Jared had been born in an isolated and weather beaten shack at the edge of the tree line in Clear Cove. He came into the world at the height of a storm with no more sound than the tide rushing in and the wind whipping through the trees, a mere five pounds, blind in one eye, missing three fingers on one hand and club footed. He was, his fourteen year old mother had scrawled on the cover page of her Bible and then wrapped in a tattered blanket with him, marked for glory. Having done her penance, she carried the newborn to the church then returned to Clear Cove and walked through the still raging storm into the unforgiving ocean. Her battered body washed up on the rocks by the ferry slip the following morning, just as James and Lily discovered the infant on their doorstep. Sweet Standin' Jaysus, Cap exclaimed to the shocked crew, If it ain't Paulie Sims' youngest girl!
Paulie Sims, parttime mail car driver and full time drunkard as people liked to say, had fallen into the gurry scow some six months past and suffocated in fish guts and gore. The overall opinion was that he had met an appropriate demise - he was buried without ceremony or mourning in the only grave that Miss Clara refused to tend and his common law wife and family had abandoned the island without a backward glance or a single goodbye. All, apparently, except his youngest daughter. Bad news travels faster than light in a small fishing village and by the time James preached his Sunday sermon, speculation about the girl's death and the deformed, orphaned child was rampant and ugly. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, Aunt Pearl told my grandmother, but he was as useless a no account as I've ever know and what else could it be? Nana hurriedly hushed her and sent me outside to pick berries. Such talk in front of a child, she scolded Pearl sharply, I won't have it!
Against all odds, the child not only survived under Lydia's care but thrived. The pastor's wife had a gift for throwaway children and a tender heart - she treated the little boy as one of her own and he responded in kind. Any talk of his birth or suspected parentage was forbidden and in time, forgotten.
Jared was bright and curious, uncomplaining of his defects, remarkably sunny natured and if, James would occasionally say, he was subject to abject terror of storms and had periodic brief spells of drifting off and becoming blank and unaware of his surroundings, surely that was understandable. No one saw the dark clouds on the horizon until the first seizure struck and Lydia discovered him rigid limbed and stiff, his heels ramming into the floor and his body flailing. The horrifying episode lasted last then twenty seconds and while it left no visible damage, both James and Lydia watched the boy come back to himself with dread. Fire coming, Jared had spoken quite clearly toward the end, He'll lose the corn. A week later, a fire broke out in Bill Albright's still and the explosion rocked the mid section of the island. Coincidence, James told Lydia firmly, Nothing more. They spoke of it to no one.
Subsequent seizures followed, each more terrifying, each accompanied by a prediction - a well did go unexpectedly dry, a barn raising went awry and injured several men, the schoolhouse roof on Brier Island collapsed. Taken each by itself, a simple series of accidents. Jared's fourth seizure was not so easily explained, She'll never breathe, he muttered, It's a blessing. The only Sullivan girl's first daughter - armless and without legs - was stillborn a month later. Quietly desperate, James and Lydia packed Jared for a trip to Halifax where a diagnosis of epilepsy was made. All but one doctor dismissed the prophesies - a young resident who had studied in India suggested that even the best medicine couldn't explain everything. It's natural to fear what we don't understand, she told them kindly, But every child is a mix of mystery and miracle.
Being an honest man, a man who had faith in his flock and trust in God, James shared the story and repeated her words to his whole congregation several Sundays later while Jared sat quietly with Lydia at his side. Islanders, all of whom had seen their own fair share of mystery and miracles, listened intently as James detailed the regimen of medicine and diet the doctors had prescribed and closed with a prayer for forgiveness and understanding. Jared's days of prophesy were over, the seizures slowed then stopped altogether, village life went on.
Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind - Dr Seuss
The light plane, a trail of thick, black smoke streaking from its midsection, careened toward the ocean that August day and impacted with a thunderous crash, narrowly missing the crew of a passing lobster boat and alerting both islands to its demise. Flames bellowed atop the water, there was an explosion that lit up the late afternoon sky, and the factory whistle began a high pitched, chaotic wail. In just minutes, the smoky passage was alive with rescue boats - sirens blared for help, the factory women left their work, the men laying out salt fish in Aunt Lizzie's front yard shed their rubber aprons and gloves and ran for the breakwater in a dizzying rush. My grandmother, who had been washing the sunporch windows, threw down her long handled brush and yelled for me to call Elsie, the island's switchboard operator. Right now, child! Nana shouted, Tell her it's a plane crash!
By dusk, the pilot and his passenger had been pulled from the plane - remarkably both alive although badly injured - and the wreckage had sunk, leaving a greasy film of fuel on the water, patchy and still burning in some places. Smoke drifted toward Gull Rock and the air was hazy with ash and soot, small pieces of debris drifted to shore - a single intact suitcase, a singed leather jacket, a lightweight and blackened life raft. Island children collected everything they could retrieve and John and Jacob Sullivan made a list of anything they could identify and a second list of what they could not. The incredible day ended with two survivors and an oil slick. Engineers and accident investigators from the Canadian Aviation Safety Board arrived the following day and fishing was barely interrupted.
There were heroes that day and no casualties. A small isolated community came together at a moment of crisis and chaos and made sense of it all. People spoke of it for years, considering how it might've been different if it had been at night, if the wind had been more forceful, if the plane had landed on ground. Fate smiles on its own timetable.
Of shopping for himself, my daddy would say dryly, I am a man of humble beginnings and modest needs. Let us go and visit my friend Maxie.
Maxie's Second Hand Suits & Goods was a dusty and dimly lit little shop that kept its windows soaped over ( to discourage break ins ) and favored hand lettered signs ( cheaper than neon ). It sat on the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Magazine, a narrow, one way street of tenement housing and liquor stores that catered to the homeless and the led astray. My daddy would don a shabby overcoat and take off his tie and lead me across the sleaziest section of the square, past the neglected but always well attended Greek Orthodox church, the Bickford Cafeteria, the out of touch antique shop, the only still doing moderately well florist, the Army Navy Surplus Store and a half dozen questionable but always busy bars. Streetcars were still electrified then and we crossed the above ground tracks with care - the square was always claiming the life of some careless drunk or weaving prostitute in high heels and black stockings - the demise of an arrogant but indiscreet bookie was not uncommon nor always accidental.
Maxie himself, a wizened and tiny old man with red apple cheeks and a witch's cackle of a laugh would greet us from his cracked leather barstool behind the ancient counter. The shop smelled of tobacco, shoe polish and disorder -
everything was in a jumble of disarray and clutter with towers of shoe boxes stacked to the low ceiling, plastic wrapped dress shirts haphazardly piled in a shadowy corner, several racks of ties attached to the walls with fishing line. A mannequin in fox hunting attire hid and guarded the entrance to our final destination, Maxie's back room.
