towels and the puppy was now wide eyed and walking although his progress seemed to involve mostly taking a few steps and then falling over or bumping into a random object and then falling over. He smelled of milk, puppy breath and scented soap and looked like a tiny, fat, short legged little bear cub. Michael has named him Miracle.

Strange bedfellows indeed.

The Quartet

I brought a friend, my daddy said tentatively when he arrived for dinner, Hope you don't mind. The well dressed and attractive woman beside him, her arm linked casually with his, smiled at me. Not at all! my husband said, smoothly intervening and swinging open the door, The more the merrier!

I was twenty-four that summer and had had my share of awkward moments but Emily Post had never covered the etiquette of meeting your daddy's girlfriend and for a moment or two I was too surprised to react. Then my daddy smiled and said to me, You remember Trudy, and the pretty woman extended her hand. My husband gave me a sharp nudge and somehow I came to my senses, recovered my manners, and shook her hand. Of course, I managed to say, From the quartet. My daddy beamed at me and said, I thought a little gratefully, Exactly!

The quartet had consisted of my mother and daddy and Trudy and her husband, Mitch. They had performed for years at lodge events, church socials and birthday parties and had gathered every Tuesday night in our basement to rehearse. I remembered the sweet harmonies of "Goodnight, Irene" and "Maryanne", a nonsense song about a witch doctor and several old Baptist hymns - all sung with enthusiasm and feeling if not great talent. Afterwards there was beer and pretzels as they stood around the kitchen and made small talk, drinking and telling stories, washing up and joking with each other about who had forgotten what lyric or key change, about what they would sing at the next gig and who should solo. And now half of the quartet was on my doorstep - with my mother safely thousands of miles away and Mitch long dead from a heart attack at fifty.

Dinner, drinks and a game of hearts went off without a hitch but at some point several things began to become clear to me. I slowly realized that this was not a new relationship - it was small things mostly, the way he looked at her, the barely noticeable intimacies in the way he briefly touched her hand, the feeling behind the smiles and the unspoken things that you sense rather than see - this affair had been going on for years. I would never know if he intended to make me an accomplice that night or had just jumped on an opportunity and never looked back and while I was glad for him, I also felt a little angry at being manipulated. You should have a chance to choose the secrets you're expected to keep.

We saw them on and off that summer and for several summers after. My mother's name was never mentioned, marriage never came up, and my brothers were never included. Even small bits of happiness have a price.

April Strays

The first of April approaches unstoppably. Buds on the trees are no longer hesitant, pollen is beginning to cloak everything in a green haze, evenings with magic light offer themselves up for the asking, no strings attached. And I am overrun with stray cats.

There is evidence of them everywhere - muddy little paw prints on the hood of my car and the washing machine in the garage, latticework haphazardly worked out of place for easy access and quick exits, the sounds of feline conflict shattering the peaceful dark mornings. They stroll across the lawn as if they own it, lay in wait for squirrels on the back fence, ambush unsuspecting robins and sparrows, make mush of flower gardens and grow fat with the weight of kittens to come. They are defiant but shy, indifferent but jealous, flirtatious but bold. They dodge traffic with ease and outrun dogs and children with no effort at all, as if they have a special immunity to danger. Two doors down, my non-cat loving neighbor puts out traps and tainted food, calls the newspaper to complain, arms herself with a broom and a coat of self righteousness and flies into a wicked rage at the sight of any cat, collar or not. She is offset by the family up the street who put out food and water on a regular basis, drawing more and more strays into the neighborhood, steadily increasing the cat population with well intentioned but misdirected kindness.

This is kitten season, when shelters will fill up in a heartbeat with unwanted litters and we will reap the rewards of overpopulation with fatal injections or carbon monoxide chambers or simple neglect - so preventable - and we will do this because we admire our cats and think they deserve the freedom of unlimited breeding. Cats will be cats, we say, they shouldn't be confined, so we wash our hands of responsibility for them. After all, we say, you can always get a new one. They're especially plentiful this time of year.

Some of us are kinder to our dirty laundry.

Playing for the Door

The pretense of hope is over and the news is bitter - my friend Danny died today.

I want to write something uplifting about his life and his music, a tribute to the kind of man and musician he was but all I feel is emptiness and a dismal free floating anger. To a part of me, his death doesn't seem quite real yet while another part is weighted down at the unfairness and pain of it.

I hope he is some place where there is spicy food and a guitar, some place where there is applause, laughter and love, where the skies are clear and he doesn't have to play for the door.

The Other Side of the River

You're the same as anybody else.
Sally Field to Tom Hanks, Forrest Gump

Depending on how you see yourself, the words can be comforting or insulting. It's all a matter of interpretation. Linus was barely six when he realized he was different, a dark haired, shy child in a family of blonde, blue eyed, loud and adventurous souls. He hated guns and was afraid of the sea, preferring poetry and gentle music to the raucus and often crude melodies his brothers made up as they worked in the fields. He learned to read early and would beg the schoolteacher for "real books", hardbound and heavy, rather than the ubiquitous comic books his brothers so admired. His world was made up of words and images only he could see and he soon became an invisible child, forgotten and overlooked by his hard working and distracted parents, dismissed by his brothers as not worth their time or trouble. There was no malice or harm intended, his daddy often said with a shrug, It's just that the boy lives on the other side of the river.