Here it was pristine - dust free, well lighted and orderly - rack upon rack of three piece suits and dress coats, jackets and ties, a size arranged shelving unit of designer label shirts, a glass display case of mens hats. Twin mahogany chests with gleaming brass handles held undergarments and an entire wall was devoted to tuxedos and formal accessories. The changing room was paneled in oak, the floor plushly carpeted, classical music emanated from wall mounted speakers and a small sitting area with two high backed velveteen covered chairs beside two glass and chrome end tables sat invitingly amid it all. Maxie's brother, Mr. Rosen, emerged from yet another well hidden room, a tape measure around his neck, starched collar open at the throat, a small pin cushion and a piece of chalk in one hand, a silver plate of iced cookies in the other. We are delighted that you have come to visit us, he said and smiled. I leave you in good hands, Maxie added as he set a china pot of hot cocoa and two delicate rose patterned cups beside me. A small bell tinkled from far away and with a smile and a slight bow, he hurried away to the public and, I realized much, much later, the legal -part of his shop.
And now, my old friend, Mr. Rosen said to my daddy, What can I help you with today?
We left with two new dark suits, one with a muted and elegantly formal gray striped vest, one a simple two piece in charcoal, a conservative and quiet tie, several pairs of black socks and a pale blue dress shirt with French cuffs - all in nondescript, plain brown paper handle bags. Remember, my daddy told me sternly, Your mother doesn't know about Maxie and doesn't need to. She still thinks I shop at Robert Hall. Accustomed to keeping secrets such as this, and bought off with cookies and cocoa, I nodded and crossed my heart. I wasn't old enough to know about illegal enterprises and things falling off trucks, about how some inventory might be on the shady side of the law and how a man from humble beginnings with modest needs might want to save a dime and take a risk all in one breath.
As walks on the wild side go, I suppose it wasn't much - I doubt receiving stolen goods or even buying them second hand would've received much of a penalty, the Boston underworld and the police who pursued them had far more lethal things to worry about and being as the funeral home also served as the City of Cambridge's morgue, we had highly placed friends on the police force - but there was something daring and mysterious and elegant about our visits to Maxie's, something that made the tiny forbidden-ness of it worthwhile. It might have been recklessness or adventure or just a private, playful afternoon with the young, handsome stranger who was my daddy.
Tall and a trifle thin, gray headed and shaggy, grinning a little shyly, Jesse Winchester took the stage and the magic began. For the next almost two hours, I listened to this incredibly gifted musician sing and tell gentle stories of grandchildren, falling in love, and life on the road, all told through the sweetest and most mellow music I've ever heard, all perfect poetry - lyrical, genuine, spiritual and uplifting. I felt myself falling in love all over again and was so lost that I barely remembered my old Nikon hanging around my neck was there for a reason. I watched couples hold hands and others lean forward in their seats then become motionless for entire songs, rapt with the sheer beauty of the music and spellbound by the softly sung words. I sensed enchantment falling over us like a see through veil and wished for the night to never end.
There were silly songs and sad songs, satirical songs and laugh out loud funny songs, love songs so impossibly beautiful that I was moved to tears - and when he began "Songbird" I was not alone in this. There were songs that seemed to be soft spoken prayers and songs that celebrated life and love and passing on. It was music that I thought might could change the world if enough people listened and it was impossible to leave without feeling a joyous sense of hope and peacefulness, a oneness, a belief that it all could come out right in the end, a certainty that there is purpose here.
This was a man, now in his 6th decade, who was in perfect pitch with the world, who wrote from the heart and sang as if no one was listening - a modest man with kind eyes and an old soul.
I will save this night in a place I reserve for the bad times, when I need a memory strong enough to dispel despair, give me strength and a reason to keep on trying.
The youngest black and white cat yawns mightily then stretches out on the bed, on her back, paws extended to capture some imaginary shadow. This belly up position is too much temptation for the youngest kitten and he pounces, landing squarely on top of her with a kamikaze shriek. She is taken completely unawares but instantly responds with a bear hug body lock, effectively pinning him beneath her and securing him with her teeth. The Great and Powerful Zackary is down for the count and when he finally frees himself - with a little assistance from the black dog who is disturbed by the commotion and feels compelled to referee - he gives them both a withering Arnold Schwarzenegger look and stalks off in search of more vulnerable targets.
Rounding the corner, he sets his sights on the tabby who immediately raises her hackles in anticipation of a full frontal attack but again, the black dog intervenes and provides the tabby time enough to make a rapid if undignified retreat. Restless and distracted, the kitten prowls onward, discovering the elder black and white cat at the water bowl, but catching sight of him first, she darts away and takes refuge behind a bookshelf. Last but but by no means least, the kitten closes in on the elder black cat, curled up and sleeping on the couch next to the small brown dog. As he makes his approach however, the older cat senses his presence, opens his eyes, and emits a low feline growl. The kitten pauses, does the math, then discreetly reverses direction and resentfully slinks away, his ambitions thwarted at least for the morning.
There is a lesson to be learned here, I think to myself.
Discretion is the better part of valor....
If at first you don't succeed.....
You can't always get what you want....
Adversity is opportunity in work clothes ....
Life is often complicated and working and playing well with others is seldom as straightforward or simple as it should be. There are times when we all could use a little adult supervision and a time out. If you don't believe me, you can ask a cat.
I studied the picture in disbelief tinged with pity and a touch of disgust - a pasty skinned and not thin middle aged man perched on a wooden fence with a blank, empty look. And, as my grandmother would have said, bare ass naked. I could only wonder why he would have had it taken, to what purpose and for whom. Feeling a little nauseous, I deleted the offensive image and tried to put it out of my mind. Were I to encounter him in this small city, what would I say, I wondered - would I ever be able to look at him again and not immediately flashback to this full frontal nudity? There was nothing pretty about it, nothing glamorous or professional or magazine slick or evocative. It reminded me of the nudist camp magazines my grandfather used to keep in his bathroom - raw, lonely, pitiful and sad - no artist's hand had enhanced this, no vanity airbrushing had been employed, no soft lighting or shadows had been used. I came full circle and was back to the why's.
In the galaxy of things I don't understand about human nature, I do understand that God created many fools and useless people, empty shells who walk and talk among us as if they were real, never venturing beyond their own space. They are idle and abandoned souls, propped up by their own vanity and sense of self importance, far too self involved to consider the rest of us, far too removed from emotions to care. They are isolated and self exiled by selfishness and the need for attention. We limit our contact with them, pity them, ignore them, laugh at them and even sometimes despise them but they don't notice. They are highly proficient imitators but their intellects and emotions were stillborn.
So, I muse, am I looking at a self portrait or an advertisement? If you have nothing to offer, do you offer up the simplicity of sex for its own sake?
My friend, Michael, self proclaimed expert on all things gay and natural born cynic, tells me that for gay men, it's all about image and sexual prowess. Each time a new man enters his life, however briefly, looks are the first thing he tells me about, sometimes the only thing. He prides himself on his conquests and keeps his life simple by never getting over-involved but even he has no explanation for this picture beyond vanity based idiocy and illusions of grandeur. Not that he has much to crow about, he tells me pointedly and I almost laugh.
So I tap the delete button and then empty the recycling bin. The picture is consigned to whatever black cyber space exists but the mystery of the why's remain and I am not unhappy to let it be so.
Optimism is evidence-based - Steven Colbert
Sitting in a 12 step meeting one night, I listened to various speakers debate whether action follows attitude or attitude determines action. It was a lively exchange, humorous at times but dead on for those of us still bewildered by circumstances and the newness of the concept that we had to change rather than change the drinker in our lives. We had mostly come to discover the secrets of how to make a loved one stop drinking, how to save a marriage, how to cope, how to face another day, how to keep the bills paid. We were unprepared to be told - with great kindness and gentle smiles - that the secrets lay within ourselves. We had come for solutions and been advised to look inward, as if the true problem was with us. It was unsettling to sit in a circle and be accepted but not pitied or comforted.
It was mostly a circle of women, some newcomers and some old hands, all ages and all colors, some clearly well off, others in obvious economic distress. They were well spoken and inarticulate, smiling and in tears, single and married, gay and straight. They all had partners or children or parents or friends that were addicted - there were horrific tales of drug use, tough love, black outs and failed attempts at rehab. I listened to bitterness and resignation, regret and rage as well as optimism and hope, humility and empathy. There was a great deal I resented and didn't understand - how these women could nod and smile and offer encouragement when their lives were in tatters made no sense.
How a mother could abandon a child or leave a partner was as equally incomprehensible to me as those who chose to stay and tolerate the brutal abuse of a still drinking alcoholic.
Despite their situations, their experiences, their environments, these were intact women, survivors one and all, clear headed and committed and amazingly willing to share their stories. They guided by example not well intentioned advice. They offered suggestions based on what had and hadn't helped them. They did not offer easy answers or quick fixes nor did they recommend staying or running. They freely admitted their own backsliding, learning from it but not clinging to it.
The meeting ended with the entire circle standing, joining hands and reciting the Serenity Prayer. The woman who had been seated beside me - pale faced and tired looking but still pretty and about my age - asked if I would like a cup of coffee. When I declined, she dug into her tote - I remember it still, oversized and lime green with a huge ladybug on either side - and produced a plastic bag of oatmeal cookies. Sweet tooth? she asked and I couldn't help but smile. I shook my head and she dropped the cookies back into the tote and produced a small slip of paper. My name's Kay, she told me, If you need to talk, please call me. I hope we'll see you again. I must have looked unsure or even put off because she took a quick step back and cocked her head at me and inexplicably I felt a sudden urge to cry. She nodded and shrugged her shoulders. What have you got to lose? she asked and with another smile she shouldered her neon tote and walked away with a brief wave.
When someone asks how you are and you can answer without first referencing the alcoholic in your life, that's a step forward, I heard at the next meeting. It was Kay, still pale and still tired looking, still carrying her green tote, still smiling. I did it today, for the first time in years and I may not be able to do it tomorrow but.....I did it today. There was quiet clapping for this small victory and her willingness to share it. I thought of how I reacted when people asked me the same question and realized I always began with my husband's progress or mood, never my own, as if everything I felt depended on what he felt. It was a moment of light.
There were more such moments to come - tiny flashes of insight and awareness, of self inspection and examination of my own motives. I was no box of chocolates myself - I had gotten myself into this and I could get myself out. With the help of this circle of women I gradually became stronger, more honest, and un-victimized. Clarity of thought and attitude was in reach.
Optimism may indeed be evidence-based but hope is it's foundation.
Mama Jean Duquesne, head of housekeeping at the mainland's one and only grand hotel for some 30 years, ruled by bulk, intimidation and loyalty. Weighing just under 300 pounds and not having been blessed with a sweet temper, she kept her staff in line by her size. She had, so it was said, been through a succession of husbands, going through men like fire in a dry cornfield until she met Earl, a matchstick of a man, a seiner from Church Point way with two ex-wives, carrot red hair and a fast car. It was, so Mama claimed, love at first sight and in no time Earl had moved in to the rustic cabin on the far side of Lighthouse Road, a cabin one of Mama's husbands - she couldn't rightly remember which one exactly - had built as a wedding gift. It was here, on Friday nights that Mama scrubbed down her old workhorse of a kitchen table, doused it with disinfectant and covered it with plastic tarp. It was here that for the right price, she performed abortions for a steady stream of desperate women who had been careless or too much in love to see straight or just not strong enough to face another mouth to feed. Trouble finds them, she had been overheard to say, and they find me. But this ain't no birth control club and I only fix one mistake per girl so they'd best be takin' a mite more care from here on in.
There were cases that needed extra care and for these infrequent few and far between, Mama did not charge. She considered rape and incest to be violations of every law of man and God and those who perpetrated such acts the lowest and most evil of men. Rumor had it that in some situations, she and Earl made actual follow up visits to the homes of the girls - Earl carried a small pistol in his belt and Mama Jean wore a wicked blade over her shoulder. I ain't looking for no repeat customers, she would say grimly, if you take my meanin'. Most did.
She made her only trip to the island the summer I was thirteen, arriving on the third day of an intense fog and making her way to my Uncle Norman's small general store. Like a gunfighter with a chip on his shoulder and havin' a real bad day, Uncle Shad told my grandmother, why, Norman went white as a sheet when she come in and made up some business needed to be done in the backroom. Mama Jean had followed him while Earl, one hand resting lightly on the butt of his pistol, made small talk with the handful of customers. She emerged several minutes later, unsmiling and silent and with a nod to Earl and a contemptous look at the surroundings, marched out the door and into the dense fog. Norman, badly shaken by the encounter and still white faced, followed. He rapidly undid his storekeeper's apron and tossed it on the counter, shouted at Jenny to mind the store, and as Uncle Shad reported, Ran for the hills like a scared rabbit with a pack of hounds on his trail.
Mama Jean's justice had come too late for Norman's daughter, Ruthie - she was eventually to take her own life many years later while Norman met a mysterious and bad end that led to an unmarked grave on the rocky coast of Peter's Island. His disappearance was never looked into much less solved and those who knew anything about it kept their silence and took it to their graves. No one came to look for him. On the day of Mama's visit though, the news reached everyone by sunset and even his most loyal defenders deserted, no longer able to deny the ugly secret that had been brought to light. Just a few short months later, Aunt Pearl wrote Nana that Ruthie had packed her meager belongings and caught a ride to the mainland in the mail car. She became a maid at the grand hotel, living with a handful of other girls in a converted guest cottage under Earl's watchful eyes, out of the shadows for a time, secure and safe if not happy.
Depending on your point of view, Mama Jean Duquesne was either an answered prayer or the voice of Satan whispering in your ear. Either a savior with a bloody miracle in her apron pocket or a sinner doing the devil's own handiwork. Either a determined advocate for women's rights or an unrepentent backroom baby killer. You paid your money and took your choice.
Romania may toughen its laws about witches, I read in the morning on line headlines, and Man killed by armed bird at cockfight. Witches and armed birds?
A little research turns up the facts that the witches are actually throwing mandrake root into the Danube to protest tax hikes and that the rooster had a knife strapped to one leg, presumably not his own idea. More power to the witches. The guy at the cockfight got what he deserved. I mourn the loss of a world that makes sense.
In line again at the drive thru, this time wedged between a Fedex truck and a tiny green electric car - the stuff of which nightmares are made - I listen to the driver ahead of me trying to order a salad with lite ranch dressing. The concept of McDonald's offering salads is clearly new to the employee in the booth as she struggles to comprehend the order for several minutes and in the end the car ahead simply stops trying and pulls up to the first window. Unhappily, my order for a medium diet coke is no less stressful. She repeats it back to me three times and when I reach the window she again asks me what my order was. I want to ask if she is stupid as well as deaf but feel this would be unfair so I pay her and proceed to the pick up window. A block later when I discover that my diet coke is in fact, Dr. Pepper, I drive a second block all the while telling myself to let it go, then take a sharp turn on two wheels and reverse direction. A teenager with an unpleasant smirk asks if she can help me and I slam the offending drink on the counter and tell her that I ordered diet coke and got Dr. Pepper.