Being a child most people didn't take notice of when he was there - or miss when he wasn't - it was easy for Linus to drift, carried by currents even he didn't understand. He helped the schoolteacher with lessons, fed the seagulls with Doolittle, learned herbs from Rowena, picked wildflowers for Miss Violet and Victoria, joined Miss Clara in tending the graveyard. And he wandered constantly, with a distant, slightly set apart aimlessness - along the coast at low tide, into the back woods, through the square where he didn't hear those who called his name and didn't see those who waved. He carried a small notebook and a pencil stub and would stop here and there to make notes, no one knew why or about what. If he did notice someone, he might tip his cap and offer a small smile but otherwise he went his own way, focused on his own faraway and hazy thoughts, too young to find the words to express or explain them, too inward turned to try. By his teens he had mostly disappeared and become a shadow on the edge of island life, no one seemed to know how he lived or where and on the rare times we would catch a glimpse of him - a solitary and far off figure walking across the back pastures toward the sunset - we would run like the wind but never catch up. He would vanish into the horizon long before we reached the place he had been and there would be no trace of him save for a brief trail of bent grass that would unaccountably end at the end of the cliff. Loving the mystery and hoping that there might be real magic in the man, we pursued him each summer but found only suggestions of his passings by - a whisper of pipe smoke where it shouldn't have been, a broken branch snagged with a thread of denim, a bit of yellow pencil in the dirt of a back road. Summer after summer, the reality of Linus eluded us until it seemed he must be dead or turned into a bird and flown off to the faraway, as Miss Clara liked to think. Uncle Bernie said he had found Land's End and the Allalonestone from "The Water Babies" and was living with his own kind, happy and understood at last, at peace with himself. Nana dismissed it all as romantic drivel and childish notions, Boy drowned and was carried out to sea and that's a fact, she told us firmly, Only magic and mystery was that it took so long. Clearing ground for a new still years later, Bill Allbright discovered a hut made of mud and sticks and branches. A natural rock formation made for a makeshift bench at the edge of the cliff and inside the hut the embers from a fire were still warm. Of Linus, there was no evidence and the only other sign of life was the flock of seagulls circling overhead. Weren't no place to run off, nowhere he could've hid, Bill confessed to Miss Clara, Me on the one side and the sea on the other. Even so, reckon I'll find me another place for the still.

The mystery and magic of the boy who lived on the other side of the river remained. If the seagulls knew the truth, they weren't talking and if the children that came after us ever found him, they weren't telling. There are some things you take on faith or not at all.

Get Along or Go Along

They stalk each other sideways, backs arched and tails twitching. Their eyes lock but there is no sound until one breaks and runs, then the other pursues fiercely. They tumble and somersault over each other and end up wrestling on the floor in an enthusiastic kind of bear hug embrace, then each walks away with grace and as much dignity as they can manufacture, clearly pretending to have no interest in each other. It's a ritualized performance, sometimes repeated several times in a single day, sometimes not for weeks at a time but there is no malice in it, no intent to harm. The other cats watch with mild interest but are always careful to keep their distance - they never join in - only the young tabby and the older black cat are inclined to play this feline game and it always ends in a draw.

I watch all this and have to wonder why I can't be so casual and forgiving with human entanglements, why insignificant emotional fender benders have to turn into head on collisions. The power of reason should make me smarter than a cat, I keep reminding myself, yet they seem to have the edge - too wise to hold a grudge, too confident to take affront, too secure to care what other cats may think. Cats aren't compelled to compete or be vindicated, they fight and forget, they move on. Apologies aren't necessary - nothing in their interactions ever requires being sorry - and they never seek therapy or self help groups.

Cats just get along or go along, depending on their mood, taking what comes or doesn't with the same equilibrium, the same independent spirit and devil may care attitude.

Oh, to find the self assurance and untroubled life of a carefree cat.

The Things You Don't Say

Trying to convince my to sign up for our new health insurance plan, the doctor's wife gave me a sweet smile and suggested that I could cut back on expenses. Your fingernails, for example, she ventured with a meaningful glance at my manicure. When I shook my head at this notion, she shrugged. Or, you could sell your house and move. Startled speechless at this, my jaw dropped with the effort of believing that she was serious. Much later it occurred to me that I could've made a counter suggestion that she sell her expensive Land Rover and give me $1 an hour raise which I would in turn use to pay for the insurance. Tactless as it might have been, I suspected it would've have been deserved.

Replaying this conversation in my mind later in the morning I found myself getting angry. Sell my house and move? To be able to afford to sign up for health insurance?

She couldn't have really meant it, I told myself firmly.

I don't need you to worry for me cause I'm alright
I don't want you to tell me it's time to come home
I don't care what you say anymore, this is my life
Go ahead with your own life and leave me alone

Billy Joel

No Room in the Helicopter

Trying to convince me to sign up for the new health insurance plan, the doctor told me a story about a woman trapped on the roof of her house during a flood. A helicopter arrived to rescue her but she would've been forced to leave her dog so she sent it away. I know they're like family, he told me with a patient smile, but times come and you have to put yourself first.

Sorry, Doc, I told him in return, They're not like family, they are family and I would've sent the helicopter away too. He looked at me a little sorrowfully as he might a helpless if slightly dimwitted child and shook his head, at a loss to understand my answer.

Loving animals isn't about logic. It isn't about the vet bills or the responsibilities or the sacrifices. It's not even about the trials or the joy they bring to your life. These small, dependent creatures each have their own god given life and if you're fortunate enough to share it, you do all you can to make it good, to make it last as long as possible. If there's no room for them in the helicopter, you don't go.

Crimes in the Family

The argument downstairs was reaching epic proportions.

Even through my closed door, I could hear my mother alternately crying, wailing, and screeching like a jackal. My daddy's words were muffled, a low hum of calm and patience in a fierce storm but they were lost and useless against my mother's escalating rage. He was beaten before he started and I knew he would eventually climb the stairs to my room to mete out whatever punishment they finally settled on. I hadn't taken the $20 from her secret cookie jar but it wouldn't matter - it was gone, someone had to be held accountable - and in the interests of peace and quiet and a decent night's sleep, my daddy would acquiesce to her demands for retribution. He would hate it but he would do it, and come morning when she smirked and strutted in victory, he would not be able to meet my eyes. Shame is a powerful weapon, self sustaining and long lasting and it leaves a bitter taste on the tongue, a permanent wound on the soul.

My daddy, ever courteous even in the act of selling out his children, knocked on my door before entering. I focused on the weeping willow tree next door, imagining it a giant, flowing cavern with a hidden entrance, imagining that I could dive through and be safe from my family and protected from the world of evil witches, lying old crones and battered kings. My daddy spoke in low tones, hesitantly explaining that he had no choice, trying to reason me into a confession and a lesser punishment. The old weeping willow seemed to sing to me, offering up its branches and leaves as a cloak, beckoning in the wind and promising me shelter and fairness. Even if you didn't take it, my daddy said weakly, Your mother......

Can go to hell, I finished for him defiantly and the willow nearly cheered. My own words shocked me and for a moment I flinched, as if he might actually strike me, but this was my daddy - weary to the bone, trapped, not proud of his actions and too impotent to fight back. He sighed deeply and left, closing the door quietly. Well? I heard my mother demand roughly, but there was no answer. Amid the following shower of threats and curses, the front door opened and closed, and the old station wagon pulled out of the drive and drove off. I remember thinking how unfair it was that he could escape with a quick turn of an ignition key, the image of a criminal fleeing the scene of a crime came to my mind, and I turned back to the weeping willow, wishing it closer, wishing I could disappear into it.