Amazingly, she puts one hand on either scrawny hip and says something that sounds like Ya sure? In the nick of time, a supervisor appears, gives her a furious glare and begins apologizing at length while scurrying to replace my drink. I mourn for the loss of smartness, for manners, for whatever it takes to make an effort. I mourn that I didn't throw that Dr. Pepper when I had the chance.
Back at the office, I resume my insurance claim reconciliation. Thank you for calling (insert name of any health insurance company), a voice with a distinctive Indian lilt sing songs to me, My name is Irving, how may I assist you?
Irving? Really? In New Delhi?
I give up. Witches and armed roosters are the least of my problems.
The cat, long, lean and quick moving, darted in front of me apparently out of nowhere and without the slightest warning. I saw only a blur of stripes and slammed on my brakes - the old car shuddered to a violent stop, narrowly missing a collision with my neighbor's parked pickup and sending my heart racing. This is how heart attacks happen, I thought to myself, the last thing I'll see is a stray cat tempting fate and then it'll be over.
The cat, now in full attack mode, was half standing, half sitting at the foot of another neighbor's tree. A squirrel sat defiantly in the branches, chattering and scolding like mad, but showing no fear. The cat launched itself upward and the squirrel simply skittered up a branch and continued its angry lecture. I parked the car and exited, advised the cat to give it up - You're outclassed, I tell him, You can't win. He ignored me and continued to climb stealthily. With each step he took, the squirrel simply danced a little higher and more out of reach, all the while hurling squirrel abuse downward. When he'd tired of the game, he simply scampered to the tallest branch and leaped to the telephone wires, then the closest roof. The cat, now several limbs up and having lost his prey, realized his position - less than favorable - and began to meow piteously. We all have troubles, I told him mildly, You might have listened when I warned you. The meowing rose an octave, became an angry screech, then a distressed wail, then a series of impatient demands. Not listening, I told him with a shrug, Get down your own self.
An hour passed, then another. The sky darkened with the threat of rain and from my window I could see the cat still lodged in the tree, still hear the protesting meows. I tried to ignore the image of him being there all night - cold, wet, miserable and loud - and finally, much against my better judgement, I headed for the garage, located the extension ladder and hauled it down the driveway, through the gate, and to the tree. Cursing each step, wondering if I were to fall how many bones could I break and still survive, and reasonably sure I was being cleverly manipulated, I began to climb. I reached the cat and before he could protest, snatched him off the limb, choke holded him into submission and tucked him tightly against my chest, slowly started back down. On the last rung, I loosened my grip and he sprang away, hit the ground running and fled.
It's hard to do a favor for a cat.
Not this time! I tell the vacuum cleaner as it begins to spit sideways and deposit more cat hair on the carpet than it sucks up, Not this time!
Armed with the instruction manual, a kitchen knife and a screwdriver, I lay out newspaper on the floor and lay the machine on its back. My head swims with the cost and number of similar machines that have come and gone in the past year - as if their slogans were "Use Once & Throw Away". This one will be different, I vow, this one will not be dragged to the curb or the repair shop. This one will behave if it takes all my wits and every tool I have, including but not limited to a hammer.
Despite the diagrams, I locate the screws and begin the process of dismantling the hateful thing, one careful piece at a time. I clean the filter, check all the hoses and each belt. I remove the bits of string wound around the rollers and tap out the grains of kitty litter. The entire process completed, I reassemble it, plug it back in. It continues to spit defiantly. I give it a hard kick and begin all over again, this time without benefit of the instruction manual, operating on common sense and the certainty that there is a clog somewhere - it needs only to be found. Giving the hoses a second look, I spy a connection near the bottom, something I missed initially. Renewed in spirit and with fresh determination, I disconnect it - it takes some force but I am persistent - and after several twists and turns and several muttered curse words, it springs free, revealing a nasty little nest of cat hair, a dime, one lone earring and a single stick of gum. Flooded with triumph and relief, I attack it with a pair of kitchen tongs and clear it mercilessly. Just minutes later, the machine sucks with a vengeance and I am overwhelmed with my own cleverness.
Nothing is as sweet a victory as defeating a machine.
Here is a true thing: Better to go hungry than get behind a minivan in line at the drive thru at McDonald's.
I wasn't even in any particular hurry but as I listened to the mother - manicured, bejeweled and clearly out of her element - giving rattled and impatient instructions to the speaker, I felt myself aging. When she was through, she insisted that it all be read back to her, listening intently and making detailed corrections to each item. Minutes ticked by and the line behind me grew steadily. Hey, lady! a course voice shouted from a pickup truck, Lady, it's fast food - while I''m still young, how about it? She gave him a glare, he reciprocated with a gesture, several horns honked though in support of which side I couldn't be sure, and I decided screw this, Wendy's is just down the road and they have onion rings.
Profanity , my daddy often said, is the last refuge of a limited mind. He lived during a time when manners were important - books were written about them and classes were offered to teach courtesy and grace. Please and thank you were part of everyday conversation, not afterthoughts, you didn't cut in, you didn't argue in public, you didn't bring your cleavage to work and on a city bus or subway, a gentlemen routinely gave up his seat to a lady. You didn't park in handicapped spaces to save a dozen steps across the parking lot. A female never, ever smoked on the street and if you accidentally elbowed a stranger on a crowded sidewalk, you apologized. Even imitation cowboys removed their knock off Stetsons indoors. It was a civilized time, superficial perhaps, but civilized. When, I wonder, did manners and consideration of others get left by the side of the road, replaced by me first?
We are diminished by our rudeness and profanity only encourages mental and linguistic laziness. Agility of speech requires imagination, a lively and curious mind, and practice. Popular curse words are so common that they have lost any impact or element of surprise. We are mindlessly atrophying in our own gray and muted dullness, falling back on universal gestures to convey our meaning, tossing out insults like grain to chickens. With all the complexities and richness of our language, we would rather say, He don't talk much than He is blessed with an economy of speech.
Meanwhile minivan mothers will continue to glare and rednecks in pickup trucks will continue to shout insults. It's a fast food world and we're all stuck in the drive thru line.
It began snowing and sleeting during the night and by 5am we were in a southern wonderland with snow covering the whole landscape and still falling. The black dog charged out into the yard like a runaway train while the small brown one whined pitifully, giving me her most aggrieved look with each hesitant step. I hurried through the morning routine, not knowing if there was ice under the layer of snow on the car or how much time it might take to get on the road. It was very still and eerily quiet with no signs of life beyond the hazy porch lights on the houses and the occasional snap of a snow weighted branch. I hated to admit it but there was a certain beauty to it, an early morning serenity of sorts. I could hear the sleet whispering and imagined that the very air was breathing in and out, pleased with what it had accomplished in so short a time. Nature does go its own way as resolute and determined as a virus, setting the pace for the seasons and directing their progress with a stern and steady hand, reporting if at all, only to God. It's a reminder of how insignificant and powerless we really are, of how much time and energy we waste with worry and ambition and negative thinking, trying to change, improve or alter that which is immutable. We know this of weather yet often fail to recognize it in living.