Sex, Lies, & Lawyers

He was always impeccably dressed - even when wearing his Saturday clothes, his khakis were creased, his shirt ironed and his shoes shined. He smelled of Old Spice and presented a congenial and courteous figure of a successful southern lawyer. When he asked advice, he listened to the answer and paid attention. When he gave advice, it was thoughtful and precise. He appeared to be a respected, old school, almost elegant southern gentleman, smiling when speaking of his wife and family, serious about his law practice, dedicated to the country club and now and then overdoing the martinis. I never saw the rough edges or the private side that landed him in jail, accused of carnal knowledge of a juvenile - an 80 year old lawyer having oral sex with a 16 year old in the very confines of his law office.

How do you return to your life, I wonder?

There's no cover in a small southern city such as our's, not if you're well known and well thought of, not if you're a member of the upper class, not if you live in the right zip code and sometimes make headlines. All the charitable donations and good works will not give you back your privacy, will not insulate you from sex scandals. You can play golf with judges but unless you're Tiger Woods, there won't be any special favors granted. It makes me appreciate the anonymity of big city life where you can dive into your particular dark side and hardly be noticed.

After all the sad jokes have been made and grow stale, after the publicity dies down and the talk turns to other things, after a trial or a plea or whatever the outcome, I'm still left wondering - how do we forgive? How do we rebuild? How does he return to his life?

Why, my daddy might say and I can almost hear the cynicism in his tone, He follows the example of the politicians. What else?

Old Horses

I rode the old plow horse into the woods, imagining myself a wild Indian on a bareback pony, in search of new hunting grounds. Indians had once lived on this farmland, so my daddy had told me and although I suspected they had been closer to Navajos rather than Apaches, I preferred to think in terms of war paint and proud warriors. The old horse walked lazily and calmly through the trees, not exactly a fast moving Indian pony with feathers in his mane, but close enough for me. The trail he followed was his choice, not mine, and if struck by a whim I knew he would duck under a low hanging limb and sweep me off, but still I sat straight and defiant, a lonely brave following imaginary smoke signals and drums. Other days the horse might be a thoroughbred, rounding the last turn like the wind and headed for the finish line amid wild applause, leaving all the horses in the dust. Sometimes though, he was just an old work horse with a six year old on his back, wandering the pastures at his own pace, carrying me away from the noise of harsh reality and into a quiet, pastel sunset.

Back in the stall, I brushed him and smoothed his mane, fed him oats, and carrots and apple slices my grandmother Ruby had slipped in my overall pockets then curled up in the dusty, sweet, warm hay and read until I fell asleep. I liked thinking that he was watching over me like a great soft eyed guardian angel. I loved the pigs and chickens, adored the cows, but I trusted the old horse to keep my secrets and protect me. One day, I thought, I would ride such a horse down the road and into The Land of No Looking Back where there would be apple orchards and sugar maples and it would always be summer - we would never grow old, no one would ever find us, and we would never have to come back. The old horse listened to all this with a soft whinny of approval and a stamp of his hoof, his liquid eyes watching me with a lazy gaze. He shook his mane and switched his tail at the flies, nuzzled me for another slice of apple.

It was hard to leave the barn when the dinner bell rang, harder still to wait for the next morning and the next ride. On some nights I was so anxiously impatient that I slipped out after bedtime and made my way back to the stall to sleep in the hay. Nothing bad could happen in the company of the old horse, not in my imagination or in real life.

Homefires

She wore nothing but the best designer clothes and shoes, never appeared anywhere without her nails done and her face made up, and accessorized with oversized jewels. When she finally decided it was time to experiment with blue jeans, To keep up with the times, she told me, and the young people! She chose Christian Dior and I didn't have the heart to tell her that most of my jeans came from the Army Navy surplus store - it would have been distressing to her.
She had come from a small town in Tennessee, married well, produced three children. She was someone who pretty much actually practiced her faith on a daily basis and was open hearted, tolerant beyond any requirement, determined to make everyone feel at home and welcome. I doubt she ever understood the city girl her son had married but no mind, she was a woman who in large measure respected the choices of others and she accepted me with no questions asked. I sometimes thought that she felt her it was her mission to make up for what she was sure I had been denied in my childhood - it was well meant, born of affection and caring, but often suffocating - she went out of her way to assure that I was included in everything, whether I wanted to be or not - free will and family don't always make the best partners. But I loved her, for her Dior blue jeans, her infectious laugh, her kindness and concern. She was, in an odd way, a submissive and traditional southern woman, putting church and family above all else, being charitable with her wealth, and keeping her private battles to herself. For surely there were demons to fight, seeing all her children marry and divorce, watching them outgrow her care and control, now and again being treated more as a decoration than a flesh and blood woman with the power of reason. Life on a pedestal can be airy, carefree, as well as lonely.
She was, so she said, happy and fulfilled being in second place to the powerful and dominating force of the man she had married. If she had ambitions, she channeled them into her children, her community, and her churchwork. She was happy traveling, seeing to everyone else's needs, organizing and keeping track, shopping and antiquing. She kept the homefires burning and was a proper, admired, and docile wife, every whim granted, every wish granted. I didn't want to but there were times when I wondered if there might not be a part of her that was restless being under the generous and accomodating thumb of an adoring husband, if she might not have occasionally wanted to tilt the balance of power - just a bit. As close as we were, I doubt I knew the real woman anymore than she knew me.

This Earthly Life

Prayer changes things and miracles happen every day, a 12 stepper musician friend reminded me as he set up his equipment. The bar was already jammed with musicians and fans and friends, all there to raise money and support a local guitar player recently diagnosed with cancer - the very best of the region's players gave their time and talent without a second thought - telling stories, playing their hearts out, passing the hat, offering prayers and get well wishes. The air was blue with cigarette smoke but hip deep in hope.

We aren't promised much in this earthly life but struggle and disappointment and it's tempting to blame what we don't understand on God or fate, easy to be angry at the unfairness of it all. Weariness makes us easy targets - we are frail creatures, made of bones that break and flesh that doesn't always heal - optimism often eludes us and dreams hang just out of reach. We lose those we love, work all our lives just to break even and keep body and soul together, and in the end, it's all out of our hands. The one joy and redemption, inevitable outcome aside, is that we make a difference even if we don't see it or reap its rewards.

My friend Danny has touched lives and made a difference - small acts of kindness, encouragement for young and struggling musicians, persistence and dedication in the face of adversity. More than once he's lost his way and found it again and on balance has given more than he's taken. Confronted with an evil illness, he keeps faith, stays upbeat and positive, and continues to fight his way through. And though he isn't at his own benefit, his immune system being fragile and his body in need of rest, his essence is everywhere. He has learned to love trouble and giving up is something he doesn't know how to do.

He's leaving for home soon, going back to California and his roots, to the place where his music started. We will be poorer for his absence.

Miss Abby & The Good Book

Bible scholars on the island were in short supply and Miss Abby was the definitive source for questions of conscience and parables. Though much respected and well thought of, the preacher was too busy with every day church business to provide any more than traditional spiritual guidance and regular Sunday scoldings - Miss Abby knew every chapter and verse of The Good Book by heart and recited the Bible stories with hellfire in her heart and a shotgun at her side. If one don't work against the devil, reckon the other will, she liked to tell folks when they visited, Have another biscuit.

On Saturday nights, Miss Abby lined up tin cans on stumps for target practice. Shading her eyes, she raised her old shotgun to her shoulder, set her body in a shooter's stance, and blew the bejesus out of every target. None of us could recall a time when she had ever missed - her aim, like her faith, was deadly accurate - and though the recoil often set her back a pace or two and once had even dislocated her collar bone - these were small prices to pay for being ready to fight the devil. Could be you only get one shot at ol' Satan, she warned us, Best to make it count.

During the day she raised rabbits for showing and kept honey bees. Some of the best of the good Lord's creations don't walk two legged, she advised us as she taught us how to approach the bee hives and clean out the hutches,
Rabbits and bees be every bit God's creatures as you and me. Serpents on the other hand, were clearly the work of the devil and she showed them no mercy, blasting them to kingdom come at every opportunity. Vipers! she snarled and took aim, Begone! She kept a small bible in her apron pocket at all times and often quoted just before shooting, Behold, unto you I give the power to tread on serpents! The dead reptile would be kicked aside, lifeless and unclean, and Miss Abby would tell us to fling it into the sea. I had no idea until that summer that my daddy, as gentle and tolerant a man as ever lived, had a powerful, debilitating fear of the unholy creatures. On hearing of Miss Abby's merciless treatment of them, he shivered and muttered, More power to her. Uncle Willie made one attempt to point out that even serpents served a purpose and Miss Abby gave him a long, dark look then ordered him off her property, Blasphemy! she snapped and reached for her gun. Uncle Willie wisely chose not to debate her.

Sitting in her old cane rocker with her shotgun beside her and her Bible in her lap, she read to us - the story of Daniel in the lion's den, Joshua and the battle of Jericho, Moses and the Red Sea - grand tales of miracles, faith and retribution, lessons in morality and the endless battles between good and evil. Let there be no serpents in your gardens, children. Have another biscuit.

Getting Through the Day

Little by slow, they say in the 12 step programs, Little by slow.

I sometimes wish I could be 20 again, provided that I could keep my 60 years of learning and experience and do a better job of it. I've always liked the concept if reincarnation - it's a series of second chances to grow and come back smarter, kinder, more appreciative, working your way through different forms and seeing the world with different eyes. Playing with the dogs, on their level, I see a new perspective and I'm reminded that my own point of view may not be the only point of view, even feet take on a new meaning when you're at eye level with them. So while I see arrogance, someone else sees confidence. While I see poverty, someone else sees the inevitable consequence of laziness. While I see kindness, someone else sees weakness. Whatever we see or don't see, it's all through the filters we call our own experience. Overcoming our own experiences to see the other sides of things and people is a process and some of us are more open to it than others. Nothing changes slower or with more pain than inbred, comfortable fitting old attitudes - like a new pair of shoes, they need breaking in and wearing.

So, dear, the patient asked as she was fitted into a surgical boot, Does it come in navy blue?
The nurse glanced at her to verify the seriousness of the question. No, she said shortly.
And I have to wear it 24 hours a day? the patient persisted, Even when I sleep?
That, the doctor said mildly, would be the definition of 24 hours a day.

Why, I wonder, do we seek out professional people, pay them for their counsel and advice, and then refuse to follow their instructions?

I need a bottle of red wine, the customer tells us, Not too expensive.
We make a suggestion, a modestly priced California cabernet from an old, established winery.
The customer handles the bottle, inspecting the label, frowning. Is this one good? he asks doubtfully.
Oh, a co-worker tells him with a broad smile to take the edge off, You want a "good" one?

Little by slow, I remind myself. Have patience, don't take offense at stupidity, smile, and get through the day.

Running Yellow Lights

If, at this stage of my life, a man I loved suggested that we live together, my reaction would be instantaneous - I would leap at the opportunity without a second thought or recoil and run for the hills. It would not occur to me to have a series of conversations or think it through - I am more a person of impulse than I like to believe.

A friend I have known almost since I was able to walk finds herself precisely at this point. Her immediate reaction was caution - she is slightly younger but far more insightful than I - and gentle pressure on the brakes was second nature. That she loves this man as he does her is clear and were it 30 years ago when there was room and time to make mistakes, she might've jumped to clean out drawers and make a permanent space for him, might've run that yellow light without hesitation. But age and experience have taught her wisdom and foresight, the ability to look forward more clearly, to evaluate risk and consider options, to weigh the impact upon them both and her daughter. If anything, she has a tendency to overthink, but at this particular intersection, it's wise to look in all directions and I envy her restraint and common sense. She's in love but not ready to jump off the cliff.

Life is often more forgiving if you jump with a parachute, more tolerant of risk taking at 20 than 50. This is not someone who commits easily, not someone willing to share her life just out of love and good chemistry - she wants it all. I have a suspicion that this time she may find the happy ever after.