I got on the road with snow still falling. To my surprise, the vehicular daredevils were nowhere to be seen and not a single soul was driving over a cautious 25mph or crowding each other. Everyone's headlights were on and the commute was uneventful, a passing nod of respect to the travel conditions and the rules of winter driving - leave yourself extra time, slow down, always steer into rather that away from a skid, watch where you're going - these were the rules my daddy taught me about driving in snow and they could just as easily be applied to every day living. Rushing here and there over hidden ice is treacherous.
By noon, the snow had stopped but there was no sun and everything was white and crunchy with only patches of slush. I came home much the way I had left, amazed at the accumulation and staying power of the snow. In all the years I have lived in the south, I couldn't remember a single instance of snow lasting more than a few hours. The city was for all practical purposes closed - no school, businesses locked and dark, parking lots deserted and mostly covered with a thin sheen of ice. Long, graceful and wicked looking icicles hung from trees and eaves and traffic lights, branches were bent, some nearly to the snow covered ground. The cold was an assault on the senses and I found myself wanting nothing more than to be at home under cover and warm.
Not all days are meant to be good - if they were, we would have nothing to be grateful for and no cause to celebrate the warm moments.
Drive carefully - it's all about the journey.
I listened to the sound of the old car trying valiantly to start - it was a heroic effort but futile. Resignedly I reached for my cell phone, then remembered that I had left it on the charger. Staying positive and trying to forget that it was the coldest day of the year, I returned to the Fedex store where I had just dropped off a package. Excuse me, I said, but my car won't start, I wonder if I could use your phone.
The blank look I got in return should have been a clue but I was cold and a little stressed. The young man who had accepted my package just a few minutes earlier gave me an impassive and arrogant stare. We don't allow personal calls, he informed me in a snide tone and turned his back. I'm not trying to make a date, I said a little sharply, I just want to call for a ride. The second look was pure condescension. We don't allow personal calls, he repeated and jutted out his chin defiantly. Fine, I snapped, Then give me back my package. For a brief second he looked startled. I can't do that, he told me indifferently, It's already in the system. I counted to ten then forced a smile and took several steps toward him. Either you let me make a phone call, I told him, or you return my package. Because if you don't, I'll make a scene that you and all these customers will remember for a very long time. He stared at me for several seconds then grudgingly retrieved the package. I snatched it from his hand and made an infuriated exit to the nail salon next door where they were more than happy to provide me with the use of a personal cell phone - they did it with a smile and without a second thought - and mindful of the temperature, even invited me to stay inside while I waited for help to arrive.
Was it an idle threat? As anti-confrontational as I am, I'd like to think so but as I get older and my idealism is constantly being evicted by cynicism, I find myself more willing to stand my ground. There were people in line at every counter and it wouldn't have taken much to create some attention - a raised voice announcing that my car wouldn't start and that Fedex would rather maintain their no personal calls policy than show the smallest amount of compassion to a customer. Later that night I settled for a nasty email to the company and suggested that they rethink their policy and/or exercise some discrimination in their hiring policies. In the cosmic scheme of things, it will have no effect whatsoever, Fedex is clearly not interested in the opinion of one consumer - cold and stranded as she may be - but I slept better for telling them what I thought.
The world was a nicer place when I was younger and the phrase "customer service" had not become a contradiction in terms.
Relax, it's Fedex, they like to say. Just don't expect the use of a telephone.
When someone you are trying to harden your heart against suddenly turns kind, it's annoying. How am I supposed to feed and care for a grudge when people won't stay in character? Fortunately, this sort of thoughtless turnabout behavior is not all that common - heaven help my resentful soul if it were.
I am hardly fool enough to believe that this is completely altruism-based or no more than the act of a decent and generous human being, but still I was caught with my guard down and momentarily at a loss for words before I managed a thank you and hoped it didn't sound as surprised to his ears as it did to mine. I tried hard to recall my last close encounter with him, a furious reprimand complete with wringing of hands and much shouting, tried to remember what I had felt during the attack, how angry and hurt I had been. But the incident had become no more than a blurry recollection of a few very bad moments and a handful of harsh words.
To dwell on past wrongs seems as if it wouldn't be much of a challenge, especially for the adult child of an alcoholic and I'm routinely frustrated when I can't maintain what I consider to be an acceptable level of resentment toward someone who has harmed me. How is it possible to get even when you can't remember the damage? How can you take revenge on someone when you've gotten past the injury? I refuse to think of this in terms of forgiveness - I will not surrender the habits of a lifetime just because the image of a kinder, gentler me likes to lurk around the edges of my mind and wave temptation in my face. The very least you should be able to rely on from an enemy is consistency.
Human nature is a mysterious and misunderstood thing.
When you get mad, my daddy used to like to tell me, Count to ten. When you get really mad, count to one hundred. I never was able to get much past thirty.
My temper gets the best of me far more often than I like and like all good children of alcoholics, I keep it to myself where it feeds on my dark side. I rationalize it, protect it, tell myself it's in self defense but the truth is that rage and resentment are eating me alive in small bites. Each workday brings a fresh wound and I dread the eight hours at the clinic, staying tensed for an attack, being so distracted that I make more rather than less mistakes, thereby giving the doctor all the more reason to lose his temper. More and more days run together in a blur of feeling targeted, defensive, angry and anxious. I have come to understand that it's time to move on - unfortunately, there are miles and miles between knowing and doing and my natural instinct to avoid change and newness kicks in with a self assured smirk. I hate my fears.
I have never been burdened with self confidence, never really believed I could actually do the jobs I've had, needing to be convinced by time and tenure. The thought of starting again terrifies me, the process of job searching is depressing and unsettling. The thought staying even more so. Too many of my decisions have been forced on me by circumstances, economic or otherwise. This small place between the rock and the hard place is getting too well worn for my taste, too suited to my anatomy. I am besieged by the need for a living wage, a suspicion that I'm not worth it, the weight of ever increasing debt, the knowledge that I'm not young, barely marketable, and have a world weary lack of faith in myself. There are too many days when it all feels like a facade. These are dark days to be out of work.
So I pull on my scrubs, apply make up and a false smile, and do my best to be invisible and unnoticed in the workplace. Don't screw up, I tell myself, relax, pay attention, get it done right and get on with it. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. My mind controls my attitude, I remind myself, and my attitude controls my actions. I have only this one day to contend with.
Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats - Voltaire
A lifetime ago it seems, I waited for her to be born - sitting in a waiting room at a local hospital, my husband pacing anxiously while I stitched. Nine months of anticipation had come down to these few hours - the first daughter of one of my dearest friends was about to come into the world.
She is a grown woman now, soon to have her own first child and I'm struck by the thought that life is circles within circles within circles. There are those among us who are born to parent and nurture, to pass on family traditions and stay close when needed, to sustain us. I expect this young woman will be of that sort, as is her mother. As are her sisters despite their very individual differences and personalities. As was her daddy.