Never Too Old To Misbehave

She had just turned 92 and while her body was in decline, her mind was still sharp, her wit still agile. Having finished with the doctor, she made the long trek down the hallway - shaky but unassisted, a nurse at her elbow, just in case - and she reached the front desk, a little out of breath, a little bent over, but still under her own power. She gave me a smile and a gold tooth gleamed, her hands were heavily veined with crooked fingers and neat nails. She wore an oversized watch and a plain gold band - 70 years of marriage to the same old man, she had once told me - and her hair, completely white but still thick and wavy, was pinned up in an uncooperative bun at the back of her neck. She adjusted her bifocals and produced her checkbook, Doc says I'm good for another 100,000 miles, she announced in a voice that was tremulous but cheerful, How much I owe, hon? She meticulously wrote out her check, the letters formed slowly and with great care, her crippled fingers fighting every pen stroke, the movements clearly painful for her. She folded her receipt and next appointment card and tucked them into her purse with some effort, pulled her coat closer over her thin shoulders, glanced around to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything. The nurse pulled open the door for her and she made her way through one cautious step at a time. In the waiting room, her son, Walter - a mere lad of 70 - reached for his cane and pulled himself to his feet, straightened his tie, and took her elbow. See you next time, I called, Ya'll behave yourselves, hear? Walter gave me a sour look and said At our age, there's not much choice, while his mother turned and gave us a wink, Ya'll too, she said with a cackling laugh, Ain't never too old to misbehave! Her son, we suspected a little less shocked than he appeared, glared at her, Mama! She gave him a mild cuff to the ear, Lighten up, boy, she snapped at him, I'm old but I ain't dead! Defeated in the face of such optimism, he guided her toward the door without another word, shoulders sagging and eyes on the floor.

Age is so much more than chronology.

Three Days of Gray

As if trying to redeem itself, the last day of February dawns clear, filled with sunshine and something very like warmth. The cat sitting on the back porch railing grooms itself and yawns, taking the day for granted as it stretches in the sunlight. The dogs erupt out the back door and the trespassing feline makes a startled leap and disappears under the deck in a flash of calico. The dogs stage their usual ineffective pursuit but the cat is fleet of foot and agile - she moves like liquid lightning and leaves them in the dust - her dignity is slightly ruffled by this less than lofty retreat but she is still graceful, emerging victorious in the front yard and taking up a new position on the roof of my car where she curls up into a ball and immediately falls asleep.

Things at my friend Michael's are less peaceful. After a week in Dallas, he returned to his house and new cat, surveyed the scene and immediately picked up the telephone, bypassing the niceties of small talk to begin the conversation with a harried "COME GET THIS THING!" I sighed and calmly told him no, you let him in, you deal with him. After several minutes of ranting and raving - this call's main complaint seeming to be the cat's determination to trip him by twining around his ankles - I explained about separation anxiety, about the need for a clean litter box, about an animal's need for affection, about feline behavior and attitude. Meet him halfway, I advised, Learn to live with him by watching where you're walking, by paying attention. Make a small effort to understand him. Living with a cat is an adjustment. There were un-veiled threats about barn cats and microwaves, muttered warnings about devil cats and cats who refused to abide by the rules, cats who interfered and got underfoot and upset the natural order, cats who failed to appreciate their good fortune, cats who - simply stated - behaved like cats. Having heard it all before, I listened as patiently as I could, hoping that this extended vent might wear itself out and fade away. Through it all, I could hear the cat in the background, his loud meow's coming through the telephone lines clearly and coherently. It was more than I could say for Michael.

I'm struck by the thought that those of us who are wound the tightest unravel the fastest.

Sophie

It was - to paraphrase a famous literary line - a gray and stormy day, only in the 40's with a nasty wind and rain coming down in sheets. Sitting in the middle of the street - well, huddled would be more accurate - was one of the most pitiful sights I had ever seen, a small white dog, drenched to the bone and shaking like a leaf, sitting in the pouring rain and crying softly. When I knelt and called her, she came running across the grass timidly and I gathered her up and brought her inside, ran warm water in the bathtub and dumped her in. From their kennels, my own dogs let loose an ear splitting stream of protest and abuse but I was committed. I removed her collar and tags, shampooed her thoroughly and dried her off with a soft brush and the hair dryer, gave her water and a dish of food. The cats circled warily, curious but cautious, while the dogs went loudly mad with excitement.

Her tags gave me her name - Sophie - and her address and telephone number, several blocks away. After leaving a message for her owners, I settled her on the couch with my own dogs. There was much pushing and shoving but no growling or biting and after several minutes, all three dogs were sleeping peacefully - remarkably! - nose to nose. Sophie's owner arrived not long after and I handed her over almost but not quite reluctantly, hoping that it was a one time thing, hoping that they were good people who wouldn't really neglect her or be careless with her. I always want to hope that.

Acts of God

Why do people have to die? I asked the new Sunday school teacher. He smiled at me with the tolerance of age, It's God's will, he told me kindly.

Why do people have to die? I asked the priest. That's not for us to question, he told me firmly.

Why do people have to die? I asked my fourth grade teacher. Why do you think? she asked in return.

Why do people have to die? I asked my grandmother. Nana frowned and said, How in heaven's name should I know? Maybe God isn't paying attention.

Why do people have to die? I asked my daddy. He lifted me onto his knee and stroked my hair, a gentle gesture, then kissed my forehead. I think, he said softly and in all seriousness, it's to make room for someone else.

Only the last answer made any sense to me - it seemed reasonable then and it still does. There's a small bit of comfort in the idea that we make room for others, that we use the space and time that is lent to us and then pass it on. It's not good enough, of course, nothing really ever is in the matter of death and dying, and there are times when my grandmother's answer seems more apt - acts of God and nature can be unbearably cruel and sadistic, passing the understanding of even those with perfect faith - but for a child, a simple but straightforward answer is often best.
Possibly it's the best answer for us all.

Mark Twain wrote that "Land is the only thing they're not making more of." Limited space is comprehensible, easily demonstrated, and pretty much everywhere we look no matter how old we are. We should use it well, wisely, and leave it better than we found it. Like time and life, we will give it up one day.

What happens after? I asked the the Sunday School teacher. Why, we go to heaven and have life eternal with Jesus and the saints, he told me somberly.

What happens after? I asked the priest. Have faith, he said.

What happens after? I asked my fourth grade teacher. What do you think happens? she asked in return,

What happens after? I asked my grandmother. Nana frowned and said, You'll find out when you get there.