When I was her age, childlessness was a step above treason and a woman who desired more than the traditional home, family and white picket fence was suspect. I spent considerable time and effort defending my decision not to have children although I was never able to clearly articulate why I didn't want them - it was simply something I had known for as long as I could remember, known with a certainty I had in no other area of my life. I didn't question it, didn't agonize over it, didn't wonder about it. I knew, as surely as I breathed, that I wasn't meant to have children and there was no good or bad to it, and absolutely no doubt. I sometimes wondered if I would find a man who shared my feelings or if marriage would be the trade off for knowing and keeping to my own mind.
My upbringing had taught me that children were a burden and a misery and it was something of a shock to discover that in some families they were treasured, included, even sacrificed for. My mother's constant demands for grandchildren was mystifying to me until I realized that it was all about appearances and the need to keep up. My brother finally satisfied her, producing two beautiful little boys - the very instant the first one was born, I was openly excused from the pressure to bear my own. In public, she doted on these boys, playing the unselfish and loving grandmother perfectly. Privately, she saw them as troublesome little urchins, always underfoot and in the way, undisciplined, overprotected, and consuming all their parents time and attention. She was, as she had been of her own children, jealous and resentful.
Children are designed to outlive and outshine us, to continue the circle, whatever it be made of. It reassures me to know that this child is wanted, will be loved, and will always know it. Miracles are all around us and we have but to look to discover them.
Twenty one ladies, the waiter protested half heartedly, Twenty one separate checks! Where's the justice?
We had to smile at his frustration. In contrast to the restaurant which was filled to capacity and beginning to sound more like a sports arena than an upscale dining establishment, the bottle shop was deserted, the lights dimmed to a mellow level on this Thursday evening. The restocking was done, the empty wine cases removed, the bottles dusted and the counters cleaned. We were, as we do most evenings, hoping for the occasional customer and killing time. Other than making change for a few cash tickets and filling a few requests for a particular bottle of wine, we were idle while the restaurant looked like a coordinated but futile effort to herd ants.
It was then that we noticed the cat, a good sized orange tom, casually strolling past the section of Reislings and headed for the dining area. This was so unexpected that it took a moment or two to comprehend, then remembering that we were governed by health department rules, we sprang into action. Regrettably, our hesitation had given the cat the advantage and with a defiant over the shoulder look, he broke into a brisk trot and was nearly to the hostess stand by the time we caught up. Abandoning any hope of discretion, we unceremoniously scooped him up and made a hasty retreat back to the bottle shop. Table for one? a customer at the bar asked as we passed, Check his id! another yelled from a corner. No shirt, no shoes, no service! yet another called, hospitality industry humor being somewhat limited. The Lord protects fools and drunks, I thought to myself as I carried the unwelcome guest to the mall's outer door and deposited him on the sidewalk with a firm command to scat. He gave me a look that managed to convey contempt, resentment and injured pride all in one very cat-like expression then turned and sauntered across the parking lot. Your loss, I imagined he was thinking.
By nine the crowd had thinned out and only a handful of tables were occupied. The twenty one ladies with twenty one separate checks had come and gone, their evening out completed, their server disgusted by the scant tip they had left, tempted to follow them into the parking lot and say that they had forgotten their change. Instead, he shrugged, cleared the table and like the cat, moved on.
You just can't shame a cat or a bad tipper.
And that's how the Indians won back their land, my daddy finished, now close your eyes and go to sleep.
The underdog always won in my daddy's bedtime stories, good villains overcoming tragically flawed heroes was a staple of my imagination and he catered to it when he storied me sleep. There were tales of cowboys and Indians,
knights and dragons, good kings and bad. No Cinderella stories for me, no fairy princess awakened by a true love's kiss - my world was far more black and white and real. He would finish the story, turn out the light and then I would hear his footsteps going down the stairs. Sometimes quiet followed, more often an argument broke out and there would be muffled shouting and tears - he was not an easy man to provoke but my mother was drunkenly persistent and never satisfied until she thought she had won. He was prone to giving in to maintain a tenuous peace, almost never seeing the harm in refusing to fight back. He hated taking sides and it was far less trouble and strife to let her have her way. He was too often snared between his wife and his children, forced to try and arbitrate a solution that satisfied no one, to mediate in what had become a merciless war - if the noose became too tight, he fled for the safety of work, drained and out of words. Inflamed by this desertion, my mother would blame us for driving him away, stagger up the stairs and drink herself into oblivion.
Bless the peacemakers, the Bible says, for they shall be called the children of God. I saw little evidence of this growing up. It seemed to be that peacemakers only lost on all sides and that every small victory was temporary at best. The pretense of family was fragile and transparent, held together by the social stigma of divorce and shame.
Even with my imagination, I couldn't conjure up the image of a time when my parents might have been young and happy and in love - it was a foreign thought in a unfamiliar language, almost an obscenity.
My grandmother, widowed and living a solitary life that seemed to please her, blamed herself. My daddy blamed his own failings. My brothers and I blamed our mother for the foolish decision to have children in the first place.
No one blamed the forbidden word of alcoholism.
The house on Lake Street, a modest white two story with black shutters, a fenced backyard and a maple tree suitable for climbing, kept its secrets and its stories. It invited no one in, preferring to stand and wait, perhaps hoping to become a home. One by one, we grew and made our escapes - my mother died, my daddy remarried,
the children moved on and new children moved in. It pleased me to think that different children would be hearing different bedtime stories, that the house had been given a fresh coat of paint, a facelift, and a second chance.
Every house deserves a shot at becoming a home, the neglected ones most of all.
I won't! the little boy on the playground yelled, And you can't make me!
Around him, the circle of children threw taunts and called him names but he stood his ground, defiantly crossing his arms and looking fiercely back at them. His lower lip trembled when the first rock was thrown and he began to cry with the second one but he was surrounded and there was no place to run. Slowly but without hesitation, the other children began to close in on him and just as I put down my camera and headed in their direction, a teacher noticed the commotion and ran to intervene. Time out! she shouted and broke through the small circle with ease. Children scattered in all directions like leaves in the wind. She took the little boy's hand in her's and led him away, speaking in a low, gentle voice and keeping a close watch around her - he clung to her skirts, eyes cast downward on his small, muddy, sneakered feet, wiping away tears with one balled up fist. I watched her sit him down on the entrance steps and put one arm around his shoulders. She ruffled his hair and gave him a hug, then produced a bright blue handkerchief from her pocket and casually put it into his hands. When he finally began to speak, the schoolyard grew unnaturally quiet, the eyes of all the children, those who had made up the circle and those who had not, seemed to focus in on the two figures on the steps. Not long after, the bell rang and the playground emptied. The teacher and the little boy were the last to leave, walking side by side through the double doors and still holding hands. I hoped that whatever it had been about was over but had my doubts - there are children who are as equally capable of mob mentality and cruelty as any adult - and sadly, there's a little bit of predator and prey in all of us, no matter our age.
Recess was over and the deserted schoolyard was now silent and dusty - it might have been a vacant lot save for
the swings and slide, the jungle bars and the well worn baseball diamond. There was a hint of sadness to it, a barely lonely feel as if it were calling to the children to come out and play again. I won't! I could almost hear the little boy shouting again, And you can't make me!