What happens after? I asked my daddy and he smiled at me and shook his head. I don't know, hon, but it happens to us all so whatever it is, you won't be alone.

A Whirlwind of Negative

As months of the year go, February is my least favorite. The weather tends to be dismal, the paychecks smaller and I feel caught in a gray area between a winter storm and the coming spring - not knowing what to expect from this nasty tempered and unpredictable month. The leather jacket and long sleeves I begin the day with are suffocating by lunch, yet by sundown I'm shivering. I dislike this randomness, this up and down-ness of weather, these dark mornings and darker nights. Depression and doubt are strongest in February, waiting in the shadows for the opportunity of an unguarded moment - the chance to spring into my head and create a whirlwind of negative. October is a sad maiden, melancholy and wistful, but February is a vile tempered old crone, made of menace, sour milk and mood swings.

I battle this creature with music and antidepressants and as much sleep as I can find, trying to keep warm and dry and not give in to the temptation to hide until April. But there is a starkness to this month, a lean and mean quality that makes me think of old men in shabby overcoats and bread lines, empty streets and deserted buildings, the homeless in search of a heating grate, too thin cats and bare tree branches. Everything about this wretched month is pitiful, chilling and too long in passing. There is no inspiration in February.

Spring will come and these feelings will fade. The old crone will be banished to some isolated corner where she will grumble, threaten and make idle threats but no one will listen because by March the birds will be singing and the crepe myrtle will be making its annual comeback. My poor old neglected lawn will turn green once again, despite my total lack of maintenance, and the wild roses will bloom in my neighbor's garden. Scrawny cats will turn fat and sassy once more and I will barely remember these days of half light and uncertainty or how they made me feel.

On the other hand, without the dreariness of February, how could we ever truly appreciate the color and sweetness of April? Let the whirlwind swirl and make its mischief while it can - the weather gods made this a short month for a reason.

Canadian at Heart

The far away softness of a morning train whistle intruded into my dream, faint but persistent, like a memory just out of reach and still out of focus. The curtains fluttered in the early ocean breeze and I could hear seagulls arguing over scraps, the throaty hum of a boat engine leaving the breakwater, and the steady rhythm of an axe splitting firewood. These were the sounds of summer, of home and growing up, of comfort in knowing where I was and belonging.

Outside the small motel cabin, the sun was breaking through and burning off the fog, revealing a bright blue sky littered with hazy clouds. I imagined I could feel the day beginning to warm, nearly sense the dew evaporating on the grass and the chilly ground heating up. The train whistle sounded again, closer this time, and from the other side of the trees I could just make out the silhouette of a locomotive as it slowly wound its way from The Valley, keeping to its schedule as it always had. You could plan a life around the Canadian Pacific, my grandmother had often told me, And you'd never be late.

It was late August and there hadn't been much traffic on the road from Yarmouth. The familiar villages were now behind me - Church Point, Bear River, Weymouth - I had taken my time driving, having no particular timetable to keep to and suspecting that it might be years if not a lifetime before I would find myself on these roads again. I had breakfast in Digby, watching the scallop boats come and go with the tides, then slowly headed down Highway 217, "The Digby Neck" as it was commonly known. I was thinking of how many times I had made this trip, through Gulliver's Cove and Little River, and Sandy Cove and finally to the extraordinary hairpin turn at East Ferry, where the road unexpectedly ended at the very edge of the ocean and more than one carelessly overconfident driver had plunged over the guard rail and been taken by an unforgiving tide. After one particularly spectacular night time crash, I remembered Uncle Shad telling Nana that it was a miracle anyone ever survived - Them whats lived to tell the tale, don't, he said grimly, It'd be temptin' fate to brag and it don't make no sense to try and outrun your own timetable.

Across the passage, Tiverton sat in the afternoon sun, a picture postcard of a tiny fishing village. Bait shacks lined the coastline and a dozen or so dories rocked on the whitecaps. A Nova Scotian flag waved from the old post office building and a small circle of old men mended nets on the end of the wharf. After Tiverton, there would be Central Grove at the halfway mark, two or three houses and a lily pond and you were past it, and then I would be on the top of the hill that overlooked Freeport - green and blue and sparkling from the square to The Point - a picture I can still see if I close my eyes and wish hard enough. The small white church on the left, just below the cemetery, the cove at high tide, Curt's candy store by the schoolhouse, the baseball field. The road stretched out like a shimmering ribbon, down for a ways, then flat for a ways - past McIntyre's and the dance hall, past where the post office used to be, then gradually rising up toward the sun and around a gentle, downward curve to where I could see the Sullivan's house and the remains of Willie Foot's, Uncle Len's pale green gingerbreaded one, and at the very foot of the hill, down a steep gravel driveway with a strawberry field on one side, what was once Nana's beloved summer house. It sat, almost untouched by time, just as I remembered, overgrown with high grass except for the shortcut path which led from the top of the driveway to the front road. Knowing that a new generation of villagers still cut through to save the long hike around the curve made me glad - Nana had always fussed about this minor trespassing but never with much conviction or heart. John Sullivan's boat was gone, replaced with a shiny aluminum storage shed, strangely out of place in the weeds and debris. There was not a remnant of the canteen and the ferry slip looked to be new. Sparrow's old house still stood but appeared empty and badly neglected while wildflowers grew in place of Old Hat's chicken wired garden.

Despite my citizenship, I will always be a Canadian in my heart.

Second Hand Dishes

He spent his life collecting things - original signed art works, statues, French furniture, designer apparel - gathering them together in a showplace home in an upscale neighborhood, surrounding himself with the finest beauty and art. None of it offered much comfort when the money ran out and the bills came due and onto the auction block it all went, to pay the light bill and buy groceries.

There is an intense sadness to this, a reminder of how wealth cannot buy happiness and a lesson about the value of things. Those who live the highest, fall the lowest, my grandmother might say, and material things are still only things, no matter their pedigree or market worth. They can't buy a good nights sleep or a contented soul, can't fill the real emptiness of a life gone badly off track. They may be a long way from cinder block bookcases and second hand dishes in a four story walk up but in the end, they're still just things - passing from hand to hand, house to house, and finally being sacrificed for utility bills, a carton of cigarettes, a gallon of gas or the next fix. Image, as my grandmother did say, Don't feed the bulldog.