It didn't seem important what the stand off had been about - it had been important enough to take a stand for.
He cares more for his work then he does me, she tells me, he doesn't bother to remember my birthday, he won't help with the baby, he disappears when my family visits. She is dry eyed and calm, not exactly matter of fact but close to it, as if she's talking about someone else. He wants to be best friends, she continues, not married. And that's just not enough for me.
She seems grounded in this conversation, her voice is firm and her tone resolute if a little nostalgic. I begin to understand that she has thought this through, that the decision to end her marriage has been made. Papers have been filed, custody decided, living arrangements altered. She is not about to retreat or change her mind, choosing instead to openly admit her mistake and move on. She will neither make the best of it nor suffer in silence while life passes her by. I won't make my child miserable by staying in a loveless marriage and being miserable myself, she says with a shrug, She needs two parents who love her and I need a husband not a best friend.
This conversation, predictably enough, starts me to thinking about the odd and unlikely partnerships that we form during our lives and that leads to imagery - two people setting sail in a small boat, the wind at their backs and everything appearing to promise a long and peaceful journey. One, a hopeless romantic, imagines riding the waves and is overflowing with joy. Tumbling emotions spill out at every turn and she is starry eyed with hope. The other, a placid pragmatist, prone to tamping down his feelings and being most at home with comfortable silence, looks only to drift in quiet waters. They each, in their own way, think in terms of risk and reward, they are young, they love each other, they can overlook their differences. Marriage is the next natural step. Neither anticipates that two people steering in different directions will capsize the boat and while each has a moment or two of doubt, in the end they unite, take their vows, and begin new lives. In due time, a child is born, whether her roots are in passion or a blend of tradition and obligation, no one can say but her presence is clarifying. The small boat is barely large enough to accommodate three, especially when two are in mild but constant opposition and inevitably, it breaks apart on the thinly disguised reefs. Friendship, it turns out, survives the journey and continues. Love does not.
I imagine all this as I listen to her speak of loneliness and forgotten birthdays, of feelings that go unappreciated and unheard, and of meaningless conversations about irrelevant matters. If we're not careful, I think but don't say, we can drown in our own expectations.
It's nearly Christmas, a hard time to separate and start anew but the journey goes on, if not for better or worse, at least for the foreseeable future. We travel on the high seas or drift in quiet waters, together or apart, but the journey goes on.
Aunt Minnie loved to walk in the rain.
When everyone else ran for shelter, Minnie donned her bright yellow slicker and boots and went adventuring. You'll catch your death of cold! her aged mother protested, but Minnie just laughed and set off round the Old Road. She strolled and trotted and flat out ran up the hills and down, gathering wet flowers and rocks as she went, passing by the breakwater at full speed, arriving at the square breathless and alone. She crossed the cove, then up to the pasture, then back through the cemetery and down to The Point. Sometimes Willie Foot joined her and together they jumped in and out of the muddy ditches, holding hands and singing, but mostly she traveled alone. She always ended up at Sparrow's where the old man would give her hot vanilla tea and warm buttered bread, then she skipped home - wet to the bone, muddied up, and laughing with delight at her mother's worry.
Girl's not quite right, my grandmother would say crossly as Minnie passed by, She'll catch her death of cold one day.
Minnie waved cheerfully as she trekked up our path. I expect she will, Miss Hilda seconded. She had been caught unprepared by the sudden downpour and taken refuge with us for the duration of the storm. Most unwise to tempt fate and nature in such a fashion, she added and struck her leather boot with a sharp blow from her walking stick. Our ever practical Miss Hilda had neglected to bring her umbrella, Nana told me later, and she was testy at her own forgetfulness. More tea? Nana asked and Miss Hilda accepted with a grim smile.
Minnie crossed the strawberry field, hopped over the ditch, and gradually the fast moving yellow slicker faded into the fog and mist. Her mother would be pacing by the front windows and wringing her hands as mothers sometimes do - after the stillborn twins, this was her only child and despite the fact that Minnie had turned fifty something that summer, her mother saw only a child and a young child at that - she had never reconciled to her own aging and stubbornly refused to accept Minnie's adulthood. She was unfailingly free with motherly advice - always read with the light over your left shoulder, don't fidget, take a sweater, clean your plate, be home before dark, look both ways before you cross the road, never accept a ride from a stranger, don't forget to say your prayers. It wasn't clear when Minnie had simply stopped listening - at some point, her rainwalking had turned into cheerful defiance and to her mother's despair, her regularly dispensed advice went unheeded.
You're an ungrateful child, her mother would complain, and you're going to catch your death of cold.
Mama, Minnie would reply patiently, I'm a grown woman. Let me be.
It was a drama that was played out between them daily and never took a sharp turn. Minnie had been raised to be respectful to her elders and she did her best to be a dutiful daughter. Even after the advice turned to criticism, even after her mother became querulous and quarrelsome and often forgot her name but never all the things she was doing wrong, even then Minnie brushed it off and overrode her by taking no offense and maintaining her good nature. In the end, it was her mother who caught her death of cold and after a short and intense bout with pneumonia, she died one early evening in June, just as Minnie was taking supper off the stove and just after she had reminded her not to burn the potatoes. Minnie slipped into her yellow slicker and boots and went walking - it was the only time anyone could ever remember seeing her out in clear weather and when she returned, with Sparrow at her side, she packed away her rain gear and never put it on again. She had no more need of protective outer wear.
Dark, cold rain coming down on a January night. I wake from nonsensical dream of coloring my hair and nails silver with a heartbreak of a movie about a missing child playing on the television and a cat asleep on either side of me. Just for a brief moment I have a sense of not quite knowing where I am and I have to stop and think what day it is and whether or not I have to go to work in the morning - then I remember, it's Saturday. The quick nap I decided to take at six has stretched past midnight and the dogs are anxious to be let outside. You can't ever make up sleep, my daddy used to tell me, But it's always fun to try. The dogs make a desperate and abbreviated foray into the backyard, I give them a treat, and then we all burrow back under the covers. The cats resume their places, Jack Lemmon and Sissy Spacek's search for their son ends tragically and a happy song and dance musical with Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds follows. I recognize the lyrics of "Singin' in the Rain" and think how appropriate for such a night, then close my eyes and luxuriate in the thought that it's now Sunday and I can snooze another eight hours. Can't make up sleep, indeed, I think, just watch me.
When I open my eyes again, Gene and Debbie have tapdanced their way into the sunset and Esther Williams is a lovesick, singing mermaid. It's just before six am and I decide I can get away with another couple of hours. The next voice I hear is Edward G. Robinson in "Brother Orchid", a little known and tender hearted film about a reformed gangster hiding out in a community of monks. After fourteen hours of relatively uninterrupted sleep, I'm finally ready to get up and go. My daddy would be proud.
Later that day, I sit by my friend Henry's bed and read while he sleeps peacefully. It's been almost seven weeks since his stroke and his pain is still excruciating and chronic, his progress seems non existent at times - if he wakes while I'm there, all the better, but I will not interrupt his rest - this battered and gentle man is deep in depression and if there is any escape in sleep, he deserves it. The rehab center is busy and loud, televisions blare from every room - not the sweet old movies that lull me into sleep but modern day, blood and guts cop shows that shout with gunfire and car chases, chattering commercials for life insurance and mobility scooters, weight loss cures, bankruptcy. The only realism here is the suffering. I wonder if all this noise seeps through his sleep and into his dreams the way it does mine of if the pain drowns it out. Two hours pass and still he doesn't wake - I put my book aside and slip out.