The public will descend like a flock of crows picking over the remains. They will examine and inspect and hand over their cash for all these treasures, carting them off in pick up trucks and suburban suv's. They will chatter, judge and appraise, bargain, barter and complain at the prices, not realizing or perhaps not caring that these things constitute the measure of a man and his flaws and failings. If fortune should smile, there may be enough profit for him to start again - if he has learned the lessons of things, he may succeed again, even though it's a long and rocky road back.

Smart Money

My friend Michael - unsentimental, fussy, intolerant and often meticulous to the point of prissy - has been adopted by a cat.

This unlikely pairing happened during the recent storm when a black cat appeared on his doorstep and brazenly slipped through an open door and immediately made himself at home. Michael, only half as hard hearted and unsympathetic as he would have people believe, fed him a corn dog before depositing him back into the snow - but the cat, being a cat, was still there the next morning and complaining loudly about his treatment - so he was let in again. No special menus here! Michael told him firmly and produced a slice of pizza, You eat what I eat. And so, several cat toys and one litter box later, begins the journey.

This budding relationship may or may not succeed. Cats are accustomed to getting their own way, they dislike being shooed away, they assume that nothing is off limits and dismiss obedience as an unworthy ambition. Michael is not a fan of accommodation in any form and has always lived alone, unfettered by obligations to anyone but himself. The introduction of a cat into his household changes the equation and may very well disrupt the balance of power dramatically. In the battle of man vs cat, early in the game as it may be, the smart money's on the cat.

Sunshine, Alka Seltzer & Hot Soup

All I could see from the window was white.

Four days of confinement with aspirin, cold medicine, a raging bout of bronchitis and hours of restless half sleep had finally made me delusional, I decided and crawled a little deeper beneath the covers. It looked all the world as if the outside world was blanketed in snow. Not to worry, I croaked to the small brown dog through a violent coughing spasm that stole my breath and racked my already sore ribs, It's just the moonlight playing tricks. She whined softly and didn't appear to be convinced, burrowing closer between me and the pillows, shivering slightly. Struggling to breathe through a haze of congestion and a headache that refused to give an inch, I closed my eyes against the brightness and tried to ignore the cries of the cats - they sounded hungry which wasn't possible in the middle of the night, I told myself - and then the dim and muted sounds from the television in the next room began to slowly penetrate my fogged in brain. School closings? Weather advisories? Another coughing fit struck and I pulled myself upright, gasping for air and suddenly feeling blinded - all I could see from every window was white. A television voice was warning of ice on bridges, power outages and the perils of winter driving. It was then I realized it was full morning and I was in hell.

I dragged myself to the kitchen, to the aspirin and alka seltzer and kleenex. The dogs followed anxiously and when I opened the back door, the black dog bolted out, skidding on the snow covered deck and into the yard, joyous and curious at the same time, exhilarated and eager. The entire landscape had altered - everything was covered in snow, shrubs were flattened and tree branches were hanging on the ground with the weight of it. It was still falling and there was that eerie stillness in the air that I remembered from New England storms. The small brown dog took one quick look, sniffed the icy air cautiously, and then scampered back to the safety of the bed. It was a reaction I completely understood.

As the temperature climbed during the day, I listened to the snow sliding off the roof - each miniature avalanche sending the black dog into a frenzy and the brown dog deeper into the bedclothes - and said a small prayer for sunshine, alka seltzer and hot soup.

The Fate of the Other Shoe

It lay on its side, just on the outer edge of the passing lane, forlorn and misbegotten, muddy soled and abandoned, its yellow laces blowing in the breezes of the passing cars - a sad and solitary workboot, discarded and defenseless, alone and at the mercy of the traffic. Had it been a suicide, I wondered - the final tragic act of a desperate shoe - or perhaps an accident, caught in a gust of wind and blown out of the back of a pickup, not missed until it was too late. Had it tumbled out of an overfilled trash bag or been the victim of a would be shoe thief. And where was its mate, its companion on the road of life, its partner for all the miles - did it grieve in some dark closet or lay buried in some odiferous landfill? Would I perhaps drive by it a little further down the road, passing it like some ragtag hitchhiker and ignoring its pleas for a ride? Would I even notice it?

Deciding that this was a little grim, I considered other explanations. My daddy had often quoted me his theory that for that every single shoe at the side of the road, there was a one shoed man, searching and anxious to be reunited. He also thought it was possible that these orphan shoes at the side of the road might be the innocent victims of a one footed man, who, hating to be reminded of his handicap, had ordered the unnecessary shoe out, much like Lady Macbeth - Out! damned spot, Out I say! - he would cry in his best Shakespearean voice, only substituting shoe for spot while he fiercely rubbed the soles of his dress shoes together. When he asked my opinion of this latest theory, I had told him I thought it was unlikely but theatrical and he was so pleased he immediately launched into the remainder of Lady Macbeth's lines, finishing with a cackling, Yet who would have known the old man to have had so much blood in him! His last theory was my favorite - Alien abduction! he declared, So swift and efficient that only one shoe was left behind!

It fell off during the struggle, no doubt, my grandmother remarked with a small smile.
Exactly! he cried and with a sweeping gesture he removed an imaginary hat and bowed to her. She laughed and threw a ball of yarn at him, Oh, go on with you, you fool, act your age! but I could see she was pleased to be included in the game.

The discarded workboot faded in my rearview mirror and passed out of sight, just another silly shoe at the side of the road. Whether it had come to be there by happenstance or deliberate act, I would never know. It would hang on for a few days and then one morning I might or might not notice that it was gone. Single or otherwise, I'm glad not to be a shoe.

Fred & Ginger

Put on your dancin' shoes, Alice! Uncle Shad called coming through the back door unannounced with the dogs at his heels, I'm takin' you on the town!

My grandmother scowled at him. You drunk, Shadrack? she demanded crossly and he laughed and gave her a bear hug then twirled her around and slipped her apron over her head. I'm celebratin', Alice, and you're helpin'!