As a refuge, sleep is a good place to go.
A dish of pearl necklaces lays on the floor in pieces. A plant is overturned, the bed clothes in disarray, a lamp is leaning against the wall, several framed pictures are missing and there are forty seven open windows on my computer. Sitting amid this destruction, looking wide eyed and innocent and a little proud of themselves, are the two youngest cats.
My mother liked to tell me there would be no supper if I didn't clean up my room and I have a sudden urge to repeat this threat, vain though it would be. So who won? I ask instead and they meow in unison, jump off the bed and trot to the kitchen. Must've been a draw, I tell the small brown dog who is anxiously whining at my ankles, reminding me that she had nothing to do with this minor disaster and that she's hungry. The black dog joins in and soon there is a chorus of barking and meowing echoing all through the house. It's seven against one and pointless to argue.
It's on days like this when I wonder how normal people live. I imagine walking through the front door and finding the house in the same condition as when I left - being able to kick off my shoes and watch the news, fix myself a quiet dinner and eat without fending off animals, go through the mail in peace, have a bed to myself. There would be no territorial arbitration sessions, no time outs, no breaking up disputes, no scoldings or reprimands, no litter boxes to change daily. If they weren't being nibbled on, plants would thrive. Earrings would stay paired. Eye glasses and bridgework and lipsticks would be safe from being turned into chew toys. Pizza might be even be delivered without a battle plan to insure the safety of the driver. I would, I suspect, be bored, lonely and more than a little unfulfilled - there would be too much empty space and too little warmth in a house without animals.
Life is meant to be shared, if not with the same species then with another.
The happy optimism and indiscriminate niceness of some people notwithstanding, we are not all meant to get along. There are times when the most we can hope for is to keep it civil.
The morning silence is pierced by the ranting and raving of Aunt Lizzie's stray cats - it comes through my open window with a startling clarity and is immediately followed by an uproar from the dogs which in turn is immediately followed by a steady stream of loud albeit mild cursing from my grandmother. They have interrupted her morning routine and being a woman who likes her peace and quiet, she doesn't take kindly to it. Stop that damn racket! I hear her yell, uncertain if this is directed at the dogs or the cats but then I hear water running and the sudden slam of the back door. She plows through the tall back grass like a runaway tractor - there is an explosive Take that! and a violent splash - then abrupt silence. Looking out my window, I see the two cats slink away, looking very much like drowned wharf rats, and my triumphant grandmother, wooden bucket in hand, with a satisfied smile. She tramps back through the yard and the back door slams again. When the dogs protest, I hear her tell them Hush! There's more where that came from! She is not a woman of idle threats and they settle down at once.
Order is restored and soon after the smell of biscuits, bacon and maple syrup is in the air - the dogs arrive in my room with a clatter of tags, leaping onto the bed to deliver morning kisses, their regular wake up call. The factory whistle blows sharply, announcing that it's seven o'clock and time to rise and shine. Breakfast is on the table and Nana is already busy with the Monday morning wash, meticulously feeding wet clothes through the old wringer washer and into her ancient woven basket. By the time the factory whistle blows again for mid morning break, the wash will be hung in the morning sun, the breakfast dishes washed and put away, the kitchen swept and counters rinsed. She will give me a shiny new quarter for filling the woodbox and then send me out to play. From the playhouse, I see her take off her apron, straighten her shoulders and march across the yard to Aunt Lizzie's back door. She doesn't bother to knock, hoping, I imagine, to catch Lizzie in mid flight back to her daybed in the kitchen where she has played at being invalided for as many years as I can remember. The yelling commences at once - two old women in a screaming match over a pair of stray cats - and as usual, it's a draw. Lizzie suggests my grandmother mind her own business, Nana threatens to let the dogs loose. Lizzie hollers for her to get her ample backside out of her house, Nana calls her a scrawny, flea bitten bag of bones who's never had a sick day in her life.
There is a crash of metal, a shattering screech, my grandmother emerges with a look of pure fury and barely avoids being hit by an airborne sauce pan before she kicks the back door shut. And stay out! Lizzie bellows. With pleasure! Nana shouts back.
Politeness, Adlai Stevenson wrote, is the art of choosing among our real thoughts. Perhaps, but in the real world of flawed family and relations, it's more useful to be able to duck and dodge.
New Year's Day starts chilly, breezy, and a little on the gray side. The streets are littered with dead, dry leaves that snap under my feet and make an unwelcome rustle on the pavement. The neighborhood cats chase them - and each other - across the lawns with reckless abandon, pouncing with the grace and majesty of tigers, then losing interest when they meet no resistance. The only sounds are the wind and the plaintive howl of the fenced in beagle two doors down.
I wash down two aspirin and an antidepressant with a glass or low salt V8, give the dogs instructions to wake me when the sun comes out, and rearrange the collection of sleeping cats to make room for myself under the covers. My last waking thought is that later I might drive to the lake with my camera - there is a rumor that several brown pelicans have been spotted. Before I was old enough to be in school, my grandparents took me with them to Florida in the winter and I've loved the short, squat bodied, comical looking birds ever since. They always make me think of warm winters and glass bottomed boat tours, cozy Spanish looking guest cottages and miles of flat, white sand stretching out to meet the incoming ocean. There were always pelicans and sunsets and trips to the circus's winter quarters, shells to seek out and Ida, an enormous, cheerful, uniformed housekeeper who arrived just after breakfast each morning to chase me outside before beginning her cleaning routine. She had been born and raised in Daytona and had been cleaning cottages since her teens - she knew the guests, their families, their likes and dislikes and their histories and had become as much a part of this winter escape as the sun and sand. Nana would often sit with her in the tiny kitchenette, drinking coffee and chatting as if they were old friends, much to the chagrin of my grandfather who frowned on the help taking such liberties. Nigger maid don't know her place, he snapped at my grandmother, She's hired help, not staying next door for Christ's sake! Nana would clear the table with a bitter and defiant smile and she and Ida continued their morning routine each day. She rarely opposed him but in this she took a stand and refused to give in. It was a peculiar place to draw a line in the sand, my daddy said when he and my mother came for their regular week's stay, and shrugged.
Though I was taught otherwise, there was no liberal bias in my family - staunch republicans one and all, they stood opposed to most everything I came to believe in. Welfare was a giveaway program that rewarded those too lazy to work, homeless shelters were a waste of perfectly good space, all alcoholics lived in gutters and panhandled for their next drink, anyone not Caucasian and Protestant should be avoided, integration was an inherently evil idea and poverty was self inflicted. None of this was spelled out in words, of course, we were taught by example rather than lecture and slowly I came to understand the concept of hypocrisy in my own family. The slogan of the funeral home my grandfather owned - proudly emblazoned on subway walls and billboards all over the city - Serving All Faiths - was true enough, although some faiths were served more proudly than others.
Brown pelicans in this part of Louisiana, like tolerance and kindness, are not all that common but I keep looking.