Uncle Shad, a small man with china blue eyes and a ready grin, had lived with his common law wife for more than thirty years, regretting every hour but too obligated to leave. She was a scrawny woman, made of hard bones and harder feelings, a complainer and a nag with a hot temper and an acid tongue. At one time, she had been a slim and pretty thing, courted and sought after, but island life had not been kind and the only thing Shad was dug in about was leaving the island - he gave in to her every demand but on this he would not be moved. The bitter quarrel was now in its 31st year and showed no signs of exhausting itself. That morning, he told Nana, she had finally packed her belongings and caught the first ferry, headed for greener grass and more friendly pastures - she had, he admitted, taken every cent he had in the world but it was a small price, all things considered, and he was happy to pay it. Got me a last $20 dollar bill and I'm a free man, my girl, so let's go show those youngsters a thing or two about dancin'! To my utter astonishment, my grandmother agreed, changing out of her house dress and apron and slipping into ruby red shoes, an ankle length black skirt and a sequined blouse. They left for the dance hall arm in arm and laughing like teenagers.

It was said that they danced the night away to Hank Williams, Sonny James, and Patsy Kline - tirelessly strutting their stuff to Jerry Lee Lewis and waltzing everyone off to the floor to Jim Reeves' "He'll Have To Go". By the end of the night, Nana shed her ruby shoes and danced barefoot, her sequins glittering and her petticoats flaring. I had never seen this side of her, didn't even know it existed, and I was torn between being proud and humiliated. In the end, proud won - Nana and Uncle Shad made too handsome a couple for anything else.

The days following the amazing dance were grim with recovery, aspirin and arthritis rubs. Nana hobbled for nearly a week, her ankles swollen, her shoulders and neck stiff with pain. Shad wasn't seen for three days, taking to his bed with hot water bottles for his joints and poultices for his feet. I hope it was worth it, Mother, my own mother said with a snide look, You could have broken a hip or had a heart attack.

Keep your sour grapes to yourself, my grandmother told her tartly and added more epsom's salts to her foot bath.

Legacies

The shock of hearing the word cancer and the name of a dear musician friend of mine in the same breath stuns me and leaves me feeling betrayed and outraged, furious at the unfairness of fate, and helpless. It's a combination I've heard too often with people I care for, people who have lived good lives and who deserve far better. There is an emptiness without them.

I listen to the meant to be comforting words about how it's not how long you live but how well, about making the most of the time you're given and making a difference, but they're hollow. They don't compensate for the loss or the pain and no matter what you may leave behind, it isn't the same as staying to finish what you've started, not the same as being here for those who love you. The missing never really ends although with time it may lessen. Given enough time and practice, you can learn to live with anything, my daddy would say, and while that's true, it's still an obscenity to be taken before your time, an affront to the lives you have touched and changed. Those we love are never gone if we keep them in our hearts, I'm told, but it's cold comfort - a legacy, no matter how impressive or soul stirring it may be, is still not much more than a memory, not touchable or huggable, not there to listen or share or bring solace. I treasure my memories but would trade any one of them, anytime, for the real thing - maybe it's this more than anything else that we all have in common. To be left behind is an experience we all understand and at the same time can't begin to comprehend.

Cancer doesn't care about memories or legacies, about families or friends or suffering, about the music that might not be be played, the poetry that might never be written, the art that might never be exhibited. That falls to the rest of us along with the process of keeping company with the illness, of smiling when we want to cry, of having faith despite the odds, of being there to witness these lives, imperfect as they may be. No refunds, no returns, no exceptions.

So we will gather together, make music, raise money for hospital bills and doctors and chemotherapy. We will comfort and be grateful for each other and try not to look too far ahead. It won't be enough but it will have to do.

The Boy Who Lived in the Barn

Jonah's entry into the world and the tale of the boy who lived in the barn was a story Nana loved to tell.

He had been born, so island legend said, under an evening star in the aftermath of a blizzard so fierce that the snow drifts reached halfway to the eaves of the old house, preventing his daddy from being there and even keeping the midwives away .Nina was attended to by her own hands and she brought her son into the world with exquisite pain and unwavering determination, cut the cord with her pinking shears, then wrapped the baby in blankets and lay down to die. And she might have, Uncle Shad said, ' Cept for the horses wakin' up that boy.

The horses had become restless during the night and woken the boy who lived in the barn, a young drifter who helped out with chores and kept an eye on the stock. In the after storm stillness with the snow heavy and bending the trees to the ground, with not the slightest sound except the far away ocean, he listened to the horses whinnying and pawing at their stalls and then he heard the baby cry. The boy climbed to the window in the loft, forced it open and listened - the cries were steady and desperate and the horses were becoming more and more agitated. With no particular plan in mind, he saddled one of the horses and managed to open the barn doors enough to pass through - the horse immediately sunk to his flanks in snow but somehow they made a narrow path to the farmhouse. He found Nina and the wailing newborn and without the first idea of what to do or how to do it, he washed the baby in warm water and wrapped him in clean flannel, then still holding him, covered Nina with clean blankets, re-kindled the fire, and heated up soup. He settled the child in the crib while he took the horse back to the barn and then trekked back, warmed milk in a saucepan and filled a bottle. The boy who lived in the barn spent the next three days caring for the baby, for Nina, for the horses - guided only by instinct, common sense, and prayer. On the third day, Rowena and Miss Hilda arrived with linens, herbs, firewood, two bottles of brandy and a basket of food. They were stunned and amazed to discover Nina, conscious although in need of a bath and shampoo, the baby asleep in the boy's arms, the fire blazing and the smell of cooking. Well done, young man! Miss Hilda exclaimed with a rare smile, Good show!

The boy studied his feet shyly. T'wasn't me, m'am, he said slowly, The horses knew somethin' was wrong.
Rubbish! Hilda snapped back, Don't be immodest, boy. She looked askance at him ( What's a scants, Nana? I interrupted and from the sunporch my daddy collapsed in a fit of laughter. It means suspicious, hon, he called,
probably the way your grandmother is looking at you right now.) before beginning to unpack bread and butter and glass jars of chowder. Rowena gathered the baby up and hugged the boy, Get some sleep, she advised him kindly,
You've earned it.

By the time that Josh got home another two days later, everyone knew of Jonah's birth and how the boy who lived in the barn had cared for him and his mother, likely saving two lives and generally being regarded as a hero. Wanting to thank him, Josh made his way to the barn only to find the stalls mucked out, the horses fed and watered, and the boy gone. No one remembered seeing him leave, Cap didn't recall him crossing on the ferry, there was no note - he had simply up and vanished, no easy thing to do on a twelve mile long island - and it was to remain an enduring mystery.
As all good mysteries should, my daddy said with a wink.